*Mama Salone on Life Support (A Sad Independence Day Reflection)*
_By Silvin Bah_
High we exalt thee, realm of the free —
but tell me, Mama, what is freedom if we weep silently?
Your sons wear battered shoes of dreams deferred,
your daughters braid sorrow into their hair.
Sixty-four candles, and still the night is dark.
The house you built with hope and pride
now lies broken — pillars cracked by greed,
floors drowned in tears, ceilings sagging with despair.
We march on dusty roads, singing songs of joy,
but the chorus cracks beneath the weight of hunger.
We raise flags high —
yet, our spirits hang low like forgotten laundry in the rain.
Mama Salone, you bleed in silence,
wrapped in gowns of independence stitched with betrayal.
Your rivers cry for the children lost at sea,
your mountains mourn the dreams mined and sold.
Each Independence Day, they dance with painted smiles —
while your true children, those who feel your heartbeat,
stand quietly at your bedside,
watching the monitors beep slower… slower… slower.
But Mama,
even on life support, you breathe!
Even with fractured bones, you stand!
Even in agony, you still whisper hope into the winds!
Osh, Mama Salone!
We weep, but we will not walk away.
We rage, but we will not lose faith.
This is not your ending, Mama.
No tombstone will bear your name.
Not while we, your stubborn children, still breathe.
Not while your soil still cradles the dreams of the dead and the living.
We will fight — not with guns, but with truth.
We will rise — not for flags, but for justice.
We will build — not in vain, but with vision.
One day, Mama,
when your bones heal,
when your heartbeat grows strong,
when your house stands tall once more,
we will dance again —
not in pretense,
but in true, fierce, unbreakable joy.
Until then,
we mourn.
We hope.
We fight.
We pray.
For you, Mama Salone —
the land we still love, even in sorrow.
