Where is thine beauty gone?
Why art thou scattered and torn?
The drum of thine heart beats no more.
Thy sun, less glorious than before.
Our ancestors’ backs art to us turned.
The white man’s folly have we found.
Oh sleeping giant of black,
Heaven’s glorification of colour dark
Thy children find no sleep
All our lives, we lie low and weep
We have lost our natural course,
And nothing could be worse.
Not knowing which way to follow, roads cross.
We are lost, like a villager in the heart of Lagos.
© Anuforo Kingsley A
