Civilization by the bullet,
the sting of the whip.

Descending upon us,
with fearsome piety.

Bringing The Book,
sweeping our collective pasts aside.

Scavenging for ore,
snouts in the trough,
the pillaging rarely ceased.

Gold. Women. Diamonds. People.

All commodities,
stripped and raped and sold and bought.

The wounds of colonialism,
left us battered and bruised and almost broken.

Almost.

But not quite.

For,

the tides began turning,
winds of indignant defiance began rolling,
up through the hinterland,
and down to the sea.

The rising began,
in pockets,
then in swathes of the plundered country.

The rising took shape,
grew,
and found its coherent voice.

They were chased,
chastened,
from our shores,
back to the northern lands that craved the sun.

And the gold. Women. Diamonds. Men.

This was centuries ago.

Yet,

the craving persists.

And,

they scavenge still,
never sated.

Till the rising shouts out,
once again,

Enough

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