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Enough with playing the role of the oppressed.
I automatically go from smiling to tears.
Enough with playing the role of the hurt one.
Enough… I am tired of being told that everything will be fine by those whose life gets worse day by day.
I ask myself questions about the history of my people and my face is covered in tears.
So tell me: Is being your son a misfortune?
Your politicians prevent me from dreaming because they are enslaved by material things.
And my instinct rebels.
You whisper to me that you’ll make me wise… why should I care about being wise?

Wisdom is not a meal.
On the road of hope one day I will walk, on the road of regret one day I will return.
I want to give a sense to my life, I’m fed up with being descendant of slaves.
I would like to win a Nobel Prize or an Oscar.

Racism is absurd: as a child I was always told about Adam and Eve, while now I learn about Darwin. But I am shocked because I recognize that you are the cradle of humanity, and yet your own children are racists. Respect me: I am your ancestor.When I think that my ancestors whipped each other to please the white colonizer, I cry tears of blood. Exactly as I cry on the highway of poverty. In fact, the enemies of Africa are the Africans themselves.
How can you concentrate and study when your parents are gone? Or, if they are alive, when you have to look after them reversing the normal roles?
We are at war always and forever, to please those who colonize us.
My tears are invisible because my heart is absent, buried under the thirst for power of politicians.


*Photo Copyright: Francesco Malavolta

I descend from slaves. When I think about the work that the Africans did and still do into the gold mines, when I think about child soldiers… my fingers bleed.
They criticize you because you have many children and they forget that by colonizing your land they have killed and taken away thousands of your sons, and have stolen your resources too.
I wonder if the story would have been the same if black people had whipped white people.
Luther King had a dream that changed minds.
I wish I could dream too, just like him, but my dreams are pulverized by the multinational corporations. When I think about it, I turn pale knowing that China is buying your land.
I see in your eyes the judgment that condemns me without knowing me. Don’t worry: I am not a car thief. Instead, I would like to manufacture and sell the cars to you. If I go into a store, you give me a bad look. Yet, even though I have chocolate colored skin, I can afford to pay what you sell. However, you may have forgotten that many raw materials that you pay peanuts come from my land. So now I ask you: which one of us is the thief?
Mama Africa, every day you lose thousands of sons who starve to death or are killed by arms. But you have no arms industry and therefore I do not understand why we are constantly at war.
When I was little I always used to hear gunfire, but since the day I left you the only gunfire I have heard were the cannons celebrating Saint Francis.
Your death would be the death of all humanity.
I am black, I am African and proud of my origin.
When I smile and my unknown brothers come to my mind, I automatically start crying.
Both tormented by the fear of losing each other we will love each other until death, Mama Africa.

By Yacob Fouiny

Translated by: Claudia Rapparelli e Claudia Tanzi
Proofreader: Claudia Tanzi

Original text in Italian here