“My son,” she said, “we are made up of all that is in the world.”
                        —Njabulo Ndebele, “The Prophetess”

Can it be any different, my son? My bones
and your bones are born
of one earth; my tears
and your tears water
one land, dampen the dirt
beneath us to a mud made
of blood and salt. Our bones
are of Africa, black as our skin,
black as the night and the darker
shadows cast by the moon.
And Africa —her bones are born
of one earth; her umbilical cord
lies buried beyond the waters, beyond
the sky and the black moonlit
night; all lands are born
of one womb mighty and sacred.
Africa is our mother, and the earth
is her mother, mother of all
lands, of all bones, black
as the soil or white as death,
we are all born of one. I am
your mother and you are
my mother, my son.