When the Land Cries

A poem exposing how corrupt African leaders hinder the continent’s progress.

When at evening I sit beneath a fading sky
and hear the murmurs of the earth,
they are not of rain or harvest,
but of theft
of dreams plundered in daylight
by men with titles and sharp smiles.

I see leaders in dark glasses
blinded not by sun,
but by greed.
They shake hands abroad,
while their people drink from muddy streams.
Their mansions rise as hospitals fall.
Their children fly first class,
while village schools rot like forgotten fruit.

The soil is rich.
The rivers wide.
The people strong.
But nothing moves forward
because the ones meant to lead
hold the nation’s throat
On one hand,
and loot with the other.

They speak of Africa’s future,
but their bank accounts live in Europe.
They wear kente and agbada
but think only in dollars.
They build roads that lead to their gates,
not to the clinics or the farms.

And still, the land cries.
Not for aid, not for pity
but for justice.
For honest hands.
For truth to stand where lies once ruled.

We do not lack prophets.
We lack courage.
We do not lack wealth.
We lack shame.
Africa’s chains today
are not foreign, they wear our faces.

Until we name the thieves,
chase them from the feast,
and till the soil with clean hands,
we will keep dancing
in circles
while they count coins in the shadows.