Halahoyi, Africans, something stinks

like the ground snake, fouling the air.

How do we live in constant strife,

in ignorance and conceit?

I'll roar returning to where I began,

I came when they said I'd come;

babes at the breast even swear by me,

kings prance and stamp in the yards.

For long we've been calling, our voices are hoarse

and the mercies of heaven have left us.

There are the signs crying out loud,

they whip those who know into terror.

My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?

It was heard in Golgotha, in our ruined homes,

calling out lest you forget

Africa's children arrayed in rank.

African leaders must rouse themselves,

Jehovah opens his arms to them;

they must stop scoring points off each other.

How then, Dr. Rubusana?

You're locked in shackles, Africa,

you've lost the path completely.

Your family's left you; your stock have left you,

your homes have left you: there's nothing left.

Bear the report to the One on High,

scratch the earth like crows,

say we offer excuses for everything,

nothing but jokes and excuses.

Mercy, Africa, Garden of Africa,

hyenas ravage our princes.

Even a jackal suckles its whelps.

Are yours scattered? Can you see them?

So when will you cry out loud

“My God, why have you forsaken me?”

Act like a man, bellow “Wailings!”

when you fall get back to your knees.

This hill the black man scales is steep,

it nearly daunted Christian;

his mouth frothed with a sloven's foam,

his ears flared like a cobra.