Village boy Impressions

Along the main path from the market  A happy troupe of youth stream by  With a prized possession in tow  Amid   excited chatter  enchanting tunes  That pierce the moonlit night  Far and long with a message of hope; A nuptial announcement. 'The great great great grandson Of back into legendary ancestors Has married his sweetheart!' Says the song. Women mount their rooftops  To ululate the singing party  Wayeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiii!!!. Read: Village Boy Impressions -   My Sugar Runs Out Often, the enchanting tunes and ululations  Are lost upon one member of the party  The tear-stained  sobbing bride;  The bitter-sweetheart! This teary companion  is  carried,  dragged, or pushed along  Angry, pained, helpless, and wearied.  An unwilling bride treading resentfully  With frequent loud shrieks and sobs  Oblivious of  the excitement  Of her exultant abductors  And their ululaters  from many rooftops.  And they in turn numb to her wishes. The triumphant troup

1.         For three long years, it festers  With occasional flares   Whilst we wait like impatient  Hungry school kids for the bell!  Half listening, half-sleeping  Whilst the hapless teacher drones on  About formulas and theorems  And when we hear the clang  Of the lunchtime bell,  All hell breaks loose!  We are released from holding  Like breached waters  That go roaring down the valley,  Each trying to outdo the other. As the banners fly In election time! Read: Village Boy Impressions - A Tribute to Hunger 2.         It is a trying time, yes!  Election time is nuisance time.  Trying your patience and nerves!  You can’t listen to the radio!  All day without rest or respite  Talk show hosts and panellists  Hiss and bark at each other                        and at you!  Whilst others beat war drums  And sound rallying trumpets  All to get your poor thumb!  3.         No solace on the TV either! Irksome commercials run non stop Regurgitat

         Goats are the most productive of animals  Growing rapidly and littering in pairs,  Triplets and even quadruplets!  And soon the house is full of goats  Braying and bleating everywhere!  If you but see them in the dry months,  You would love their shiny coats  And fine furs as they file in at dusk.  You wonder what they have been eating  Since the land is brown and bare.  But the elders of old have an adage:  “another’s hand cannot be oily enough!”  So even with the fresh green grass  Of the many rainy moons,  They are not as fair as with the dry grass  Fruits and twigs of the hot dry months.  All because they are tethered in this season,  And their food comes at the hands of us boys. 

Abelikpien! Abelikpien! Tell me, oh do tell! Where do you come from? You lie empty, dry, and desolate As many long rainless months go by Under cloudless clear skies by day And twinkling bright heavens by night. The parched harmattan blasts Leave you dry to the core And the pitiless sun roasts you Until your sands burn our feet So we wince and hurry Across your dry bed in the long months     Our fathers say you come from the 'forest' For no matter how much it rains at home, You are desolate and dry And at times with hardly a drop here You turn out in full flow Bursting at your banks. You are foaming and weltering, Chuckling and cackling downstream. And we; your worshippers, call out in glee “Hey, water has come to the river”! As we race to the hill To watch your rough waters race by   Sometimes you bring so much load Enormous trees that you uproot and carry In the mighty arms of your current Even the adults are scared

1.  All is still and soundless As the mighty calm after a storm  The land is at rest Tired and worn out from the trampling  And stomping these last many days   From homes, to the pa lace, the market  And back to homes again with drums  Humming and buzzing all day nonstop  Horns and whistles calling from rooftops  Singing the praise of ancient warriors  Men’s blood boiling in response  And hearts throbbing with the drums  All is now spent and silent.       2.         The patter of the feet of excited children  The dainty steps of maidens  The eager stride of energetic youths  The heavy drag of grey-bearded men  The resounding trod of war dancers  And sweaty women chasing them  Round and round the marketplace  That made the land throb and tremble  All that is now still and resting.  All are wearied with aching joints  And sprained muscles sore  None is stirring.       3.         The air is thick and still Clad in  a heavy cloak of dust  Looming ov

I woke up late today,  And saw a ray of light peeking  under my curtain.  But I am slow to respond to it.  I lay yawning and stretching forever.  When at last I dragged myself to the window,  The sun is frowning!  Ugly sulking clouds loom all around.  I am still hopeful of seeing his beautiful smile. At last he does not disappoint!  All the brooding clouds are driven away,  And the sun is shining happily again. “Quick! Get out before he goes into hiding” So saying I emerge for to stroll. But the air is still cold (by my reckoning). I walk with my hands in my pocket, Heading straight ahead for the park yonder. Read:  Village Boy Impressions - When the Sun Shines in Bergen The park is bare and brown. And the trees are leafless like dead wood. Ulriken and Løvstakken lie like sleeping giants, Facing each other in eternal silence. I take the path cutting through the park. An old man is coming down from the other end with his dog At the intersection

The sun is a shy fella in Bergen  Hiding behind hills and clouds,  He sneaks across the sky  Obliquely.  Afraid to show his handsome face  To the elegant ladies of the city  So the clouds weep nonstop  Bleeding rain that fall and fall  Falling from Fall to Spring  Even the Summer is not spared. Read:  Village Boy Impressions - A Walk Through the Park Sometimes the sun emerges though!  And everyone is both surprised and elated!  To see his smiley face at last.  Everything comes to life then!  Work and chores must wait I think  For homes and shops are emptied  And Parks and hills are filled!  Their seams bursting with happy smiley people  Lying, sitting, rolling, all basking in the sunlight.  For it is harvest time  One must harvest as much sunlight as possible  Before the drunken sun gets sober and shy  And run to hide again behind a cloudy curtain And the heavens hang their washing out to dry.  Bergen, City of Hills