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Give Your Sons Difficult Names

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“Give your daughters difficult names. Names that command the full use of the tongue. My name makes you want to tell me the truth. My name does not allow me to trust anyone who cannot pronounce it right.”       — Warsan Shire  —  When I was young, I heard names that made us stop and listen Akanlakum, Awadiirima Names that made us think and think Agyiabadek, Asuiyakomi Names that made us pause to reflect Akanvariwon, Akalaawomba Names that made us gasp in wonder Asuikanpuilikum, Akumbolisimi. But now my ears are burdened with unfamiliar words Monotonous droning that leaves the spirit dry Meaningless mutterings without thought or intent Without root, stem or crown Many invoke the Godhead in fashion, without true reverence; Awen-this, Awen-that, Everything-Awen Godly names without godly lessons, Like the fake imported dresses we wear, sparkling, but too short To cover our shame and too light to shield us from the cold I long for names that fill the mouth wit
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Ash Wednesday

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The day and the hour draws nigh  When all shall return to Him  Who did form them of word and clay  And did give to  all His own breath  And set them upon the earth to tend  And to possess it for a time.  Before him, all shall stand  Bare, silent, helpless.  Fear, you sons of men, tremble!  Fall prostrate before Him.  Shred the malice of  your heart  And drop that haughty look  For of all nails that did stab Him;  That vain look is most piercing.  For what are thou, son of man?  A puff of smoke, wisp of air, dust That lingers but for a moment  And vanishes without trace.  Why do you now risk His wrath?  And court His just fury?  Take this ash upon the brow  Bend your knee and look not up  But hasten to declare your fault  And wail in lamentation:  "Spare us, O master!  For our guilt is heavier  Than ever we can bear" . First published - 01.03.2017
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Location: Accra, Ghana
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Anthills of the Savannah

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Take a walk in the Savannah, Listen to the song of birds and trees, See the wonders of the land: The harmony of rocks, and grass,  And the awe of ants and anthills. Feast your eyes on  castles of clay Built with patient labour and craft Plastered by seasonal rainstorms, Baked to artistic perfection By daily scorching suns, and Frequent blazing bushfires.   Inspiring folk are the Savannah ants Going up and down all day In silent, profound labour Tunnelling, firming, raising walls Until the fort stands majestic. Even when we cut it down, As we are wont to do  They build it right back up Without a sound of protest or grumble   Go to the ant, you sluggard! Learn the dignity of labour, See the marvels wrought by Little hands and little heads. Stand in awe of Savannah anthills. Listen to the sermonizing of ants; "Turn your hands from idleness and bloodshed, Your heads from evil machinations and mischief, And your mouths from idle chatter a
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Hello May

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After months of dryness and despair  Sweet is the sound of rain on the roof Pools and puddles of water everywhere Blasts of moist air from the window Dusty Harmattan is a distant memory  Dark clouds dance across the sky Lulling the sun with globules of water It is May, The dew falls The land heals Life returns  The grass grows again Love is in the air And birds sing the creator's praise If there indeed be life in the hereafter And we be damned enough to return after Sweet God, let me be born again in May!
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Natives

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When the gentle moon settled at the east and the Fang warriors returned from the west, they washed their blackness in the Zambezi. The icy cold talons of the Ancestors  aiming to pluck out their eyes  did not deter their betrayal. With their own hands they sprinkled their pride and values into the river and came home Naked! Young bleached smelly damsels  Washed away their blackness and  shame in the Nile  whilst waiting for skin decay at old age they tossed their shriveled bottoms about, married to the bottle. Drowning in self-destruction on the streets Naked! Identity held onto the reins of colour  Shame glistening on the brow of Morals Culture twisted turned and manipulated. The elderly groped about helplessly  Naked! When at sunset the voice of wisdom  gathered the children to tell the tales of identity  under the African moonlight, Civilization, which had been lying in ambush  descended on the little ones and raped them into submission, after stripping away their dignity. by Rahina
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Savannah Sundown

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  The fierce sun is worn out Slouching towards his nest As a sapped child to bed The air is still, in contemplation A calm ambience spreads Over the naked fields and The animal kingdom Breathes a sigh of relief Yet treading sombrely As if afraid to disturb The sleepy giant.   The cows turn towards home Leisurely foraging the sparse Brown grass and shrubs Trodden by their own hoofs. The clear blue sky turns from Yellow to glowing orange As the quietening sun In the hue of a molten ball   Drops quickly into his shell, Burning but no longer scorchy.   Then Suddenly... Blasts of cool air sweeps Over the bare brown fields And the cattle egrets Take to the cooling sky Destined for the other side Where they pass the night On the ancient baobab United in prayer with all For the next drop of rain.   The children, in delight, wave Their hands in song at the sight: “Cattle egret, inscribe my hands for me, Do not let a scorpion sting me And let not the viper bite me All white!" (Goa-naapierik
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Action

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Photo by  Kid Circus  on  Unsplash RESOLVED, I must up and act Rave against this inaction Why must I rust in waiting? An eternity of rest is coming. How can I be idle?   Strive for what is mine I must For none shall render it to me But I with my calloused hands Grab it in my stride to keep Ever the rapid hours go by Without a pause And with them I must grind Till I’m spent and ragged I cannot quite down, but Like the wind and the tide I too must roar and pound   Asleep, awake, by day or  night   Time speeds by on light wing The tide of destiny swings as ever And around the idle it bends  For with hands is it ever carved How then can I be idle?   It matters not that I fail at it I am but spent upon a worthy cause Not rusted with a vile repose Waiting for naught but the grave Where worms shall feast upon  Flesh and bone long preserved And all chance for action is beyond Recall or desire.   You reap not where you sow not
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Location: Yendi, Ghana
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