Village boy Impressions

On my small porch, a dove has made her quiet claim– two pale promises nesting in the shallow grammar of fragile twigs. The door had been closed for months before me. No footsteps, no sudden sounds. No reason for fear. She had found what we all look for– a place undisturbed long enough to believe in tomorrow. Now I arrive with sudden sounds and movement and ownership, opening doors like declarations–thoughtless. She startles at my clatter, rises like a thought interrupted, her heart a fluttering question I cannot answer. What does she say of me, I wonder, in the courts where all creatures are heard? Does she call me intruder? Does she name me destroyer? Does she plead, Keep my children from this man who comes with noise and presence? And I– I who mean no harm, I, who have only inherited this roof for a while– stand here, a giant in her fragile world, yet a stranger to her fear. I want to answer her, If I could. Stay, I would say. I have no quar...

I do not love you for a reason Because reasons can shift with time– not for your beauty that may fade, nor your youth that would pass.   I love you in the sure way one recognizes home– not a startling discovery, but always a quiet certainty.     You ask what I see in you— but love is not a checklist. If I could name one thing, I would fear to lose it.   So I love you not only for what you are today, but the way your heart rises to meet mine without pretenses, without holding back.   There is a softness in you, the world does not always reward– but I see it.   The way you give, without keeping score, the way you care, even when it costs you, That is the kind of strength I trust my life with. N-kaachenera.   You are quiet, I am not. Where I rush, you are steady. And somewhere between your calm and my fire, we meet. And in that moment, I’m home.  

It was my great aunt who spoke on many evenings, when the sun had finished its arguments with the day, and shadows gathered us children at her feet. She told of hidden truths wrapped in simple tales– of a little bird, sweet in her tweeting, bright-feathered and quick with life, who made her home beneath a roof of clay, with two tiny lives, her quiet bundle of joy. Below, the man spoke loudly of the morrow: I will mend this roof, he said, I will tear it down and raise it anew. And the bird, hearing death in the language of men, flew in trembling circles to the ear of God . He will do it, she cried, he will come with the hands of ruin– my children cannot yet meet the sky. And God, patient as time itself, asked only, What exactly did this man say? And when the little bird had told Him, He answered gently, Rest. Tomorrow will not obey him . And so it was. Again and again, the man built his future with his tongue, and the little beauty on a wing lived in fear for her y...

The world hit a wall in the spring of that year, School gates were shut, every breath tasted fear. Classrooms stood silent, the playgrounds were still, And private in teaching meant pockets were nil. They halved what he earned just to keep afloat, And he gripped tight the wheel of his shaking boat. But she that he loved didn’t see the world’s pain, She saw some dark secret; she swore he must feign. She drank in whispers from a false pulpit on high, Traded their sworn truth for a prophetic lie. With three little children and chaos within, She opened the door and ushered the devil in— It wasn’t long till he was living a lie, He watched his name slowly wither and die. Her words painted him guilty all over the town, While he fought just to keep from going down. The mistake was not COVID or the money they took, Her heart was a field where all rumours took root. Where trust could not live, and love could not stay, And fault-finding habits just pushed all respect away. But t...

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 in my heart butterflies  danced.     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 he...

“Give your daughters difficult names. Names that command the full use of the tongue. My name makes you want to tell me the truth. My name does not allow me to trust anyone who cannot pronounce it right.”       — Warsan Shire   —  When I was young, I heard names that made us stop and listen Akanlakum, Awadiirima Names that made us think and think Agyiabadek , Asuiyakomi Names that made us pause to reflect Akanvariwon, Akalaawomba Names that made us gasp in wonder Asuikanpuilikum, Akumbolisimi . But now my ears are burdened with unfamiliar words Monotonous droning that leaves the spirit dry Meaningless mutterings without thought or intent Without root, stem or crown Many invoke the Godhead in fashion, without true reverence; Awen-this, Awen-that, Everything-Awen Godly names without godly lessons, Like the fake imported dresses we wear, sparkling, but too short To cover our shame and too light to shield us from the cold I long f...

The day and the hour draws nigh  When all shall return to Him  Who did form them of word and clay  And did give to  all His own breath  And set them upon the earth to tend  And to possess it for a time.  Before him, all shall stand  Bare, silent, helpless.  Fear, you sons of men, tremble!  Fall prostrate before Him.  Shred the malice of  your heart  And drop that haughty look  For of all nails that did stab Him;  That vain look is most piercing.  For what are thou, son of man?  A puff of smoke, wisp of air, dust That lingers but for a moment  And vanishes without trace.  Why do you now risk His wrath?  And court His just fury?  Take this ash upon the brow  Bend your knee and look not up  But hasten to declare your fault  And wail in lamentation:  "Spare us, O master!  For our guilt is heavier  Than ever we ca...

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 ...

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 submissi...

  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 Al...

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...