Cry, my beloved, cry
The heads do not hold
The neck is also dry
Oh cry, mourn, yell, and behold
Our presidents are dying, our legacy in carcasses
And you dust in which their fertile wisdom expend
Should we to fate our future focus?
Should we to yesterday our regrets extend?
Please, please, let not the heavens be irritated
Chiluba,
Grow tender leaves and be not devastated
Mwanasawa
Son of the soil, call not another to another fest
And now Michael Sata
May your soul peacefully find rest
What, how, why,
When will this dirge be silent?
Where will this elegy lead?
And you Manda Hill
Should you live up to your euphemism?
Do you understand what we feel?
Don’t be a grave, preserve our humanism.
Mourn with our chitenges slain on the ground, Zambia
From the Aushi plateau to the mounds of the Lambia
From the ashes of the blindman who sang:
“Tukekala kenge”
To the bare-foot Ng’wang’wazi whose tongue
Believed in the promise of change
Let not hope be disappointed
Strong we become, though death be
If we should reduce powers to the next anointed
And give our new ruler less to do, but more to see
Life will be satisfied
Death will be mortified
Cry my beloved, and pray
Protect our land, Lord we pray
And another give us
But keep them long in Jesus!

By Charles Mwewa

Author of  Zambia: Struggles of My People; and  King Cobra Has Struck: Letter to President Michael C. Sata. Charles is also professor of legal studies in Canada. http://www.charlesmwewa.com/