I am not rich #wakeupAfrica

Her thoughts percolate into my ears like acid rain

Reined in, tied to loads of nonsense from new-world

Worldly thoughts I loathe, for venom is their ocean.

Oceans of bliss in their ignorance masks the ensuing pain.


Pride in her riches like my daughter’s first picture;

Picturing formless ink forms as more of number “1”s.

One day she’ll doodle and it will make sense,  but now

Nowhere near Picasso’s are the art in her feature.


Pride in riches: she called Africa the richest place!

Placing my bets carefully I side with her view.

She then said the diamonds and gold sustain that too!

Too much for me ma’am…but mine’s a different place.


For rich or poor is defined by so much more  than stones

Stoning soldiers to death, stone cold killers from kids

Kidding with adult toys (not those …jeez guys! Be adults!),

Adult toys that suck life and blood and call retaliative drones.


Come on! Those aren’t your riches…they are Earth’s;

Earthly things outliving our decaying remains,

Remaining for the next generation. We could have picked

Pickets as currencies, or flowers…just anything and set its worth.


For the real wealth is people together working equal,

Unequal, Good, evil. All people as long as they are happy.

Happens that that’s what also brings economic wealth.

Wealthiest nations have the highest density of people.


The leaves of her premise sway about on the roots of

Offish bar-talk: “They get raw and process and sell,

Sales price escalating in the process so the initial person

Persistently can’t afford what has come of his stuff.”


But maybe there’s the catch: It’s not your stuff!

Stuffed with plenty from mother nature you watched

Watches scattered in rocks and metal about your garden,

But never sought to assemble any, never used your stuff.


So while you hid and counted the talents in hand

Handymen handled theirs, building all that we see around.

Round the centuries Africa did, then Asia, then Europe, then…

Then Jesus’s talent parable’s paradox suddenly stands.


So while Africa whines about the stuff being stolen

The real loss is the exiled minds who’d fathom new ideas,

Ideally within their home. But there the hero is non grata

Grating his life away amidst corruption and opportunities stolen.


(c) Nyonglema


A lot of talk of how Africa’s rich for its resources, landscapes…blah blah! No! what Africa has is people. People abused for being honest, abused for seeking change. But people capable of great things, but pushed into egocentricity by the  artificial adversity created by the people appointed to get them out of adversity.

Africa’s quite huge, but this is the commonest trait. Our leaders spoil themselves on their people, and education suffers, then research suffers. The major cost of finished goods is the R&D we don’t do due to stolen (not embezzled) funds. Lots of wasted opportunities.

Africa’s time will come when Africa’s people’s time will come…when they shall be heard. When Africa stops looking for the fault everywhere and really introspects in a deep SWOT exercise. When leaders actually start to serve.



Downhill #despair #darknessIt

It all goes downhill from here.
At home, I’m not the man I paint
On the wall of my dreams. I’m not he.
My kids see me, but I see a faint
Depiction of myself, riddled with fleas
I see a demon with horns in their saint
Advising, holding, downhill to hell.

It all goes downhill from here
When even at work your effect is faint
And your figures are wrong, targets wrong
And failure’s the only thing you acquaint
As the reports are filed and you’re wrong wrong.
Where did you go wrong in all that you meant
To achieve as you go downhill to hell?

It all goes downhill from where
Suicide lurks in the scripts on the page,
Taunts you with methods, means to fix this.
Gives you the manual to soothe and assuage,
In detailed depictions with diagrams and digits,
To stop decay and just leave it all without rage
Down down down down downhill to hell.

It all goes downhill from here.
Even the staff is broken, staring with rage
As you disgust in the reek of your failure.
The promises filled the meter, but didn’t meet the gauge
And your futile attempts to fix are lures
To aggravate the stench and meet Murphy’s adage:
“It will go downhill downhill to hell.”


What’s left? What’s left? What’s left?
Nothing. Nothing. Downhill downhill …to hell.


But it need not go downhill from here.
Your finger’s on the trigger of solace, or so you think.
There’s a Saviour in true panoramic review
Of the situation. He resets the stroboscope on your blinks
So you can see the brightness now out of view.
It’s never easy when the dishes seem to overfill the sink
But it always goes down down and away from hell.

For it only seem to go downhill from here
Because pain injects despair and shortsightedness within
And Hope’s disguised as sci-fi anime.
But if you look deeper, that veil will wear out very thin
And within God whispers each step of the way:
“It’ll be OK. Let me take you off the sand for a spin”
And your “Yes” will take you up up and away to well.

(c) Nyonglema