A Drum with Cracks

We celebrate, the drum we beat has scars. May 25,stitched together with borrowed thread and stubborn hope. Leaders meet, shake hands and declare unity while history watches “Africa is one,” they say— but the borders still whisper in foreign tongues. Freedom came, not like rain, but like a leaking tap. Drop by drop. Some drink deeply. But some are still thirsty. We raise flags, bright cloth against a tired sky— yet hunger still salutes no anthem. Independence walks proudly, but its shadow limbs Yes, we have beauty— Victoria Falls thundering like an ancient argument, pyramids that refuse to forget the past mountains standing like Goliaths but beauty does not always feed starving children We dance, feet beating dust into rhythm— amapiano, sungura, the music that laughs so we do not have to cry. Africa is not yet a finished dream For right now, there is a a child in a classroom holding a pencil like a revolution. A girl dreaming louder than history allows. A boy refusing silence. Maybe we are still rehearsing a free Africa chaotic, defiant, unfinished. But we still celebrate Yes, we celebrate, not perfection, but persistence. Not unity but the stubborn attempt at it. Africa is not just a place. It is a question we are still learning how to answer.