Africa

The ghost of Africa appeared in my dreams last night, her left arm reaching in support for where the East should be, her bulge pregnant with oil and with the blood of her people. She carried herself as best she could without the legs of Angola and Mozambique - amputated by cheap landmines planted by mercenaries and fools, for money and for power, pawns in a bigger game no less meaningless.
Africa is a large ghost, large and ancient, and her voice is deep and proud, strong and angry, despite the fact that corruption has turned malignant, cancerous in many of her organs, causing them to eat away at themselves with guns and money supplied by the great god Capitalism.
“Do you deny us a place in your world white boy?” she asked, “We who nurtured your babies until they were old enough to hate us. We who thanked you with upturned palms while you stole our treasures, raped, plundered and destroyed our past, our present, and now you do your best to destroy our future.” She dusted the desert sands at her brow where her intellect had admitted Islam.
“You have infected us with the Aids of your greed and charity of your aid. The pride and grace of our ancestors - your ancestors – is sold for the crude black mud that fuels your own greed in your single-minded stampede to the death of all people. Do you deny us even a place in your mind white boy?”