African Dentrifice

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Africa needs a fix. This writer believes he knows what it is. He traces the problem and proffers a solution.

Submitted: December 06, 2013

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Submitted: December 06, 2013



Waves of the Atlantic brought with it strange men who hit our shores and became our civilizers.

While learning the ropes of good governance, we became the blind subjects of royal sovereigns.

They made sure they kept us fawning long before it became dawning that the medals they gave us for our bravery were really for the fools of international knavery.


Forced to play hopes on a currency racket—market—we were caught in a tricky game of poker; we have long waited for a winning hand, each time harshly dealt by card.

We now tread—trade—under the advice of the World Bank; for lowering our bets and increasing our debts, we have them to thank.

The signing of the books that gave us freedom from our colonialists gave no sense they’d be waiting in the pool with the hooks of industrialists.

Had we known they’d still hold the trumps we would have better timed our jumps.


Why is there no correlation between our national revenue and increased spending when you observe our elected on their foreign vacations?

They travel to exotic destinations and forget where they come from.

On these self-serving midgets of every kind of imagination our future rests. On them, we depend.  For them, we die defending.

While Enamel parties and masquerades in white, Pulp yellows with nerves, blood vessels and cavities, and bears the brunt of every pain-filled bite.

Our forefathers, before the age of modern dental care, used a natural dentifrice to prevent tooth decay.

Lost in the modern age, we have forgotten who we are. If we must find our way, we must go back to our old savvies.

Fear not, the rudiments of success are still in our roots. It is time for an African fix; time for the African Dentifrice.

Time, my sisters, to return to the old ways when we waited on nature to turn sap into wine—a time when good homes made proper wives of young girls.

Time, my brothers, to return to the old ways when the kill of our hands gave it fragrance—a time when real men took pride in their diligence.

Time, my people, to return to the old ways when the pulp of one tooth belonged to the whole set—a time when a child on the street was child to all.

© Copyright 2018 CC Chuks. All rights reserved.

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