Sometimes, I try hard to believe that this is still Africa, I cannot withstand the surge of emotions with hot tears from the unfathomed fountain of my eyes when I heard of those days, those days of jubilation, the evenings and the nights filled with happy tom of drum tuned with the melodious voice of the maidens who moved their bodies to the rhythm of the song as coins were plastered onto their foreheads; those happy days when the children formed the big round of their tiny shrilled voices dancing during the moonlit evening. Happy were they when the traditionalists poured the libation on the happy earth to thank their deities in the village shrine with joy, dance and music, they would display the gift given to us by the earth. With gladness, they yielded to the voices of their gods for fear of becoming dissident. The presence of their gods never departed from them as they remained the sources of their inspiration.
However, the joy of Mother Africa was cut short when the white monks invaded her home and deprived her of her integrity. Her gods were put to shame when they stripped naked and their shelter burnt to ashes. In their stead lies the holy land of the temple. It is quite disheartening to see the collective business of serving the gods becoming the individual business of one’s private cubicle
Mother Africa, we are ashamed of our betrayal. Our ancient drums are idle, hung at the corner of our chambers and with the maidens dancing cloths decorated with the fancy bead all getting destroyed out of lying idle on the walls. No drum beating, no singing, and no dancing. We are indeed, in a mourning state.
There came the man in a white robe always preaching righteousness opening his mouth to blaspheme our past heroes with foreign ones. Gradually, like the breath goes out of a dying man, about your ideals. We started carrying small flat black wood about with white chalk. We are mandated to sit and listen to the language of the man in shorts and stockings, landing on any naughty child were the small hydra-headed cane held by the teacher and at the end a thick flat paper was given to us for the work done over the years.
As if this is not enough, our wants for the white man’s knowledge became insatiable. We denied your ways and colour. Mother, you became the shame of our pride and we decide to hide you. We disguised ourselves and scraped our black beauty away and to crown it all, we rolled our tongues in saying the supposed magic word of the white. In fact, we tried to be like them and to forget about you
The land became corrupt and the machinery of controlling the state became defiled. Africans killed brothers in cold blood. Is it not better for us to stay in our state of ignorance and not to be in blood shedding? It is indeed a pathetic recount. However, let us protect Africa, let us bring her glory out. We are the match of any other race. This is a challenge, we dare not to fail. Let us have a dark corner for our ancient and cherished deities; for Africa ideal are the best.
Adeladan Akinkunmi Oluwaseun,
University of Maiduguri,
Maiduguri.
