Born and bred in Africa, it is the African dog
Strong, loyal and dependable, an African pride
Yes he survived, the wars, the droughts, the epidemics
By his master’s side he has enjoyed the left overs, the bare bones
Still he stands guard, on the doors, the kraal gates
Hoping that someday, he will have his plate at the table.

The master calls him names, of the things he dreams up
Of people, he hates and their whole clans, of witches and wizards
He guards the African wealth through the dark nights
And patrols the empty homesteads while his owners toil the fields
Still he can’t enjoy the warmth of the winter fires
Because his place is the forsaken space out of the door.

He can’t be a purebred dog, just a dog
A colonial paradigm, that foreign is better
Looked down upon by its very African owner
Who lets him feed on the fecal remains of everyone
But shuns its pure love and ignores its deep loyalty
Salute to the African hunter and guard.

When I look into his eyes
I can feel the penetration of his yearning
For love and a pat, that says I love you too
He waits and waits, to hear the words never said
But his solace is always the feeling of home
The place that his soul guards with a bark.