Whisperings

         Of time squandered

         Opportunities not grasped

         Of the indifference of friends

         The betrayal of family

         Love gone awry. 

         From the edge of things comes whispering too

         Crushing humiliation

         Nurturing new seeds of time

         Of new comrades

         Indifferent to pettiness

`       Carrying the hope of a people yet to be

         Singing a new beatitude

         Of the resurrection of all people wherever forever.

                    Composed in Cape Coast, November 8, 2020

 

 2.     Out here the flora scent is overpowering,

        All opposition becalmed

        By beauty so complete,

        So sweet.

        As the dark clouds gallop by at dawn

        And the sun unfolds in her grandeur

        So your presence dispels doubts

        And instills certainty

        That this too is forever. 

 

        For in you I see a rhythm of time

        Indifferent to woes that so easily eclipse hope.

        In you I see a cadence of sensuous glow

        That bespeaks of calm assurance

        That calls forth a new algorithm of hope—

 

        Our progeny indifferent to tribe

        That base instinct of the herd

        Indifferent to Religion

        Sanctuary for duplicity;

        Indifferent to Temples

        Epitomes of conceit.

        Only the pure heart

        shall Proclaims

        Love

        Hope

        Redemption. 

            Cape Coast, Nov 8, 2020

 

 

And yet this too was a place of hope.

It may yet be again!

From such embers the sphinx resurrection finds,

Again and again.

What dreams and hopes vanquished?

What civil and uncivil thoughts and plans?

What memories, sweet and sour?

Interrupted, sacrificed, silenced here too?

And all for this?

 

And yet in this place too

Being was being

Carnival and cogito caroused

Proverb wrestled with Anansesem

Anansesem became Anansegro

Dwarf met his match in Man

Anokye dared the heavens

Donkor despaired for another time

And sweet love consummated.

 

The harmattan wailed at night 

Of coming woe.

Of Samori and Babatu,

Of the wily Kanbong.

Yet we were deaf

Again and again

Forgetful that

A river that fails to flow

Never participates in the vastness of the ocean.

 

The baobab alone has lived to tell

Of the hillock of bodies

That accuse memory

Of battering our future

For an incoherent present.

 

Is it madness to dream of resurrection

Here too?

Not of the dead but the undead,

The yet to be

The beginning of the future.

 

Against all odds

It will yet be again

From this embers

Will resurrection inaugurate

A people

Clamoring

That all may be One.   

 

 

The Dance of Memory

Calmly, he sat.
Eyes locked, not on them
Though they thought otherwise.
All waited for the words
That will incriminate, shame, and contemn others
As the nation's bastards!

Months, weeks, days, and minutes languidly passed on
Like a stream sure of its destination.
Still they waited for the oracular truth.
Before them he sat
Eyes piercing menacingly beyond the horizon
Indifferent to these patient waiters.

Then, suddenly,
He shifted and made as if ready at last 
To make the long-awaited declamation.
Sudden too was the ecstasy among the votaries
Necks elongated, eyes strained, lips pursed, and ears primed.
They waited for this motherfucker!

He sat opened-mouthed as if lost in transit.
Was he searching for the words that'll  dignify or shame?
Was he mocking their patience?
None could tell.

At last a cackle blasted the serenity of the hall
Like an indignant thunderbolt.
And the effluvium eclipsed all.
Was he mad?
A troubled or vengeful cadaver?

None moved away.
Still hoping for the story.
Then, he thrust forward again, conspiratorially,
As if to touch lips with the millions
Who waited in the enclosure and on the screen for the epiphany.
Again, utterance eluded him.

At last the votaries began to disappear.
How was he to tell them 
That they were all guilty,
That scapegoating is a terrible disease,
That History is the commingling of the shameful and the dignifying,
That the art of dusting is a violent act, sometimes?

He knew he'll hit the headlines the next day.
The nature of the headlines he refused to contemplate.
As the guard led him out of the colossal, empty hall
Deep in his mind he could hear the thunderous cackle again
He caught the whiff of the stench.
The nation stinks!
The fragrance of the nation is a laborious work.
 
How will the nation remember him? 




University of Cape Coast, Ghana.