Colonial masters, here we come

They are leaving
All the young men of my village are leaving
They pack their knapsacks and belongings
Wives and children, dreams and aspirations
And head for a distant village we hear
Has enough for her people to eat and drink

I am not surprise
The famine has hit us hard
So hard it breaks the cord holding our love
For our village and its people
The Rain Giver has been tricked

And our lands have been deceived
Strange things happen before our eyes
The summer itself stoops in awe at how it rains
Heavily in our chief’s compound while the rest
Of the land groans and moans in drought

Come and see our children suffering
And our animals dying before our eyes
Woe to the ears that heard the promise of better days
Woe to the eyes that saw and the hearts that hoped

Once a stranger came to feed our flock
And we booed him out of our land and called him a thief
Now one of our own is chief
Sitting on the big seat, eating our flock
While his people are dying