We stand on a stage
Held up by our mothers, fathers, ancestors,
Being watched by those to come.
Maita Baba, Maita Amai, Maita Madzitateguru…
Gone are the days,
When other hands covered our mouths,
Other voices told our stories,
Other pens drew black and white lines on our maps
That separated and simplified us.
Asante Mama, Asante Baba, Asante Mababu…
Those lines blur and bleed,
Melt and move,
Make room for our complexity,
We draw technicolored
Roads, bridges, paths, rivers and multiply them,
One thousand ways to go and be free.
A free man can
Yebare Tata, Yebare Mama…
We pick up our pens,
Raise our voices,
Drown out the lies
That tried to diminish our light.
We are children of the sun,
Walking in its light,
Basking in its brilliance,
Proclaiming, “We are ready to be seen!”
Urakoze Papa, Urakoze Mama, Urakoze Abakera…
The sun marks us again,
Colours us in earth tones,
As it was in the beginning,
Touches our lips, gums, skin, eyes, hair
Until we are soaked in it,
Until it has seeped into our souls,
Until we are of the sun.