INDEPENDENCE WITHOUT GAINS

The drums beat loudly across the squares,

flags rise proudly in grand parades,

Sixty-nine years of freedom claimed

yet the poor man’s life remains the same.

They sing of glory, wave the red, gold, green,

of victories bright and futures unseen.

But beneath the cheers and marching bands,

lies the silent sorrow of struggling lands.

We were among the first to break the chains,

and cast aside colonial pains.

Yet among the last to reach the shore

of progress others found before.

What shall we toast with lifted hands,

when broken dreams fill all our lands?

No hunter dances through the night

without a game to claim his right.

Our children sit where the roofs have flown,

in dusty classrooms, bare as stone.

The sun their lamp, the rain their dread,

still chasing knowledge, on the path they tread

The farmer bends through burning days,

his sweat poured out in silent praise.

But harvest comes with bitter cries,

his produce unsold, his hope dies.

Our roads, like scars across the earth,

steal young lives of priceless worth.

Ambulances crawl through dust and pain,

while grieving mothers curse the rain.

Hospitals sigh with empty hands,

short of care across the lands.

Yet speeches bloom like flowers in May,

while death and sickness have their way.

Who then truly marks this day?

Who drinks the joy of freedom’s sway?

Not the poor, whose hunger cries,

not the worker, whose strength slowly dies.

It is the few in polished halls,

behind tall gates and guarded walls.

They feast on our taxes, rich and deep,

while weary citizens barely sleep.

For them, the chains were truly torn,

their wealth and power are richly born.

Economic freedom fills their plate,

while poverty shadows the common state.

Once a torch of hope was high,

a patriot’s dream against the sky.

Vision burned in hearts so brave,

to build the future freedom gave.

But greed arrived with quiet tread,

and slowly laid that vision dead.

Corruption dimmed the sacred flame,

and patriotism became just a name.

Gold beneath our patient ground,

oil and hidden wealth are found.

Rivers flow through fertile strands,

yet hunger walks these gifted lands.

Blessed with riches deep and wide,

yet empty bowls we cannot hide.

For leadership without sight,

has turned our progress into night.

So beat the drums if drums must beat,

and march with pride through every street.

But let truth within us say-

Our freedom waits for its rightful day.

By the village poet

France Angbabora Baaladong