Mother Africa

 4). Day of Memoriam, for “Mother Africa”

At man’s passing impulses, 
I have become variable by name.

Noble-spirited, I have admitted the ingratitude;

The anomalous definitions, borne on feeler’s ignorance;  

I at the debut of motherhood, man was the insignia subject;

I pre-existed the nomination and replication

of all man, that this earth contains.

Exegetic was the repository of man in my wound which,

sublimated, the ideal motherhood - to Mama,

for generations of millions of sons.

Upon my bosom are my scares,

the evidences of my nurturing feat
then see Africa from my eyes.

The tilapia, I am subtle, kind, gentle, dismissing hunger to scoop

with unlimited love for all my sons, litters, un-numbered.

When they were young, vulnerable, and sheepish

they found cuddling, soothing, nursing and reassurance,

the mother toad bags you on her back, the oddities of salvation

“I was for all Home Sweet Home ~Africa”

Days and months uncounted,

numerous the ages,

aging into boulders;

rolling stones and rocky-mindedness,

which, creepily cripples 

my motherly loving kindness

and undivided attention

They return from the Milky-way

to quench their thirst,

nothing soft,

like strangers, foreigners, aliens

indeed, they have come to be

They plunder, they rob,

they sank their teeth into brothers back

Brother was food, fun and jock,

he was baked and planted,

He was harvested and eating,

cooked and raw

He was killed for love and by love

and in love, and non-counted

They scanned me out,

 for gold rush,

their hunting ground,

 battle-ground 

power ground and burial ground,

allotting to themselves

allotments to satisfy their whoring passion,

sinking their appendages

and I a land for fortune

“he made his wealth in Africa” the glory

Rule they indeed have done;

 they pitted, and sieved through my bosom

for gold and silver

The pityriasis they have infected upon my bosom

 they have not tended

I beacon sincerely,

Wherefore my children, physicians, surgeons

and all, to suture the gutted wounds

of their father’s insatiable throat

From the rising Sun to the setting,

the cocks crow to silence

The hyenas laugh at the bull eating alive

The moon rise casting shadows

and the sun rise broiling them 

The rise and fall of the ocean,

pegs the high and low of rush 

At the surge that slaps the sitting silent Africa

And the crow glories

quenching the flame of livid consciences

It is “Mother” ~

relentless, conscious and the emptiness.

The Kalahari blowing dust,

the Sahara’s floating dunes

The dust sand and safari

is all that hallow

mother’s relentless pains, not-soothed

The affliction festered and non-would heal

Black, White, Red or Yellow

 name the human hue,

Prime is the Gene I bequeathed full, complete and set,

all from same bowel, into odyssey of life.

Whichever land you find a home

was seeded my seed

“Mother Africa” claims~ I still am your mother 

I beacon, for my “Mother’s Day Memorial”

for I am “Mother Africa”.