Sometimes it’s hard to stop a rolling stone, but whenever it may roll, it always seems to find its way back home. Brett Boyett
Dear motherland, I’m proud to call you my home. I’m reminded of sunset; it tells that it ends where it began. From tree branches on the hilly countryside, I see shadows of land retreat with the setting sun. When the sun travels away, the shadows of trees and shrubs fall upon the ground, timid firmament blocked by passing grey clouds and day becomes a shadow of itself. Such a beautiful landscape and sight I’ll give all to behold every day.
Dancing figures of butterflies and fireflies contradict day and light. Light, dark. Sunlight, moonshine. Beautiful wings spread over this damp earth my fathers walked and tilled.
Everything is magical when I think of you, Africa. I genuinely love you.
My beautiful home sits up those ancient majestic hills and spread across fertile green valleys. A land carved by Providence itself, combining both the simplicity of the forest land and sophistication of human civilisation. When cold hands of night descend, the beauty is unmasked and seen through mist and moonshine. If you must know, you will wait for the moon. When the moon appears, she is dressed in white. It lets her light upon the great land and the vast wilderness. Forces of light and darkness may battle. I ponder on what courage that walk the night but queer fireflies that fly in droves and glitter randomly. Their light adds to the night’s beauty, which words cannot describe exactly. Then I ponder further, fearing for the future of this beautiful land and her people.
I wonder oh Africa, how much gold you worth and yet fall to the wicked hands of poverty. I wonder how you love, and in return, you are hated. I wonder why there’s so much but yet little to go around. I wonder if I’ll ever grow out of this love I’ve for you. I wonder if I can retain this loving mindset for man and nature forever. But how long should your children wait to become great again?