Africa, by Medina Bedru

Africa

What will i teach my children here in this foreign land...
i trace back to memories, roots...the scent of damp red earth,
muddy fromt he summer rain...in this mystical land...deep in the veldts-
the echoes of war cries reverberate...
and i am set alight....my feet pattering as i recall the strength of warriors, t
he unwavering resolve of my mother in this land where struggle is beautiful.
i will tell them of the ochra seeds we cacooned like hope, braided into our hair,
about capoeira fight music and the ciphered codes of language and dance
about our internal genocide, the beauty and the tragedy of it all...our freedom fighters- the mandela's and the menelik's and the anan's of our time
i will tell them that 'getting by' is the noose that will lynch us...i will tell them of my father's 2km run to school everyday and candlelit study vigils...or my mother's backbone shielding us with ther tiny body from flying debris as they bombed homes
i will tell them Africa is heart...the heart of me laughs at the beauty of this land...the fu-fu and injera scents wafting through thatched huts, the laugh-at struggle loosensess of my culture, the steady beat of drums in the mad heat of indignation, the wife/the mother-her torturous wail piercing the night sky as she holds her limp child in her arms and her tears dampen the earth, like the first drops of summer rain.
i will tell them of dancing at the funeral, of the celebration of life,of a love so strong it it sets free.

medina bedru