Sometimes I wish I could write,
Of typical stories I used to read,
If the beautiful African set up I grew up in.
I wish I could write,
Of smoke rising from grass thatched huts
Rising slowly against the dawning sky.
I wish I could write,
Of the mooing cattle being milked,
And the smell of fresh manure
Being shoveled from the calves pen
I wish I could write
Of the joy of riding on the back of a calve,
Or of the sound cow jumping into the cleaning dip
Or of the innocence of finding joy in these mundane escapades
I wish I could write
Of that old grandmother singing a tune,
A tune of what she has lived through
A tune known only to her
I wish I could write
Of women seated sowing gourds
As they muss over their children and husbands
I wish I could write all that
I could if I had lived through it
All I know about that
Is what i read and hear
What i can write about now
Is of skyscrapers made of glass
The droning roar of engines and hooting cars
I only see gourds hanging on walls
And thatched houses in the museum
Yet at one point
They were part of my culture, a part of me
So today I ask,
Where did our heritage go to?
