Muyiwa in a hoodie with hands pulling the wear. A brown Chelsea boot et al.
poetry

Alkebulan: Home of the Rising Sun

Muyiwa Babayomi

Alkebulan, mother, ancient canvas of our collective soul,

Land where the dawn first smiles, gifting light to kings and queens,

Our hands once held the wealth of soil, planting wisdom like seeds.

Where the baobabs stand, proud and free, under skies vast and forgiving.

Do you recall, Alkebulan, the first shadow that fell upon our land?

A shroud not of night but of greed, then chains fell across our fields and rivers,

Inch by inch, they sought to take our spirit, our gold, our very essence.

Yet, from the depths, where our roots kiss the earth’s core, our faith sprouted.

Alkebulan, mother, the sun rises still.

We are the saplings reaching upward, the green that spreads through the canopy,

Branches telling tales of perseverance into the dawn’s first light.

The past echoes in our laughter,

Its sweetness on the lips of every child who carries our name.

Now, we stitch our stories from the patches of history’s quilt,

Piecing them into attires of dreams and tales.

The will to forge our path through the smouldering remnants of yesterday’s sorrow.

We, your children, cradle the legacy, our voices low, recounting the tales of survival.

We remember the labour of our ancestors,

And in honouring their roots, we tend the harvest of tomorrow.

In the quiet aftermath, where melancholic night meets the gentle dawn,

We gather the scattered pieces, a threaded craft from the echoes of our cultural heritage.

From the soil, our hands, once burdened, now nurture new growth—

Crops rich with promise, children with eyes bright, our tomorrow unbounded.

Can you see them, Alkebulan, Africa, those tender shoots rising from your sacred ground?

In labs and fields, in minds and hearts worldwide,

Your sons and daughters bear the fruits of their heritage,

A gentle revolution, blooming from the seeds you planted in their spirits.

In every whispered innovation, every line of verse, every cured malady,

We trace the lineage back to you—

Our Alkebulan, where the sunrise knows no master,

Where wisdom is the harvest reaped from the lessons of the past.

Let us work, finding soil in which to root ourselves and grow anew.

Let us walk, not with a clamour but with a reverence,

On this hallowed earth where history speaks through the whispering winds.

Let our achievements be the quiet yet steadfast tribute to your strength,

Our lives a beacon to the enduring spirit of our people.

Alkebulan, mother, we continue, with the grace of the learned,

Cultivating peace, and pride from the soil enriched by our forebears’ dreams.

We honour you, Africa, until the stars themselves dim.

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