It is of futility a foresight to relate the Africa's giant future site Her rind, six decades to be very soon Had witnessed shades of pogroms under the sun and moon It is heard, the voices of many seas Yet, lands fertile with aridness is all she sees Nibs of authority always ready to write Lies become true, wrong becomes right Her anthem, a gyre of gambits whose implication oozes in trickling tit-bits Perhaps the genesis of her sickness was the Berlin 1886 madness Garage sick from phantoms, ghosts, Benz and gulfstreams Economy healthy from steady diet of rape and her-screams Reptiles gulp down tenders to their stretch crowning the citizen a wretch Today like a dance in the market square dancing in rhythm-less circles becomes our share Perhaps you see letters to be read I see reality protesting, clad in red