“Why have you started killing us?” A child of the Soil once asked, in tears, yet in truth, With David Kato gone who’s next? Kakuma Camp in Kenya, Is a survival answer we jointly thought,
So we said farewell to the Pearl of Africa. Our umbilical cords our ancestors sacredly guarded, Knowing not if we will ever reconnect to them.
On the road of utter shame we reject ‘selves, for the land our ancestors knew not, Bishop Christopher Ssenyonjo said a prayer; We hugged.
In tears, we took our first step! Then came the second, we looked back. Farewell, Uganda, the Pearl of Africa.
By the rivers of Babylon our lifeless bodies stood,
Startling birds called for the Kuchu song; Sing! the dove song! Sing! Sing! The Kenyan breeze replied, At Kato’s grave you refused to sing. Our tearly hearts echoed, Can we sing without the Son of the Soil?
In Baltimore we are told, In loneliness Mukasa sings not, Neither the dove Song, nor the Kuchu song, That once made us One. For David’s abrupt end, his entire voice murdered.
Victor Mukasa, that fierce Lion of Kampala. Museveni fought with gunshots like a terrorist, Martin Ssempa, Stephen Langa, Scott Lively, Name them all!
Their insults, punches and death threats he endured, With determined zeal stands tall, Like an African Elephant, To Sing the song of Freedom, In Kampala as in Kakuma Camp. in Cape Town as in Gaborone, in the sacred halls of the United Nations as in Capitol Hill of Washington DC, He awaits to sing the Kuchu song, The new dove song of peace, For all Children of the Soil!
Afro-Amnesia is a Post-colonial curse! How do we forget colonial epithets? How can we forget ethnic epithets?
Disgusting! Dogs. Pigs. Cockroaches. Enemies of the people. Terrorists. Evil. Worse than Satan!
So are fellow refugees across Africa. Blind to our tears, our blood invisible, They refuse to hear our cries.
Are we children of the Soil? In our tears and blood, they daily bathe. On our starvation, and demonization, they daily feed. Our physical and sexual abuses not enough, they scheme to kill an innocent child,
Our starving bodies they roast in the middle of the night, Not for meat, but for the joy of witnessing the wrenching pain And bloody deaths of sinful bodies in hellfires. Since the Christian and Muslim God they own, to our ancestors we cry, For how long shall we wait? Child of the Soil, ask them for us.
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