Rumors that he was on the verge of winning
Grew sharper, more certain than before.
A new era, an age of self-rule was dawning,
To free all under the yoke of slavery’s lore,
From the retrogressive chains of white supremacy
That had gripped our lands, turning natives to slaves.
For ages, this decree would mark his legacy:
No more hiding in gorges, no more dark caves.
Even greater were the tidings in his hometown,
Among peers who had taken arms for the cause.
Raiding home guards, ensuring they fell,
Became less urgent as the fight drew pause.
The triumphant retreat of the white man sparked changes,
Meant solely to address grievances of Afrikans.
At last we were free from cages, from old exchanges,
Our liberator stood at freedom’s helm, dispensing it at will.
Months after he seized the reins, truth emerged:
Freedom fighters lived in cycles of poverty, neglect.
The liberator gave lands only to those he cherished,
Brushing off injustice as mere hearsay when confronted.
He confirmed that nothing was truly free;
Lands retrieved from settlers were not spoils of war.
The betrayal stung, sharp and painful as a bee,
Yet in one way or another, they would settle the score.