“The Pillars of the Continent”( African woman)

 

“The Pillars of the Continent”( African woman)

In the cradle where the first dawn broke,
Where baobabs stand like sentinels of time,
There walks the woman — with dust on her feet,
And galaxies buried in her eyes.

She is the drumbeat of the village square,
The lullaby in twilight's hush.
She bends to plant, to reap, to raise —
A quiet strength, a sacred rush.

From the Sahel's edge to Congo's green,
In desert heat or coastal breeze,
She carries water, carries fire,
Carries legacies beneath the trees.

She is the mother of storytellers,
The weaver of wisdom in strands of hair,
The keeper of proverbs, echoing truths
That empires forget but she still bears.

She bore kingdoms upon her back
When kings fell short and fled the fight.
She nursed rebellion in whispered tones,
And stood where silence swallowed light.

She is the market’s vibrant hum,
The laughter stitched in colored cloth,
The merchant, healer, midwife, scribe —
The voice that never once fell off.

In boardrooms, courts, and parliaments,
She now reclaims the seat she lost —
But still she walks through shadows deep,
Still counting freedom’s hidden cost.

She sings in tongues the earth still knows,
She dances rites the sky once taught,
She bridges what was torn apart,
She speaks for those the world forgot.

Through wars, through hunger, plagues and chains,
She stood — unbending, yet so kind.
The womb of nations, fierce and wise,
The map of Africa in her mind.

Not just behind — but far ahead,
She leads, though often seen too late.
She is the pulse beneath the soil,
She is the architect of fate.

So let the histories carve her name
In granite stones and desert sand.
For every continent’s beating heart
Was first cradled in her hand.

 

She teaches under mango trees,
With chalk and dreams that do not fade.
Her classroom walls are open skies —
Her lessons fierce, though poorly paid.

She stands in clinics short of aid,
Wiping brows with hands worn thin,
Fighting death with herbs and hope,
With knowledge etched beneath her skin.

In fields of maize or cotton rows,
She sows not only seeds, but change.
She reads the clouds, commands the soil,
And makes the seasons rearrange.

She’s not a whisper in the wind —
She’s the storm that broke the gate.
The voice that rose from shackled days,
And turned her pain to something great.

With daughters dancing at her feet,
And sons asleep against her chest,
She builds the world from broken bricks
And teaches all to do their best.

She codes, she leads, she writes, she heals,
She builds new bridges with old scars.
Her stories fuel the future’s flame —
Her eyes outshine the northern stars.

She kneels in prayer at dawn’s first light,
With strength disguised as quiet grace.
Her faith is carved from mountain stone,
Her soul a deeply rooted place.

And when she sings, the earth stands still,
The ancestors lean in to hear.
For in her voice, a thousand years
Still live, and rise, and persevere.

So tell the tale and tell it true:
Africa stands because she stood.
Not in the shadows, not behind —
But where the brave and righteous should.