Three years and something in hell....living in Barcelona and being a victim and witness....

Police brutality.....
there is no talk you have won
number one
Mossos bravo....
....
three years have passed
nothing has changed
things got worse
.....
during the day
no blacks in the streets
and at night we keep on hide
.....
three years and something in hell
living in Barcelona
and being
a victim
and a witness
of your devil plan.

a message from ras babi to Safia Ishag...a young artist, who has been raped by 3 Sudanese security men

Sister....
I am sorry
....
the men have left the village
left the city and the streets
and let you vulnerable to the beast
sister as you said
many women in Darfur and in Khartoum
do not know what to do
they live in pain
they became addicted to the game
you are the first one to face the security men
face to face
the time has come
you will see them licking their guns
....
sister Safia...
you are the most honorable woman
a great artist
and our coming queen
I salute your majesty
much respect to you small sister
sleep tied
they have no hide

A last call to the general of Sudan

Three weeks have left...
ask Arabia to hide you
just go...
many people say so
but
we want you
for the blood in The South
for Darfur
and for the victims in The North
....
General Omar Ahmed Hassan albashir
Islam shinu
you are a killer
a thief
shame on you
I am calling on you to tell you
the women in Darfur want you

Lamentations of An African Child - Oliver Mbamara

This is a great poem from a great master
Oliver Mbamara, I have much respect for him


And I was born then to live again,
And there I was with Chaka Zulu,
We fought them off, but not for long,
Our arrows could fly, but not too far,
Our knives could cut, but not too deep,
Our shields were feeble to metal shells,
They pulled the trigger of their guns,
As deadly shots rang and fell our men,
I was one of many that fell in the jungle,
And never again to rise, except in spirit.

And I was born again to live again,
But there I was in some slavery land.
Was it Angola, in the Congo, or Kinshasa?
Was it Opobo, in Port Novo, or Monrovia?
Was it Dahomey, Yamoussoukro or Sao Tome?
Was it Maputo, in Moroni, or Mogadishu?
Was it Khartoum, in Djibouti, or Kampala?
I may not be sure but I was there.
They led us off, away to strange lands,
And never to motherland again return.

And I was born again to live again,
But there I was in the ‘land of blacks’
I had thought Chaka’s time was past,
And agonies of slavery gone with it,
But I was wrong for the warlords came.
My sister was raped by Northerners,
My brother was killed before my eyes,
My mother was shot for crying out,
My father was hung for hiding me,
And never again did I see my folks.

And I was born again, but live in sorrow,
They spared my life but made it empty,
I was worth a few cash to their coffers.
And yes their tenets they forced on me,
Compelling upon me to hate and kill,
And this day, I have few friends but many foes.
Do I have a life? For I see none to live.
Do I have a future? For I see only gloom.
How long shall I weep? For none would hear me.
And will there again be joy in life?

And I was born again to live again,
But here I am in this time and age,
Fighting the evil that plagued the past.
Nkrumah, Zik, and Zulu fought the aliens,
But now in our land, we fight our kind,
I once heard of the OAUs and the UNOs,
But they stand silent against our woes.
And a child like me may want to ask,
Why I was born in the land of the blacks,
But God could not have made a mistake.

This is an excerpt from an upcoming book by Oliver Mbamara titled “Africa, Africans, And The Diaspora; A Revelation”



©2003 Oliver Mbamara