Night of Negritude
By Clement Odia
YOU did not foretell, Senghor, that dawn’s fiery blade
Would slice through the shadows, casting France’s stain
From Bamako to Ouagadougou, from Niamey to the streets
Where our brothers and sisters rise, demanding freedom’s sweet retreats
We slumbered on the desolate road of tyranny’s dark night
Only to rise, eagle-like, to liberty’s radiant morning light
Where the iron grip of colonial lords, adept at plunder and deceit
Would loosen, their grasp, like harmattan leaves, crumbling, futile, and weak.
Oh Damas, you did not warn us that French embassies would ignite
Like tinderboxes, ablaze with defiance, as colonies rose to unite
Their voices, a thunderclap, shaking the foundations of oppression’s throne
Calling the thief by his name, as Africa’s children claimed their rightful home.
Oh Damas, our Night of Negritude, a gestation of hope and pain
Gave birth to a fierce monster, forged in the crucible of resistance and strain
This beast, with eyes aglow, like embers from a fire that would not cease
Sawed through the ice of suffering, shattering the chains of mental slavery’s freeze.
Oh Aime Cessaire, you too, failed to drag us, kicking and screaming
To the threshold of dawn, where Africa’s destiny would be our own, and gleaming
Yet, we arose, from the ashes, reborn, renewed
With hearts afire, and spirits unbroken, our liberation, we pursued.
