I want to meet Mama Afrika

The woman behind the birth of

The richest yet poorest continent

I have a couple of questions to ask her


I want to know where she was when

The mercenaries invaded her home

Was she away for the day and forgot to lock her door?

I want to know where she was when

They took her children away to a foreign land

Was she too drunk to run after those thieves

Or did she not know how to swim in the ocean


I imagine the day I meet Mama Afrika

I will also have some breaking news for her

How ironic it is that

Her children kill each other

With their enemies weapons

Or even accept to be used by the later

To murder themselves

Stripping down everything that makes them African

From the spirit of Ubuntu down to the traditions


She might need to be updated on current events

Like the epidemic of presidents who so love their country

They offer it to strangers in exchange for bits of  fortune

Or soldiers who so worship a woman’s body

They’d rather steal it than earn it for bits of pride

The CEOs who so want to empower youths

They offer  jobs in exchange of bits of love


I hope the day I meet Mama Afrika

She will have answers to my questions

I bet she will say this

Every one of my children is hurting

Deep down on the inside,

I bet she’ll explain

That the older a tree is

The harder it bends and that

There is nothing more exhausting

Than hearing all the cries of Afrika

That what Afrika needs is: Love.

That all this hurt would be drown away

If Love was

That truly what all Africans ought to do is

Start from within

And love the Afrika in them

Around them

And beyond them


But I will probably wonder how

One is supposed to love

Something unattractive

And just as any mother

She’ll most likely notice my worry

She’ll then tell me this

You do not love Afrika

Because it’s beautiful

You love it

Then it becomes beautiful

You take care of it

Until it starts taking care of itself

You water it daily

Until it grows tall enough

To start producing its fruits

You do not wait for Afrika

To give you life

You bring Afrika

Back to life


-Marianne Murekatete

One thought on “Wishful

  1. this is a lovely one, Mama Afrika sounds to be a fairy tale like all the rest. unlike in your poem, Me and you, are Afrika, and at the same time we are……Mama Afrika.


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