Some many moons ago
I met a stalwart in Yaad
She researched the Musalman of Jamaica
And saw the Prophet, owbp, during ziyara
This is a powerful story I live by
When I visited Juma hole in Accompong autonomous country
And we prayed Zuhr in the valley
It rained for an hour
This time round the Chief of Flagstaff
Yusuf AbdulMalik is proud of his heritage
He ensured the celebrations are Islamic
I felt light in the presence of one whose vision is Prophetic
Travelling up the hills of St Elizabeth
Overlooking the mountains cascading down to the sea
Is a beautiful masjid building
Omar Prince and his farm is about to relive Cudjoe's dream
High on the grounds of Trelawney
Buried under the heap of blood, sweat and tears
Are my ancestors who freed themselves from tyranny
They prayed in the night tahajjud while compelling the enemy
Returned to Sierra Leone through Nova Scotia
Like Harriet Tubman undergrounding from America
Little Moses of Jamaica was Nanny but her name was Sara
Malakukta and AsSofa were the names of their new found Medina
Like Timbuktu of Mali
Knowledge was key in their powerful endeavour
Muhammad Kaba left behind scripts in Arabic
They taught each other the secrets of Othman Dan Fodio
I lived with the Maroons just a few days
It felt I returned to my Roots of Yoruba
I ate from the plates of sweet ackee and curried goat
I felt I lived in the hallow corridors of the Companions of Sufa.
This story of the Maroons
A beautiful people with textured hair and sunshine color
Whose history remains a myth
Is the story of Mansa Musa's treasures, living in the West Indies.
No comments:
Post a Comment