Switch off these endless, droning docu-volumes,
that bask in the everyday butcher knife,
of the breeding, killing, sleeping, bleeding,
the every day of our African wildlife.
Turn away from episodes on social mediums,
that beg for audience justification,
of advertising sponsors,
offering oblique African revelations,
devoid of historical, political context,
or economic critical analysis,
ignoring geopolitical ripples,
and how it’s left African countries on dialysis.
These critics, black, brown or white,
who tell the world of Africa’s bleak culture,
an inhuman, backwards, primitive set of values,
lazily disconnecting systems, processes, practices and policies, their voices often dulcour.
No, please sit alone,
in the African sun or under her night sky,
and ask yourself,
for once, ask why,
Africa does not have its own streaming service,
a world news, entertainment and docu-series giant,
that covers world best teacher and principal awards,
innovations from everyday items,
like building bricks from plastic forms,
exposing Africa’s child and the world,
to playwrights, mathematicians, architects,
engineers and singers,
a love for self, a voice that is yours being kindled.
Show me a blockbuster movie on |Xam history,
their loves, their southern African life,
juxtaposing this with their ruminations or current fights.
Show me a modern take, animated or live action,
of imaginative African lore,
Mawu-Lisa, Moon and Sun twins of Benin,
or Sango the thunder god, perhaps he knew Thor?
Tell me a story about days old,
the Mapungubwe traders or kings, an old world coming to life,
enflame our hearts by building a new song,
we deserve to refocus our minds.
Give me a book series of a teen superhero,
KwaMashu born, Section K,
son of a construction worker who solves local mysteries,
saving the day, with his own Aunt May.
Show me love and pain, joy and sorrow,
show me rage and peace, success and failure,
in every colour, every African thread,
our humanity to be seen, full and equal, don’t be a vailer.
You think it doesn’t matter,
you think you don’t care, get in the ring,
you’re playing catch-up, dark babe,
in a world that’s determined to only make money from your earth, your skin.
Don’t believe me? Search for stories about African elephants,
every beagle and Alaskan malamute,
will flood your brain waves on this mammal’s life and plight,
without mentioning the descendants of African ways, the people of note.
And so, Africa cannot rely on friendly others to tell their story.
Her children must rise to do it themselves.
Business, political, civil society might,
must lift up the unseen and unheard from the shelves.
Look abroad,
countries don’t prioritise English, French or Portuguese,
over their home-grown tongue,
it makes no sense if that’s a secondary dialect of ease.
So why can’t Africans have municipal libraries and docu-series in Zulu or Igbo,
Swahili or Pedi,
why can’t company press releases be in Kituba,
who said we can’t change how we are fed.
Who says we have to use Sam’s song?
What about an African branded cell phone?
The kind we source, we build, distribute and pay for,
Why would that be wrong?
Sit for a while and dream with me,
our imagination soaring like a black-winged kite.
Consider an Africa dark and free,
instead of being relegated to hunger, exploitation and strife.
Scrutinise the voice,
the one in your head and heart,
a whispering, slithering mamba telling you equal is assimilation,
ignoring the possibility of a fresh, collective start.
You are whoever you see yourself as,
confronting the source of hurt pride,
are you capable, dark and lovely,
or desperate, dark and ugly,
it is up to you, the system, processes and policies you choose will decide.