Rise for Traoré, Rise for Africa

They sit in boardrooms with blood on their sleeves,

plotting the death of a man who refused to bow,

a man who planted his feet in the red soil of Burkina Faso

and said — No more.

They watch with cold eyes,

calculating how to slice another wound

into the body of Africa,

to make us bleed again,

to drink from us like leeches.

Ibrahim Traoré —

you are not alone.

We are the fists pounding against centuries of chains,

we are the fire that devours your blue and red flags,

we are the rage that will not be caged.

If you touch him,

you touch the living heart of a billion souls.

You strike him,

you summon the thunder of every village,

the cry of every child born under stolen skies.

We remember —

the ghosts of our grandmothers sold in chains,

the rivers that carried away our stolen names,

the fields soaked with the sweat of slaves.

But now,

we are no longer bowed.

We have sharpened our voices into spears,

our dreams into banners,

our unity into a storm that no empire can tame.

We are the United Sovereign States of Africa,

rising not with petitions,

but with fire in our veins,

and a promise in our fists.

From the Congo River to the streets of Ouagadougou,

from the Sahara’s breath to the oceans roaring,

we are gathering —

sons and daughters of the forgotten throne.

This is a warning,

to those who think Africa is still asleep:

we have woken,

and we are not forgiving.

©Bunguswa™