A SONG FOR MAMA

Mama, don’t cry.
Your son is coming…
coming to drain your tears
from the sucken valleys
of your swollen red eyes.

Mama, it is time to sing.
Sing the sweet songs…
songs that merry my heart…
melodious music of nightingales
when the storm is calm.

Black mama,
embrace the son of your boss.
Run, with open arms
and kiss his homecoming.
From Alcatraz of slavery,
den of beligerent ogres,
he has come to oil your skin
which is the lamp of life,
ardor of our ancient heritage…
the cord of our existence.

My black mama,
blow the horn
and make a gentle call.
Your son arrives with bags full of mirth …
Sing round the mud and thatch huts
and do the tumbling dance,
our nuptial steps before Albion-ties.
Boom, the dusty guns…
hope has broken forth
like the sun of a new dawn.

By Odharo Friday