Africa, Wake Up

I. THE LIES WE WERE FED

They told us our soil was "too wild for harvest"—

(while their ships left heavy with yam, gold, and flesh).

They said our tongues "lacked the words for science"—

(while burning Timbuktu’s libraries in silence).

"Civilization", they preached with Bibles and guns,

as our ancestors’ bones paved their railroads’ runs.

"Democracy!"—yet when we elect our own,

they send mercenaries to drag him from his throne.

(Oh Africa, land of the first sunrise—

when did we start believing their lies?)

II. THE AWAKENING

But hear this now in your chest—a new rhythm:

The market woman who trades without euros,

The student who codes in Yoruba,

The farmer burning Monsanto’s seeds,

The soldier refusing foreign orders.

We are the ones

who remember

what they tried to erase:

—We built pyramids when Europe ate raw meat.

—We smelted iron while they chipped flint.

—Our queens led armies; our doctors healed plagues.

They fear this memory.

So we must wear it like armor.

III. THE RECKONING

No more kneeling at the IMF’s door—

Let their debt papers burn like colonial flags.

No more begging for "investment"—

Our oil stays underground until we drill it.

Let the cocoa pods rot on the tree

before we sell them for pennies again.

Let the diamonds gather dust in the earth

before another child dies in the mines.

(You think this is radical?

Radical is watching your milk-fed baby starve

while your neighbor’s cows graze

on your stolen pasture.)

IV. THE RULES WE WRITE

Rule 1: The land is ours—not Chevron’s, not De Beers’.

Rule 2: The borders are fake—we cross when we please.

Rule 3: The future is not for sale—

not for "aid", not for "loans", not for empty "sorry".

We’ll trade on our terms:

—Ghana’s gold for Ethiopia’s dams.

—Nigeria’s tech for Kenya’s highways.

—Zimbabwe’s wheat for Mali’s songbirds.

(No intermediaries. No masters. No apologies.)

V. THE CALL

To the fisherman off Dakar’s coast:

Pull up the nets—let Europe hunger.

To the miner in Katanga’s pits:

Hide the cobalt—let Tesla panic.

To the mother in Lagos’ slums:

Teach your child our stolen maths.

To the president signing French contracts:

We see you. The people are coming.

VI. THE OATH

By the scarred backs of the Middle Passage,

By the unmarked graves of King Leopold’s jungle,

By Patrice’s unburied teeth,

By Sankara’s shattered dream,

By the 10 million lost in Congo’s wars,

By the girls snatched by Boko Haram,

By every boy holding a gun instead of a book—

We swear:

No more "please".

No more "wait".

No more "someday".

The time is NOW.

VII. THE PROPHECY

They will call us "thieves" for reclaiming what’s ours.

They will scream "chaos!" when we turn off their taps.

They will send armies dressed as "peacekeepers".

Let them come.

We’ve buried invaders before.

(Now, child, take this poem—

Not as a plea, but a spear.

Not as ink, but as blood.

Not as words, but as a WAR.)Rise.

This is not hope.

This is the reckoning.

We are the debt they cannot pay,

the interest compounding in our fists.

When we move,

the earth will recognize its true north.

Rise.

Or grind their bones to dust where you stand.