So the villages are strewn with blood litter,
Bullet patters on the floor in feign hope pattern,
Pressmen pulling cameras in straight shot shutters,
As tears grace the cheeks of those whose hearts are shattered.
What shall we tell of our future that was the matter?
Let’s sit and write for our grandchildren this blood-clotted letter.
Telling of the greed that our leaders chose over making our lives better,
Let’s tell them of how pot-bellies were a need much greater
Than the chalk and boards for which we learnt to put pen to paper
Let’s tell them of how children’s feed was not a government need
That a politician’s greed saw our youths employed in smoking weed
For they had not, the money or the land to sprawl the soils and plant seed.
Let’s write this deed and recite for ourselves the broken creed
In this letter, let’s tell of the desert that their baby mama sees,
Created by the trees cut by an oil company all the way from overseas,
Of how we fought to have this leader listen to our pleas,
But for the silence from the bank accounts that were appeased,
We sat to the ground and waved, go on as you please!
Tell our babies of the multinationals that stole our ancestors’ land,
Set-up choky-smoke factories that took the profits back to their mother-land,
Disposing off waste in the only clean safe water we ever had.
I am talking of a tale so sad, really sad!
But you know what? When all is said and heard
You will be corrupted to say that what I say is bad,
They will turn you against my word
And before you know it, this letter will be a sword.
The sword with which the imperialists, chauvinists and dictators will make you bay for my blood!

Raymond Mujuni Qatahar is a lantern meet poet and journalist. Read more of his poems on his blog Poetic justice.

Twitter: @qataharraymond