Village boy Impressions

To everything there’s a season  Or so it is written in the Book  But now that is untenable  In fact, we reject it!  We do everything in the same season.  A time to sleep and time to wake?  No, it is all preaching time  If they sleep or we rest,  We lose collection!  A time to work and time to church?  No, it is all preaching time  There is no time for anything else!

Caught by the snow whilst outside; I was elated 1. Falling, falling, falling all around me  Like shredded cotton, the snow falls  And soon, the ground is a white foam I am ecstatic as a child in my first snow  What shall I do with it now I have it?  I scoop it in  both hands and sniff it  I roll it into a ball and kick it  I hug it but it is too cold!  And soon my hands are frigid  But I can’t let go, it’s my first snow! Soon the whole ground was white 2. I want to roll in it and squeal As the pigs do in the mud at home I want to take it home and say, “Look Mma, water from the heavens; Here, the clouds do not rain; They fall down to the ground!” But then how shall I carry it? No, I will describe it to her But what shall I say to describe it? Mma has no word for this alien miracle. No, I will just fill my own curiosity That is enough for Mma. A snowman was built the next morning 3. Now it’s too co

       “Feed the hungry,” said the preacher,  I listened keenly, feeling my tummy  As my mind raced back to those years  Long, long ago,  When it growled, gnarled and rumbled  And I squirmed in the attempt to hide it But how does one conceal hunger? It is a god-spirit  That possesses mind, body, and soul.  Gnawing, biting, burning, breaking.    The whole frame shudders in response  And the limbs are weak and wobbly The senses become rusty and dull.  All except the nose, yes the nose!  Which can smell the aroma of food  Over a two-mile radius! Read: Village Boy Impressions -  Election Mangana          Hunger makes a topsy-turvy world! Makes the mouth dry, The tongue cleaving to the jaw, The tubes writhing in agony, As if the enzymes work overtime, Devouring all in their path. The postbag cries in agony, With saggy and anaemic walls. Sleep becomes elusive Vision blur, Thinking horrendous, Talk abominable. The world stops spinning,

The sky is bare and barren tonight  The heavens are glorious and starless  Not a single cloud to be seen  A happy full moon shines  In all brilliance and delight.  The land is bathed in her light  As bright and clear as  day.  Read: Village Boy Impressions -  The Wailing Bride The title reads: The Reason Why the Chameleon has a Broken Head All are gathered before the house.  The children are awake and ecstatic  Sleep has vanished from our eyes  With the rising of the delightful moon.  Boys resume the afternoon game of ' socksball ',  The girls renew their  ampe  rivalry,  The little ones driving tin cars,  Others enacting ‘Dada and Mama’ scenes  To the amusement of the real ones.  Later, we start playing ' agbeli-gbeli ',   Yelling and racing round  the huts.  As are the children in other compounds Read:  Village Boy Impressions -   How to Help Ghana and Yourself Inquisitive chickens lured by the moonlight, Have bolted from their house.

Along the main path from the market  A happy troupe of youth stream by  With a prized possession in tow  Amid   excited chatter  enchanting tunes  That pierce the moonlit night  Far and long with a message of hope; A nuptial announcement. 'The great great great grandson Of back into legendary ancestors Has married his sweetheart!' Says the song. Women mount their rooftops  To ululate the singing party  Wayeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiii!!!. Read: Village Boy Impressions -   My Sugar Runs Out Often, the enchanting tunes and ululations  Are lost upon one member of the party  The tear-stained  sobbing bride;  The bitter-sweetheart! This teary companion  is  carried,  dragged, or pushed along  Angry, pained, helpless, and wearied.  An unwilling bride treading resentfully  With frequent loud shrieks and sobs  Oblivious of  the excitement  Of her exultant abductors  And their ululaters  from many rooftops.  And they in turn numb to her wishes. The triumphant troup

1.         For three long years, it festers  With occasional flares   Whilst we wait like impatient  Hungry school kids for the bell!  Half listening, half-sleeping  Whilst the hapless teacher drones on  About formulas and theorems  And when we hear the clang  Of the lunchtime bell,  All hell breaks loose!  We are released from holding  Like breached waters  That go roaring down the valley,  Each trying to outdo the other. As the banners fly In election time! Read: Village Boy Impressions - A Tribute to Hunger 2.         It is a trying time, yes!  Election time is nuisance time.  Trying your patience and nerves!  You can’t listen to the radio!  All day without rest or respite  Talk show hosts and panellists  Hiss and bark at each other                        and at you!  Whilst others beat war drums  And sound rallying trumpets  All to get your poor thumb!  3.         No solace on the TV either! Irksome commercials run non stop Regurgitat

         Goats are the most productive of animals  Growing rapidly and littering in pairs,  Triplets and even quadruplets!  And soon the house is full of goats  Braying and bleating everywhere!  If you but see them in the dry months,  You would love their shiny coats  And fine furs as they file in at dusk.  You wonder what they have been eating  Since the land is brown and bare.  But the elders of old have an adage:  “another’s hand cannot be oily enough!”  So even with the fresh green grass  Of the many rainy moons,  They are not as fair as with the dry grass  Fruits and twigs of the hot dry months.  All because they are tethered in this season,  And their food comes at the hands of us boys. 

Abelikpien! Abelikpien! Tell me, oh do tell! Where do you come from? You lie empty, dry, and desolate As many long rainless months go by Under cloudless clear skies by day And twinkling bright heavens by night. The parched harmattan blasts Leave you dry to the core And the pitiless sun roasts you Until your sands burn our feet So we wince and hurry Across your dry bed in the long months     Our fathers say you come from the 'forest' For no matter how much it rains at home, You are desolate and dry And at times with hardly a drop here You turn out in full flow Bursting at your banks. You are foaming and weltering, Chuckling and cackling downstream. And we; your worshippers, call out in glee “Hey, water has come to the river”! As we race to the hill To watch your rough waters race by   Sometimes you bring so much load Enormous trees that you uproot and carry In the mighty arms of your current Even the adults are scared