Village boy Impressions

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

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!

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

  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

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

  First came the pale ants Who gazed in wonder upon the land Stretching to the horizon and beyond, where Man, bird and beast roamed free Each belonging to no one but themselves So they called us headless.  Preposterous! And with one swift stroke of the mighty pen, Our A nnex ation Proclamation was drawn up  With as little ceremony as possible;  "We hereby claim this land for Her Majesty the Queen!" But our fathers fought and bled and won it back Then arose the new masters in our time; Big men, genteel ladies, pot-bellied tycoons,  Chiefs or 'thiefs', we know not, Multinational looters and robbers, and  the political crooks behind them. "The land does not belong to us; We belong to it, It cannot be sold" ! O ur fathers said, Now they grieve  in their graves, while Red signs on whiteboards announce  Our final doom: “Keep off! Private Property,  No Trespassing!”    All over the land, the signs rule. Formidable, Like sentinels keeping their watch.  From the Bla

Beware of using the road in Tamale Elsewhere you look left, look right And left again, then cross briskly Not here, not in Tamale. Here you look left look right Look back look front look sideways And begin all over again You do it once you do it ten times You’re still no nearer to finding space No one stops here no one pauses For another to use the road Not even if you were a centenarian On three legs or a toddler at the crèche   The motorbikes are the real menace Right way wrong way Walkways sideways Way behind you way across you  Way in front way all round you Like butterflies in a flowering field All other road users are in their way Pedestrians are but sheep Walking mindlessly across the way Motorbikes  cannot stop for sheep Even to use a zebra crossing When the cars stop for the sheep The motorbikes will run you over Asking if you were a zebra And double curse you In heathen tongues!   Everyone is in our way Even the scanty traffic light

At home the fires are in the fields Licking up twigs, herbs and every blade of grass Leaving a bleak blackness everywhere The fires eat the land at home   They came one day in the heat of noon while men rested Racing through the cornfields And licking through the rice farms, The sorghum, soya, and late millet The fires eat the land at home   How sad a thing to hear the wailing of women And the mournful sighs of grown men, Calling on the gods to save them From this monster of their own making   Analim stands in the middle of his field With his two sons, sweating from the heat His hands on his head, in despair Frantic efforts with neem branches and buckets of water Could not save their burnt crop The women are weeping mournfully, If only tears could quench the blazing fires But alas, the ancestors and the gods are silent  And the flames of hell have broken out Eating up the very soil Sending thick clouds of dark, dark smoke Into a cle