I hear the soft pulse
Of the beating drum
Throbbing with the steps
Of her sodden clay feet;
The easy flow
Of her Swahili rhythm
Intensifies with
Her power.
Her hair, thick 
And wavy, sways
To the drum’s
Rhythmic beat,
Like a crown
It stands, each
Strand, a lock of
Beauty.
Her skin, rich
And ebony
With an authentic
Glow in the
Morning light,
Pervades to her
Children as they
Hum to the 
Beat of the drum.
Her eyes, saturated 
With the pain of
Her mother,
Her father,
Her sisters,
And brothers;
Filled with 
The passion of
The triumph to
Be seen,
Dancing with
The throb of
The African drum.
And her voice,
Deep and engorged
With the power
Of praise and grace,
Resonating a melody
Of pride within
The ardent air,
Singing to the
Beat of her drum.
She is your mother,
My mother, and
A mother to be,
For all my brothers 
And sisters.
She is the 
Mother of Africa.