I live in a place you might visit,
A place, to you, where the people are peasants,
Where wars are waged and some are slaves -
For a child growing up, my life is not pleasant.
I live in a village
Far away from you -
Where warlords still pillage
And Cecil Rhodes rode through.
Where missionaries meddle with the stories they tell -
And we worship some God without any choice --
But life was sweet when I heard her voice.
Her name was Little Ashanti,
She would pick up a twig and sing,
She was twelve........ And I was shy -
I would watch as her voice would ring.
“See my days are cold without you, but I'm hurting while I'm with you,
And while my heart can't take no more, I keep on running back to you.”
We would pretend she was an American star,
I was her audience 'til our parents cried from afar,
“It's getting late!” - But in our native tongue,
I began to miss the song she sung
But we're just kids, who have dreams and play,
So I wrote her name so her fame could stay
But overnight she lost it all --
Her name was blown away.