WALKING THE STREETS OF THE HUMAN MIND

Picture Courtesy: www.chicagohs.org/history/capone.html


He was born on January 17, 1899,
Father was a barber,
Mother a seamstress.
School dropout by age 14,
He worked odd jobs,
Threw a few scams here and there,
And later on had stints with small-time gangs.


In early December,
He fathered a son,
Got married later that December.
During the prohibition era,
His name became synonymous with lawlessness.
He embraced a life of violence and crime,
Calling his line of work one of supply and demand.
After brazenly orchestrating the
“Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre”
On February 14, 1929,
He was indicted on charges of tax evasion in 1931
And handed an 11 year sentence.


He called Alcatraz home for most of this time,
Syphilis he had contracted in his youthful days
Led to a decline in his health while in prison.
He was paroled on November 16, 1939,
On January 21, 1947, he had a stroke,
Contracting pneumonia three days later on January 24,
He suffered a fatal cardiac arrest the next day,
Alphonse Gabriel Capone popularly called Al Capone
Was then laid to rest in Chicago, Illinois.

Sources: www.chicagohs.org/history/capone.html, Wikipedia




Picture Courtesy: www. nndb.com


Born July 30, 1863,
He was the son of a farmer.
In his early teens, he gained the reputation of watch repairman,
For he had been dismantling and reassembling timepieces
Of friends and neighbours.
He lost his mother in 1876.
His father expected him to eventually take over
The family farm, to this he said,
“I never had any particular love for the farm – it was
The mother on the farm I loved”.


In 1891, he became an Engineer,
In 1893, he began experimenting on gasoline engines,
Which culminated in the completion of a self-propelled vehicle
Which he named the Quadracylcle in 1896,
His first attempt at setting up his own company
In August 1899 was a complete failure.
However, in June 1903,
He found willing investors and setup Ford Motor Company.
In October 1908, Ford Motor Company introduced its first
Car called the “Model T” onto the market,
In 1927, Ford Motor Company discontinued production of the
“Model T”,
By then, there were 15,007,034 of it on the streets of America.
Henry Ford died in 1947 of a cerebral hemorrhage.
However, Ford Motor Company still remains a global
In the automotive industry.

Source: Wikipedia




Picture Courtesy: www. mass-murderers.com


Born April 23, 1968,
He was the only son and second of three children,
At age 10, his parents divorced,
He was raised by his father.
In high school, he hacked into government systems,
He was named “Most Promising Computer Programmer”
In his senior year,
Aside that, he was an underachiever
And graduated with relatively poor grades.

He was introduced to firearms by his grandfather,
Becoming increasingly fascinated by them.
At age 20, he enlisted in the army,
And was awarded a bronze star for fighting in
The first gulf war,
He was discharged honourably from the army in May 1992.
With no friends, a job or property,
He became transient, disillusioned and anti-government,
After receiving a letter informing him that he had been
Overpaid $1,058 while in the army and would need to pay back the money,
He wrote an angry letter back saying:
“Go ahead, take everything I own, take my dignity,
Feel good as you grow fat and rich at my expense,
Sucking my tax dollars and property”.
On April 19, 1995,
He detonated a truck laden with explosives
In front of a government building,
168 people died in the explosion, 19 victims were small children
And babies, 450 others were injured,
He then became known as “The Oklahoma City Bomber”,
On August 10, 1995,


He was indicted on 11 federal counts including:
Conspiracy to use a weapon of mass destruction,
Use of a weapon of mass destruction,
Destruction by explosives
And eight counts of first degree murder,
He was convicted and sentenced to death.
He later sated that his only regret was that he had been
Unable to level the federal building completely.
Timothy James Mcveigh also known as
“The Oklahoma City Bomber” was executed by lethal
Injection on June 11, 2001.
His body was cremated and ashes scattered at an undisclosed location.


I fear neither death nor man,
What I fear most is the human mind.
It has a capacity far greater than
Any storage device ever known to man,
Playing a part in all bodily functions
From speech to gestures,
Love and hate,
I’m of the firm belief that the mind is the
Greatest form of technology that forever
Surpasses technological advancements of man.
All advancements ever known to man have been
The brainchild of the human mind.


Truth be told,
All men when given the right circumstance and opportunity
Can either give birth to acts deemed wrong or right,
Question still remains,
War, rape and greed,
Are these not offspring of the mind?
Love, benevolence and innovation,
Aren’t these offspring of the same mind?
These are the reasons why I fear the human mind,
For it is the only thing capable of anything and everything,
It all begins with the conception of an idea.

A DOLLAR A DAY

Picture Courtesy: www.digital-photography-school.com


A good day?
That’s a dollar that day.
Menial jobs?
Those are my forte…
Dish washing
Picking cotton
Street hawking
And a host of others.


I’m your everyday jack of all trades,
I possess many a skill
But none enough to put me in a shiny suit,
A Mercedes,
A mansion
And certainly not in an office complex.


Yes,
I have been in several offices
But only after dark,
When lights go out,
I show up when everyone else has left.
Calm down, I’m no thief.
I empty the waste bins,
Clean tables,
Basically,
I’m a cleanup crew,
I clean up after others,
I’m busy at work when the man and his
Shiny suit have called it a day,
They do the white collar beat,
I work the blue collar gig.


I have been in several mansions too,
But only on the grounds,
The common areas and
Once in a while by the pool
Yes, I have been by the pool,
But not in a swimsuit,
Rather in long flowing blue overalls,
Cleaning the resting chairs,
Draining the pool,
And fishing out the leaves,
If only those leaves would fall more often,
That would be excuse enough for me to
Hang around the pool more often.


In such places I turn up in the broad of day
Yet I remain invisible
For the master bids me so,
He makes the rules,
I embrace the rules,
That’s how we communicate,
But on some days
As the smell of roasted chicken wafts through the air,
I fight the urge to go bursting into the master’s kitchen,
Grab a drumstick and rush back out,
Not for the want of roasted chicken,
Certainly not,
I hear those things make you fat anyway,
But in hope that my grumbling tummy
Would quiet down so I can go about my duties,
A grumbling tummy breeds dissenting hands
And wandering minds.


I have been in more hotels than you,
No arguments there, I’ll beat you 10 to 1.
I’m no braggart,
I only speak the truth,
You just find my truth a tough swallow.
How come, you ask,
To clean bathrooms and change sheets, silly.
What were you thinking?
Me in a robe, glass of champagne in hand?
Or perhaps at a buffet in a tailcoat or a ball gown?


Whew!!!!
Those are too rich for my blood,
What folks spend in such places
Could last me more than a month.
The smell of new sheets and perfume
Sometimes makes me want to lie on the marble floor
But I’m afraid that may upset the manager.
I just might end up losing my job.


Maybe someday,
When you happen to be around,
I’ll treat you to filing desks and computers in an office,
Swimming pools and landscaping of a mansion
Or perhaps shiny marble floors and well pressed sheets,
But I have to go now,
Else I just might fail make a dollar today,
That would be the death of me today,
For I live a dollar a day.
Not my choice anyway,
My life just seems to swing that way.

PEELING PAINT

Picture Courtesy: www.shutterstock.com


Close-knit,
A group,
Together,
A unit,
Functioning like threads in a cloth,
All playing an important role,
All holding firm,
Individual threads sitting next to each other,
Holding onto each other,
Leaning on each other
Giving rise to a mass of threads,
Different threads embracing each other is what we call cloth.
Whenever a thread comes loose,
The whole group is threatened,
Other threads in no time begin to unravel,
The unit is compromised,
Slowly, it falls apart.


People are no different from those threads,
People are just like threads in a cloth,
Only differences are,
We can walk
Talk,
Breathe
And reason.
Walking,
Talking,
Breathing,
Reasoning,
These are the things that make us human,
Does being human not make us all family then?


What is family?
Family is more than man and wife,
More than father and child
Certainly more than mother and child,
Those only form a minute portion of the bigger family,
The human family.
But we’ve all grown apart,
Into nationalities,
Ethnic groupings,
Races and colours,
When did we stop being family?
When did we become squabbling groups of people
Affectionately called sovereign nations?
In becoming nations,
We only seek the well-being of a few,
Ever wonder how come there’s so much unrest in this world of ours?
Too many groups of people seeking interests,
Interests they feel best suit them.
Black, pink, white, orange or yellow,
Are we any more human than the other?
Colours only help us trace genetic lines,
Our roots,
Our shared heritage,
An ancestry that proves that we’re all family
Dating back to prehistoric years,
Why then should colours and boundaries be divisive?
Shouldn't these things rather make us appreciative of one another?


Gone are the days when we shared huts
And lived next to each other.
You’re right, we do have neighbours today
But all we do next to them is exist,
We’re there because our land sits next to theirs,
All we seek to do is live on our land and nothing more,
We’re islands with walls around us for good measure,
High time we began living next to each other,
Let’s not just exist next to each other
As though passengers on a greyhound bus
Headed for some remote area.
Gone are the days when we cooked together,
Ate together,
And did so many other things together.
Now all we do is grin at each other,
Hide behind tall walls serving as barriers and moats,
Demarcations that only divide us the more,
Nationalities,
Ethnicities,
Races,
Why all these man-made divisions?


We’re at war with each other,
Seek further advancements in weaponry,
Just so we can kill each other more effectively,
Live in upper classes and lower classes,
Welcome to the age of human classes,
We use each other as guinea pigs all in the name of globalization,
What is globalization?
Just a term that endorses selective application
Of the ideals of family and human feeling.
Third world,
Second world,
First world,
Aren't we all living in the same world?
How many worlds can exist in one world?
Do we live on separate planets collectively called earth?
How can a first, second and third world exist on one earth?
Please someone do tell me how,
For I haven’t the slightest idea how.
Why do we seek to further distance ourselves from each other?
How sad,
We were family once,
Back in the Stone Age when we wore nothing but rags,
And roasted venison over naked fires.
What changed?
Are we any less human today than we were yesterday?
Funny, thought we did not get to choose family,
Guess we found a way around that,
We propagated races,
Demarcated land giving rise to nations
And killed the human society,
Abolishing the human family,
Today we sit back unconcerned reveling in trivial technology
While the greatest human tragedy unfolds,
We slowly erase that which unites us as human.
Instead of focusing on what divides us,
Can we not choose to hang onto what unites us?
Being human just might be the worst tragedy of all time,
Why?
Because we keep looking at each other as though we’re different
When in truth, those differences only reside in our heads.


Let us become family again,
Nothing stops us from doing so.
Break down the walls you’ve erected in your heads,
Hearts and minds,
They’ve only pushed us further apart
Alienated us thus far
And projected us all as different,
Dissimilar,
With nothing in common.
But I beg to differ,
We do have something in common,
Being human, can we have anything greater than that in common?
All problems in our world today are deep rooted in human being,
Is it beyond us to find solutions to problems we’ve created?
We shall know no peace in this world,
We shall forever remain squabbling groups of people
Fondly called nations
Until we begin to look at each other as brother and sister,
For deep down,
We are brother and sister,
Deep down,
We’re all distant relatives.
Nothing more than a huge concrete wall doused in different colours of paint,
How different can we be?
Aren't we more similar than different?

PLEADING MY SANITY

Clipart Courtesy: www.empcp.org


Please do not think me insane,
Beyond reason and out of range,
I’m nowhere near crazy and deranged.
Yes, I do sit all by myself
On those lonely stairs with no one else around,
Yet you see my lips move
And you can hear me speak
As though I were with someone else.


I only try to find reason,
Reason with one you cannot see,
One who resides deep within,
One causing me much grief and angst.
But please, do not get ahead of yourself,
I do not grind an axe with the Lord
I do not speak of the Lord.


My steps have become laboured,
My feet heavy,
Weary
Hands tired
Unresponsive
My head
A scene of utter and complete mess
I’m in great distress
Unimaginable pain
But I’m neither injured nor heartbroken.


Please, do cradle the phone,
A mental institution's not where i belong,
Neither do i need a sanitarium,
Be that kind,
Allow me plead my sanity,
I do know one plus one equals two,
I do not intend arguing three the answer.


I know what day today is,
Monday of course,
It is only on Monday’s that the
Baker bakes pastries and loaves of bread,
I can hear new loaves calling out in the distance.
I know my name,
Yours i do know too,
And at first glance,
I can tell you wear size eight shoes.
Please, do not act surprised,
I really am in touch with my senses,
I only sit here trying to reason with a common cold.


It has plagued me for weeks without reprieve,
I do not mind the nasal congestion,
Coughing and
The headaches,
I only seek to rediscover my lost imagination,
Imagination lost to a common cold.
I’m no longer able draw pictures in my mind,
I’ve grown irritable
And unable to write like I used to,
I’m in distress,
Under duress,
Can’t seem to slip these burgeoning restraints.


My pen sits idle on my desk
While paper collects buckets of dust
Both night and day,
I cannot go a day without writing a piece,
It’s been weeks now since I last wrote a piece,
I’m at my wits end,
Quite close to going over the bend,
Hence my sitting here plotting a coup,
A coup on how to overthrow an obnoxious cold.


Please if you can,
Do lend me a hand,
Help me reason with a cold,
I need release from this prison of his.
For should I stay there any longer
I fear I just might lose my mind,
Please help me overthrow a common cold,
I only sit here trying to reason with a pesky cold.

DEMOCRATIC BLOODLINES

Picture Courtesy: www.s300480831.websitehome.co.uk


The kabila dynasty,
Laurent Desire Kabila was born in 1938
In what was then Belgian Congo,
After studying Political Philosophy,
He became active in politics in 1960.
In the year 1965,
After the overthrow of Patrice Lumumba by Mobutu,
He led a revolt against Mobutu assisted briefly by Ernesto Che Guevara,
The revolt was quashed that same year.
After his brief association with Laurent,
Che wrote:
“Nothing leads me to believe that he (Laurent Kabila)
Is the man of the hour”.


Laurent Desire Kabila was widely believed dead in 1988
But he resurfaced in the year 1996,
Toppling then President Mobutu Sese Seko in 1997.
He then said
“My long years of struggle were like spreading fertiliser on a field.
But now it is time to harvest''.
Adoring crowds lined streets wherever he went,
Touting him messiah who had come to free them from
Poverty,
Corruption and decades of dictatorship,
This however was not to be.
Peace proved elusive,
Former allies turned against him,
Laurent Desire Kabila oversaw a land ravaged by war,
A people famished and living in abject poverty.
He was shot by a bodyguard in the afternoon
Of January 16, 2001.
He died in on January 18, 2001.


Ten days later,
Laurent was succeeded by his son Joseph Kabila Kabange,
He survived two coup attempts on
March 28, 2003 and
June 11, 2004.
On July 30, 2006, Joseph Kabila stood for
Election as president of the Democratic Republic of Congo,
He was confirmed president on November 27, 2006.
Till this very day
Joseph Kabila Kabange remains president of Congo DR.


The Gnassingbe Dynasty,
Gnassinbe Eyadema was born on December 26, 1935,
In 1953, he joined the French army
And participated in the Algerian war
And the French Indochina war.
In 1962, he returned to Togo and staged a coup in 1963,
Then President, Sylvanus Olympio died during the attack.
Eyadema then helped install Nicolas Grunitzky as president.
In 1967, Col. Eyadema, then of the Togolese Army
Led a military coup against Grunitzky
Installing himself as President on April 14, 1967.
He then went on to survive several assassination attempts
And a plane crash in 1974
Ruling unchallenged for two decades.


He attempted legitimizing his rule by holding
Multiparty presidential elections in August 1993,
This was boycotted by the opposition,
Eyadema had two minor challengers and he won
96.42% of the vote,
Turnout was reported to be low.
He again won election in 1998 with 52.13% of the votes
Amid accusations of fraud and voting irregularities.
In December 2002, the constitution was change
And term limits on the office of the president were removed.
He stood for re-election and won 57.78% of the votes.
Under mounting pressure from the European Union in 2004,
Gnassinbe Eyadema famously remarked
“Democracy in Africa moves along at its own pace
And in its own way”.
On February 5, 2005, he died of a heart attack aged 69.


Faure Gnassingbe was hurriedly installed as
President of Togo by the military in February 2005,
Facing mounting pressure from neighbouring
West African nations,
He stepped down and contested presidential
Elections on the April 24, 2005.
He won a little over 60% of the votes
But the EU deemed the elections fraudulent,
Mass protests by opposition supporters led to several deaths,
About 40,000 refugees fled to neighbouring Ghana.
Faure Gnassingbe remains President of Togo to this very day.


The Mubarak Dynasty,
Hosni Mubarak was born on May 4, 1928 in Egypt,
Upon completion of High school,
He joined the Egyptian Military Academy and received
A Bachelor’s Degree in Military Sciences in 1949.
He joined the Air Force Academy,
Eventually receiving a Bachelor’s Degree in Aviation Sciences.
From 1959 to 1961,
Mubarak undertook further training in the Soviet union,
He returned to Egypt and became Air Force Academy
Commander in November 1967,
His Military reached its pinnacle when he became
Commander of the Air Force and Egyptian Deputy Minister of Defence,
In recognition of service during the October war of 1973,
He was promoted to Air Chief Marshall.


Upon the assassination of President, Anwar el-Sadat
On October 16, 1981,
Hosni Mubarak became the president of Egypt.
He has survived six assassination attempts since then
And is referred to as Egypt’s modern Pharaoh,
Though in cautious whisper.
Critics of his government are routinely jailed
And freedom of expression and assembly are restricted.
He has been re-elected by majority votes in a referendum
For successive terms in 1987, 1993,
However, the referendum ion itself and its results have
Been of questionable validity.
Aged 81, he has held office for nearly 28 years
And his tenure is the longest of any Egyptian leader
Since the king was ousted in the 1950s.


Amid concerns about the health of the aging president
Following surgery in Germany earlier this year,
The question of who will lead Egypt after Hosni Mubarak
Seems to have become a matter of urgency.
However, for the last decade,
It is widely believed that Gamel Mubarak is being
Groomed to succeed his father.
Only time will tell whether Gamel Mubarak
Will become the next president of Egypt.


Slowly they sew together
Democracy,
Power,
Politics,
And succession,
With threads of blood and other familial ties.
How well they hide behind the ballot boxes,
Constitutions,
Rule of law and other democratic tenets
While cultivating an African brand of hereditary pseudo-monarchies.


Sources: BBC, WIKIPEDIA, TIME MAGAZINE, NEW YORK TIMES, WASHINGTON POST

SOUR GRAPES AND ENDANGERED CATS

Picture Courtesy: www.catfacts.org


You threw the book at them,
Hauled them before court,
Said you were not on a witch-hunt,
You only loved to hunt,
You only sought justice.


You allowed them face their accusers,
You gave them a chance to plead,
They choose a plea of innocence
To this you did not agree,
But I do applaud you,
You allowed them lawyers
For the law dictated so,
Human rights demanded so
And you felt it right to do it so.


You held numerous press conferences
Touting your love for rule of law
And good governance,
You believed in the judicial process
Hence your choice to seek redress in court.


They walked in with their lawyers
And you in with your attorney generals
State prosecutors
Star witnesses
And bus loads of evidence.


We followed proceedings keenly
On the news,
In the newspapers
And press conferences of yours.
You had your own opinions on their guilt or innocence,
You felt them guilty
And had no qualms about expressing this in public
We had no problems with your opinions
After all, we all had ours too.

After long and protracted arguments
Accusations and counter accusations
Head butts and rebuttals,
Verdict was pronounced,
Judgment was passed,
The chips did fall,
You were left munching on sour grapes,
With egg on your face
As though part of an elaborate charade.


Licking wounds
Reeling from headbutts
With final verdict still ringing in your ears,
You sat before the cameras and issued death threats
Against poor cats
Looking fancy in blonde curly wigs,
Threatening to take ‘em to the cleaners,
For they failed agree with you in passing judgement.
Guess those sour grapes really do taste bitter,
For you’ve declared open season on the cats,
Calling them prime beef, perfect meat.
I could spare you a cup of sugar to go with your sour grapes
But I’m very wary of doing so.
You just might come hunting me one day
All in the name of friendly fire,
Mistaken identity
And your trigger-happy political fingers.


Guess your declaration of war on cats
Does not amount to causing fear and panic,
Guess that was just conversation among friends,
How about your throw in a bounty for good measure,
That sure would be one heck of a party then.
Kindly lend me your English dictionary
For I fail understand your kind of English language.
Funny how uncomfortable it gets when the shoe’s
On your own foot,
Feels entirely different when it sits on another’s.


Hot off the wire,
Fresh from the presses,
Cats called in reinforcements,
Be easy ma brother,
Let go of the sour grapes,
Take your foot out of your mouth,
We would not mind sparing you a few oranges instead,
I hear they taste much better than sour grapes.
You walk a thin line,
Careful, just might become an endangered species,
Cat’s got nine lives,
Yours amounts to only one,
Be smart, don’t play judge and jury
Else you just might find yourself in a muddle,
Going up a creek without a puddle,
Doubt you can even do the waddle.


Kindly look out your window into the yonder,
See that figure atop the hill?
That’s me,
Doing an American Indian dance
Feathers, tomahawks and leather boots on
Drinking and shouting long life to the cats
With accompanying war songs.
Long live freedom and justice,
I pray free speech does truly exist come someday
The cats and I are having quite a ball,
Too bad you and cats do not mix now,
What a shame,
Sad, cats just lost their number one fan,
Wish you could join me in a drink with the cats
But that just might be the death of you.


You just got cat-spraddled
By a figure quite cat-tish
While making cat-calls
Among the cat-acombs,
Bet you thought you were the cat’s pajamas eh?
Rise; do the cat-walk,
Let this be your cat-harsis,
Take a bow; bask in the cat-calls.

WE BEGIN AND END WITH FAMILY

Picture Courtesy: www.johntracy.me


Make no mistake about it,
We find you ladies pretty complex,
Right from the top of your heads
To the very soles of your feet.
In truth, we love complex,
Plain and simple doesn’t quite cut it for us
Boring, ordinary, mundane, rhymes beautifully with insane
Where’s the thrill in that?
Don’t get me wrong, all that drama’s pretty cute,
We appreciate and welcome that challenge
Knowing me knowing you only presents endless possibilities,
You catch ma drift right?
But overdoing that makes you look small and petty,
Far from sexy and nowhere near pretty
Gets a wee bit crowded and stuffy
Sends our heads into colourful dizzying spins.
Yes, on some days we wish you did come with manuals,
Just so we could flip those pages and do right by you,
After all, whether we like it or not,
When you’re unhappy, we’re beyond unhappy.
The mood swings,
What to do during that time of the month,
The I want to be alone moments,
I don’t feel like talking about it days
And grey areas between your “yeses” and “nos”
Drives us up a cliff sometimes
But we do not seek free passes,
So we can throw our hands up in worthless frustration
Without ensuing ramifications,
All we ask is that you help us understand you,
Please do not assume and expect us to know,
Assumptions are the worst form of complications.


On those grey days when we’re at our wits end
Trying to figure out what to say,
What to do
And what not to do
When you eat little,
Say little
Yet claim to be fine.
You sometimes mistakenly judge by our actions or inactions
Branding them untoward, unnecessary and uncalled for
Calling us bestial
Brutish,
Lacking feeling
And even sometimes uncouth.
But in those moments,
Take a second to look at our faces,
And appreciate the beautiful confusion
Eyes about dripping like taps
Absent smiles,
Furrowed brows and uni-brows.
For you tend to misread our gestures,
Facial expressions
Slowly reddening faces
And quick short breaths
To be the onset of anger and irritation
But in those moments, we’re miles away from anger
And no closer to irritation either,
If only there were a way we could transmit to you
Our feeling of helplessness,
Moments when we feel powerless,
Then you could probably lend us a hand
And better understand
For we are far from brutish and uncouth.


Our broad chests,
Strong arms,
Gruff voices,
Throats sporting well defined Adam’s apples
Or the ones that blend in,
The stubble on our chins,
Callused hands,
The six packs,
The missing packs,
Way down to the one pack,
The football craze,
Others still trying to get in football genes,
Our love for video games
And the many other things that we do….
Those are just a few of the things that make us men,
You tend to call some of them childish,
Immature
Juvenile and adolescent,
But we do not pick on you when you paint your nails,
Fix eyelashes
Wear hair extensions, weaves,
Stand on heels the taller than the Eifel tower,
Match colours from earrings right down to your belts and footwear,
We do not think you have an inferiority complex
Whenever you do these things,
For we feel doing those very things make you feel special, feminine,
Doing those things make you tick as women.
Do allow us tick as men too,
So please,
Next Friday, when friends come over and we play video games,
Make a mess in the living area,
Engage in shouting matches
Drink barrels of alcohol
And make so much noise,
View those moments as our toenail painting,
Eyelash fixing,
Weave wearing,
Lip colouring sessions.
We are men,
Those are some of the things that we do,
Taking those away from us would makes us feel less manly
Disconsolate and unhappy.


We’ve got no problems with you having male friends,
It is those who have that uncomfortably irritating habit
Of inviting you over for dinner,
Movies and etcetera etcetera.
Our objections to these have absolutely nothing to do with trust,
It is not a guy thing, it’s everyone’s thing.
Ladies, I doubt you’d be over the moon when
Another lady finds your man good company
And keeps inviting him to dinner and what nots.
Whenever issues like this crop up, do not fly off the handle,
You just might fall and break your hip,
Then we’d have to bear the brunt of complications,
Instead pause, breathe for a second or two and walk in our shoes,
After a few uncomfortable steps in our rugged boots
You will gain much needed perspective,
It is only then can you begin to understand where we’re coming from.


View a relationship as a commercial airliner,
There are always two pilots onboard,
Captain and co-pilot,
Being a co-pilot does not make you a bad pilot,
It makes you the best wingman ever.
Relationships are not struggles for independence,
If independence is what you seek,
You’re better off remaining single
Because your decisions and choices affect the other person too.
You can earn more than your man,
The success of a woman is no crime, it is very admirable
But that notwithstanding, you are a co-pilot,
You and the captain are a team,
Not master and servant
Or teacher and student.
We wear the pants, that is the role we play,
Please, No mutinies
No coup d’etats
No uprisings and gunfights,
Do not usurp us, let us be,
Those are our pants,
Please let us wear the pants,
Leave us be the men of the house.
We do not have issue with you wearing jeans trousers
And suits with pants,
We appreciate that,
Brings out your figure, does justice to your figure.


Every man wants a wingman he can depend on,
Share thoughts with on the future,
Not one who nods to everything
And moves about like a wound up robot,
After all, we’re not all knowing,
We can be opinionated sometimes but we’re nowhere
Near being beyond reason.
Take your time, observe us and you’ll find out soon
Enough that answers to all your queries stand right before you,
Just be a tad diplomatic about it.


We need you to help us make homes out of houses,
Start families and oversee the lactating, post-lactating
And pubescent phases of the next generation,
There’s no greater joy than in growing old and grey with a woman,
Sitting back and watching the little boys and girls of yesterday,
Mount their wings and begin to take flight
Becoming the men and women of tomorrow.
Moments like those are testament to the fact that
Families are the building blocks of the future,
In the end, we will not be remembered by the wealth we acquired
But rather the little ones we brought forth
Nurtured, took under our wings
Watching them walk in our very own footsteps.
Their failures will be our failures
And likewise their successes,
When it’s all said and done,
We all start and end with family,
Let’s smoothen out each other’s rough edges
There are no perfect fits,
No tailor-made suits,
We keep working at it till it fits,
That is what life is all about.
Let’s grow old and grey with that special someone
While waving goodbye to a world aging with time,
Because at some point in time,
We’ll all become memories with tombstones marking the
Very spots where we would all be calling home for a while,
It is only family who'll truly remember us then,
For we'll always remain more than mere memories and
names carved on tombstones,
To them, we'll forever remain family.

FACTS OF LIFE

Picture Courtesy: www. freedigitalphotos.net


If any of you ladies believe
MEN ARE CHEATS!! MEN ARE CHEATS!!
I’ll tell you this much, here and now on this very day,
Please let go of your tired mantra,
Aren’t you tired of singing these tired cacophonous songs?
There are no such things as stereotypes,
Only different types of stereos,
Truth be told, not all men are cheats
Not all men cheat,
Fact that some choose to cheat,
Does not make all men cheats.
Kindly get off your high horses,
Who gave you the honourable tags of saints anyway?
Who does more or less of what does not matter here,
Looking to argue out degree?
Hang on a second; I’ll get you a thermometer,
Go take the earths temperature,
Bet it’s a thousand degrees and rising
Like bread in a baker’s oven.


Fact of the matter is,
There are cheating men and cheating women,
Men lie, women lie,
Big deal, boohoo, get over it.
Lying
Cheating
And a host of other warped character traits,
These are not gender specific,
They never have and never will be.
They are traits of all humans
Regardless gender, male or female,
Such things are inherent, innate
Woven into the very fabric of human being.


To the guys!!
The word player only makes reference to
A boy, not a man,
Foolishness of youth and stunted growth,
Under developed in thinking
Immature,
One nursing emotional imbalance,
Stuck in his puberty,
Still living in his chest and armpit hair phase,
Incapable of committing to anything,
Finding glory in trifle and useless drivel,
Shortsighted,
Myopic,
Embracing grainy pictures of a grainy future
With the words “I shall commit to something in the near future”
Plastered across his forehead.
Ladies are no conquest,
If that’s what you’re after,
You’re better off scaling a mountain
Or better still, go jump off some jagged mountain peaks.
Treat them right,
Don’t be sissies, be men,
Don’t give them roses, be the rose,
You’re never there yet till a lady calls you her rose,
For that is what real men are, ROSES.


Quiet down in the gallery,
Let’s wrap this up,
In picking oranges off a tree,
If you end up picking only bad ones,
Does that mean all oranges are sour?
Or all orange trees give bad oranges?
Definitely not,
Then again,
Should you not shoulder blame for picking terribly?
Were you under any form of duress?
Certainly not,
You probably might be skilled at making poor choices,
Ever considered that?
Think about it, your choices speak volumes of you.
Whenever you pick out things
Which initially give you the illusion of excellence,
Being perfect,
Compatible,
Only for you to realize them defective and unwholesome later on,
Do not go about pointing fingers,
Kicking dirt, huffing and puffing
Gung ho trigger happy fighter plane pilot,
That’s nothing more than misplaced energy.
Come to terms with it,
You’ve been gullible, we all are sometimes.


Calm down, sit back, take stock,
Debug your system
Ready it for the next run,
What run?
Stop deluding yourself,
Take a breather; look at the big picture,
There’s always another trial run,
Best thing is,
Don’t get caught pants down when that time comes,
And please, stop looking down your nose
Like some hotshot Wall Street banker in a dotcom boom,
With chest puffed out like some all knowing bogus Indian guru,
Singing songs of
I’ve seen it all, done it all,
With that been there, done that attitude of yours.
Instead, be dynamic, learn to adapt
Mix it up a wee bit, vary the play
In adapting, draw from certain positive influences,
And terrible experiences too,
They all count for something in this life,
In allowing positive influence,
Refine your ideals,
Debunk assertions and assumptions,
In doing so, you draw closer to reality,
A reality that enables you realize that,
People are not books that we read,
They are neither slot machines nor roulette wheels
On which we bet and guess,
Getting to know people is an eternal journey,
We might fail on more occasions than succeed,
Yet that is not reason enough for us to surround ourselves
With felines and teddy bears calling ‘em cute and cuddly,
While building concrete walls around ourselves.


In getting to know someone,
Everyday is a new lesson,
An extra day spent with another
Is a step closer to a perfect fit.
People will always be unpredictable,
Trust me,
Those you consider most predictable
Actually are the unpredictable ones,
Take another look, you’ll agree with me.
Drawing conclusions only leaves you looking silly,
Rather look carefully,
Think on your feet, do it quickly,
Leap smartly
And invest in an oversized cushion
Just in case you suddenly find yourself in a free fall.

THE TRUTH BEHIND POLITICS

Picture Courtesy: www.clipartguide.com


In the midst of hunger
Disease
Poverty
And lack of development,
You will find the politicians,
Shady characters claiming to be worthy leaders.


In a time of war,
Chaos,
Anarchy,
An illusion of freedom,
Shackling of free speech
And propagation of warped justice,
You’ll find a politician busy tugging at these strings,
The puppet master,
The diligent farmer
Cultivating these rotten seeds.


As greed runs amok,
Lessons of selfish thinking
Being preached as righteous and just,
Impunity endorsed as acceptable acts,
The common man drinks water from gutters and depressions
Feeds off carrion,
Walks on legs like those of a stick insect
Carrying a body draped in a rubbery skin
With defined cheekbones and ribs
Threatening to step out into the sunlight,
You will find a politician and a thief
All riding in flashy cars
And choking on food and drink.


Lies,
Half-truths,
Propaganda
With the common man on all fours
Carrying the weight of an entire nation
In taxes and tariffs
While a select few live like kings and queens
For they’ve embraced the ways of the snake,
Shifty eyes,
Slippery tongues
Sticky fingers,
Those are the traits of the politician.


What is politics?
Just a refined art of stealing,
Instead of wearing masks and scaling walls
With locally manufactured pistols in their pants,
They coagulate into groups,
Stand for elections,
Just a contest to find out who can scream the loudest
And who’s got the most money.
They go on to wield the reigns of power
And cling to the sides of the common man like leeches,
Sucking relentlessly
While the host gradually grinds to a halt.
Politicians,
Thieves,
And leeches,
Just words with similar meaning that make reference to
The age old craft of banditry
Recently refined with suits and words slicker than cans of oil.

HIGHWAYS OF DEATH AND BROKEN DOWN TRUCKS

THE METRO MASS BUS AFTER THE ACCIDENT
Picture Courtesy: www. dailyguideghana.com


Heart wrenching,
Ghastly
Grisly
Horrific
Gruesome
Hair-raising,
A scene of utter and complete chaos
A Metro Mass bus made its final run.


Run straight into a brokendown truck,
Sitting pretty on the shoulder of the highway,
Well, at least the driver of the distressed truck said
He was parked on the shoulder,
Said he placed a warning triangle for good measure,
50 yards from the scene of the accident,
Was the bus driver asleep at the wheel?
Was the warning triangle really placed at 50 yards?
Is 50 yards an acceptable distance for warning triangles on highways?
I do not have answers to those questions,
But this much I do know,
The carnage,
Unimaginable,
Arms
Legs
And other appendages pouring down
Like droplets of rain
In a huge ball of metal and tempered glass.


Is anybody watching at all?
Brokendown trucks sit smack in the middle of our roads,
On the shoulders of highways,
And in blind spots
Vacationing in those locations for days and months,
As though they own those very spots.
Warning triangles?
Those things are not a remedy,
They only tell of imminent danger,
They are not preventive,
Merely informative.
Does anyone know the acceptable distance for
The placement of warning triangles on highways?
Absolute silence,
No need to feel embarrassed,
I haven’t slightest idea either,
Probably 50 yards maybe,
I’ll go ask the truck driver,
Bet he knows the answer.


When did roadways and road shoulders
Become mechanic workshops and parking spaces anyway?
I seem to have lost that page in my road user manual,
Brokendown vehicles under repair
Smack in the middle of our highways,
Do we find this acceptable?
I do agree,
Drivers aren’t infallible,
They are human after all,
But aren’t we increasing their margins of error
By littering highways with these brokendown vehicles?


Warning triangles are an integral part of road safety
But is it not way past time we put in place other measures too?
Triangles are only informative,
They are not solutions.
Do all those warning triangles being sold in the streets
Function properly anyway? Especially at night?
I do not seek to vilify these triangles,
I merely broach a possibility,
I’m neither judge nor jury,
Just a concerned and troubled road user
Ever bothered check who manufactured your triangle?
Are you confident it functions properly?
Are tow trucks and 24 hour tow services still
Figments of our imaginations?
Does anyone know the market price of a tow truck?
That’s easy to find out, just google it,
Kindly try finding out the market price of a human life,
I dare you google it,
You can never put a price tag on a human life lost,
The ripple effects of such occurrences are beyond mathematics.


23 lives lost in dawn carnage,
I’ll dare you,
Take a drive from Accra to Kumasi at pitch dark,
Please do not drive at 5kmph
But do not over speed either,
Chances are,
You just might end up in a mangled mass
Of metal, airbags and seatbelts,
Thanks to a brokendown vehicle.
Such long journeys by road these days are like one
Way flights without a return in mind,
You just might not come back again,
The sword of Damocles hangs precariously over your head.


In Ghana, we’re good at what we do,
We begin lay pipelines and leave them halfway to
Their intended destinations declaring them complete,
Our usual excuse is,
At least that’s better than nothing.
How ignorant,
Short-sighted,
We find comfort in settling,
Saying; we’ve got it better than others anyway.
We lost 23 lives on a bus at 4 am last Monday,
A great deal more have been lost over the years,
Yet we seem more than content with our knee-jerk reactions,
Bigwigs visit scenes of accidents,
Granting interviews and making declarations as though they were
Freedom fighters embroiled in a struggle for independence,
Just another opportunity to make the prime-time news.
Delayed reactions have become our mainstay,
It seems you stand a greater chance of losing your life in an
Accident on a Ghanaian highway nowadays
Than on the streets of Baghdad and Kabul combined.
Pretty impressive odds, don’t you think?
So the next time you embark on a long journey on a Ghanaian highway,
I will not think you foolhardy if you purchased a bus pass and a casket too,
For you ride on the highways of death and brokendown vehicles.

PERFECT PEACE

Picture Courtesy: www.hickerphoto.com


Take off your shoes,
What? Scorpions and spiders,
You big baby, I wish they could hear you.
Roll up your sleeves and
Pull up the legs of your pants,
Your bag?
Leave that behind,
There are no cabs where we’re going
No need for your mascara or combs either
You can even throw away that
Noisemaker of a cell phone of yours
But I doubt you’d want to do that,
Typical “city dwellers”.


Come along now,
Don’t slouch, please double step,
Lest I forget,
What are those on your feet? Shoes, you say?
Kindly get rid of those hideous things,
Do you want to assault the earth?
Armani? You don’t say,
I’ll let you in on a secret,
Draw closer,
Armani stole hide off a poor cow’s back
And gave birth to those over priced monstrosities
Wreaking havoc on your suffocating feet and the poor ground.
Free those feet,
Let them breathe
Massage the dirt with your toes
Feel them breathe…...


Follow me far out into the hills,
Past the oak trees,
Walk by the stream,
Dip your toes gently in,
Feels good eh?
Careful, don’t be a brute,
You do know fishes have houses in there right?
Shush
Listen to the wind caress the grass,
The leaves whispering in the wind,
The trees swaying their hips from side to side.
Take it all in
Breathe in the air,
Harmony,
Beauty
Welcome to heavenly peace.


Remote?
Rustic?
Surely you are drunk on all that clean air,
I do not blame you,
All you have in the city is smog and smoke
With an unhealthy helping of dirt,
Why else would you find a place this peaceful rustic and remote?
The city you say,
Advancement?
Technology?
You find these appealing?
The caustic landscape
Strewn with clumsy buildings,
Exhaust fumes
And smells of caustic perfumes
Choking the clouds,
Cars running after each other like two year olds
As though the Dakar rally were in town,
Horns blaring,
Radios at full blast,
Scorching sun,
Air conditioning,
Erratic rainfall patterns,
You call that peace?


Cellular phones,
Pickpockets,
Common thieves,
Tainted meat,
Unwholesome food,
Stressful jobs,
Newspapers,
Plants high on coke and smoke,
Flowers grown in greenhouses,
Hours spent in gyms,
Running in parks,
Trips to the dietician
For fear that you might be putting on weight,
Ground littered with rubbish,
As barren as the desert,
Cows resembling chicken,
Cows giving off milk in powder form,
Goats looking like grasscutters
And grasscutters looking like bolt cutters,
Yeah, sounds really peaceful to me.


Walk with me,
Ah!! Here comes the rain,
For a moment I thought he had failed me,
Where are you running off to?
Afraid you might get wet?
Silly, come, feel the touch of rain drops on your
Chemically assaulted skin,
Come purify your wilting skin,
You’ll thank me later on, I guarantee that.
Stick out your tongue,
Taste the rain drops,
Germs? Typical city dwellers,
Living in the midst of filth
Yet they find comfort in covered drains choking on garbage,
Out of sight, out of mind I guess.
Taste the clouds my dear,
You can get no closer to the clouds than this,
Smiling eh?
Tastes way better than tap water you say,
See the cows grazing in the fields,
They look like elephants,
See the butterflies among the flowers,
Here you go, that’s a real rose,
What you grow in the city is no better than weeds,
Breathe in; ever felt anything like this before?
No? How sad.
Prancing around like kings when in truth
You’re all dying from smoke filled lungs
Unwholesome food
And traffic jams.


Leave the city,
Embrace what you call rustic and remote
The countryside, the village,
That is where real life exists,
Money, cars, mansions
Just prisons and shackles that give you palpitations,
Indigestion and respiratory tract infections
Throw away those shoes,
Abandon those unsightly metallic imitations
Of horses and donkeys you call cars,
Come walk barefoot in the grass,
Pick cotton,
Scare the crows as they steal bags of corn from the fields,
Run after the cows,
Roll among the cabbages in the cabbage patch,
Eat mangoes while they still dangle from the trees,
Catch fish fresh from the stream
In a straw hat with a line on a stick,
No need for fishing rods and bait
Just coax the fish onto that lonely line,
Lay in the hay stacks
While watching the sunset,
Wait on the caterpillar to mount wings
Listen to life take flight on angel wings
Inhale Exhale,
Feel the inner peace,
Welcome to utopia,
Welcome to perfect peace.

THE SOUND OF A BREATHING HOUSE

PICTURE COURTESY: www.bluebook.state.or.us


It all started one cold night
I woke from a bad dream at 2am,
I woke to a tapping sound,
It seemed to come from above


On any other day,
I would have dismissed this
And drifted off to sleep again.
But on this day, I did the exact opposite,
I tarried a while and listened to the tapping sound
For it was persistent
Consistent
And quite rhythmic too
It sounded quite deliberate
Intentional
Timed to perfection
Like isolated notes in a symphony.


Not quite sure when I nodded off
I woke to the birds and trees the next morning
I kept still,
listened intently,
But there was no tapping sound.
It was like the aftermath of a classical
Performance in the Royal Albert hall
Actors gone
No audience present
Just me staring at the empty stage
And listening to sound of absolute silence.


That night,
I stayed up late,
I could not come to terms with the notion that
I might possibly be losing my mind,
I surely did hear a tapping sound last night,
Please do believe me
It was far from a dream,
I was wide awake through it all.


There I lay in bed,
Wide awake
Waiting on a tapping sound.
As the night grew older,
It was then that I began to hear it again,
Tap
Tap
Tap.....
It seemed to grow louder as the night wore on
And at precise intervals too
Tap
Tap
Tap.....
After listening for a while
My eyes became heavy
I tried my best to stay awake
But the tap put me to sleep
Like a baby and a lullaby.


The next morning,
I complained to the landlord,
Sir, I can’t stand the tapping sound,
Surely you must know of this,
Occupants of the apartment above mine
Keep making tapping sounds deep into the night,
Not had much sleep these past few days,
I always turn up for work half-asleep,
How does one earn a living half-awake?
You must do something about this,
Please tell them to stop that tapping sound.


Sorry sir, he replied,
Looking a bit flustered,
The occupant of the flat above yours passed
Away two years ago,
It has remained vacant ever since.
Come with me,
Let’s go have look,
we went up the creaking stairs,
The floor boards kept threatening to come lose,
We stopped at a doorway,
Neatly attired in cobwebs and doodles,
Knob bearing reminders of gold paint it used to have,
He slipped in the key and turned the lock,
Lock creaked a bit,
Door opened a crack,
He pushed it all the way back,
I stared right into a vacant room
Housing cobwebs and spiders incapable
Of making tapping sounds.
He proceeded to usher me in
But embarrassment got the better part of me,
I surely am mistaken, I stuttered uncomfortably
It must have been the tree branches
Scraping against the windows, I added.


It’s been over a year now,
I have grown used to the ever present tapping sound,
It has become a tune synonymous with my sleep
I cannot sleep till I hear
Tap
Tap
Tap......
That Distinct
Rhythmic
Enchanting monotone
Tap
Tap
Tap......
That mysterious sound
That casts a veil over they eyes
And commands the mind to drift away
Tap
Tap
Tap.....

A week ago,
Noticed a slight discolouration on the
Ceiling of the apartment,
I paid no attention to it,
I let it be,
My encounter with the landlord over the
Tapping sound was far from a distant memory
I should have paid more attention.


Yesterday afternoon, while I was away,
I had a visitor,
Dropped in announced right from the heavens,
Landed smack on my bed.
It was not God, neither was it an angel.
A bathtub paid me a surprise and unwanted visit.
Yes!!! It was a bathtub sadly enough.
A leaky tap was the star of my enchanting tap.
Water took a toll on the wooden boards,
Bathtub came bursting through in response.
At least I now know where the sound came from right?

Ceiling’s fixed now, looks pretty new,
Makes everything else look old,
That’s the least of my problems though,
Been unable to sleep ever since the leak was fixed,
Yet to get a wink since the tap went away.
So tonight I’ll turn my tap on through the night
Hoping imitate that perfect and unmistakable
Tap
Tap
Tap.....
Just so I can spend the night
Spend the night listening to the monotone of
Tap
Tap
Tap......
Falling and drifting off
To the sounds of a dripping tap
Tap
Tap
Tap……….

YOU MAKE ME WANT TO HURL

PICTURE COURTESY: www.edbahler.com


My dear,
Eyes like gems
Graceful as a swan
Cultured and proper.
You came to mind today,
Now the very thought of you makes me want to hurl.


Dispatching love letters,
Waiting patiently on your responses
For the snail was our mailman,
Carrying those very letters on its back.
The long wait
Too painful
Yet bitter sweet.
I sit here today,
Cannot shake those thoughts of you,
Thoughts of you that just make me want to hurl.


I remember times when you drew water from the river five times in a day,
Funny,
Auntie Ama mistook that for hard-work on your part.
I spent hours on the farm
Pulling ghost weeds and tending over-pampered crops,
Papa would then leave me behind,
Swelled with pride in a hardworking farmer son.
If only they knew the secret to our work ethic
All that hard-work
Just so we could meet by the riverside
Roll in the tall grass
And run after each other through Wofa Atta’s
Plantain farm.
Now I can no longer stomach plantain,
The river no longer appeals to me
And Papa’s sad to have lost the farmer in me,
I no longer stay as long as I used to.
My dear,
Whenever you come to mind, I just want to hurl.


Today, after church,
Mama sent me to Maame Akua’s place,
I insisted on leaving right away,
I was looking my best after all,
Who doesn’t look good in church clothes?
As I walked by Wofa Atta’s plantain farm,
Thoughts of you came to me in a rush,
Oh!!! If only plantain trees could speak,
They sure would be telling tales,
Tales of us behind the tool shed,
The workshop
And in the hammock,
Oh yes!!! The hammock.
Tales I wish I could really forget,
For those very tales make me want to hurl.


Mind’s made up,
Just at the thought of you,
I lowered my head in a bid to hurl,
Saw my church shoes,
New, black and pretty shiny too,
Surely I cannot hurl on these shoes,
Doing that would definitely ruin the shoes and me.
How else would I impress Maama Akua’s daughter then?
We’ve never exchanged words before
But Maama Akua is a pretty wile one
She always finds an excuse to leave us all by ourselves
Whenever I happen to pass by their house.
In situations like those,
My tongue gets tied
I grow wide eyed
And my chest tightens up
As if I was in a corset.
Then I begin beam like a Cheshire cat
At the sight of those big black eyes
They look so much like pearls,
Dimpled cheeks
Jet black hair
And brows so perfect as though drawn
Aided by compasses of an ace architect.


Esi seems to enjoy this dance of ours too
For she then begins to glow like a firefly
And fidgets with her long flowing hair
Making feint noises like the Warsaw philharmonic
Choir on an ice cold winter’s night.
For the sake of my shoes and Esi my black pearl,
I will not hurl today at thoughts of you,
I will wait till tomorrow, when I wear my flipflops,
Popularly called “charley wotey”,
It is then that I will hurl if you dare invade my thoughts again.
I cannot ruin my shoes because of you,
That very act would give me dissatisfaction
And you satisfaction,
You are not worth me ruining my shoes.
Time’s far spent
I have to go now,
My firefly awaits,
I must make a grand entrance.

QUESTIONS

PICTURE OF A SEATED MAN DEEP IN THOUGHT
Courtesy: www.shutterstock.com

There is darkness
And there is light
But why cant the light hold sway
Push the dark eternally away?


There’s tomorrow,
Today
And yesterday.
But why does tomorrow become today,
Today becomes yesterday
And yesterday, a distant memory?


There’s Life
And there’s death,
But why is it that I cannot I live forever?
Life always dies.
What is the lesson in this?

I forever live with these eternal questions
Till death bids me question no more.
So until that day,
I choose to be light that drives away darkness,
I choose to live today
For todays are the buildings of yesterday
And the foundations of tomorrow.

So until death comes,
I will be light,
I will delight.
I’ll live today
For yesterday and tomorrow have no place in today.


No matter how hard I try,
I can never answer all of life’s questions today
Where there’s life, there are questions,
And we seek answers to them.
In death there will be questions too,
But not our questions,
Another’s questions,
I pray we have the answers come that day.

THE ROAD TO SUCCESS

PICTURE COURTESY: www.hoopgirl.com

As I walk down the dusty path,
I do not look where I step
I do not fear where I step
For I feel safe,
I find safety in my shoes.


But as I walk further,
I begin to feel left out
For my shoes engage the earth in chatter
While I listen to echoes of their conversation
I the master,
My shoes the servant,
How can the servant make the master jealous?


I command the shoes
I am the shoes
For they cannot walk unless I walk in them,
So how can I be jealous of my own shoes?
How can I be jealous of these shoes?


But I am jealous
For my shoes engage the earth in conversation
While I find comfort in echoes of their voices
Bouncing off the rock faces
As I walk this lonely path.


I attempt talking to my own shoes
But I cannot hear them speak back at me.
They seem more interested in the earth than me,
They seem to enjoy ridiculing me.


In a fit of madness
I take those shoes off
Flinging them into a thicket
I then rise, begin to walk
It is then that I begin to hear
But what I hear is no echo,
I can hear the earth speak.


My son, what do you seek?
Success, I respond
I have waited for far too long
I hear it resides at the tail end of this path
I cannot remain a part of the dark,
I must amount to something
I seek to become light
That drives away the dark
I seek to become day even at night.


From then on,
I no longer hear the earth speak,
All I hear is the sound of a beating heart
Travelling through the soles of my naked feet
Right through to the top of the hairs on my head.


The further I go, the stronger the beat,
I feel the sands urging me on
And within the sands I discern success speak
Feeling closer to success,
I break into run
Drunk with thoughts that I may have found success.
I remember days when I met cul-de-sacs, no access
When my feet were adorned in abscess
Like those of a lost Himalayan sherpa.
Days when I roamed the streets of this city
Like the monster of Loch Ness
Unkempt and a total mess.


Lost in a daydream,
I trip and fall
Bruise my hands
I feel the thorns in my feet
I soil the face of the earth
With my bleeding feet.


I continue to hobble on crying feet
For I can still feel the earth beat,
I no longer walk the earth,
I have become a part of it
And it a part of me.


As I go along,
I see the chameleon
But it refuses change colour.
What a sight,
I hear the crows rustling among the leaves
But instead of caw as they usually do,
They choose mimic the sound of my footsteps
As though I were the star in some disturbing movie.


As my path begins to narrow,
My feet begin making a rasping noise
Like that of a saw sinking teeth into wood.
I feel the earth’s heartbeat
Slowly begin fade distinctly into a gentle
Tapping sound
And then, it magically disappears.


Lo and behold,
I stand before a massive door,
It stands without hinges,
I cringe
For I feel the hinges within me begin cringe.


I see windows that hang in space
Without supports.
Imagine eyes standing on their own
Without resting in the sockets of a head.
Yes, these windows do not rest within walls,
They stand as though on two feet.


I see the word SUCCESS
Crudely carved into the door.
I begin beating on it like a drum
For I feel success has taken up residence
Behind this strange door.


The surface of the door is uneven
And the splinters begin cutting into my skin,
Yet not even the sight of my own blood
Is enough restraint
I bang and I bang
I continue to bang
Like a bass drummer trapped in an encore. I bang.


I eventually grow tired,
My hands are bloodied,
My clothes crimson red,
I sink to my feet in tears
For it seems my path does end here,
Behind a closed door with success inscribed.


As I lay there,
The door towers over me like a victor,
I the casualty,
In a show of defiance I rise
For I did not come this far to find comfort in my own tears.
I shall peek through those windows,
Maybe I can squeeze underneath them,
I murmur to myself.
Slowly, I march towards the hanging windows
Feet heavy and badly bruised,
I finally reach them
Wiping frantically at them.


As I peer through them,
I can make out the shape of a person
Seated on the floor with head lowered,
A stranger imprisoned in a room
Without walls, only windows and a door.
I wipe harder at the windows,
Blood begins splattering over them,
Then I realize,
It is me seated in there.


I call out to myself
But it seems I cannot hear me cry out to me.
I try making my way past the window
To no avail,
There is no through way,
I’m at a dead end.


Then a darkness begins envelope me,
Casting a huge shadow over me,
I quickly turn only to realize
Darkness eating away the light,
I then begin running towards the light
As my bruised feet begin cry out to me
Stop… stop... Oh please why won’t you stop?
But I cannot stop lest the darkness swallow me whole.


As I make my way back down the path,
I begin to see the chameleon change colour, black,
The crows are silent, they no longer rustle,
Disturbing…….
The clouds are deathly black
And I feel a strong sense of foreboding
Something ominous hangs thick in the ear.


It seems the harder I run towards light
The closer it get to darkness,
I soon realize my arms have left my side,
My feet are in flight away from me
And I no longer run on the dusty path.
I’m floating into the darkness,
Disembodied and helpless.


Then I hear a voice call out to me,
I feel a tap on my shoulder
Covered in sweat
My bed a mess
I turn towards the windows of my room
Only to find them sitting in walls,
My bedroom door sits in a wall,
My feet no longer bleeding
And my arms and legs by my side
I had been dreaming all along.
As I try prop myself up with my hand,
I feel a sharp pain in my palm
Falling backwards onto the bed.
I then go on to remove a splinter from my palm
Looking on, as a droplet of blood stains the sheets red.
Have I just woken from a dream?

THE INVISIBLE MAN

PICTURE OF AN INVISIBLE MAN
Courtesy: www. ee.duke.edu


As I sit here,
Beating on my keyboard
Like a deranged animal
Just so I can leave a piece of me with you,
In works I call pieces,
In which I piece together pieces of me
Just so I can find within me peace,
Paint pictures with words
Yet still remain invisible
Within the shadows
Hidden and unseen
An invisible man.


Pull up my profile
The one thing on it that catches
Your eye is a picture of me
Purported
Supposed
In my likeness
But not truly me.
A mass of pixels that attempt give you an image of me,
Leaving impressions on your mind
Of a man
With a moustache, dimples, pimples and a brow
But you just might walk past me on the street
I just might have walked past you yesterday.
Why?
Because all you have is a supposed picture
A picture of me yesterday
A yesterday far removed from today
Today’s picture is far different from yesterday’s
The only picture of me you have today
Is that of an invisible man.


I woke this morning
Took off my moustache and eyebrows,
Funny……. Funny…..
Then went on and Imprisoned my head with a yarmulke
Walked into a smock and pulled up my African pants
Pants…. Pants….
Instead me wear them, they wore me
Making my skin jealous
Skin then began shouting out
Intruder!!! Intruder!!!
As though before it stood a cat burglar.
I embraced a walking stick
And unsteadied my gait,
Unbalanced my weight.
I walked into a persona
To neither confuse nor confound
But rather portray the many facets of me,
To disprove that which you embrace as a picture of me
For there is no single picture that sums up me.
Poetry is my craft,
My writings, my pieces, my only true picture
Through those I open doors for you into my soul,
Draw pictures of me inside
For that is truly who I am
The face you see is just a mask
Flesh, brows and eyelids that I wear like a cloak
The true picture of me resides within,
Hidden, unseen
I am an invisible man.


I try to prick your conscience
And awaken you into a consciousness
Just so you can mull over my inner thoughts
But I do not seek that we either agree or disagree
Instead I seek to scale a ladder into your soul
For it only then that we can actually sit
Talk, share and truly embrace our shared humanity.
Puzzling…..why?
Because as I pour myself onto you in the form of words,
You do not see my eyelids heavy with tears
A face etched in beautiful hues of confusion
Neither do you see a brain pregnant with colourful ideas
All you see are words,
My words……..
They are a shunt placed in my brain
So you can grab your thermometer
And take my temperature
Just so you can gauge my thoughts
And form a mental picture of me.
A picture of an invisible man,
A mysterious man.
These are the words of an invisible man…

THE SINGLE STORY

PICTURE SHOWING A STACK OF BOOKS
Courtesy: duluth.lib.mn.us


Former President of Liberia Mr. Charles Taylor,
This man was no saint,
He was a savage and very callous,
How do I know this?
Because I read it in books
Heard it on the news
And on my radio.


I have never met Mr. Taylor before in my life,
Neither have I met anyone who
Claims to know him or have met him.
I have never shook his hand before
Neither have I walked past him on my street at home.


Had it not been for television,
The internet
Radio
And newspapers
The name Charles Taylor would mean nothing to me.


He currently stands trial at the International Court in The Hague,
Accused of committing war crimes,
Dealing in blood diamonds
Among a host of other colourful accomplishments.
He truly might be a bad man,
But there is no way of verifying this,
All I know of him are stories others have told,
Those told by the foreign media.


I do not claim these stories untrue,
Neither do I claim them true,
But there’s one thing I can say for a fact,
I only have a single story on Charles Taylor,
Stories told me through the eyes of the foreign media,
I can only tell stories on what I have been told,
My single story on Mr. Charles Taylor.


President Omar Al-Bashir of Sudan,
I have not the slightest idea what this
Man may look like,
Probably he has a goatee,
Probably he has shifty eyes,
Maybe he wears a turban but only on Sundays
Or even goes to bed in a pair of Levis Strauss jeans.


He is no friend of mine,
Not even an acquaintance,
Probably he does not speak English
Maybe he speaks fluent Spanish,
I cannot quite tell for I do not know this man.


All I know about him,
I have read in newspapers
Watched on television
Heard on my radio
And read on the internet.


He is wanted by the International court in The Hague,
They say he is a very bad man,
His crimes seem to grow in number everyday,
I’m sure the folder that has the name
Omar Al-Bashir
Written boldly on it is bulging at the seams
Threatening to spill its contents.


Two arrest warrants have been issued for him so far,
I do not know if all these stories about this man are true,
I have no way of verifying them,
All I know is what the western media have fed me.


I do not claim these stories untrue,
Neither do I claim them true,
But there’s one thing I can say for a fact,
I only have a single story on Omar Al-Bashir,
Stories told me through the eyes of the foreign media,
I can only tell stories on what I have been told,
My single story on Omar Al-Bashir.


President Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe,
The man above is no friend of mine,
I have never sat at table with him,
Neither have I had the chance to ask him a question.


I have seen him on my television on numerous occasions,
Most of the times I saw him,
He wore spectacles
A black suit
And black shoes.


Probably he hates black shoes,
Maybe he prefers pink instead.
Maybe given the chance he would wear raffia skirts
Over a white t-shirt
But I can never quite tell for sure
For he is no friend of mine.


I have a single story on this man,
That told to me through the eyes of others,
I hear he’s singlehandedly brought a nation to its knees,
I hear people live in fear under his leadership,
I hear he’s quite a feisty character
And oversees a starving population.


I have heard so many things about this man,
All I have heard I cannot verify
I’ve never been to Zimbabwe before,
I probably never might,
He might be as bad as they say he is,
Or he might be good.
All I can tell you is my single story,
The story told me through the eyes of others,
President Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe is a very bad man.


Charles Taylor,
Omar Al-Bashir,
Robert Mugabe,
All total strangers to me.


All I know about these men above are
Single stories told to me by others,
I wish I had more than my single stories,
I wish I had other stories that give me a bigger picture
For deep underneath the ruins of a building lies a hidden truth
Buried treasures
And untold stories.
Till the day I am able to unearth these untold stories,
And buried treasure troves,
I will take my single stories with a pinch of salt,
I will not doubt them,
But I’m uncomfortable that African stories are
Being told to Africans through foreign eyes.


Even reportage on my own country is skewed,
I once read that 97% of Ghanaians use firewood
For cooking,
This story has been widely circulated
Through a video game.


Therefore I was not surprised,
When a friend who had never visited Ghana before
Asked me this question,
Have you heard of global warming?
Yes, I replied, though with a slight hint of annoyance,
He went on to ask,
Why do you all continue depleting the ozone layer?
By burning firewood,
Surely you can adopt a much greener way.


Till this very day,
All my attempts to give an actual picture
Of my country Ghana have been met by fierce
Resistance from my friend.
I do not blame him,
For he only speaks based on what he’s been told,
He speaks from his single story on my country Ghana.


A friend of mine gained a scholarship to go study abroad,
A classmate of his once asked him,
I hear you all live on trees back there in Africa,
Is that really true?
Visibly annoyed, he replied,
Yes!!! That is very true,
My father occupies the highest branch
Followed by my mom
And the rest of my siblings in that order.
I really do not blame his classmate
And neither do I fault my friend for not trying to put him right.
It is next to impossible to disprove a single story,
Especially those on Africa.


I have nothing against the foreign media
Or any other kind of media for that matter,
I have strong reservations about single stories,
Single stories create stereotypes,
They only give aspects of a story
Portraying them as the whole.
Single stories speak as though representative of all.


So the next time you hear a story,
Especially one on the developing world,
Take it with a pinch of salt,
Africa is not a country as portrayed
Day in day out by the foreign media,
Africa is a continent comprised of many countries.


There’s more to Africa than
War,
Disease,
Poverty
And burning of firewood to aid global warming.
There’s more to Africa than endemic rape in Congo,
Skewed democracies
And Presidents who rule for eternity,
Please discard your single stories on Africa
And other people,
There just might be more to it than you are being told,
Single stories only make you myopic,
They belittle your intellect
And only give enough rope so you can hang yourself.
Beware of the single stories,
For they almost always never give a clear picture.

UNRAVELLING THE THREADS OF SOCIETY

PICTURE OF A BALL OF TWINE
Courtesy: strangefragments.blogspot.com


Man has always been capable of violence,
It has always been in his nature,
An innate rebelliousness that resides in him.
Throughout history,
Anarchy,
Chaos and
Other unthinkable acts visited upon
The earth and man by a fellow man
Testify to fact that man possesses an ability
Which can enable him given circumstance and motivation
Stray from that which is good and embrace
The tenets of selfish and individualistic thinking.
Though having a more developed brain,
Giving him an advanced ability to think and process things,
Man does share and even sometimes surpasses
The feral nature of carnivorous animals.


It is because of the above that society found
It prudent to lay down rules and regulations
Not as a means to dictate
But rather as a behavioural guide for all who
May choose to reside or work within that very
society and others who may in one way or the other
Have vested interests within that very society.


Every person of sound mind
Subscribes to the fact that with
Rules, Regulations and Laws
Come punitive measures as well.
Punitive measures serve
As a deterrent just so the rights of others
Are not trampled upon.
In order for peace and harmony to prevail.
In every society, there are mechanisms
Put in place so the aggrieved can seek some form of justice,
No person is the law.


It is therefore worrying
Very disturbing
And mind boggling that a select few,
Calling themselves foot soldiers have decided
Hold an entire nation to ransom.
It is even more disturbing that institutions put
In place to prevent the above from happening
Seem powerless to stop this
Or are they unwilling to?


Is it really necessary for the king himself
To come down from upon his throne
And instruct his men of the law to
Arrest those flouting the law and bring them to book?
Do the laws governing society not state so?
When did anarchy and chaos become
Acceptable in the eyes of society?
The difference between right and wrong has never
Been ambiguous.
There are no grey areas here,
All must obey laws or be brought to book
If they choose to act otherwise.
We’re gradually witnessing the unraveling
Of the threads of our society,
Chaos and anarchy are now tethered on twines,
They threaten to roam free with each daybreak.
CLAMP DOWN ON FOOT SOLDIERS – IGP ORDERS,
A directive from above, I’m lost for words,
There’s confusion etched on my face,
My brows are furrowed, I really must ask
Did it really have to come to this?
When did the law become ambiguous?

THE SENIOR SECONDARY SCHOOL CONUNDRUM

PICTURE OF A GIRL ATTENDING A NON-FORMAL SCHOOL
Courtesy: photographersdirect.com

Poor planning,
Half-baked,
Classroom blocks still under construction
Almost time for new admissions
Tents have been placed on standby
In this mess of a sticky situation.


The saga of senior high school
Education still does continue.
Teething problems
And Adhoc measures
On show for all to see.


Was the three year duration
For secondary education really that terrible?
We charged in like bulls in china shops,
Breaking everything in sight,
Slashing and burning as though possessed
By the devil himself.


Now there we sit staring at ticking
Clocks as though waiting for an imminent explosion.
Poorly planned and always unprepared,
At the eleventh hour, trying our best to save our blushes
And splashing paint over our scandalous
Preparations and weak foundations.


All projects have cycles,
In this day and age of softwares such as
Microsoft project and others,
Gone are the days of delayed projects,
Over-billing and other problems
That constrained the construction industries
The entire world over.


How come the Armed Forces have
Been placed on standby with tents?
Provisions being made for temporary shelter
In the event that structures for usage by
Newly admitted students reporting to senior
Secondary schools within the country in
The next month are not completed on time.


What a shame,
Incomprehensible,
Unfathomable
Incompetence rears its ugly head again,
Roaming free in the streets of Accra,
While people line streets welcoming it
As though it were a messiah of some sort.


When push comes to shove,
They plan on placing students in tents
Like the soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan,
Like the nomads roaming the sands of the Gobi desert.


I admit, these are just standby measures,
They probably might not be needed anyway
Bu the mere fact that we even comsider this
As an option leaves much to be desired.
Why were we in a rush?
Was the three year secondary education cycle really that bad?
We could have left the three year cycle as it was
And slowly phased it out when all structures
For the four year secondary education cycle were ready.


Three years or four,
Duration makes no difference.
When it’s all said and done,
Quality is what matters most.
With proper planning,
Well trained teachers,
Adequate textbooks and other necessary logistics,
Duration will only play a very minimal role
In this secondary education cliffhanger.


Imagine studying under a tent in the scorching sun,
Then again, who knows?
Those tents just might come equipped with
Air conditioning and Jacuzzis too.
Imagine tables and chairs neatly arranged under a tent,
Imagine students having tents as dormitories,
Imagine chop boxes and trunks sitting in tents,
Brothers imagine,
Oh my people imagine,
Only in Ghana can you imagine this.


I wish I were telling fibs and tales,
I wish it were some rumour
That surfaced in the slums of Accra
One evening among a group of idle youth.
This is neither rumour nor fib,
Provisions are actually being made for this eventuality.


Why did we commit to something when
The structures were not yet in place?
What was our hurry in making this switch?
Was the previous model really that bad?
Or was it all about tricks
Smoke screens, mirrors
And political charades?
I guess in my country,
Half-baked is the new smart,
For tents threaten to rear their heads in our secondary schools.


It’s way past time,
We keep moving around in circles
As though we’re bobbing for apples at the county fair.
Chasing shadows like some modern day fashion
Tripping on our shoelaces in the process.
You mistake laughter from the gallery
And reckless acts by so called foot soldiers
As an endorsement of your tenure.
Please wakeup,
Be up and doing,
You’ve become a laughing stock for quite a while now.

CLAMOURING FOR TITLES

CARTOON OF A RAT IN AN ACADEMIC GOWN SITTING BEHIND A COMPUTER
Courtesy: members.madasafish.com

Doctor,
Professor,
Engineer,
Chief,
Boss…..
Just titles that denote stature.


But true success
Does not require titles.
True leadership is never synonymous with titles.


Archimedes
Socrates
And the other early philosophers
Had no such titles.


They were never treated like
Kings and queens
Yet their works are the
Very basis on which today’s technology
Has found feet and sprouted leaves.


Bearing testament to the fact that
One does not require a title in order to make a difference
Anyone can obtain a title on a good day
But not all those with titles end up
Doing something worthwhile.


Instead of chasing titles,
Make history without a title,
In so doing,
Others will adopt your name as titles,
Attesting to your greatness
An endorsement of you being worthy of a title.
Live long
Live strong
And become more than just a title.


Titles are nothing special,
Actions that change the world are special,
Become a source of light in the dark,
Lead a people out of hunger,
Become reason in a time of war,
Give birth to seeds that can grow in desert sands.
In aspiring,
Aim at achieving something that changes the
Lives of many for the better and not a select few.


If you touch the lives of just a few,
Only few might remember you.
But in touching the lives of many,
You would have succeeded in touching an entire world
Even an unborn generation.
Then you become immortal even in death,
Don’t be hoodwinked,
Pay no attention to titles.
They are nothing special,
Just words that make ordinary men feel
Special in their shiny shoes and fancy neckties.
Titles, just a collection of alphabets and nothing more.

THE FOREVER WARS OF AFRICA

A CHILD SOLDIER BEING TAUGHT HOW TO USE A WEAPON

Picture Courtesy: homepages.wmich.edu


African history
Has always been mired in
Struggles and fight for freedom
The search for an identity
An ever elusive destiny.


From the African liberation movements,
Came struggles against slavery,
Colonialism
And a host of others.


In those struggles,
There were clear goals
Defined ideologies,
Africa fought towards a specific end,
Freedom,
Liberation
And emancipation of the African
From physical and mental slavery.


Those were the days
When Africa rose up in arms
Cried out for freedom in the shanty towns
Slave markets
Within the bellies of slave ships
And in the corn fields of slave masters.


Those struggles were designed
With African unity in sight,
Towards the breaking of the burgeoning shackles
The chains
And yokes that had been placed around
Africa’s neck.


Those were the days of the freedom fighters,
All who opposed colonialism were branded
Rebels and enemies by the colonial masters,
They foraged in the bushes like animals,
Lay in wait and struck at the heart of the oppressors.


Africans have always been born fighters,
We never cower in shadows
Neither do we abandon a fight
But we’ve always fought for that which was right
And never for wrong
Africans always fought for the good
Of the entire continent and never for themselves.


So how come the continent is bejeweled in
Hotspots and intractable conflicts these days?
Gone are the days of the Liberation movement,
The oppressors have long left the land,
The slave raiders gone with sands of time.


Slavery has now taken on an economic cloak
No longer with guns and ships.
Gone are the days when we exchanged our
Brothers for bottles of booze
Muskets and barrels of gun powder.


Why so many conflicts on the land today?
Who are parties in these wars?
Who are these men in jungle lairs
Spreading terror across the land?
Surely, this cannot be about liberation.
The freedom fighters have long gone,
The gunfight for freedom long won.


Africa’s fight is no longer that with guns,
So why so many guns on the continent?
Deranged men roaming the streets
Raping women and enlisting children
In war calling them child soldiers.
When did children agree to become soldiers?
When did they enlist in this war?


What do you fight for?
Please tell me, what is all the violence for?
The freedom fighters of yesterday showed class,
They had intellect
They fought against
Tyranny
Colonialism
And apartheid
By employing guns interspersed with a persuasive rhetoric.


But you do not fight to govern,
Neither do you fight for the good of a nation,
All you seek is money,
Guns and freedom to inflict terror,
All you seek is a license to rampage,
Run amok, it seems you find thrill in the kill,
Blood brings a smile to your parched lips,
You use rape as a weapon, a tool
But what did these women and girls ever do to you?


Stunning atrocities such as endemic rape in Congo,
You continually sexually assault thousands
Of women and girls all in the name of a struggle,
How can ramming an assault rifle into a woman
And pulling the trigger be a sign of struggle?
You are barbaric,
You lack conscience.


Violence sweeps the continent like an epidemic,
Like some viral pandemic, a strange disease of some sort.
Why wage war against innocent civilians?
Where did all these guns come from?
Who really profits from this dastardly business?
In the end, Africa is the one that suffers.


Blood soaked streets and pavements
Sands painted red crying out injustice
Women sexually assaulted sadistically
Left incontinent for life,
The pride of womanhood in tatters and rags.


A continent almost on the verge of implosion
Dizzying in total confusion.
The fruits of an atrocious rebellion,
Civilians mowed down in millions
With guns and deadly munitions.


Songs of African unity a slowly fading rendition
A chronic condition
A continent flailing about in frenetic fashion
Sporting gaping holes, in search of missing dentition.


Bleeding
Battered and
Bruised
In search of a magical concoction,
A long term solution
To a chronic afflication.


When does unity come?
A continent in search of a forefathers’ vision
When shall we stand as one and shout in unison?
An abundance of child soldiers and casualties
Lives lost, number in the millions
Congo
Somalia
Sudan and others
The forever wars of Africa,
Africa, a continent forever synonymous with gunfire?