By Shem Onderi
Threatened from periphery to core,
your tough skin is your shield.
You walk barefoot for years—
seeking food, chasing education.
The African child needs a home,
money to fill an empty belly,
to silence the hunger pangs,
to fund the dream of school.
The mother’s kitchen needs firewood
to cook what little food there is—
but the forest stands bare,
stripped of its promise.
The African child needs a pen,
paper to sketch a vision,
a keyboard to type their dreams.
Still, the child rides on mother’s back—
she knows the journey’s length.
Africa belongs to its children,
yet the continent feels unsafe—
bullets fly where lullabies should linger.
Those meant to protect bring harm:
a parent beats,
a child’s limbs are lost,
child labour becomes a daily dose.
Sometimes, the child walks with bare back,
tattered clothes revealing too much.
A swollen belly strains through a torn vest,
stained with old vegetable soup—
soap is a luxury, detergent a dream.
But African child,
your fight is not in vain.
The world is yours to claim.
The war against jiggers rages on,
your mud hut still stands as home.
Hunger, that stubborn ghost,
under-five deaths, trafficking threats—
all must fall.
You play in the rain—barefoot,
not just to learn, but to laugh.
Fight on, dear child—
you will rise.
You will thrive amidst adversity.