Joanna we are your children

Joanna we are your children (https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/joanna-we-your-children-tom-muyunga-mukasa-aha-apha-apsa-aamue/)

Joanna we are your children

 

Joanna a Mother,

Of mountains of hope,

She swayed and danced,

In a vigorous and captivating frenzy,

 “Grazing in the Grass,”

In an about turn,

Shakes to an inner beat too,

“Back to my Roots,”

As well as,

To the trembling tree branches,

She contemplates,

While the pata-pata beat of raindrops,

Hurling hurriedly from the sky,

Pelt Africa with confusion,

The story making the rounds,

A market place is in disorder,

Salt off the shelves,

 Is trampled upon,

By feet fleeing,

 After an ultimatum,

To Africa you must return!

Botswana,

Cameroon,

DRC,

Kenya,

Malawi,

Nigeria,

Togo,

Uganda,

Zambia

Zimbabwe,

As long as you are Black,

To Mexico!

You as well?

Brown!

Wait!

White American!

But you are White!

You too?

It can’t be!

When one suffers,

All of us suffer,

A child comes running,

Joanna sent her children,

To be educated,

The child had high scores,

With stretched arms,

Joanna hugged the child,

Mama,

Shouts the child excitedly,

South Africa is in Africa!

Ssh!

Joanna shisses the child,

And places a motherly palm,

Over the child’s mouth,

Ssh!

No!

South Africa is in Europe!

Another elder daughter,

Called Mandy,

Had returned,

From Africa!

Joanna had crafty ways,

To wash the African epithet,

Off her body and from her mind,

She had given birth,

To several children,

She is African,

But she will never admit,

The sand of time swept by winds,

To love the children,

Is to love Africa,

To deny Africa,

Is to deny the children,

South Africa is in Europe,

She held on,

To a disturbing self-image,

Mandy,

The daughter who,

Studied in Africa,

Was never celebrated,

She had a Medical degree,

Another son,

Studied in America,

He returned,

On a plane without pomp,

As his plane touched down,

Another with Joanna’s select children,

Was taking off,

To transport the select children,

To America,

The son who returned,

Has his laundry,

Ironed by Mandy,

Joanna’s inner beat,

 Still throbs,

The rivers which flow,

Flawlessly,

Are muddy and slower,

In some places,

They dried up,

Joanna’s umbilical,

Distorted and grotesque,

No longer feeds a child,

Laughter turned into woes,

The hearts are infernos,

Turned pitiless and Kafkaesque,

Ubuntu,

A basin,

A baby,

And water,

All thrown out!

Rescue jets,

With Insignias

Of all African countries,

Full of Joanna’s

Extended children,

Return them to Africa!

For a rebirth.

And a return to Obuntu.