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Ah, your ruthless tragedies Africa,
your many martyred sons,
sold out and slain by the stooges
of the counter revolution.
And Comrade Samora Machel too,
dead also.

How I think of your angry poets Africa,
your sons lost to the lands across the seas.
Poets in agony for their crises torn continent.
Bewailing the evils of our colonial conquest.
As they bear the harsh winter`s brutality,
in the sickening loneliness
of their houses of exile.

Syl Cheney Coker in America,
bemoaning his Black Sierra - Leonean ancestors.
Our fathers dead on the slave ships of great Europe,
and dead on those pitiless plantations.
With the whip lashes that tore the flesh,
from off their sweat soaked backs

The Congo , O the Congo,
I read Tchikaya bemoaning your political upheavals,
as you struggle with the tears and blood ,
fighting to come of age.
Oh, cool it Tchikaya, cool it brother.
You with your agony that knifes the soul of your verse.

And I commune here with my own grief,
the agony of your children Africa,
suffering under the bigstick sceptres
of the imperialist puppets.
This ache of watching the whole unfolding gore.
Ah, and are they dead now,
those pre Independence dreams of yore ?
See how history keeps repeating itself,
oh these coups and counter coups.
The sufferings of your children Africa,
this agony tormenting my soul.

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