Village boy Impressions

Some things were never meant for fences, never meant to be still. They belong to wide horizons, to open skies and places without names.   The sun on skin, the wind in hair, thunder in the distance, dust beneath hooves, riding where the earth has no fences, where the horizon stretches on forever.   There is something untamed in it, something the world could never quite contain. And still, somehow, a smile can make everything feel like home.   So ride on, beautiful one, through every field, every sunset, every dream. I’m simply grateful that in a world this wide and wild, I somehow found you, Atenglie*.   And I love you.   Banjul 11/09/26. * Atenglie is a Bulsa name for a girl which means "Daughter of the Earth" or "Child of the land"

The Lord is good to me, And so I thank the Lord For giving me the things I need: The sun, the rain and earth beneath; Yes, He’s been good to me.   I owe the Lord so much For all He’s brought me through– The days I thought would swallow me, He carried me clear through; The Lord’s been good to me.   Oh, the boy I used to be Could hardly dream to see How far the Lord would carry him Through all uncertainty; Yes, He’s been good to me.   Oh, I was raised ‘neath wide, wide skies Where harmattan winds blow, Where baobabs stand and suns still rise, And stubborn seeds would grow.   The cockerel called at break of dawn, The goats would wander slow, The scent of earth when rains returned– His faithful mercies show; The Lord is good to me.   I wake up every day As grateful as can be, For though my work has changed with time, His goodness stays with me. He watches over all I love and do; Oh, the Lord’s been good to me. 23.05.2026 B...

Morning hums low across the northern plain , And in that peace, 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 in their root. 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.

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...

  When the day unfolds and the sun begins to smile, When light spurts in the east and the wind begins to stir, And all the living awake in wonder and delight, I rise with eager hope to contemplate your love! When the warming sun stretches forth over the fields,  When leaf and blossom with fragrance fill the air,  And the birds their morning hymn of praise intone, I hasten from my lair that I may behold your beauty. When golden noon comes and all beasts shelter seek,  When the wind is at rest and sweat is on the brow,  And beneath the blazing roofs the kids must retire, I sit and muse upon your beauty and my heart is glad! When the sun is in the west and wind returns from the north;  When the farmer in field with longing gazes at his road home, And the labourer observes his weary day draws to fruition, I hasten the sun to his grave with longing for thee. When light and beauty is in the west, and leaf and blossom fall, When eventide haste...

I walk my beat in cities and markets— under the perspiring sun. From Tamale to Kejetia , Techiman to Takoradi — Accra my home base: Nima , Mallam Atta , Agbogbloshie , Makola — Everywhere, I am there. Head pan in hand.   I thread markets and bus stations. From six to six—rain or shine— Carrying other people’s loads. Who pick their way behind me, daintily, watching, anxious, while I shout and nudge through the crowds, lest I be lost with their goods. And when I arrive— they begrudge me my wage.   Foxes have holes. Birds have nests. But I— a daughter, a mother— have none. I make my bed in borrowed spaces, where weary pillows give no rest, and sleep eludes me. I am prey to mosquitoes and all blood-sucking creatures . Unscrupulous men lurk in the dark to plunder both my purse and womanhood, and leave me a mother with a double load, if not worse.   Shop-owners scowl at me. Drivers curse me. Shoppers call me what they please— until they need my head to carry what they will ...

I wander through every mucky street,  Near where the choked Odaw cannot flow.  And mark in every face I meet,  Marks of weariness, marks of sorrow In the very sweat of every chap,  In every driver's cry for way,  In every voice: in every shack,  The decay of a nation holds sway. Have you read:  The Hustler in the City? How the street-sleepers cry,  Every trader's stall in choking spaces,  And the shirtless truck pushers' sigh,  Ring of the sleaze in high places.  But worse, in the perilous nights I see  How the youthful harlots and hustlers sleep  As the cargo of cursed slave-ships at sea  And chars with shame the conscience deep You may also like:  The Kayayei's Tale