Village boy Impressions

  First came the pale ants Who gazed in wonder upon the land Stretching to the horizon and beyond, where Man, bird and beast roamed free Each belonging to no one but themselves So they called us headless.  Preposterous! And with one swift stroke of the mighty pen, Our A nnex ation Proclamation was drawn up  With as little ceremony as possible;  "We hereby claim this land for Her Majesty the Queen!" But our fathers fought and bled and won it back Then arose the new masters in our time; Big men, genteel ladies, pot-bellied tycoons,  Chiefs or 'thiefs', we know not, Multinational looters and robbers, and  the political crooks behind them. "The land does not belong to us; We belong to it, It cannot be sold" ! O ur fathers said, Now they grieve  in their graves, while Red signs on whiteboards announce  Our final doom: “Keep off! Private Property,  No Trespassing!”    All over the land, the signs rule. Formidable, Like sentinels keeping their watch.  From the Bla

At home the fires are in the fields Licking up twigs, herbs and every blade of grass Leaving a bleak blackness everywhere The fires eat the land at home   They came one day in the heat of noon while men rested Racing through the cornfields And licking through the rice farms, The sorghum, soya, and late millet The fires eat the land at home   How sad a thing to hear the wailing of women And the mournful sighs of grown men, Calling on the gods to save them From this monster of their own making   Analim stands in the middle of his field With his two sons, sweating from the heat His hands on his head, in despair Frantic efforts with neem branches and buckets of water Could not save their burnt crop The women are weeping mournfully, If only tears could quench the blazing fires But alas, the ancestors and the gods are silent  And the flames of hell have broken out Eating up the very soil Sending thick clouds of dark, dark smoke Into a cle

  They call her North who know her not or prefer the bliss of their own ignorance. Not I, and a million assorted voices Speaking a thousand tongues of men Whom she nurses in her fertile valleys And dandle on her rolling grassy plains We call her, home...   Land of many colours and contrasts; A vast desert of dusty brown in off-season; Battered black and broken with wind and fire.  But wait the rains in their time,  And yonder before us lie verdant valleys An endless stretch of wood and grassland, Amid which countless streams run, Sparkling in the sweet morning air!  In cultivated fields, women and men, daily Rejoice in the dignity of their labours, Children hop and play around every homestead, With unfeigned childhood delight and innocence. Herds of lumbering cattle graze across lush plains And what a delight to the eye to behold Every flower and blade of grass with pleasure,  Enjoy the very air they draw! My heart leaps at the sight of the meadows! The warmth of the breeze heals my he

The rains are now a distant memory; All that was green now a dusty brown  Over the hills and vales, and  through every crack and crevice, the dusty gusts rummage. The land, is blanketed by a chilly fog of dust, stirred by persistent long drafts, The mighty Harmattan. That leaves the streams thirsty, kisses dry lips bloody, cracks heels and soles sore,  makes dry tunnels of our noses, stretches our skins taut dry, making a bruise thrice as painful, a playful pat on the back quite a punishment to giver and receiver,  and dashing the foot against a stone  brings tears to the eyes of a grown man. Yes, that's the Harmattan!  The north wind that sweeps the land; bringing the flu, the cough, and the cold. Sends us all to bed sooner, and wakes us later, makes the children skip bathing,  and our mothers conceive sooner, yes, that's the Harmattan. What shall we give to appease your chill? Tattered sweaters on bony frames and early fires from every compound, men, women and children gather

When I was younger,  I was warned August comes with rain  Persistent pitter-pattering drops  Described I know not why as cats and dogs   When I was younger,  I saw rain in August  The vale shining like tin roofing sheets in the sun  And Abelikpien singing a mouth-full chorus  When I was younger,  I danced in the pattering rain with naked feet  Heedless of Mama's caution  Only dreading Daddy's whip  Village Boy Impressions - The Seasons at Home   When I was younger,  I loved to lie awake during the August downpour To hear the vibrating rhythm of the rain On the tin roof over my head When I was younger,  I saw the walls come tumbling in August Walked dank and dicey paths And plunged into the brim-full stream Village Boy Impressions - The Mighty Abelikpien Now I am older, There is no rain, no tumbling walls No singing streams, no flooded vales Only scorching sun and withering crops What can have happened to August? Sandema August 13, 2020

What agony to listen to the news in Ghana  What torment to hear the uneducated literates babble!  Televised news turns food into ash in my mouth.  Prejudiced narratives that only show the north,  As a people most incomprehensible; Skeletal mothers with drooping dry breasts,  Babies strapped with tattered rags to aching backs,  The distended bellies of bony orphans,  The starved faces of scruffy toddlers,  Desperate youth trooping out to survive,  People slaughtered  in senseless wars,  Forests razed to the ground, Poverty, hunger, disease, death.  So has the West defined and cursed Africa: One country, one people, one story And so we do to ourselves now. Have you Read:  Village Boy Impressions - The Joys of Mother Africa   Ghana, are you so gullible? To be so bogged down With such naivety,   Such thoughtless generalizations , Such vulgar labelling, Such single stories; That the whole north is but a village, Is too hot and far away, That ‘northerner’ must be a tribe, Unable to speak for

Head porters (popularly called 'kayayei' in Ghana) Photo credit:  NewsGhana I walk my beat in many cities and markets Up and down in the perspiring sun From Tamale to Kumasi Kejetia Techiman to Takoradi market circle The mighty Accra is my home base Whether it is Nima, or Mallam Atta, Agbogbloshie or Makola, I am there. Down I come with my head pan in hand. To tread the markets and lorry parks. From six to six each day, rain or shine. I carry my wares; other people’s loads Who strut daintily behind me Watching intently, anxiously Whilst I shout and nudge my way in the crowd, Lest I should be lost with their goods. Yet when I finally arrive, these opportunists, These women, mothers, genteel ladies and lazy men Even they, begrudge me my wage. Read: Village Boy Impressions - Unsung Heroines Tired kayayei find rest under a big truck. Read: Village Boy Impressions - Election Mangana Foxes have holes and birds have nests But I, a daughter and a m