Africa, we suck the succulent breast,
And spread unevenly across the terra firma of the earth,
Like strata of soil.
We wash down from cliffs like rain water,
And meet at the valley of terror.

Like the birds that have forgotten Mother’s warnings.
What will always ensue is like hell,
And we keep running into the open arms of flaming and frigid conflicts; politics, religion crises, ethnic brouhaha, Xenophobia…

Africa, home is bile,
Yet we sing the song of its sweetness,
But don’t cross my borders.
Oneness, we claim, has immigrated to this land.

South Africans antipathies catch fire at the sight of their kinsmen.
Foreigners cry, cry and cry, as friends turn foes.
Yet we claim nothing can break the black nations.

Mother’s succulent breast secretes unity.
Yet hatred lurks in our hearts.

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