Africa on the Seine (Afrique sur Seine)

AFRICA-ON-SEINE

Before the sun

and our elders, we would shout our independence.

Young, carefree,

ignorant of the world around us.

Knowing nothing but our little corner of Africa.

We didn't know other regions existed,

where other little black, yellow

and white children played and wrestled in other rivers.

We had our Niger,

our sun, our forest.

They were good times.

The time of the kingdom of children.

Children of the whole planet.

Long ago...

What does time matter!

We had to grow up, leave home for Paris,

capital of the world, capital of Black Africa.

Here, mists have replaced the sun.

machine noises, those of men of nature.

But Paris is the centre of hope,

all hope.

Paris is also the city of promises

made by young men to help their country.

Paris,

where are your gold-paved streets from our nursery books?

The streets have become

Boulevard Saint-Germain,

Rue de l'Odéon, la Maison Molière,

Place de la Comédie.

Where I found, one morning,

civilisation, at the school of outstretched hands.

Among these streets

are Rue de Médicis,

Rue Soufflot,

the Latin Quarter, home to students

O, illustrious dead of the Panthéon

who are found, when they can be found,

in stuffy hostels

with no sun,

often two to a room.

FACULTÉ DE DROIT

Paris, days without bread.

Paris, days without hope.

Paris, streets of gold in fairy tales for black children.

Paris, where solitude

mingles with perpetual fraternity.

Paris, incomparable variety.

Paris, burgeoning fraternity.

And may they turn, may they turn

for you, children,