A Country in Passing (Observations from a Bus Window)

What a fine thing it is to travel by bus,

to see through the window, a country in passing.

Even if all you see is a vast, unbroken land,

burnt black by bushfires.

It is strangely delightful

or perhaps delightfully depressing,

to see trees, stunted by the fires, rushing past.

But the bus slows.

A police barrier.

An officer walks to the driver’s window.

Money changes hands.

He smiles and waves us on.

A private driver refuses to pay.

He is directed to park at the roadside.

Here is a sprawling town. Business is booming—or so it seems.

Everyone is busy, sweating in the noon sun.

And the filth threatens to swallow them.

Whoever invented polythene bags and “pure water” must be smiling.

What a beautiful eyesore we have made of our villages.

I only cry for the villages, as for the towns and cities,

From where I am coming to where I am going

Plastic waste has taken over our neighbourhoods,

threatens our homes, our lives and our sanity!

Everything comes wrapped in a black plastic bag

Even a single sachet of water comes wrapped again.

We take what we need and cast the rest away;

into the street, into tomorrow.

Nobody ever wonders where “away” is.

What a clever people we are.

But let us go on our way.

And here is another town, much quieter, same squalor

A pit latrine by the roadside.

The sign on it reads: “HIPC Benefit.”

Marvellous!

The only latrine in town stands in full public view—

ruined, avoided, abandoned.

Why would anyone build it there?

No doubt our politicians would have a fine answer.

But how much can we blame them?

Are they not a subset of us all?

Surely the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree.

We move on.

A bridge. A wide river below.

Brown waters, brimming with poison—

Taking life instead of giving it.

Welcome to the era of the rivers of death!

And what are these?

Houses? Yes,

houses in the floodplain.

Waist-deep in water at this time

One can only imagine the rainy season.

How clever we are—

to build where the river should pass,

so it may visit us at will.

And when it does, we cry for help.

Relief will come:

blankets, rice, oil,

two pieces of roofing sheet, a bag of cement.

The rest will find their way elsewhere.

And we will return to business as usual.

And wait for the next rainy season to repeat.

And here is a toll booth—

dilapidated, barely standing.

Hawkers gather like a marketplace without stalls.

They have everything:

fruit, drinks, maggoty fish, biscuits, sweets.

Some climb into the bus, calling out their wares.

Others are there to preach the gospel everywhere

and beg for their living in return.

They are quick, these hawkers.

The slightest pause, the opening of a door, and they are inside.

We leave them behind

to face the winding road once more.

A large village.

Quiet and sleepy, the poverty is loud.

But then: a mosque, bright and freshly painted.

And a church, just beyond it, gleaming white.

In this community where everything is dull—

grey walls, old-brown tin roofs, scorched earth,

They are the only things that shine.

But who am I to question where God should dwell?

Let me shut my big mouth.

The barriers return.

One after another.

Twenty? Thirty? Surely not fifty—

but they are so many.

Each driver knows the ritual.

A few cedis folded into the license pouch,

handed over as though it were the license.

The officer walks around the car, opens it discreetly,

extracts the money, and returns smiling.

A performance—smooth, practised.

Sometimes the driver even promises to “sort them out” later.

And on the return trip, he does.

Everyone understands.

Some passengers complain.

I sympathise—but only slightly.

For how else are the police to survive?

We all know they are not paid—

not nearly enough.

So they collect their own fees

and let the road govern itself.

Earlier this morning, in the cold fog,

they stood waiting.

Three cedis changed hands.

The driver drove on.

Was that not fair?

If you cannot beat them, join them.

The road goes on, the trees rush by.

Another town appears suddenly—

as though it had been waiting to be noticed.

And what's this? Charcoal!

Packed in worn fertilizer sacks—hundreds of them,

stacked high along the roadside.

How many trees died for this?

Enough to cook our food.

Enough to keep us going.

If I think too long on it, I must weep.

But let me not be carried away by sentiment.

We need fuel. We love our banku.

Still—at what cost?

And so the journey continues.

Through burnt land and busy towns,

through noise, negotiation, and quiet acceptance.

A country passing by the window of a bus—

and within it, a people who endure, adapt, and carry on.

Sometimes cleverly.

Sometimes carelessly.

But always moving.

9th January 2023

About the Poem:

This reflective narrative poem follows a bus journey across the countryside (in the North of Ghana), where fleeting roadside scenes reveal deeper truths about society. Through moments of humour, frustration, and quiet observation, the poem reflects on corruption, environmental decline, poverty, faith, and the resilience of ordinary people. What begins as a simple journey becomes a meditation on the contradictions of a country always moving forward; sometimes wisely, sometimes carelessly, but always enduring.