Five hundred years ago, we were slaves.
Today we are servants.
The master has become the boss.
Of course, now we do not cut sugarcane or pick cotton or harvest tobacco.
But penury being the mother of servitude,
Makes us shine the white man’s shoes.
My tribesmen will say that if only the bull,
Knew how much strength was stored within him,
He will not allow a little boy to take him grazing.