“All that you people do is break and burn and destroy.”
That is what he said while perched comfortably on his throne.
“Yes! Protest is the only way for the little black boy,”
now shifting his crown for which gold bled from African stone.
Familiar were his words, but his shrouded face remains unknown.
Clad in the golden armour that Mother Africa so graciously cast,
I ignored all his words and even the hatred in his tone.
See, there’s one thing the little black boy has learned from the past:
“What we have reaped is exactly what we’ve sown.”
Yes, familiar is this battle for which only victory is known.