The people’s dream.
The nation’s nightmare.
The children’s fairy tale.
The elder's folklore.
The land they say will be our home.
But before we get there, we will all be numb;
drained from the bullets they shoot.
All we hear are stories
that don’t correspond with our miseries.
When will the day come for us to finally see our land?
When all we get is bodies buried underneath the ground.
We thought our promise land will give us milkshakes and honey,
But no, it welcomes us with blood baths.
What is the future that we hope for,
If we can’t even make it past the present?
Time is expanding,
memories are fading,
moments are passing by.
But it still feels like the clock has stopped ticking.
Lives have been paused, some have been lost,
meanwhile, some have no clue where they are headed.
When the guns play their bullet music,
we dance hastily with our feet on the ground.
How did we master the steps so fast?
Gunshots have become the sounds that blast louder in our homes,
than Mr Leo’s songs we would normally play on our speakers.
We adapted too fast, and slowly we rest six feet
beneath the ground in the hands of men in black.
Apparently, everywhere has gone dark;
no one can see through the smirked smiles we have on our faces.
It is sad.
If only we can get peace,
then our tumult will cease;
but right now, that’s only a wish.
All we can do is hope and pray
If only the Ambazonian dream is possible,
we should make it there in one piece.