A thief isn't a thief; he's the savior of my forsaken people.
Arms he does not bear, no he despises strangers' purses.
For he covets the wealth of our rocks and the distribution of our foolishness.
He's a sweet charmer, an idol to his victims.
Guns aren't his department, pens and signatures and handshakes are his bullets.
He shoots at us but we still live to die a hundred times and over
He's a slithering snake with a forked tongue that swears no evil but tales of false promises.
He comes, he poses for the camera and my people rejoice in him.
Oh, the depths of our foolishness know no bounds.
When he smile he robs the joy of my literate brothers
His happiness is our doom
With mischievous grin he's promise the life of our daughters to his elite cohorts
He's stolen the future of our unborn children for greedy figures in a foreign man's land.
He's exchange our gold of the earth for papers of men
Yet, he sings a sweet tune and a good singer he is.
He parades with his vagabonds of luxuries through our decaying slum,
Yet like ants drawn to sugar, my people flock out to worship him,
He's a goddess called celebrity, a god called politician and a woman called minister.
They dance to his songs of deceit, hoping for selfish favors.
Yet when we dance too close, he spits in contempt at our happiness to the crumbs he sprinkles.
My people, I shall become a thief, for it is what you desire.
The 1% ravaging the 99%.
A Poem By Wizz
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An African Man's Disease
PoetrySeries of short poems on the plagues that curse us all, Africans.
