In recollecting our history, the mystery
Our invented yet still a rotten identity
Consciousness on a sick bed, what a misery
Nation ‘like a tree without roots’, what a pity
An island on a dinning table of decay
Even after bearing the name Kunta Kinteh
Still standing like a market without traders
In schools without students and teachers
Slowly a fortress becomes a shrine
Bats worship and birds recline in ease
Walls dilapidate and value decline
Antiquity into the mist, what a disease
Oral griots the vectors of myth
Whose art obscures the truth
Statemen the spectators to their humus
And catalyst to their devalued status
Out of good olden days nations shine
Through the staking of historical legacies
Out of neglect they stumble, progress decline
And their people entrapped with uncertainties
