Afrika's Kup

Afrika’s World Kup is Mandela


By Philo Ikonya
© 18th July 2010


Afrika’s world Kup
is always lifted up,
it’s made of gold from
Johannesburg,
where I mine family tears,
of hope.

In the world today, July 18th,
All hands in service become Mandela’s,
Our mothers and many other winners,
of freedom marathons are lifted up.
daily Our feet of bronze we give in,
to be part in this Afrika that smiles.

So we too, lift her Kup up,
And fill her with own diamonds,
from her waist in the Congo,
and her Angola dances all the way,
enough water in exile,
near the Nile’s extra miles.

Afrika’s Kup is full,
without the pull of Aids attached.
and AID with strings so strapped.
Look at the sun setting on this Kup,
faded and fading, the biggest star.
But we lift this Kup high,
with pride and love we can!
Mandela the world celebrates you
today,
We, forever!

Happy Birthday Mandela !

World's Cupped Challenges

The Unexpected Nordic Headache



If you do not take pride in the Sami,
display their costumes and ways,
and let us hear their tune in the Maasai,
If you cover lineage thus descended,
How can I expect that you wish me a win,
me a win in our world cup?
Me a stranger darkly knocking at your door?

If at home I cannot accept my tribal neighbour,
and I seek refuge and cry out against racism,
how strange should I say I am,
this is not even Pythagoric, Greek wisdom is
quite straightforward- I fear the finances are not.

Spain has brought the World Cup home, but you tremble
When you hear her name, the next bridge financially shaken,
How should I expect the sound of a continent that mines gold,
diamonds and bronze but remains starving, to ever make sense to you?

But how will your eye pass beyond, beside the singing river in town,
Romany, Romany sing again and again, heads down scarves on,
romance dead, times bad, times hot and cold all the time,
Give me a crown Ma, Give me a crown, give me a kroner,
Just one kroner, my wife and I and my children are starving,
as did our ancestors. Give me a crown Mum on Monday and on Saturday,
every day, Ma.

How can I expect a total, if I never say I know the whole,
How can I hive out a corner, call it my percentage of the age,
How can I then expect those not in the circle,
to sing a song that all will hear?
Who will cover the world with a cupped hand and shout justice?

Philo