A Prayer for the Hopeful
 
By Baba Galleh Jallow
 
He sat there, watching, listening, thinking, and the tears rose like a hot fountain of grief from the depths of his heart and ran down the sides of his cheeks as those three words, those words of hope and power, those words of sense and sensibility, those words sang by men and women, adults and children who have much to look for, who dare to hope, sank into the depths of his soul. Yes we can, they sang, yes we can.
 
The tears welled up in his eyes and ran down the hills of his face as he thought how so different, how so very different this land, these people who can sing so confidently of hope, of ability, of spirit, of freedom, and choice. How so different from the land of political bullies and security thugs, so different from the land where the people cannot sing of hope, where if they must sing of hope, they must sing of hope under the weight of anger and a hot determination to buck that bully, those bullies, with clenched teeth and burning hearts, and the words can only come out of their mouths in a fit of rage, and the passions can only flow from their hearts like poisoned arrows, like molten lava, sizzling hot from rage at the monster that will not let them sing of hope in peace and freedom.
 
The tears welled up in his eyes. He wanted to stop them, but let them flow like rivers down his cheeks as a sacrifice for his country, that beautiful country now turned into a punching bag by monstrous political bullies who have killed the people’s rights to hope, to humanity; he let the tears flow for those millions of people who have been turned into milch cows and milch goats, who have been turned to little more than donkeys to be ridden upon at every moment of day, slaves to the wanton and unbridled greed of callous men and women. Tears for that beautiful hope that, like a new born baby, is being strangled by the corny hands of callous despots, that hope that has been microwaved to death, baked in the blazing fires of men who are men but in shape and form, who are the very devil himself in human skin, whose little minds can only think of themselves and the satiation of their gross appetites, a gross lust for power and glory they will never get, will never win. Soul-blind men that can’t see that power and glory cannot be obtained through the shedding of blood and tears, but through the free labors of the mind, through the generous flowering of the senses, of hope and creativity, through the soaring of the human imagination to the limitless heights of the distant skies, to the million corners of the world. He shed tears for that beautiful land that is being raped by the phallic hearts of mindless despots.
 
How so terribly sad that in those lands of potential plenty, there is merely want; that in those lands of innocent peaceful, there is only strife, that in those lands of plentiful hope, hope so plenty that it could drench the world, there only lurks a hopelessness that can only make you cry at the sight of hope. How so tragic that in those lands of beautiful hearts and beautiful minds, only the heartless ugly and the mindless tyrant can smile and eat their fill and sleep in comfortable beds. How so very tragic that in those lands of generosity, only the mean and the miserly are in positions to give or to take liberty and freedom; how so sad that in those lands of neighborly love, neighbor slays neighbor, brother hacks brother to bloody pieces, and sister kills sister because a few greedy men will not let the people live out their hope, sing out their hopes and wishes at the top of their voices without fear and without a care in the world. They will not let the people say yes we can.
 
Watching those hopeful souls sing, he cried for those souls that could not sing of hope. He cried for those millions of hapless men, women, and children who even at that very moment were shivering with fear and hunger in the dusty, thirsty, thorny, and viper-infested sands of Sudan, in the cracked plains of Chad, cradling the cold ridges of Mount Kenya; those poor souls who have been driven from their homes, cruelly snatched from their loved ones and thrust into the jaws of snake infested jungles of Congo, to become food for the hungry hyena and gluttonous vulture, their flesh and blood and bones to be strewn like so many evil trophies in the forests of Central Africa. He cried for those poor souls waiting to be raped, waiting to die, waiting to be torn to pieces by wild beasts of prey only because a few greedy and mindless tyrants want to spend the rest of their empty lives wallowing in the lap of luxury. He cried for those souls for whom the very sound of hope has become alien, yet for whom hope is the only reason to hang on to live.
 
As the beautiful song of those hopeful souls faded away into endless space and the last notes of their musical voices trailed off into the wilderness of his soul, flowing like a disappearing river into the heart of his spirit, Mojo stood up, his face awash with the sacred tears of sacrifice, and raised his hands to heaven, and said a prayer for those beloved lands so full of hope, yet so lack of hope. And he prayed to the heavens saying, please Lord, please make us too sing, YES WE CAN. And he felt the smile of the Lord upon his tear-washed face, and he said: Yes We Can!
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