The plague of ideas is heavy in Africa. I never thought the Muse's kingdom would be found here. Now I realize that the Muse's scepter was made here from porcupine quills. She hunts with a QuaQua bow and arrows, fashioned from pens. Her black ink cover the inhabitants of this continent.
They don't know it, but I can see it. Their blood is my ink. Their faces are lined with both joy and pain. I see her work on the cave walls. She came to them in their dreams and visions.
The Queen of the Muse kept Mandela alive in his solitary cell. She filled his lonely walls with words of hope. She did the same for Gandhi, feeding him with diction as he carried on his hunger strikes. She whispered her sweet dulcet words in Dr. King's ear.
Her evil twin sister, the Princess of Fear is rife here. She filled the minds and hearts of Mandela's captors. She is strong here. Yet our beloved sovereign, the Queen of the Muse is also the empress of ideas and she reins high over the lucid rivers of ink; her kingdom is stronger.
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