I live in Tanzania, a country that is now at war with famine,
The prediction of draught is clear, so lets take a step back and examine,
In a world comprising of 7 billion, 98% are under-nourished,
Every 10 seconds a child on earth looses his chance to flourish,
Since these are the facts, we should be asking ourselves where then does our tax go?
A simple google search for Tanzania reveals all its beauty and attraction,
But don’t you see all the safaris are merely a distraction! Because the truth is far, far from perfection.
46% of the population here lives under a dollar a day,
Despite the 2000 million dollars earned from tourism and its transactions,
Why then does Tanzania face poverty, hunger and dissatisfaction?
Well if you ask me, this is the ultimate call for action!
So if I were a scientist, i would use nanoparticles to create artificial clouds,
Its simple logic really, rains bring back power to the suffering crowds,
As they grow, sough and plough,
They would not only harvest ‘food’, but more so they would uncover their fortitude,
To live, to give, to thrive and to drive change in this shrewd world…
Poverty is not an issue of charity, its an issue of social justice!
They say beauty is in the eyes of the beholder,
That despite our differences we can live shoulder to shoulder,
However as I crossed paths with a little girl named Ashura,
I gradually realized that in reality, our world is much more colder.
She played under the tree’s shade, oblivious to the attention bestowed on her paler skin,
Little did she know she would be the next victim of the trade, that this was the last time she could freely breathe air.
For the aftermath of the many attempted break-ins, would send her life into a tailspin,
With the shackles of fear and the price of her capture transforming her into a prisoner, trapped within the mystified albino skin’.
The grass on the football field turned to sharp glass shards,
Red rose petals wilted into crescent blood drops,
As ISIS pulled on innocent children their final death card,
Leaving on a soccer ball, imprints of missed futures and strangled hopes.
How can the world not see, oh oh oh.. this bundle of exotic beauty?
You walk by making heads turn, men sway,
It’s almost like the universe just tilts your way,
Yet you pull on the long sleeves,
Scars beneath on your soft skin run deep,
“Don’t be conscious baby, you’re doing more than ‘kay,
It’s coz you are perfectly broken in your very own way
Yeah you paint my black n white world a darker shade of grey ey ey ey,
I’ll be by your door holding out a bouquet,
I’ll hand you my heart and sing to you on your birthday,
Because for me oh oh oh you’re a bundle of exotic beauty..
Silence befalls as I walk through the meadow garden, coursing through it’s intertwined paths,
The once twinned branch nodes falls apart sudden, a representation of the victim’s lives aftermath,
The lush grass’s shade slowly darkens, turning deep red with each fallen martyr’s blood bath,
Songs of gunshots in the air sharpen, a silent reminder of the inhuman massacre and wrath,
The devastation and terror seems to be forgotten, Perhaps we are in need of a telepath,
A necessary truth seems left curtained, while masses continue linking a religion with these deaths,
Let’s not blindly associate ISIS with Muslims or turbans, Instead lets commit ourselves to supporting the new victims in an oath:
To collectively build A TERROR FREE WORLD.
My face broke into a stretching smile, watching the kids bubble with energy,
Presenting me their skills versatile, drawings and portraits that trapped a memory,
Yet at a corner a stranded soul had me beguile, her sadness stirring my sympathy,
Her deep blue eyes drowning me like the Nile, soughing the cause of her state tenderly,
With an empty smile she slid me her elegy, reading it I found the reason to her reverie,
“You write letters to your dad” I asked silently, nodding she replied ever so solemnly,
“Maybe, just maybe.. heaven’s mail got late in it’s delivery”
(Based on a true story of an orphan from Najaf, Iraq whose father was killed by the ISIS militants)
Every sigh echoes numbly round the room, the four walls closing me in,
Dark shadows of prison guards are my doom, I question what was my sin?
War made prison my serene tomb, but what I witness chills my chin,
A mother’s strangled cry looms, as she witnesses them skin her kin,
More blood spilt in the prisons of Khartoum, makes my skull throb and spin,
Scent of freedom is but a lost perfume, millions of shattered hopes prevailing herein.