My Beloved Africa
Where my tears found shelter, where my laughter was carved.
I remember the darkened walls,
Where silence echoed louder than cries.
My mouth bled, face to the ground,
As soil gathered and kissed my lips.
It formed a second skin—an oath—
And I knew: I belonged.
Now we are torn apart,
And the soil here does not cling,
No matter how much I bleed.
My Beloved Africa, My Beloved Africa
You watched my longing take its shape in sorrow.
I saw you smoulder at dawn,
Smoke rising like incense from ancient altars.
I heard the children’s laughter stitched with hunger,
The beasts groaning through the dust.
We waited—empty—
For something to arrive.
Anything to fill the gnawing quiet.
We fought, not enemies,
But one another—
Over crumbs, over dignity.
It drained me,
Stole my fire, dimmed my fight.
And in my heart,
I carried a question like a stone:
How can I save my people?
There must be another way.
A way out of lack,
A way out of loss.
My Beloved Africa, My Beloved Africa
They left in droves,
Chasing new skies,
Surrendering soil for cities.
Who would stay to mend the cracks?
To rebuild the bones of our land?
I called them cowards once—
How could they leave?
But little did I know,
The day of leaving would find me too.
And I wept
For the children torn from knowing—
From feeling the rhythm of barefoot harvests,
From hearing the fire crackle beneath
Their grandmother’s pot.
Who will teach them
The names of the winds?
The pulse of the drum
Before the song begins?
All of it—abandoned
For blinking lights and crowded air.
All in pursuit of a better tomorrow.
But at what cost?
My Beloved Africa, My Beloved Africa
And what of her?
Who will hold her through the night?
When youth depart and elders fade,
Who will keep the fire alive?
Who will whisper to the land,
"I remember you"?
The young return
In caskets too small
With names still unlearned by the world.
Some taken by strange sicknesses,
Some by silence.
The land mourns each one—
Its soil dries with every loss,
Its fruit shrivels in sorrow.
My Beloved Africa, My Beloved Africa
My mother cries:
Where are you, my children?
Who will defend me?
Who will sing of me?
Who will stay when the rains don’t come?
Who will dance when they finally do?
My Beloved Africa, My Beloved Africa
Remember her—
Even from across oceans.
Lay her in your prayers,
Fold her in your songs.
Wherever you are,
Do not forget the rhythm of her breath.
Because if we do not return with our hands,
Let us return with our hearts.
Let us not be the generation that forgot her name.
Mitney Mitch
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