Day of the African Child???

They wrote our history on a blackboard

And before the hour was finished, the duster had wiped it.

So we sat in doubt because we had somehow

Forgotten the story of who we we thought we were

Or who we had been taught to become.

They told our story in the bars when everyone was drunk

And when they became sober,

They only had but tiny fragments of what they thought

Was the truth they had heard the previous day.

Then they gathered these pieces and made a new truth.

They bought us dresses and gave us chores

Took our sisters and made them whores.

Stole our relics and put on walls

Killed our fathers in unjust wars.

So we were forced to grow and wear our fathers’ shoes

We were, but children some years back.

Now, we’d be adults

Robbed off the innocence of childhood

And given roles that weren’t ours yet.



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Learning to love the journey more than the destination - learning to love the cake more than the icing