23/03/2025
The Devil
They told us he would come breathing fire,
a beast with horns sharp as knives,
a shadow creeping through the night.
But I see him now—
not a demon, not a ghost,
but a man with pale skin and a golden crown of thinning hair,
his smile wide, his words heavy with lies.
He came before, dressed as a savior,
with a cross in one hand and chains in the other.
He walked into our villages,
told our ancestors their gods were worthless,
their names unholy,
their ways savage.
He drew lines through our land,
divided our people with his laws,
stole what he could not own,
and when we fought back,
he called us lost, broken, unworthy.
Now he returns, standing taller than he should,
his voice loud enough to drown the truth.
He speaks of Africa like a wound,
a place that needs fixing—
but his cure is the same poison as before.
He whispers of failure, of chaos, of need,
so when he reaches for more,
when he takes again,
the world will watch and call it justice.
But the land remembers.
The rivers still hum the truth.
The voices of the forgotten are rising,
and the fire that once burned in their eyes
will burn again.
He may deceive,
but we are not blind.