A bridge to my island 

I’ve burnt every single bridge I ever tried to build/ alone stuck on an island condemned by all of my arson/ Ironic, that the one that feels the burn is always me/ it seems the bridges break before they even start to mean/ anything to the desired destination that they seek/

Longer and longer still go up in flames c’est last vie/ you’d swear it’s just a hobby for me cos i never learn/ the lessons stretching out to leave this vast expanse of land/ reminding all the seas below that we’re just dry as sand/ surrounding us from all sides making claims that we all safe/ but when the fire starts the reality is soon revealed/ burning piles of mortar martyred right above ocean/ without even a bucket to scoop and trigger our salvation/ another bridge is burnt without the slightest hesitation/ 

And very soon this island won’t be able to connect/ to any civilization promising escape from my prison/ island turns to raft slowly drifting the horizon/ very soon, like the Sun, the raft will slowly disappear//


What was cooked first: the drumstick or the egg?

We saved you from yourselves. What did you expect after all the work we did? Did you think we we’re just going to pack up and leave? Leave all that hard work behind? You say you built this country but who provided the plans? The organization? The incentivization? We did. We taught you how to make the most of your land and now you would have us leave. Now that you’re civilized you want us to go? Give us our ships, money, contracts, title deeds and mirrors back and you have a deal. Every single one of you that has benefitted from our so called intrusion give back what you learned and the fruits thereof. It’s impossible you see. The land has already accepted us here, we would be rejected in our homes if we returned from whence we came. Let us rather live and let live. The way we see it it’s like the old chicken and egg argument. It doesn’t matter who was first, what matters is that on the breakfast plate there’s an egg and a drumstick.

Passive Activism or Active Pacifism…

We live in an age where we have substituted activist for pacifist. Black pride lives no longer than a has-been reaction to an over the top flare up of honesty. Our pacifism turns into cyber activism as we spew revolution from a touch screen, tapping away at our frustrations as the black letters smudge the screen to our satisfaction. Self pacification.

Black wall street built and destroyed in less than a generation. We were happy just as long as Columbus gave us some sort of commendation. Suffice to say it is our blood that has built the longest lasting civilizations, it seems we are the only ones to keep our humanity on concrete foundation. Human to everyone but our own. Go out of our way to hide the fine China from rowdy family but when the pastor comes over, it’s woooh Lord. All wealth breaks loose.

We will go to great lengths to make sure the enemy thinks we are doing alright despite the bitter taste of their passive aggression. Instead of demanding our own table, we will make our children eat with the dogs and make our enemies feel at home in our dominion.

Activists have done away with traditional values of helping people by any means necessary. The remedy now is a quick and painless solution. Pacify the situation. Neutralize and sterilize the incumbent revolution. The number of likes you get is congruent with your level of validation.

Bloodshed or blood shared

The problem is that their children are innocent of their fathers’ sins yet they eat from the well-springs of their misdeeds. They live in peace behind high walls that enclose stolen altars, short tables and gallons of wine. And if our own children inherit nothing, who shall they blame?
 Shall they blame their fathers for not claiming what belonged to them, but who can blame a man for not claiming the things which to him belong? Or shall they blame the fathers of the others for stealing their inheritance, but who can blame a businessman who sees opportunity where nations would sleep? Shall our children be doomed to reverse the folly of their fathers? Take away from their peers the gifts that their fathers gave to them? And when the others defend what’s theirs by right but not by birth, can anyone really blame them for they were born into stolen wealth? Our children outnumber theirs but their children out-maneouvre ours. Blood shed or blood shared? That is the decision that needs to be made by the children of the thieving fathers. Do they shed blood to protect their stolen kingdom? Or do they share the wealth with our children to repair the damage of blood spilled in excess? Blood shed or blood shared?


“The powerful in Africa instead of enriching their societies sell off the continent’s assets to enrich the rest of the world. In return for these services these powerful Africans – who I call the political elites – receive the crumbs from the tables of the foreigners who make their fortunes by processing Africa’s resources.”
Moeletsi Mbeki, 2009. Architects of Poverty: Why African capitalism needs changing.


Collide water and fire/Split brothers/Chafe lovers/Wake eardrums to your power/Collide fire and water/Break headboards/And/Clash swords/Be not of afraid this is God’s war/Collide water/Descend slow/Ride the wind/Find a way down to the land/Collide fire/Charge furious/Pierce fortresses/Rip the trees off their branches/Collide water and fire/Ignite senses/Subdue voices/Ignore predictions/Combine experiences/Collide fire and water//