Village boy Impressions

It was my great aunt who spoke on many evenings, when the sun had finished its arguments with the day, and shadows gathered us children at her feet. She told of hidden truths wrapped in simple tales– of a little bird, sweet in her tweeting, bright-feathered and quick with life, who made her home beneath a roof of clay, with two tiny lives, her quiet bundle of joy. Below, the man spoke loudly of the morrow: I will mend this roof, he said, I will tear it down and raise it anew. And the bird, hearing death in the language of men, flew in trembling circles to the ear of God . He will do it, she cried, he will come with the hands of ruin– my children cannot yet meet the sky. And God, patient as time itself, asked only, What exactly did this man say? And when the little bird had told Him, He answered gently, Rest. Tomorrow will not obey him . And so it was. Again and again, the man built his future with his tongue, and the little beauty on a wing lived in fear for her y...

The world hit a wall in the spring of that year, School gates were shut, every breath tasted fear. Classrooms stood silent, the playgrounds were still, And private in teaching meant pockets were nil. They halved what he earned just to keep afloat, And he gripped tight the wheel of his shaking boat. But she that he loved didn’t see the world’s pain, She saw some dark secret; she swore he must feign. She drank in whispers from a false pulpit on high, Traded their sworn truth for a prophetic lie. With three little children and chaos within, She opened the door and ushered the devil in— It wasn’t long till he was living a lie, He watched his name slowly wither and die. Her words painted him guilty all over the town, While he fought just to keep from going down. The mistake was not COVID or the money they took, Her heart was a field where all rumours took root. Where trust could not live, and love could not stay, And fault-finding habits just pushed all respect away. But t...

Morning hums low across the northern plain , And in that quiet, I think of your grace . Your voice is like the hush before the rain A calm that cools the heat of the midday sun. You’re like shea trees that bless the open plain, Soft in their shade, yet firm as they become. Barefoot in thought, yet bold in all you do, You carry joy the way the North holds sky.  Not loud – but deep, like truths the elders knew , A quiet fire that even storms can’t dry. You shine without intent or need to show, Your laughter smooth as shea butter on skin. I ask for nothing – only space to see The wonder that quietly shines through you.

Once, I was held sacred. Whole. Alive, I cradled your fathers— And their fathers before them. I gave from my bounty— Millet , yams , nuts , milk, and nectar  With sorghum from my back, They brewed pito to intoxicate their gods. Their laughter echoing down my plains. And in return, I received their care, Their love— And also, their dead. Now, your greed threatens my very essence.   Trees and shrubs once danced on my back, They dance no more. They’re gone. Once they whispered to the winds at dawn, Now only stumps and dust remain. Ghosts of life, scorched by your greed. Engines now hum where birds once sang, Bulldozers raze where crops once sprang. You traded roots for rubble, shade for shame.   They told you gold lies in my bosom— So you stab me, again and again. Looted my bowels and sold my bones. Turning my rivers into toxic dreams. My fields lie bare, my waters poisoned, Fish float belly-up like broken promises. And children drink poison for b...

They said gold would change everything. That shiny dust beneath the earth Could build homes, Buy new clothes, new phones, Forge new lives. They said school is slow. Hard work is for fools. Rich men dig gold — so why not us? And I believed them.     Now every morning, I wake to the roar of changfang motors, The choking fumes of generators, The sound of hammers striking stones, The hoarse coughing of my cousins My classroom is a pit. My pencil is a pickaxe. I write my future— In the belly of the earth. My soul is consumed by gold.     I see the river — Brown with poison, bitter as truth. Once, I drank from it. Now, it kills everything Even the frogs have fled And their song is silenced.     All around, I see only empty fields — No millet, no cassava, no cowpea No grass for a rat to hide, No shade for a bird to nest, Only craters where food once grew And stumps, scotched by greed.   ...

This morning’s gold was not the sky,  But you - riding past King David’s Junction I saw you,  Turning the road into a quiet swoon  And I - just watching - forgot to breathe,  The sun rose gently, knowing its place;  It couldn’t outshine your grace. 29 July 2025.