Village boy Impressions

                                                                                                                                                                                 35 th January 2022 His Royal Miserliness, First Born of the Gregorian Calendar  Slow Motion Avenue Three Hundred & Sixty-Five One-Quarter Days. Dear January,  Last week, I wrote you a very long disturbing letter in which I chided you for your yearly niggardly attitude and wanton display of sluggish disdain for the dignity of labour and the golden rule not to mete out what you cannot countenance in others.   It seems nearly everyone has lost something since you came up: students cannot find their school fees, tenants are owing rent, housewives have misplaced the chop-money they were given in December, pubs have lost customers, a couple of drunks have lost their front teeth, the few virgins we have, have broken their vessels of honour and not a few ladies are missing periods.  As if that was not enough, many m

It was a beauteous night, dusty and cold  And we were all mum and droopy  Whilst the preacher droned on  And the rest of the world lived on  An expectant harmattan swirled around  As stemmed waters must feel bound  Yet gyrating as one tickled in erogenous places  On and on and on towards the climax  The cold outside threatened to come in  And we held our sweaters to ourselves  As we gazed at the clock ahead  Inching ever closer to the new year  Suddenly everyone’s tongue was loosed Everyone’s voice was lifted in praise And sang in generous grateful tones As we leapt in joyous ecstasy Turning round and about  We embraced and hugged and waved And with beamish smiles Hailed each in greeting..." Bein paali !*" Life and beauty poured out as at sunrise And my secret heart glowed with love And gratitude for life, family, friends Oh that the singing would never end! 17th January 2019 Accra. *Bein paali - Happy New year! You can also find this poem and other poe

From the east, a golden-sun  rises proud and majestic, Shining in all brilliance and delight. His rays strike with fierce-some joy Upon the bare brown earth, with Not a cloud in the heavens to stay them. Energy gushes forth in torrents, Birds, beasts, gods, and mortals Glow with vigour and intent . The Drums sound, the flutes call, The birds chirp, the doves coo, Goats and sheep, rams and bulls Bleat and moo in joyous ecstasy. Kids and calves bray and fray  Smoke rises from cooking places. It is Feok! A hallowed day, a merry day; Bubbly with contentment and laughter. Today we drink, and we eat, We celebrate and  make merry And dance with grace and skill The rhythm of our land. Like one mighty beating heart, The land throbs with graceful steps. The hills ring with voices of song As we recall the valour and skill, The courage and strength, And the charity of our fathers, Who rose against the cowardly Babatu an d his marauding beasts; And slew an

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

It was not night  or even twilight  but at blazing noon that they came; Men with guns   like gangsters in American films  rode up, and opened fire!  Up into the open air and all around  bullets flew.  People screamed in agony,  blood flowed in the street,  the police officers across the road  did not wait to call for backup  but went straight over the wall  running for dear life.  cry the beloved Buluk!  In majesty, they strolled into Adabiak and helped themselves to cash and goodies. Armed thieves have taken us captive in our own town and neighbourhood Armed tugs rape our land and people, Must we stand like sheep? Cry the beloved Buluk! Protest we did we the youth out in rage and they called us names and took us to court that we did not seek permission.  cry the beloved Buluk! Tell me, you black sheep! conspirators in our rape,  partakers in iniquity. Did these thieves seek permission,  when they stopped us on the road  and took our monies and goods? When they stalked us by day, went

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as t

Why are there so many derogatory comments for a girl? Bitch, ho, slut, thot, whore! Why is my worth found in my vagina? Why am I valued by how many I've lain with?   Read:  Village Boy Impressions - Unsung Heroines   Why is it wrong to be alone? Why is marriage seen as my end goal? Why am I insulted when I want no marriage? Why am I only seen as female when I marry? Click to Read:  Village Boy Impressions - The Kayayei's Tale Why is my worth, dictated by my children? Why am I less if I have none? Why is my son considered my child? I have a daughter here, does she not qualify? Why are my children mine when they are bad? Are they not their father’s too? Read:  Village Boy Impressions - Fathers   My sister, we live in a special kind of place Say no more about this age There is no peace for a woman here Nor can joy be found anywhere near Maybe, we’ll find them in a world Where there is no man Until then, endure this hell Death will come s