Fire rages in me, 

A subtle spark 

Grew with horrendous fervour

Viewing my countryside, 

My sadness tempered by horror

Juxtapose the wealth below ground

To the poverty above ground

Foreign philanderers abound 

Pillaging the gold of the earth

The birth right of nationals

Our sovereign wealth




Our place as indigens is to kowtow

Stooges to the masters we’ve come to know

Paradox

Servants in our own land




Dig a pit 

Cover your workers with spit

Pale skinned master

Licensed to loot the land

Offering day wages to the black skin.

Somewhere in Ashanti, 

My distant kin works in a mine

To carry precious ore

Into the arms of a foreign son of a whore

Sold into slavery

The gold they pillage, his and mine

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