When a haunting silence befalls our land, as in a graveyard solitude, Not with you, not with a stranger, let alone with a foe, I dare to share I
When a haunting silence befalls our land, as in a graveyard solitude,
Not with you, not with a stranger, let alone with a foe, I dare to share
In the incandescent light, of everyday banter, of everyday platitude
Waxing, waning, in a welcoming warmth, of a people, unafraid to share
How often I mumble, but to myself, with no one with whom to talk!
I seem like a troubled mind, who, at my own shadow, into a smile I beam
How often you grumble, but to yourself, with no one with whom to talk!
You seem like a muddled mind; when agitated, you shadowbox to let off steam.
II.
Now, we know his kind of antics; he who forces upon us a stern silence
While high on adolescent innocence, we wager, when we play at marbles
When a bully overrules a rule, we put up with him, in a stoic silence
Still, hit or miss, winning, fair and square, makes for a good game of marbles
But when might rules the roost, the fabled strongman overrules our choice
As missing the virtues of candor, of valor, of ardor; so, imposes on us his will
Bourgeois vices, says he, so vile, so vain, can’t, at the polls, pull off a fair choice
But relents when he reckons a legion’s indomitable will wilting his mortal will.
III
Wasn’t Asantewaah, the warrior queen, seemed as playing at marbles
While her men played possum, when a scoffer made demeaning demands?
But her ground she stood, such as we wait out a bully at a game of marbles.
So, too, by a votive will, a people outwit the strongman’s domineering demands.
Now, a new matriarch bears a creed, but no sword of a queen warrior
Secular, prosecutorial, magisterial, she holds court to protect kith from kin
She abides the doctrine of “vox pupoli, vox Dei”, but no ideologue warrior
Our matriarch cradles us in her ample bosom, cuddling kith and kin
IV.
Now, therefore, the glory of our people’s compact:
We the people have staked a claim to freedom’s story
As coops spring to life on a dewy African dawn, we enact,
As cocks crow a revitalizing, timeless ritual, our story
Our heralds bear tidings, in images, as in a mirror held to the face,
Crooning, oohing, aahing, in cheers, in jeers, in heat, in wind, in rain, in a chill,
They bream our people’s travails onto our people, into the mind, the heart, onto the face
Still, above the day-long din of shrill voices lies freedom story’s thrill
Poet: Roland O. Akosah
October 23, 2024
J.H. Kwabena Nketia Conference Hall
University of Ghana,
Legon.
COMMENTS