By Al-hassan
It was a Saturday morning
Big Boats from Apam visit Gomoa Fetteh
It was low tide, the see is calm
Exposed rocks green see weeds
It smells fresh and green
Young men in shorts carrying sardine boxes
Boys snatching sardine
Fishmongers busy bargaining for sardine
Pure water and orange sellers were all there
My feet rooted in sand
Amewuga Ablordeppey
And from what Free;
What Ta,
And from what Cen:
Yeah Freedom Centre,
I’m glad I don’t pay to enter…
Here my ears are brightened,
Here my soul is flamed in wisdom,
People mind beautifully high,
I mix in and peacefully sigh…
Yeah Freedom Centre
Keep sculpturing this banter…
Shine it all over very much,
My asanka says you’d call all,
That beyond and ever you’d stand tall,
Thank God I’m a poetry repenter
Papa Alata
Mashed yam and palm oil,
Soothing meal will it be,
Soothing meal down my throat,
World competitors it will conquer.
When I savour
Childhood delicacy
Of much adequacy
As motherly message
It gives at home
Down my throat
Papa Alata
The little rising dust
Like brown water spray,
Of a fountain overburdened,
Junked up palm kernels noisy,
With torn – up tarpaulin tops
These wooden body Lorries,
Their blaring horns,
Like the unheeded mournful tones
Of a whale calling;
All in a confusion of burying humanity
That was the lorry station
Of the birds eye view.
Papa Alata
Five little sisters
Each as a mistress
Live they in distress
Created by the seamstress,
Thinking under great stress
They go up with slow steps
Unattractive cut of dress,
Up the chapel with mindful steps
Sabotaged by the priestess
Their spirit in a great mess.
Papa Alata
Love me Mummy’s God
Daddy’s Lord,
Everybody’s Call,
Of the Nazarene Cult
Love me ,God
Even when the gourd,
Is used for your lot
From the fetish call
Of the animist cult.
Love me, God
Betraying his fellows,
Privileges does he win
Of not working in the fields,
Betraying his fellows,
Elevated he does become
Insuring the neo-colony
In Black Atlantic
Better skin colour,
A woman of the Master Class
House Niggers
Most have the Cream become
The best of sable Crowd,
Better slaves
And ethnic purity disgraced,
Even in these days,
Of going our own way.
When our own should hold sway;
Black Cush,
Seize the times.
By Brother Biko
oh geez oh please
a week in office
some are saying hes slow
as if they dont know
that one misruled us for eleven years
and we gave him an extra eight
another came to tie us to hopelessness
and he had eight to waste the state
both cant be better than atta mills
unless he learns their special skills
we need a change we need a change
but some comments are so strange
for ghana to reach the top
some may really have to shut up
being traumatized dehumanized despiritualized disconnected
yet my colour never gets tired
passed thru colonialism passed thru slavery
thru the hands of jesus mohammed to be damned eternally
yet my colour never gets tired
being beaten raped hired fired
yet my colour never gets tired
passed thru wars hunger diseases
manmade catastrophies and crisis
yet my colour never gets tired
being pinched stretched bleached discoloured
yet my colour never gets tired
passed thru ruthless invaders brainless leaders
mind destroyers liars reverend pastors
yet my colour never gets tired
fraustrated humiliated segregated denigrated
yet my colour never gets tired
buried in the atlantic sea ripped from mothers belly
life is still ugly life is still bloody
yet my colour never gets tired
tied shackled manacled fettered
yet my colour never gets tired
my colour is still fighting to be free
and my colour shall be free for the world to see
By Brother Biko
oh soweto
oh children
oh zimbabwe
not yet uhuru
theyve not changed
they wont change
we have to change things
chaining our feet
hanging our mind
tearing us apart to build themselves
satisfying their selfishness and greed
on our mind and our back
destroying our cultures
stealing our myths
and giving it back to us
to make us look stupid
giving us a god to worship to keep us in slave ship
diverting our attention to the skies
as they dig beneath our sole
for the gold that made europe and amerikkka
drowning us in angry oceans
casting us into prisons within prisons
for the crime of speaking about freedom
as they sleep with our wives
rape our mothers
snatch our husbands
kill our fathers
shattering our families into irretrievable pieces
battering our heads for refusing to be slaves
chopping off our hands over rubber
making us do the same to ourselves
for them to get their blings
demonizing us for reclaiming our farmlands
confusing us to the realities of this life
crushing our aspirations and giving us false hopes
unfair trade deals here and there
allying themselves to oppressive pro western regimes
providing tips to blind our foolish leaders
for them to keep the people in poverty
by bringing in idiotic problematic solutions
to aggravate white mess all these years
and yet the slavemasters talk about a curse on afrikans
what curse do we know of if not they on us
what curse is undoing afrikans
if not the same old colourless curse
By Vivian Golokumah
My Friend, my friend, my friend!
Where can I pour my thoughts?
Where can I pour my heart, where can I share
My worries and fears, where can speak my mind,
When there is none to hear me?
Where can I shed my tears when they can’t be seen?
by P. A Oranmeyen
The wind comes blowing through the louvres,
To run over my skin,
Cool and soothing,
As I stand at the magazine stand.
Twinkling in the night sky outside,
Are the many stars,
Little eyes of the unknown do they look;
Eyes smiling,
Over the subdued city,
Underneath the huge overturned bowl,
That the night’s sky is.
The sound of traffic comes faint and singing,
But unusual silence envelopes the hall,
And I turned round;
Seven faces,
Thinking of home’s comfort,
And turning out the last reader,
Me.
Outside,
And to me comes the night’s coolness,
Doubly strengthened,
Caressing my arms and cooling my forehead.
The wind howls now,
Pieces of dirty paper,
Are in the streets flying;
Deserted streets,
Save the lonely souls hurrying,
To the comfort of home.
Cool wind now,
Speaking to me,
Of of childhood days;
Days of innocence,
When the very air,
Was great discovery,
And the paper kite,
The greatest invention.
Cool winds speaking,
Of the early life,
Mother’s warm breasts,
And the comforting laps,
The soothing palm in the thunderstorm,
And the ample arm,
Protection itself it was,
From lightning’s flash;
Her warmth,
And,
The calming words,
For her frightened prince;
Her great prince,
That even cats could bully without trying,
Who ruled her heart,
And her motherly love held,
That great prince that was so,
For being her first living male.
The drizzle comes now,
Cold,
Like alien snow in the darkness,
As I break,
From the dark and lonely streets.
Neon lights here,
Psychedelic and inviting,
Like unconcerned mutes,
They smile in the rain,
Doomed to the elements,
And happy in their work,
Bringing to me,
Thoughts of Mother,
Happy she is in her work at home.
Mother,
That would slave for her children’s happiness,
Mother that would starve,
If feeding them meant going hungry,
To whom the greatest sorrow,
Is the frown of her children,
On her advice.
The rain grows stronger,
And with other victims,
Do I seek shelter from the lash,
Under the upper floors,
The closed shops,
Listening ,
To the animated chatter here.
Woman behind a big pan,
Porridge seller;
The ladle dips,
And disappearing,
Brown bowl comes to view;
White inside receives,
The hot brown liquid,
With money bowl beside her,
Of water and coins,
And daughters behind giggling,
With two youngmen joking.
Street lights shining on the watery street,
Like a million fireflies,
Under a ruffled sea;
In keeping beat of movement,
With whistling,
Of a cinema house nearby,
And taxicabs crawling down the street,
Windows closed,
Like so many tortoises in the rain.
And I stood by the hurrying humanity,
Beside the porridge seller,
Listening,
To the soothing sounds,
Savouring,
The singing ring of her voice,
The homely sound that called for customers,
Before the closed shops,
Business place of the Levantines;
While against a pillar I lean,
Thinking,
Of the night life and the rain,
Darwin,
The Beginning,
And of Mother
