13 December 2013


At dawn, I rose, and headless we were.
Mother said he ditched us,
Went to look for greener pastures,
Pastures greener than the green card he had;
So manly of him!

Leaving his seed as well as the whole farm,
Giving up what he called his fam.
“You are the first born” he said
“A boy child, proof of my manhood;
Don’t ever shed a tear, African men don’t cry
I never did, and don’t ever ask why”
Pooh! Please!
“In my absence you are the man of the house”
You're damn right I am!

I will never leave my village,
I love my village,
You live with dignity, though your pockets are empty;
To hell with the city!
Its people are poor and backward,
Pulling each other down so that no one moves up!
I will find myself a girl, a woman.
A village girl, a village woman,
I will marry her, make her my wife,
Be the man my father never was!

I am the son of an African mother;
The man of the house;
They look up to my hands, huge rough hands,
Hands that polish handles of spades, knives and hoes;
Hands that dig yams, carry bunches of bananas, handle foes.
Hands soaked with sweat, hands full of tenderness.
Hands that provide; manly hands,
Hands of the son of an African mother,
The man of the house.

I work at the farm, as the wind moans, 
As the moonbeams cast shadows,
I work to feed my family, our family.
I feed, I keep. I protect, I own. I discipline;
Things a man ought to do.
Things my father never did.
I am the son of an African mother,
The Madiba of my Africa,
The man of the house.



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