Village boy Impressions

  The fierce sun is worn out Slouching towards his nest As a sapped child to bed The air is still, in contemplation A calm ambience spreads Over the naked fields and The animal kingdom Breathes a sigh of relief Yet treading sombrely As if afraid to disturb The sleepy giant.   The cows turn towards home Leisurely foraging the sparse Brown grass and shrubs Trodden by their own hoofs. The clear blue sky turns from Yellow to glowing orange As the quietening sun In the hue of a molten ball   Drops quickly into his shell, Burning but no longer scorchy.   Then Suddenly... Blasts of cool air sweeps Over the bare brown fields And the cattle egrets Take to the cooling sky Destined for the other side Where they pass the night On the ancient baobab United in prayer with all For the next drop of rain.   The children, in delight, wave Their hands in song at the sight: “Cattle egret, inscribe my hands for me, Do not let a scorpion sting me And let not the viper bite me All white!" (Goa-naapierik

Photo by  Kid Circus  on  Unsplash RESOLVED, I must up and act Rave against this inaction Why must I rust in waiting? An eternity of rest is coming. How can I be idle?   Strive for what is mine I must For none shall render it to me But I with my calloused hands Grab it in my stride to keep Ever the rapid hours go by Without a pause And with them I must grind Till I’m spent and ragged I cannot quite down, but Like the wind and the tide I too must roar and pound   Asleep, awake, by day or  night   Time speeds by on light wing The tide of destiny swings as ever And around the idle it bends  For with hands is it ever carved How then can I be idle?   It matters not that I fail at it I am but spent upon a worthy cause Not rusted with a vile repose Waiting for naught but the grave Where worms shall feast upon  Flesh and bone long preserved And all chance for action is beyond Recall or desire.   You reap not where you sow not

  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

Beware of using the road in Tamale Elsewhere you look left, look right And left again, then cross briskly Not here, not in Tamale. Here you look left look right Look back look front look sideways And begin all over again You do it once you do it ten times You’re still no nearer to finding space No one stops here no one pauses For another to use the road Not even if you were a centenarian On three legs or a toddler at the crèche   The motorbikes are the real menace Right way wrong way Walkways sideways Way behind you way across you  Way in front way all round you Like butterflies in a flowering field All other road users are in their way Pedestrians are but sheep Walking mindlessly across the way Motorbikes  cannot stop for sheep Even to use a zebra crossing When the cars stop for the sheep The motorbikes will run you over Asking if you were a zebra And double curse you In heathen tongues!   Everyone is in our way Even the scanty traffic light

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

Oh blessed of days that did break!  When God appeared in form of man,  To suffer worldly scorn for love’s sake How shall we celebrate your breaking?   He left lofty throne and palace above,  To wear our very human frailty,  And bear the pains of abject penury;  That He may cheer a gloomy world.  How shall we celebrate Your Name?  Oh creator God turned creature,  To bear the affliction of Your creation,  Rejected, despised and reviled by same;  And yet turn not from bitter cup to drink  Nor bid Your just vengeance to rise,  But looking through Mercy’s eyes,  Did forgive all with bountiful love.  Clap for joy all you verdant creation. Mosses and giant oaks, sway in dance! He who in brilliant green did cloak you, In humble form comes to play in your shade, And your perishable fruit with relish to eat. Sing out you sullied streams of the land! Who with crystal clear waters filled you, Comes now to wash and cleanse you again.  Rejoice you p

It was a small room about three or four square meters in size and with nothing to sit on but the bed. The man himself and a small boy who came from the school with me were lying on the linoleum-covered floor. The man motioned me to the bed, partly shielded by a curtain and I sat on the edge of it. The roof was leaking right at my feet and he placed a tin bowl there to collect the drops.  I would have liked to look around the room but it felt disrespectful to get too curious about my benevolent host’s domestic space. At first, I was uneasy about being in a strange room in a faraway village where I could not speak a word of the language. After a few minutes, however, I chided myself for being stupid. Villagers are typically decorous towards their children’s teachers and it is probably the same courtesy that they were extending to me. How could I meet such a kind gesture with suspicion and mistrust? I, therefore, looked up at my host and smiled. He returned my smile and said a few words t