Halahoyi, Africans, something stinks

like the river snake, fouling the air.

How do we differ from Cain,

that incessant wanderer?

Mercy, Africa, strife-torn land!

We blacks lie sleepless in bed

while they hold meetings about us.

Agree with me, men! Mercy, girls!

Raise wailing and lamentation:

remember we are the children

our fathers left on the plains

to become the prey of hyenas.

Child of the soil of far-flung Africa,

what have you done to so offend God?

Here the Chink sells you malt for your home-brew,

there it's “Mama want banana?” in the Coolie store.

You're a wanderer just like Cain;

this isn't mere hearsay, it's plain to see.

There is advance in education,

but the lion of darkness still roars.

Shy from the mire like cattle:

Mutton Gluttons have stolen your pastures.

Are you the wild beasts of this land?

I guess this light came to lead us astray.

For you, black person, was Africa made,

it took six days to make,

so this is your land of Canaan:

heaven's not yours, it's for angels.

Don't sit on the truth,

biting your tongue.

Our rough treatment snaps fencing wire.

Enough! Any more makes my gorge rise.

Ubiquitous signs inquire your origins:

are you the Johnny-come-lately here?

I won't rehash what I've often maintained.

Open your eyes: I've long seen it coming.

Today you're a stranger in Africa,

you go about clutching at straws:

groom your shield, this land of your fathers

is now the playground of strangers.

Raise dust till you're dirty, dusky African,

like Moses quitting Egypt.

Stop asking questions. Now it's clear

Africa's the playground of strangers.

It pains my heart to say these things,

we're a ladder others ascend.

Only now are we starting to stir

long after we've been consumed.