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By Kye Makyeli

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 explore,

To conquer,

To join in the dance with nature,

And become one.

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