by Oumar Farouk Sesay
We have done all things to build this nation.
Toiled till our hands grew calloused,
walked till blisters marred our soles.
We have prayed till our knees turned to stone,
fasted till our ribs played melodies of hunger,
bathed in salt water, as if the ocean could cleanse our fate.
We have voted—wutehteh for Tejan Kabbah,
sung wata wae na for you for Momoh,
chanted world best for Ernest Koroma,
incanted Maaadaa Biooo for Maada.
Before that, we screamed, "Jesus Christ!" for Johnny Paul Koroma,
even before that, we sang of four pounds, four shillings Margai ate,
then swallowed our echoes into the void.
We have starved, thirsted,
slept beneath trees that whispered no comfort,
died in gutters that remembered no names.
Lost life and limb to the Ruffians,
witnessed wombs entombed, cradles turned to graves,
fled—our footprints fading like ghosts on foreign soil.
We have blogged, blocked highways with our rage,
sung till our voices cracked,
danced on streets slick with sorrow,
cheered, cried, laughed
as if laughter could stitch what was torn.
We have written—and been written upon,
stomped—and been trampled,
swum toward hope only to drown in despair.
We have been jailed,
hanged in her name,
suspended between love and betrayal.
We have been adjectivized—
resilient, apathetic, stoic to prolong our suffering.
We have been labelled, tagged, and morgued.
We have robbed and been robbed,
starved and stabbed,
our bodies maps of wounds unhealed.
We have been violated,
standing, waiting, bracing for the next blow.
And still, the seven fat cows devour the seven thin,
again and again, their hunger never sated.
The feast never ends,
yet our famine lingers,
until the fattened are retired
so the gaunt may wither no more.
Oumar Farouk Sesay is a published poet, novelist, and playwright. He has been published in many anthologies of Sierra Leonean poets, including Lice in the Lion's Mane, Songs That Pour the Heart and Kalashnikov In The Sun.