By Nicodemus Minde (@decolanga)
The soil has been watered
with patriots’ blood—
lives split open
by bullets that
pierced through the very soul of a nation.
A country born anew
in trembling courage,
away from the fear once swallowed
by the cry for justice.
Blood sinks into the earth,
and from it rises
a braver demand—
what, even they need —
a home for all.
Yet now, they turn away—
deaf, denying, defying—
while the ground sips in more blood
from a people who refuse to yield
to the chains of the oppressor.
And now everyone,
even they,
carry a quiet weeping inside—
hearts pierced
by bullets meant
to silence breath and memory.
You know, I know,
we have a neighbor gone,
a kindred missing,
a life snapped short
by a single shot.
A nation now wounded
but unbowed.
The soil, heavy with blood,
has learned how to cry—
and when it does,
the people gather
with a courage never seen before.
The soil watered by blood
Of a nation renewed.
From the shores of Mwanza
to the southern highlands of Mbeya,
and to Makambako’s plateau
to the nation’s heart of Dodoma,
from Dar es Salaam’s shores
to the eternal watch
of Kilimanjaro and Serengeti—
the land carries the echo
of a nation’s sorrow.
Yet still,
as once reckoned:
Weep not, Tanzania
not now.
Never shall the blood of patriots
be spilled in vain.
For in this soil, dripping red—
while some bury their loved ones
and others have none left to find—
live the names we must not lose:
The missing, the fallen,
the heroes whose sacrifice
will one day.