Brandished on the 1960s demonstrations
Were the pictures of an icon of anti-imperialism;
Moving towards the African platform, flashbulbs
Fired around him;
Tears of fire, and of blood made him to be proud to the depths
Of his being.

Theirs were wounds that were too fresh and too painful to be
Driven out from their memories;
‘We did not eat enough to drive away hunger, or to clothe ourselves
Decently, or to raise our children as creatures dear to us’, he said.
The colonial masters exploded in convulsions of rage;
Just like a bullet, the Congolese man had fired his shot on them.

Cordial-faced aborigines looked upon him with much of the same
Regard that an agriculturalist views his strong-limped child;
But 13 February 1961 brought anger that split the whole world
Asunder;
Bodies were unearthed, chopped into pieces and Gerald Soete, a
Belgian police officer dissolved the bodies with canisters of acid;

As we shout, ‘Who can murder my skin?’, the unholy alliance of
The Western interests lay behind his demise;
Besmirching the independence and distorting the truth is what
Congo received in her palms from these diabolic giants;
Preferring to die with his head high, his faith steadfast and his
Confidence profound in the destiny of his country is what he did;
Long live the Congo! Long live Africa!

©Danny the Writer