By Kwame Okoampa-Ahoofe, Jr.
They say
the beast
that will unleash
the fatal bite
often lurks
in the frills
of one’s own
cloth…
alas,
the Shit-Bombing crowd
has yet to learn –
Uncle,
I told you
your death,
to them,
is an elephant-kill;
for now,
even those of your
hangers-on
who cannot say
“Me see”
“Me de”
“Mesen’dee” or
even “Me le”
are wistfully sporting
cotton prints
called “Se asa,”
it is finished…
for having greedily,
crudely and
cruelly
stampeded you
to your grave,
they cynically fault
your own clansmen
and rivals
for the same –
in all this,
though,
it is the traders
whose ledger-books
are in real black;
yes,
it is the traders
who are having
a bumper harvest
out of this gravid season
of incriminations
and recriminations,
this peak season
of verbal and
personal
abuse…
Uncle,
you remember heartily
cheering on Jato-Patapaa
when he called
my other uncle
a dwarf
and even presumed
to spit
on his pate…
what did you say
but slyly nod
in assent,
back-pat
Jato-Patapaa
and affirm
it was,
in deed,
the gospel truth –
how strange
and vengefully
the wheel-of-fortune
does turn…
the Shit-Bombing
horse-riders
from Bole-Bamboi
never learned
this far,
but we have,
we sons and daughters
of Kwame Kyeretwie,
we also know
how it feels
for a patriarch
to be coldly
killed
and his scions
prevented from
shedding
a tear,
we know
how it feels
for a patriarch
to be coldly
killed
and his scions
denied
a decent burial
for their martyred
patriarch…
Nana Boakye-Danquah,
Asante-Mamponghene Nana,
Biretuo Dehyee,
there is a prodigal son
on his way
to your house;
great one,
do kindly forgive
and forget,
let him find
peace and quiet
on your side
of the fence,
let there be
glorious reunion
of flesh
and blood,
let there be
glorious reunion
of dust and
ashes and
all else
in-between –
8/3/12