My People

I wrote this when I was in a particularly "angsty" mood...and feeling the weight of colonialism on my lily-white shoulders and all the etceteras.

MY PEOPLE

You wanted to leave a legacy
Your mark on the land
Carve out a new country
A paradise for your children,
Your children's children.
My people, that's me.
And what do we have?

Your scourge is what's left
Your touch is clear
Wherever you went
Oh, your mark is there.

You boast of a trek,
"Great" you call it, down south,
What's so great
about a river that bleeds the
blood of your hosts?
You're the guests, remember?

Free passes to Africa
that's what you were told.
Land, land, land, diamonds and gold.
Take the lot, take it all,
Whatever you can hold.
But who's buried on that land
you farm so well?
Whose wife in your bed
So close you hold?
How many must live or die
For your paradise world?

A collection of hands up north
Wait, no, there's more
Hands, hands, hands, bought or sold
Yes, that's what we're told.
Rape, capture, steal, no, grab
Lives for free, just like the land,
Take whatever you can hold?

My question, my people,
is how did you hold on so long?
Did you all agree with this
take take take take?
Was it fear?
Was it greed?
Were you happy?
Did you plead?
You "gave" independence...
how generous. Were "they" ready?!

The better the paradise
The stronger you held
Holding out against hope
Couldn't you tell? Couldn't you tell?
Your legacy's of shame
Guilt, death and pain
You left us with nothing
But a conscience of hell.
Is this what you saw,
My people...my people? My hell!

What do we share?
A past?
A home?
A history?
A skin?
What makes you "my people"?
How can I let go?
My people. I thank you
for your legacy, the scourge
continues to spread
Continues to bleed
even after you're dead.
Let the blood run dry
Let us start anew.
Can we bury the past...
No?
That's what I dread.