An African Man’s Disease

I once knew a man called Lazarus who didn't rise from the dead,

He became many men who solved solutions with many a prayer of no actions.

He would sit in the dark and spit against his ancestor’s grave

He would mock the clan of his own stupidness

Indeed he was wise.

Too wise he knelt in holiness before a first aid sign,

Wise to call his black gods dark and the white cross.

Oh he was a fool!

He forgot his mother corpse of a slave rotting underneath the house of a cross,

He forgot his father's gods loved the letter two until the arrival of the cross.

Oh his ignorance is bliss indeed

Great are the women of twins, their struggle once again stolen by the mother of a cross

Lazarus need not be raised from the grave, he needs risings from colonial propaganda

The son of man has nowhere he might lay his head, yet the clergymen a pillow full of tight to cushion for the night.

Hail be him, Oduduwa. - A Poem By Wizz