THE YEAR OF RETURN

From the rising of your timeless 

approach,

To the setting of your endless I do,

The truth of the narrative was written by 

the tales of home,

That once upon a time,

We flipped the pages of ages,

To find the stages of how we grew 

as babies with sharp teeth.

Lo and behold, 

Our scrota were in our loincloths,

But we were taught what they were meant for,

We had questions to answer,

Officers to be masters,

Fighters to lead the frontline,

And with nothing to push us offline,

What then changed the outline?

Question for the gods...

But what is the truth of the narrative?

Truth be told,

It is you whose breathe cook hospitality for the lost,

In the midst of nowhere.

The river of life—whose anchor holds 

the air of light for hours.

In the distance between heaven and earth,

And with days closing years,

We were told of the journey,

That we must make back

To the land of our birth,

We are now walking into the past—where we from,

Twirling our eyes on what could be rainbows,

As we see the afterglow of the father’s bruises,

That paid the price at the crossroad of day and night,

Splashed banks on the shores 

of lands,

And so,

Ours is to tell what we harvest

When we sow,

Theirs is to know what we earn,

When we sell sweats with honesty.

You are Africa—the bedrock of the earth,

We are Africans—blacks with rooted pebbles,

And we have come,

We have come to tell,

Tell the world where we from,

But we have little to say,

Believing,

The story would be told when we are 

far gone ahead of time.

Her land will stay,

Wage tag to sit and finish—dying away

the snow of RingingBells.

Crossing fingers to come and go,

But need not leave her land in trenches.

For it is Africa,

The land of our birth.