Mourning My Death


Who mourns my death?
I know a few does
Those from my old generation
Those I brought up my own way
Not the ways of the white
Those I cultured with my rich traditions
And have embossed my values
On their hearts and minds
Yes! They cherish me
But when I started drifting from their hands
Little could they do
 To rescue me
From the claws of this senseless demon called civilization
For they were handicapped
By dilemma of a lost generation


I am battered by this new found love of yours
A love that reduces my importance to nothingness
Making me bleed from my bowels
For this new generation claims
I am outmoded
So they treat me with least respect
And when I try to put them right
They take offence

Oh! civilization has stolen my children
Making them second class humans
So they forget their real root
Upholding morals with no value
Technology has stolen my bond of unity
Threatening my substance and sustenance
And migration has rendered my home empty
Economic hardships have caused my people,
My own people, to trade their conscience
My earth has not lost its fruitfulness entirely
You can still cultivate me
Like your forefathers did
They did preserve me, yes they did

Your new found way of learning
Is not any better than mine
I taught your fathers and mothers unity
But this book teaches you separation
I taught your fathers and mothers how to reason
But this reasons for you
So you speak its mind and not your own

You accused me of not been dynamic
You claimed I am backward
You said I condoned barbarism
You said I have monopoly over my library
Well I can't argue with you
Much over that
But if you really love me,
Why don't you modify me
 to suit your changing needs

When I gathered your fathers and mothers
Around log-fires each night
I speak my rich language
Adorned with proverbs
I weave tales long preserved deep in my memory
Where neither moth nor humidity could destroy it
Unlike your books that rot away like carcass
I entertained them with my rich art of story-telling
So they identify with things I taught them
Not the remote ones you are made to read

I still have little life left
If you can save me
I will be your love
And not sing my dirge
For mourners to come
From East and West, North and South
But until you make me to live again,
I mourn my death.


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