I was born to the sound of the balefon and wounded by the lyrics of Independence. I smiled at the sun, amazed by its grace, And its warmth I embraced. My navel was connected to the world, to life, to my ancestors�

Independence was a jewel wrapped in a colourful package, handed to a child, gratified by a smile. When he held it in his hand, He wasn't aware of it sharpness So didn't wear his gloves. He got wounded by Independence, A unique stone, diaphanous in the sun, mottled under the moon.

He was hoping that Africa would become the centre of the world, Not a scar on the map. But were we ready? No, we were fooled by others, by ourselves and by the relativity of time. We had Independence and yet nothing had really changed, Except that we had lost all the strength we had fought with.

Anyway, the world wasn't sad every day, We were artisans, creating laughter's, tears, out of nothing� Appreciating life at its best, every second of the day. Our ways were intact; our system wasn't the same. We remembered stories we couldn't name. Because we are running away from each other. But our roots go deeper underground, to the essence of human kind itself.

I never thought that I would be in exile today, I never thought that knowledge would print wrinkles of pain on my face. Looking back in my life, in childhood memories, I always say: "How fast it all happened! Am I one step ahead from yesterday?" Then I smile�