VOICE OF AFRICA

Golden fields of sugar rose,

Tobacco leaves in endless rows,

Cotton spread like ghostly snow,

But wealth was built on human woe.

 

Ships sailed forth with iron cries,

Beneath the Caribbean skies,

Plantations drank both blood and sweat,

A harvest Europe won, and yet.

 

Kings of Africa, some betrayed,

Some complicit, some afraid,

Sold their rivals, bound in pain,

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From the hills of Nine Mile to the world’s stage,

A lion of Zion with wisdom and rage,

Bob Marley, Jamaica’s cherished son,

A warrior of peace, a revolutionary one.

 

Through reggae rhythms and soulful cries,

He sang of freedom beneath African skies,

Challenging chains of apartheid’s might,

Calling for justice, for truth, for right.

 

"Get Up, Stand Up," his battle call,

For the oppressed, for one and for all,

"Redemption Song," a hymn of release,

A cry for unity, a plea for peace.

 

He saw Africa’s struggles as his own,

A seed of resistance deeply sown,

Informing the West with each melody,

Of Africa’s fight for equality.

 

No borders could bind his message wide,

His music still flows like the ocean's tide,

Echoing loudly through time’s embrace,

A prophet of love, of truth, of grace.

 

Bob Marley lives in every song,

A spirit unbroken, forever strong,

His legacy shines like the morning sun,

Africa's voice, Jamaica's son.

They sailed through storms on foreign seas,

With hearts of steel and humble pleas,

From islands bright and sun-kissed coasts,

And motherlands where spirits boast,

They fought beneath another's sky,

For freedom’s cause, prepared to die.

 

In khaki cloth and weathered boots,

They stood as brothers, bore the brutes,

Of war’s demand and cannon’s cry,

While bombs lit up a stranger’s sky.

Yet when the peace was signed and sealed,

Their names were lost on history's field.

 

No monuments in London’s square,

No tales in books that linger there.

They speak of Europe, brave and bold,

Of Yanks and Tommies, often told, 

But silence cloaks the dusky face,

Who bled for freedom, not for praise.

 

From Accra’s sons to Kingston’s pride,

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