

| by: Ejiro Osilama 26. Nigeria |
| I used to love her, I did. Africa; that lady. Beautiful and proud. I loved her in my childhood, When all I knew of her, Were warmth and juicy fruits, when I was Kissed gently by the sun, and it's heat caressed me. I loved her still, Africa; that woman. Before I understood her struggles and while I scorned her strength. In the first blush of my youth, Before I knew more of her bitter history and her storied past. I loved her, Africa; that Whore. When in my old age, I saw her again. She had been taken by strangers and raped, again by her very own. The face I see on her, wrinkled by pain And her bones creak with humanities age. I used to Love her, Africa; that beauty, In her hay days of warrior women and dignified palaces And now, through her indignities and crumbled pride, I love her even more. |