Walking in rural Africa
I saw an unfinished mud hut.
I laughed softly.
Question myself I couldn't resist:
What could they have run out of?
Could it be mud?
No.
We had lots of mud everywhere,
The road was practically mud
Drove any driver mad!
May be it's sticks?
Sticks? But they are the essence;
What Africa is made of – sticks!
Or may be grass to thatch?
I really could not tell.
But when I looked more
I saw it:
Neglect!
From the government!
Tears flowed from my eyes.
When you're independent for decades
And nothing comes from it,
That breaks you down
Even mud will be scarce!
The very sticks
That make our fragile continent
Are nowhere to use!
But you know?
That unfinished hut . . .
Is Africa!
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