Africa my africa

Africa of proud warriors in the ancestral savannahs

Africa my grandmother sings of

Besides her distant river

I have never seen you

But my gaze is full of your blood

Your black blood spilt over the field

The blood of your sweet

The sweet of your toil

The toil of slavery

The slavery of your children.

                                                  Africa, tell me Africa,

                                                  Are you the back that bends

                                                  Lies down under the weight of humbleness?

                                                 The trembling back striped red

                                                 That says yes yes to the sjambok on the roads of the noon?

                                                 Solemnly a voice answers me

                                                 ‘impetuous child, that young and sturdy tree

                                                  That tree that grows            

                                                  There splendidly alone among white and faded flowers

                                                  Is Africa, your Africa. It puts forth new shoots

                                                   Slowly its fruits grow to have

the bitter taste of liberty.’

                                                                                                David Diop