(On the Betrayal of the People by African Elites)

The crowns they wear are lined with dust,
The thrones they sit on rot with rust.
They speak of hope in jeweled disguise,
Yet feast while famine scars our skies.

They build their walls, they hoard their gold,
Their words are warm, their hearts are cold.
The streets cry out, the land lies bare,
Yet kings still dance in poisoned air.

A promise wrapped in silk and lace,
Yet hides the hunger on its face.
For every speech, for every vow,
The hands that toil still break and bow.

They reign with ink, with law, with lies,
Yet fear the storm in people's eyes.
For palaces, once bright and vast,
Can turn to dust—they never last.

And when the winds of rage arise,
The people’s breath will shake the skies.
For power stolen, power deceived,
Will one day kneel—and not be grieved.