Sardine Happiness

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

It was a joy to see happy faces chit-chat

My feet rooted in sand

I could not leave the harbour

Sardine “don’t bring” happiness to Gomoa Fetteh

FREEDOM CENTRE

Amewuga Ablordeppey

What Dom,

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…

Hold high poetry’s torch,

Shine it all over very much,

My asanka says you’d call all,

That beyond and ever you’d stand tall,

Yeah Freedom Centre,

Thank God I’m a poetry repenter

 

Mashed Yam

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

Mummy is an expert.  

The Lorry Station

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.

Five Little Sisters

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.

Love Me, God

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

House Nigger

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.