Cape Coast, Ghana
At Cape Coast,
we bowed our heads
in sorrow
and shame,
recalling the agonies
of our forebears…
the wicked complicity
of kinsmen
and sometimes
even parents…
At Cape Coast,
the ghoulish stench
of slavery
stared us
stiffly and
morbidly
in the face,
flaring up
our nostrils
to the wrenching
point of
hyperventilation…
At Cape Coast,
we were weighted down
with the bloody crimes
of yesteryear;
still,
almost senselessly
and capriciously,
we either flatly failed
or rawly refused
to grasp
this bleak season
of misery and
abject penury
was wrought
by ourselves
upon
our own kind…
At Cape Coast,
we could only
half-fathom
what was
and what might
have been
had there not
been…and then
staggered
by the stygian depths
of such epic
savagery,
we could not
hold back
our tears,
those tears
which were not
really our own,
but those of
our forebears
in eons past,
callously wrenched
from their moorings
and rendered
beasts-of-burden
by those pale-skinned
blue-eyed men
with frozen veins…
At Cape Coast,
we were shackled
and packed supine
as sardines
in urine and
human waste,
bound for
chain-gang labor
in the Carolinas
Georgia, Louisiana
and Mississippi,
shorn of our clothes
and tongues and
names and
dignity…
At Cape Coast,
a disoriented
mulatto class
was spawned
mimicking
every misdeed
of those blue-eyed
creatures of
yonderland,
while retaining
almost none
of whatever virtues
with which they trod
our shores…
At Cape Coast,
time and tide
came full circle
even as seller
and sold
stood
face-to-face
like total strangers
staring
at the horizon
with a young
orange-sun
beginning
to rise up
once more –
The Obama Serenades II
Christiansborg, Accra-Ghana
The stench
of past epic misdeeds
is rather too heavy
in the air,
the landmarks
of our hostage past
too striking and
palpable
to be forgotten
anytime soon –
the gaping scars
are there for all
to see,
wonder how
it came about
that we now seem
to have overcome
so much
in so short
a time;
and yet,
we also seem
to have so much
to overcome
in the years
and decades
ahead –
At Osu,
the old Danish
slave castle
still serves
as the seat
of the ship
of State,
as the stool-house
of our
chief-of-state…
the bloody tide
of slavery came
and washed out
the gray matter
beneath
our skulls;
and so,
these days,
we only carry
the empty skull-shells
of the defenseless
and war dead,
a horrible mound
of human
savagery –
our empty skulls
testify both against
our forebears
and the wickedness
of those blue-eyed men
who carved
a lucrative trade
selling
youthful
black flesh;
the very skies
in their bronze visage
swear against
our abject loss
of self-love
and dignity,
our frantic attempts
to role-play
our blue-eyed foes
of yesteryear…
which is why
these days
those who claim
to be leading us
into realms of peace
and prosperity
would not
bat an eye
ere
selling us
down
the creek –
At Osu,
our venerable
guest
and kinsman
and America’s
first African son
has sat down
for breakfast
with our three
most prominent
chiefs,
namely,
the red and
bloody one
whose drunken
Scotsman sire
dumped his mum
long before
Little Red
was even conceived
as the mutt who
fatuously fancies
his double
in our venerable
guest…
breakfast
is composed
of bacon,
whole-wheat bread
sandwich and
a handsome mug
of orange juice,
which makes
the Red One
a bit uneasy,
as he would rather
the bacon
were composed of
human flesh
and the blood of
those he tethered
to stakes,
at the Teshie
Military Range,
and summarily
dispatched
to hell
in the month
of June,
which is why
he is so dismayed
breakfast is almost
a full-moon
behind
schedule…
then,
there is our halting
mid-night dark
host with the English
name which makes him
curiously
mistake himself
for Little Red
sometimes,
which is why
he almost
invariably
treads the earth
in the very shadow
of Little Red;
a legal maven
of genius
on paper,
which is where
all similarities end
with our venerable
guest,
a veritable mutt
of proven genius
and ingenuity…
then,
there is
our soft-spoken
gentle-giant
with the bassoon voice;
no gentle-giant
at all,
save in this land
of a million elves,
a lecher
par-excellence
who ought to have been
the host
but whose selfish
and wayward ways
has effectively
doomed him to
wistfully playing
a grudgingly invited
guest at his own
feast…
nothing
really remarkable
about this breakfast-
for-four
in a dank
old slave castle
cynically named
after the Christ
of Nazareth,
a lurid
nose-thumbing
of blasphemous
proportions…
The Obama Serenades III
Kotoka International Airport
It is not that
Ghana has always had
the best and brightest
of the proverbial
cream of the leadership
crop;
not even that our leadership
has largely
or even mostly been
of the democratic stock;
just that some of us
have been brave
and courageous
enough
to be willing
to spill
our own blood
to ensure
the rest of our
kin and kith
live in peace
and freedom
with justice…
and so tonight
America’s first
African son
shall touch down
on Ghana’s earth,
the very sacred earth
selflessly soaked
with General Kotoka’s blood
callously spilled
as this patriotic giant
was felled
by minions
of a tyrant
who would only have
Ghanaians and our
land in perpetual thrall,
at his beck,
whim and
lunacy…
ours is
indeed
a land
and people
in peace and
at peace with
themselves,
a people
in whose culture
are embodied
the noble tenets
of love
friendship
and
hospitality;
a land in which
the commonality
of human
destiny and
fate are embraced
with fellow-feeling
and liberal sharing
of whatever our
commonwealth entails…
Ghana,
a veritable
motherland,
as only
a mother
knows best
the primal needs
and desires
of her child,
a motherland
as only
a mother
knows best
what mode
of guidance
and protection
to afford
her son…
Ghana is
a motherland,
which means
like a torch
or beacon
of Liberty,
she welcomes
and accepts all
who make the trip
into her home,
providing warmth
and provender
for the haggard hobo
and unreserved comfort
for the penitent wayward…
Land of
generous mosquito bites,
Ghana,
fabled Kingdom of Gold,
bejeweled maidens,
diamond tiaras
and silver stools…
Gateway to
big-hearted Africa,
welcome,
Sonny Obama,
whatever I own
is also yours!
The Obama Serenades IV
Our Kinsman Slept under Our Roof
Tonight
is a great night
for Ghana
and Africa
and America
and Asia
and Europe
and Australia
and South America
and all the world as well…
tonight
Africa’s first
American son
is at home
and at peace
with himself,
being also
among
his own…
a decade ago,
the Scottish one
declined
to spend
the night
with us,
a rapturous
adulating crowd,
surfeit affection
and all;
he would rather
spend the night
with his own
and among
his own…
one could hardly
blame him,
for he deeply knew
what we have known
all our lives:
blood is thicker
than water,
even as the palm
of one’s hand
is known to afford
greater comfort
than the back
of the same…
a decade ago,
the great Scotsman
flatly declined
the warmth
of the best bed
in our home;
we felt piqued
and even miffed
by such diplomatic
slight;
still,
we couldn’t blame him
for distrusting
our candid offer
of comfort
and love,
for one couldn’t
always be as certain
of friendship as
of kinship bonds…
and so tonight
is a cloud-nine night
for Ghana
and Africa;
tonight,
we shall camp
by the fireplace,
softly and
sweetly while
the cool,
starry night away
with wisdom-filled tales
callously severed
in the telling
when those blue-eyed men
weighed anchor
on our shores;
that was when
our familial links
fell apart,
that was when
our children lost
their innocence
and our parents
and grandparents
lost touch
with themselves
and their souls…
tonight,
we shall camp
by the fireplace
and catch up
with epic events
of the past,
even as we pledge
to never foul
our birth-waters
again…
Africa’s first
American son
came home tonight;
we always knew
this day would come to pass,
it was all
just a matter
of time
and tide,
a matter of the ant-butcher’s
deliberate care …
Africa’s first
American son
came home tonight,
and then
we felt
the very weight
of the world
in our sway;
Africa’s first
American son
returned home tonight,
and our entire village
went agog
with tears
of joy…
The Obama Serenades V
Folkloric Drum-Script
This is Ghana!
Listen to Ghana!!
This is Ghana!!!
Listen to Ghana!!!!
This is Ghana!!!!!
This is Ghana!!!!!!
This is Ghana!!!!!!!
Ghana
is the land
where men first began
to build in stone,
this is the land
of Adansi-Pipim,
master-builder,
unbested maker
of war
and
peace…
here also
the Akan art
of governance
and justice
was hatched…
this is the land
where the spider
taught us to weave
and clothe
ourselves;
we are the fabled weavers
of Kente and Adinkra bolts…
Ghana,
land of
the regal
Adowa dance,
Kpanlogo,
Agbadza and
Boboobo,
land of rhythmic
dance of
the soul…
we dance
when we are happy
and dance
when we are sad
and dance again
when we are neither
happy
nor
sad…
we are a
vibrant folk,
we are full
of song
and art…
Ghana,
land of
the fertility doll,
disk-headed
Akuaba;
we make love
around the clock
and settle scores
with measured
response;
we are not prone
to the total destruction
of our frenemies,
just deft
in our containment
of their wiles…
hallowed land
of Ansa-Sasraku Brempong,
conqueror-of-conquerors,
supreme coach
of Asante-Kotoko,
land of Osei-Tutu,
lord of the African prairie,
mighty one,
it is only Susubiribi,
the great sylvan cat,
that comfortably rubs shoulders
with the lynx…
we are spawned from
the ancient loins
of Mali and
Songhai,
yet we precede them both,
we are scions
of a self-begotten god…
Ghana,
land of
Obunumankoma,
Dapagyan and
Osono,
beyond the strength
of the pachyderm
is entombed
the very creator
of our world…
land of
Anokye
of Akuapem-Awukugua,
supreme servant
of Odomankoma,
Lord-Protector
of the deprived
and despondent…
we come from
far off yonder,
yet we never left
this land
of our birth;
we are of
Akan stock,
we are of
Dangme stock,
we are Dagomba
and Conja
and Dagarti
and Mamprusi
and Konkomba
and Nanumba
and Ewe
and Guan;
we are all
that any human
can be and
still more beyond
and besides…
Ghana,
primal kingdom
of gold
and
diamond
and
bauxite
and
manganese
and endless
petro-chemical
wrabgling…
we have traveled
from afar
and yet
we always
owned this land…
The Obama Serenades VI
For Michelle and the Spirit of Joy
I have just
been wondering
had you not
been wrested,
callously,
from us,
where in Ghana
you might
have been
born…
and also
what name
you would have been
given by your parents
to proudly wear,
a name whose
virtuous import
you would have had
to live by
day-in
and out…
but I guess
having happily
returned and
laid claim
to every part
of this land,
you are simply
content being
Ghanaian
And
African…
and now,
I know
your soul
is at peace
and restful
with itself,
now that your feet
have trod
and caressed
a land
as warm
and full-figured
and pretty
and black
like you…
no need
to pine
and sulk
and wonder
which god
fated you such
a raw deal;
for it was
no raw deal
at all,
just a routine test
of your mettle
and a fulfillment
of prophecy:
“That which
the builders rejected
has become
the head
of the corner…”
today,
you shall be
restored
to your place
among our ranks;
today,
you shall also
be named Queen
and be shorn
of our
collective
shame –
no slave names
anymore,
no slave past
anymore,
save that which
banana peels
must recall
for the sake
of memory
and our
collective
rinse –
today,
you shall be sat
on a stool
made of oak
and sworn in
as Queen
of our clan,
then you shall
be led into
the stool-house
to embrace
your sacred past…
still,
I wonder
exactly where
in Ghana
you could have
been born,
with such
lambent wit
on so broad
a pair
of shoulders;
I can think
of none other
save my own
Aduana clan,
which makes
quite a bit
of sense,
when you stop
to think about
your first family’s
love of dogs
and fiery
resolve
to fight
and win
and win bigger
than the souls
of your foes –
today,
you shall stitch
your own patch
to our collective
quilt, thrust deep
your moorings
to the very beginnings
of our race;
you shall be
delectably
overwhelmed
by what you
see and feel
deep down
your heart
and soul –
The Obama Serenades VII
Associated “Insults”
“While Michelle Obama’s great-great grandfather was a
slave in South Carolina, his African origins are not
known.” – Associated Press, 7/11/09
An insult to injury,
an injury to insult;
rubbing salt and pepper
into my running soul’s sore…
the say
wherever the sons
and daughters and
nephews and nieces
and fathers and
mothers and uncles
and aunties gather
to share
and exult
in God’s name,
to gratefully
appreciate their fortunes
and even misfortunes,
the Devil as
sure as Hell
is smack-dab
in the midst…
and so the Devil
went to Ghana
with Barack and
Michelle attempting
to derail or
dumb down
this glorious
homecoming
of Africa’s first
American son…
the Devil,
he went to Ghana
seeking to rain
on the harmlessly
healing parade
of kinsfolk and
in-laws;
luckily,
the Devil
did not
succeed in
dumbing down
their joy…
the Devil
who had woefully
underestimated
the stern stuff
of which
we are made,
he went to Ghana
to dumb down
our joy
and returned with
third-degree
burns…
we saw it coming
all right,
yet
we were not fazed,
having weathered
detraction and
distraction and
destruction and
sidelining and
side-stepping and
boot-crunching
in the Harlems
and Sowetos
of our forced exiles
and outright
deportations
and enslavement
in these United States
of cattle-rustlers
and robber-barons,
hunched on the gray
margins between
history and
oblivion;
still,
we are not
the least bit
fazed…
having been
shackled and
huddled
in the squalid
hold of
“The Jesus,”
we are now
also callously
being told
the raw and
cold memories
of our agonies
were mere
daydreams of
toddlers and
drunks,
after all…
still,
we are not
the least bit
fazed:
four centuries
of ineffable
indignities
cannot be cancelled
by the halting
smudge
of cynical
scribes…
Blackman
marooned among
the hopeless ranks
of a Carolina
chain-gang,
rise up,
arise
with the righteous
indignation
that only
a hurricane
could match,
Blackman
hung up
a tree to
die and rot
like strange fruits
on a Georgian
oak,
tell me,
if you are
no prime fruit
of old Africa’s
loins,
what are you?
A white
shooting-star
dropped out of
America’s
pale-blue skies
and then
instantly
quenched
and seen
no more?
Three centuries
of murderous rape
cannot be blotted
with the stroke
of a pen;
luckily,
Caliban
has out-mastered
the master
at his own
tongue;
luckily,
Caliban
is truth-tinker
to such crock
of slag…
7/11/09
By Kwame Okoampa-Ahoofe, Jr.