When it hits!
When it all hits you early in the morning and you realise you’re Ghanaian,
After praying to God, several nights.
And you wonder “doesn’t this man listen? “
When the cries of a baby hits your ear drums sharply in an attempt to swing your mood
When the bristles of the broom made from palm branches hit the floor, and start flooding your sensitive ears with Unthinkable cacophonies.
When you hear Maggi instead of onga,
Then you think to yourself; palms spread across your face.
“The jargon of a new dialectic.”
Then you wander into your own world and find no petty annoyances.
You’re caught up in that cloud until….
You hear your name in a screech,
It’s as if you’ve been hit with a hammer on the head. When you try to explain yourself and your mother shuts you up,
All of a sudden; she’s now a time traveller
Speaking of mistakes you committed, a year ago,
Maybe even a decade, soaring through your past , present and future. Oh how they exaggerate!
And when she’s done, she returns to the present day,
Undefeated, untouched and pretends like nothing ever took place.
If she offended you or not,
Who cares. I mean. Wo y3 Ghana ba.
Night falls, you wait on your parents to finish dinner,
Then you continue with your life of servitude.
Then you wander off again into your own world.
Think of all the riches thereof, the power, the fame.
Goodness, is that why we get so selfish and greedy sometimes?
Oh the joys of being a Ghanaian child I sing.
I tell of the Ashanti pride
The Ewe proof of power
The Northern strength
The western-boast-of-the-best
The eastern tide
The southern and central touch.
All of them boast of greatness and of greatness we are made
Sew our old ways for us that we may wear them under our new garments
As for the ways of our fathers and mothers, our food and cloth
Our drink and gloss
They are like our GTP-timeless
They stand through it all.
Ayekoo.
