We were made to believe that ‘Only white people write novels and poetry’. Could the following poem be one of those written by the English?
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Seven days since I last saw my beloved;
Longing presses heavy one me.
My body is weighed down.
And I even forget the taste of life.
When doctors come to tend me,
Their remedies leave me cold;
Magicians find no potent spells;
None can diagnose my illness.
But if I’m told” “She, there she is!” I’m revived.
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Her name is what calms me
Her message coming and going –
That’s what bonds my heart to life.
My beloved heals me better than medicine;
She is for me more than a prescription;
Her visit is my protective charm;
When I see her, I regain my health.
When she opens her eyes, my body grows young;
When she speaks, I grow strong.
When I take her in my arms, she drives away evil.
But she’s been away seven whole days now.
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Not at all, this beautiful poem was written by an Egyptian. It is one of the fifty love songs from the Egyptian New Kingdom of 1567-1085 BC. Quotation from the book, “African Philosophy”: the Pharaonic Period: 2780-330 BC; by Professor Theophile Obenga), a Congolese scholar that I once met in a conference in Yugoslavia, in 1980.
From this poem that reads as fresh and emotional as if it was written yesterday, perhaps, you can try to answer how old the African intelligence is and of what quality.
Written by David G Maillu
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