But when, Africa, will you arise?

You have been robbed and pillaged. Most of the songs written about you speak of protest and shame. But when, Africa, will you arise?

Your leaders hold talks about talks. They arrive in flashy cars. Mediocrity is celebrated and we turn on each other over the simplest of differences. But when, Africa, will you arise?

Your children are dying, while fat cats stuff their faces. Mothers are crying, covered in bruises, the little they have laid to waste.

Your gems are smeared with blood, and you buy guns instead of food. But when, Africa, will you arise?

Your character is echoed not by your presidents, but by those who toil for families to eat. But when, Africa, will you arise?

The world wines and dines your leaders at darkened banquets, so your children don’t see. Your luxuries are destined for foreign tables. But when, Africa, will you arise?

They dig their claws into you from morning till night. Those you depend on don’t even put up a fight. They giggle behind closed doors. Just like the first time they arrived to ravage your shores. But when, Africa, will you arise?

We wait for the war cry, to rally to your side. The weapons we have are to liberate our own minds.

On Africa Day, we paw through our scraps, knowing, still believing, that Africa can rise.