I came upon the castles dotting the coast of my mother,

The forts kingly sitting on the royal hills of my father

Shrouded in white cassocks.

Blinded by their splendour and religious smell

I nearly bowed to honour them

But was saved by the ancient and tutored by the archives.

They stand with angelic countenance today

Haven lost their true meaning and purpose.

They stood the gateway into captivity

And stand in white the scars of our wounds shrouded in innocence.

Inside them, feasted coldness and wetness on the fathers

Leaving mothers dead in rusty shackles.

Why then not root them up from their sitting places

Making way for the builders?

Who then shall hear our story and believe our account?

Who will tell it to the full and can our voice be heard?

They are the absolute evidence of yesterday’s wrongs

And the compelling voice of yesterday’s victims.

F. Abeku Adams.