Village boy Impressions

Ni ngaangaa! Maa puusi waa-meena ale ngma nye ni tia. Gyinla ka zuma dai, Gyuun chiika daa-nganu, bena tusa-ngaye ale pisiye wa po (Friday, June 5 2020). Ti gyinla le ngman tom ti karungku po a nyini M aga paari Ngm.  Karung tii ate ti zamsi daanwa la bo ka de: Pillimka karungku abo  dela Karung kui ale sai buye la (A-D) bo  dela Karung kui ale sai buta la (E-H) bo  dewa Karung kui ale sai bunaansiwa la (J-L) bo dela The previous lessons may be accessed through the links above. M Ma – ma (mother), ma-biik (maternal relative), ma to eat hastily, to gobble up, to gulp down (only for humans), maga (a little, a bit of something), maglim (dew), malim[ka] (familiarity, acquaintance), malim (dysentery, diarrhoea with mucus), manchesik (match, matches, box of matches), man-gali (in a different way, in an odd way, in an unusual way), maari, (to help, to support, to assist, to aid), masa (to be sweet, palatable, tasty, delicious), masim (sweetness, goodness, pleasant taste, luxury), maauk (rubb

Buli is the language of the Bulsa ethnic group in the Upper East and North East regions of Ghana. The name Bulsa is also spelt in official documents and elsewhere as Builsa but this author and many others believe that spelling to be quite incorrect.    With regards to this series, let me say from the outset that I am not a language expert. This series is not a study of the origin of the language or its syntax or any of all those things that help people to learn a language in detail. In effect, therefore, considering my lack of training in language or linguistics, this endeavour may be described as a headstrong attempt (in the Buli Language;  zupagruk tuima) .    My  zupagruk , however, comes from the motivation that it can be the force that would propel the more qualified ones to come out with the best material that can help us read and write Buli well. This is, therefore, more of a kindergarten introduction to the language.   If you have no background in the language, it may n

Children dancing 'Nagela' in front of a compound. Photo Credit: Franz Kröger ( buluk.de ) When the harvest is all done and dusted  And the fields lie empty and desolate When the groundnuts are all plucked The Bambara beans dug up roots and all When all the sorghum in the field is felled And only sharp prickly remnants remain When tethering the goats is now ended And the boys gain such a relief As to sigh with gratitude bordering on piety Read:  Village Boy Impressions - Tethering Goats When the shepherds no more chase the sheep The cowherds no longer shout at errant bulls And the moon is happy enough To make the cripple hungry for a walk, Do we nightly gather before the house; Mothers, fathers, uncles, and aunts, Teens, children, toddlers and babies Brothers, sisters, nephews, and nieces With cousins, bastards and orphans too. There we tell many a tale and laugh Unrestrained juvenile squealing That rouses the sleeping chickens and ducks. W

Photo Credit: Franz Kröger All over the land of Buluk, over hills and fields  Where long grass grows and stout trees thrive   The trade wind comes racing, swelling about the trees   What news from the north, Oh hurrying wind?   What tidings do you bear in your dusty breeze?   Have you seen Azantilow the tall and mighty   By sun, moon or by starlight bright?   Where now is he, the bold, the ancient, the brave?   Maybe you have heard the horn of the son of  Ayieta.   Echoing in the hills and vales of the land Upon azagsuk , long I stood and listened Under the shade of acham I tarried in vain Tell me not that he is no more! But alas, his horn is silent, and his feet are cold The north wind is still, impotent with tears                             Read:  Village Boy Impressions - The Song of Atuga Towards akumcham ever shall I gaze There our foes fled in dismay Before its dying stump, ever I sigh Under its withered crown ever I wait, O, Ayieta b

When I die, Cry not your heart out Nor weep any tears upon my grave I will not see you, cry for me now. When I die, Wear no sorrows or regrets And bear neither grief nor pain on account of me I will be singing Hallelujahs. Read: Village Boy Impressions -  Why Ever Do We Dream When I die, Do not come dressed in fancy clothes Smelling like a thousand lavenders I cannot admire you then, dress for me today. When I die,  Read me no long tributes,  And compose me no epic verses  I will not hear you, praise me today. Read: Village Boy Impressions -  The House in Balansa When I die,  Put me quietly in my grave  Give your money to the poor  And your tears to the oppressed  And leave me in peace and quiet to rest. Read: Village Boy Impressions -  Bird Scaring  

       Adan-leeeeeeeeeee! The song cut through the waves of the windy December night. Mother hushes the children as we scramble to the rooftops; straining our ears to hear the song and the news. It is a nuptial announcement But the song sounds faint and far as the gentle harmattan breeze carries the evening voices away. We hush up in fear of missing the name of the newly married man. His father’s father’s name in fact!      The whole house is soundless and still  Awaiting the breeze and the voices To bring home the glad tidings Of the young man who has attained The noble feat of marriage. Excitement looms, hearts skip faster And then acclaim and applause As the breeze turns our way! Names of the great-great grandfathers of the groom are mentioned in song and their appellations are intoned joyfully Poking fun and mockery at competitors Who are told to go and clear farmlands having lost the race to marry the damsel. Read: Village Boy

1.   Some nights, when the moon is happy  Smiling broadly from its heavenly home.  A small crowd gathers in the yard;  Grandma, mother, aunty and the others  Not forgetting me and three smaller ones.  Akangriba the dog would be present  As is the cat who never quite got a name.  Baba is outside on the dampala [1]  With a neighbour for company   As the age-old ritual is being enacted,  And none can be left out:  A hand reaches into the big bowl  And grabs a handful of groundnuts,  Ka, ka, crack! goes the shells,  Hard-pressed between thumb and index.  Opened shells are clasped in one hand  Or dropped in a calabash nearby  And the ritual is repeated again and again.  Until our fingers ache, we the little ones. 2. Soon we find support in our teeth. A seed or two usually remaining To keep the jaws busy and sleep at bay. When this becomes too frequent, We earn a rebuke or two, And are driven off to our mats, Beside the cracking party, Under the gri