Africa is Mother.
To some of Her children, She has been harsh.
My father swears he read by candlelight,
His eyes burning, his patience thin.
“Why?” I asked him once.
Because Mother, he said,
Eyes clouded with an emotion I could not name,
“Taught me never to be fooled,
by the colonial man’s paperwork.”
Africa is Mother.
My father says She has taken,
More than She has given.
He lost his brother to war
And speaks of him like a hymn.
He describes him so vividly,
I almost feel I have met him.
Mother teaches Her children
To carry grief like luggage,
And to carry it far.
My Mama says she misses the old days,
Yet she also says they were cruel.
Her mornings were filled with struggle,
Her nights filled with prayers,
But always laughter in the woman’s circle.
“Mother’s embrace is both sharp and soft,” Ma says.
“You never know if She has left you wounded
Or gifted you with memories.”
Then she sighs, like she always does,
A breath caught between relief and sorrow.
Africa was kind to some of Her children.
To me, She was a whisperer,
Her hands gentle, Her touch light.
She lulled me with her tales,
She blinded me with such grace,
For a while, I could not see
The children She scolded,
The children She silenced,
The children She beat
With Her hard, calloused hands.
Now, I am grown.
And Mother still holds my heart,
Still cradles me whole.
But I see Her shadows now.
I see the uncle I never met,
The little girl Mama used to be,
Skipping school to fetch water
Too murky to quench her dreams.
Mother is not fair.
Her love is uneven,
Her lessons often cruel.
But it’s hard to blame Her—
She was innocent once too.
Shaped by the scars inflicted upon Her,
Her back bent beneath the weight of others’ greed.
How heavy it can be
To be both victim and victor,
Both broken and healer.
Mother has failed some of Her children,
Yet She has tried.
I could never understand
Some children ride on bicycles
And others just on tires
But if it were up to me to guess
Why She spared me,
Why She made my burdens light—
I would say it is because She hoped I would have the strength
To tend the wounds She could not heal,
To love the children She could not hold,
To feed the hungry She could not reach,
To embrace the lonely She left behind.
And that is why I write—
Because I see Her in all of us.
Whether blessed or beaten,
We are still Her children.
Our loss is Her loss,
And maybe, just maybe,
She is waiting for us
To rewrite Her story.
Writer- Tracy. 17 years old