Village boy Impressions

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. 

I tried to speak — But every word fell backward into the pit of my chest. My tongue, tied with velvet ropes , could not utter a sound. My eyes, bound by that enchanted beauty , refused to look away. I could not ask, She did not answer. Yet in that hush, Everything passed between us — like cool air through open windows And my heart danced like many butterflies.     No vows were said. No sonnets were spoken Only the thudding of my ribs, Sounding like mighty blows Each beat a quiet confession of love I could not articulate. In the stillness, My gaze wrote novels Her heart read like scripture .     When she walked right past me, The world returned in whispers — The birds resumed their song, The clocks remembered time. But I remained undone. My feet moved through air, My breath still caught in that space between almost and never. I stared with nothing in my hands, But everything in my chest. 14/02/20...