Africa Speaks: A Declaration, A Lamentation, A Manifesto
I am Africa. The womb of the Earth. The first cry of mankind, the breath of history, the pulse of civilizations forgotten before the first stone of Europe was laid. I am the dust from which gods sculpted the flesh of humanity, the river where the sun quenches its thirst, the silent witness to the birth and decay of empires. Before borders, before flags, before invaders came wielding scripture in one hand and steel in the other, I was sovereign. I am the land of Kemet, Nubia, Axum, Mali, Songhai, Great Zimbabwe—names whispered in halls where my children no longer sit.
Yet I am also a wound. A scar that stretches from the mines of the Congo to the stolen bodies of Goree Island. I am the scream caught in the throat of ancestors shackled beneath decks, the silent terror of villages burned for rubber and gold, the mother whose milk was drained to nourish empires that would later call me savage. I am the echo of names erased, languages swallowed by foreign tongues, histories rewritten by hands that still hold the whip, though now it is wrapped in treaties and economic doctrines. I am the land whose riches fuel the wealth of others, whose children die in deserts and seas chasing shadows, whose leaders bear crowns forged by foreign hands.
But I am not just my wounds—I am resurgence.
I am the warrior who does not forget. The blood of Shaka still stains my rivers, the wisdom of Amílcar Cabral still whispers in my forests, the fire of Nkrumah still burns beneath my soil. I am the defiance of Sankara, the dream of Lumumba unfulfilled, the prophecy of Biko. I am not conquered; I am only delayed. And time is running out for those who believe me dead. I am not a victim. I am a storm waiting to be summoned.
WHO AM I?
I am Africa, and I will rise. But not through borrowed ideologies, not through systems designed to keep me fractured, not through the illusion of independence draped in foreign suits and corrupt constitutions. I will rise through the remembrance of who I was before I was named by others. I will rise when my children understand that sovereignty is not a flag, not a national anthem, but the ability to feed, heal, educate, and defend oneself without permission. I will rise when I stop begging for a seat at tables I built. I will rise when I remember that I am the table, the foundation, the architect, and the blueprint.
WHAT MUST BE DONE?
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The Mind Must Be Liberated – Colonialism ended on paper, but its ghosts haunt my institutions, my languages, my religions, my aspirations. My children must unlearn what was forced upon them, for no people rule while thinking in the language of their oppressors. My tongues, my philosophies, my spiritual systems must be resurrected.
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The Borders Must Crumble – I was not born in fragments. The lines that divide me were carved by men in Berlin who had never set foot on my soil. I was whole before they split me, and I must be whole again. Africa must not be a continent of 54 weak voices but one unbreakable force.
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My Wealth Must Serve Me – Gold, oil, diamonds, cobalt, uranium—my veins bleed riches, yet my children starve. How long will I watch as foreign hands loot me while my own governments beg for scraps? My resources must no longer be the fuel of foreign economies but the foundation of my own. No more exploitation. No more compromise.
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The Puppet Strings Must Be Cut – I see my leaders bowing to foreign masters, signing away sovereignty for loans that build nothing but debt. I see policies dictated from Washington, Brussels, Beijing—each pretending to be my savior while tightening their noose around my neck. My liberation will not come from the West, nor the East. It will come from within.
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A New Generation Must Rise – Not those who dream only of escape, who see dignity in exile, who believe success means distance from their roots. I call upon those who dare to dream in African terms, who do not measure progress by Western standards, who know that true freedom means owning the means of production, the flow of knowledge, the land beneath their feet.
THE FINAL WORD
I am not a victim, not a museum, not a memory. I am Africa, eternal and unyielding. And I will no longer wait for salvation from those who built their empires on my broken bones. I will reclaim myself.
The sun has not set on me. It was only an eclipse.
And the light is returning.