6th of March

“6th of March! March! 

Nineteen fifty-seven, seven! 

Ghaaana, independence day!

Ghana is marching, 

Ghana is marching,

Ghana, Ghana, 

Ghana is mar—ching!”

Those were the words we sang, with our shrill voices

Shuffling our feet and swinging our arms 

Proud even though we knew little of what we sang

And we all loved the '6th March' marching day,

But surely that was a long long time ago.

But what is there to tell about mother Ghana now?

They say, we said our country was free forever

And yet every day I see her in heavy chains

They say, we said, we could manage our own affairs

But when last I checked, 

The Impossible Mission Fund (IMF) was still in charge.

They say, they said, well, isn’t that all we know?

The days have gone down in the west; 

and now you are old, dear mother.

The elderly should recount the good old days. 

And the young talk endlessly about dreams, 

And castles in the air

But what do you talk about at your age? 

'good old days'? Where are they?

Dreams? What sort of dreams will they be?

Have you not slept for too long already?

For sixty-odd long years you have slept;

Dark must be your dreams of late

Awake my motherland, wash the sleep from your eyes

And see where you’re sleepwalking to.

Your leaders have eaten sour grapes, 

And your children’s teeth are set on edge!

So all day long we bark and bite, 

We hack and hew, we slash and burn

And when the smoke gets into our eyes, 

We blame everyone but ourselves

Yet this smoke has blinded us to all but our colours

And your name and song that used to make us proud

And our blood boil when our ears were still open,

Is now but the croaking of frogs in the pond after the rains.

It means nothing to us now; it stirs not our blood!

You gave us your milk so we could grow, 

But we refused to grow!

You gave us your precious jewellery to adorn us 

But we cast them to swine and now chase false constellations 

You gave us your land to till, 

But we think tilling is illiterate work!

And why and how should we manage our own affairs?

Do not weep for us, dear mother. 

Do not waste your tears...

We are the children of disobedience,

The workers of iniquity

We bow before foreign gods that starve your children

We remember your day and name to profane it

We steal and rob and kill and pollute

We dishonour our mothers and fathers

And afterwards, we swear by their graves and lie

So that even in their graves, they toss and turn, 

Unable to sleep!

You should be resting now, beloved mother. 

But no, you cannot rest!

You're not one of the lucky few, 

Who have 'birthed well'.

So you must go out in the chilly breeze of harmattan

In the fiery sun of March, and the floods of June 3rd

To the fields, to the river, and the mortar; 

That you may eat and your little ones too.

But even you, cannot give up dear mother,

For all your hope now lies in this:

In a forgotten far-off corner of your land, 

There is a great-grandchild of yours

Who still stands upright and proudly sings 

Even on an empty stomach:

“God bless our homeland, Ghana. 

And make our nation great and strong!”

That is your hope! That is our hope!

6th March 2017

Accra