I'm looking for a title for this poem. Will you help? Here it is:

You took up arms as one grabs
tools from a shed to till the garden up,
and with that gun went north
to learn how to grip it like the hand
of a friend you haven't seen in years.
Then back south you came,
with Somalia's hammer falling
in the early east, already,
past the magazine catch, then
the Nigerian trigger & its religion wars,
oil-burning regions where angry niggers
have had enough, down the slide
to the front sight. Your heart ticked
like a crazy clock when you saw
our left hand hacking and being hacked
by the right. Still, we rubbed the struggle
into our hair like oil, into our boots,
and with alcohol muffled laughter
till in the mouth, from the muzzle which is
southern Africa and signifies the puzzle's
last piece, hung a blood red rose.
© Rethabile Masilo