9 a.m on a dull Tuesday morning,
I walked with a heavy head,
I've been carrying this for a while now,
Something common to men of my status,
Scamperring at the feet of the scavengers at the top of the national bounty,
They come with tummies tucked inside and mouth full of fairytale,
But leave pregnant with our wealth,
And then hands it over as a heirloom to their kind.
This knowledge is the weight we carry everyday in restrained silence,
To speak is to die,
The death of the poor fades like the morning haze,
So we choose to let our silence live,
Than die as an unsung activist.
But our mind finds no repose,
The warrior within wants to pounce,
The outcome of the dice is to take it back,
This fight we know will live beyond us,
It will be for those coming behind us,
They will hear of our feats,
and our courage to decide our faith.
They will learn from us to have a mouth that speaks,
And a voice crying at every corner of the street
Demanding justice and fairness never yielding to the bridle of any kind,
So we will shout, we will march, we will call out,
We will live through every moment
Knowing that death wasn't forced on us by a bleak fate
But a choice we made for the struggle, for our liberation.