I remember the stories of my ancestors.
Painful tales of woes and disaster.
Tales of torn skin and shattered bones.
Of weary men and breaking women.
Of black skin struggling against white, as the "brown" became the only substitute they could handle.
I see these stories in the wrinkles on my grandfather's hands and the sorrow in my grandmother's eye.

Oh Africa... My Africa,
How do you forget your history?
A history painted with the tears and blood of your fore parents.
How do you not remember the ones carried across the seas in chains?
And the ones trapped in chains on their own soil.
The lies our "history" books and leaders tell us we gobble up like we are without a truth.
"The labours of our heroes past"
What heroes?
We crown the traitors and chastise the Patriots.
We make mockery of the suffering of our ancestors.

Open your eyes dear ones.
And listen with your ears not your hearts.
For the battle ahead isn't one of feelings and tender talks.
But of brutality and force.
We must take what is rightfully our.
Only by right and never by crook.
Yes, never by crook.
Never like they took from us.
© Ema(Mae)



The quote is a line in the Nigerian national anthem. It isn't general.