Village boy Impressions

The traffic on the main road was moving slowly amid the shouting of drivers' mates calling out different destinations. Dzorwulu! Pigfarm! Pigfarm! Dzorwulu! By those coming from Kwame Nkrumah Circle and Serk! Serk! Serk! By those returning from the aforementioned place. Driver mates always have their head and hand outside the window of the door beside which they perch and are constantly calling out the names of the destination of their cars. As our trotro snake eases its way along the narrow New Town – Circle road, I focused on listening to the destinations being shouted by the drivers' mates going to and from Circle. In less than 200 metres, we were at a section of the road adjacent to the Mallam Attah market. Getting through that section of the road was not an easy affair. The noise was deafening. It was a continuous hubbub of running engines, frustrated drivers shouting, horns tooting, mates calling passengers, music blaring from giant speakers, and hundreds of peopl

Accra! kra! kra! kra! kra! Screamed several youthful voices in discordant harmony. Repeating it over and over and over till you hear it in the sound of the radio, the crying of infants, the tread of footsteps, the whining of school children and the chime of your waking dreams! The whole street is engulfed in one rousing cry of Accra! Kra! Kra Kra! Kra! Like fireworks going off. Without a word, I climbed into the trotro in which four passengers were already seated and settled down to wait. The mate, standing in front of the car and leaning against it continued to announce the destination of his trotro – Accra! The ‘loading’ of passengers is usually much faster in the morning but as the day wears on, the numbers get thinner and the trotro takes longer to fill up. It was a quarter past ten in the morning and so I did not expect to wait long. I took my seat at the very back of the car by the window. This is the least favourite seat of most passengers. Besides a few of us, most pe

Our favourite stream: Abelikpien It is an early morning, windy and bright  As I take a turn about this sandy stretch  Watching fishers draw their long nets  With straining muscles and clenched jaws  From restless waters breaking at their feet My heart stole back over the years  To our very own angling adventures  In the beloved intermittent brook at home  Wherein we bathed and played and fished  And in my mind's bright eye, I see a trout  Fluttering and dancing on a line.  Have you read:  The Mighty Abelikpien? Oft it comes about many a blazing noon That we hear the call of the stream And stealthily hasten to respond in glee Each one bearing a straight rod At whose end is tied the elastic nylon line That carries the latex or wooden float Which we rightly named ‘the gossip’ And the barbed hook right at the end Intended to impale hapless rapacious fish. In groups numbering one to many We sneak out for a nook at the brook Once snuggled

The day was damp and raw     And I was down in the doldrums But o n the sagging powerlines  Just outside my window I found two little birds in intimate talk As they spruce their feathers away With cute little beaks that tweet! They sat right next to each other With their little feet about the copper wire Quite immune to the power coursing within Chatting forever about heaven knows what. I wished I could understand their hearty talk So simple, so intimate, so beautiful! No Facebook walls, no Messengers, No WhatsApp, no Snapchat and emojis No Instagram and finger Twitter-ring No posts, no comments, and no tagging Just good old plain talk, eyeball to eyeball With little chance of misunderstanding And no thoughtless forwarding of garbage I sighed in envy of them and smiled… Suddenly the gloomy clouds parted  And the sun shone brighter than before. So my day was saved.

It is a topsy-turvy world this For not the doers that count Not the men in the arena Not those faces marred by dust and blood Not those who walk the path and stumble Not those who dare the mighty things Who win the glorious triumphs checked by failure Not those who spend themselves in worthy causes Not those who strive valiantly and err Not those who lie sleepless so we sleep Not those whose silent sacrifices keep us Not those who starve to fill us up Not those who die that we might live No, the credit belongs not to them Honour belongs not to whom it is due! Read - Village Boy Impressions - Walking Backwards It certainly belongs not to the shoulder shrugs Those feeble souls that recoil at life Poor spirits who neither suffer nor enjoy Cynical in thought and speech Benjamin the donkey pales in comparison Who see, hear, and knows but speaks not When the elephant treads the tale of the mouse. Who dwell in the grey twilight of tranquillity Who, fearing the

Beneath this round earthen vessel, On this little knoll of the old ruins, Beside this far green vale,  Lies a noble son of the soil: Agandin (King George), begotten of Adaayoma, The son of Adisimi, the son of Abooyie, The son of Anyinduima. Of the house of Alam in Atuga’s line. Girded in life with truth, wisdom and love, And in manners as in everything else Was he both pleasant and severe. As quick to praise as to chide Neither esteeming the mighty Nor treading the lowly. To his neighbours far and near, friendly But to the unscrupulous, a mighty rod of justice. In love, right, and peace, his time was spent. His labour done, silently he departed  Most lamented, the few rejoiced,  But in eternal bliss now rests he Where evil doeth fear to tread He was not old except in years! 21st July 2019 (10th anniversary of his transition into glory)  Accra. Read My Tribute to Him Here:  Once A Giant Walked The Earth

Photo Credit: Ghanacelebrities.com So you say what?  Ghana must go?  Yes  Definitely  Ghana must go  But where?  All we know is Ghana must go!  We went with the Whiteman  But he dropped us like a sucked orange  Then we went with the Blackman  But he used us to wipe his underparts and dropped us in a man-hole  We went with the men in uniform but they raped our women at the bus stop  We turned to monarchs but found no sweetness there  We went to 'bullet' boxes but they sold us for the thighs of university girls We went to court, but our lawyers filed a 'nolle prosequi' without our consent We appealed but the judge fell asleep during the trial Having spent all his night counting monies and collecting goats In his waking moments, he threw our case out of the window We run to the police but they met us with stray warning bullets That left many dead and even more with broken limbs and fractured skulls The lucky ones went to the hospital to