From the slopes of the now silent Elgon,
To the arid plateau in Jos,
Her blood flows,
A near perfect cocktail of glorious cultures
A royal blend of heritage
That prides her of the impeccable specimen that she is,
The east wind ind blows,
A breeze raging against the sun’s frustrations,
Swaying anything in its way.
But her crown stands still,
A coarse mass of black glory
With roots firmly planted
As the soul that wears it,
A conscience undeterred
Aware of its limitless potential
Positive of its bearing.
The June rain falls,
Amid bright flashes
And loud thunderous claps from the sky,
As if in applause of her ebony plumage
Rich and dark
Like the wet earth beneath her feet
A permanent garb;
A constant, bittersweet reminder
Of the misery and suffering endured by her forefathers
Parading with brevity and honour
To avenge what was rightfully theirs.
The dusk drum sounds,
As the sun descends on the horizon,
Casting an umbra of the valleys
A silhouette of the hills;
In tune with the low percussive vibration.
A terrain unknown,
An interior wild and untamed,
Awaiting a courageous warrior,
Resilient in thought,
Zealous in deed,
To join in the dance with nature,
And become one.