48 LIVES AND THAT OF 1

48 LIVES AND THAT OF 1

A man in a car
Driving after hours,
On his way home.
Crack went the windscreen
He sped on alarmed
Pretty agitated
Very confused.


He made the newspapers the next morning
HONOURABLE
A MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT
A MINISTER OF STATE.
They called it an assassination attempt
Matter of national security
Report’s been made
Investigations underway
Culprits soon to be brought to book.


He was the toast of the radio
Frenetic discussions
Heated arguments
An attempt’s been made on an HONOURABLE’S LIFE.
Calls for increased security
OUR HONOURABLES
Must be protected.
They’re the very blood
That flows through our nation’s veins.


On a bus travelling up north
Was quite dark
Most were asleep.
The old bus groaned
Protesting noisily
As it travelled along.
Road was deserted
Not a soul or vehicle in sight.


Shots fired
Driver swerved into the opposite lane
Rammed a makeshift roadblock
Sign on the block read,
Highway robbers
Busy at work.
Slow down or bite a bullet,
Your choice, we call the shots.
They directed a barrage at the rear of our bus
All hit the deck,
Bullet grazed my thigh.
Driver’s bleeding from left shoulder
Kept a brave face
Carried us all to safety.


Put pressure on the driver’s wound
Managed to stop the bleeding.
Arrived at our destination early dawn
Headed straight for the nearest police station
Made a report
Left statements as per their demands.
It’s been almost a year now
Nothing’s been heard.
Got a scar where the bullet grazed my thigh.
Our story never made the newspapers
Police said they had no leads,
We never made the headlines,
Ours was no news.
Nobody discussed our tragic incident
On the radio shows.


We numbered forty eight on
That very bus,
Yet no one heard our story
Let alone make it headline news.
One man driving his car at dark
Made the news just because
He is an HONOURABLE,
A MINISTER OF STATE,
That was a matter of national security.


If you want to make the news,
GET VOTED INTO PARLIAMENT
YOUR TITLE WILL BE HONOURABLE
BECOME A MINISTER OF STATE
Not a guard at the gate,
Then you can make the news.
Even when you suffer a muscle pull
That will make prime time news
Trip on your shoe laces
That will be front page news
Become an HONOURABLE
And you will forever be headline news.
If you are a nobody like me,
Just lick your wounds
And live in oblivion,
Get robbed at gunpoint
And live forever afraid
You are no news
You are unimportant
You are just the guy
Who got shot travelling up north on a rickety bus.

WELCOME TO THE WORLDCUP, AFRICA’S WORLDCUP…..

WELCOME TO THE WORLDCUP, AFRICA’S WORLDCUP…..

We’re the national teams,
Well kitted
Top to bottom
Resplendent
Colours in abundance
So fly
We wear black tailor-made suits
Forget the cute and cuddly earpieces
We prefer those the size of melons
We earn millions
We’re footballing gods
We’re the one in a millions.


Black on black
Red on black
Yellow on black
Colour? We do not lack.
Armed with earpieces
Whistles
And a deck of cards.
We’re the pitch police
Riding on two inch chrome rims
Fumble
Tackle
Or irk me with a cackle
You just might have an early shower.
See those two waving flags
That’s not K’naan
They’re my sidekicks
Don’t ever let ‘em catch you on my blindside
That’s offside
I don’t do the chicken slide.
They call me the referee
I own the turf
I can make or break your game
With my cards and whistle.
Respect the game
Fair play’s the name
We all emplaned
To Africa just for the game
Football’s the name
Suit up boys, welcome to Africa’s hall of fame.


We’re the stadiums
Kitted suited with all gadgets
And nifty trickery.
Tell a fib to make a stadium date?
Hope you’re not caught in a lie
Cuz we just might catch you on camera.
Now that’s no lie.
Grass so green
Trim and shiny
I can see my reflection
Total perfection
Adorned with posts on opposite sides.
We host the games
Make no mistake,
We love the game.
Go to go now,
Tis a few hours to the game,
Shower me; deck me all out, make me pretty
Can you blame me? I live for the beautiful game.


We’re the fans
We turn up in numbers just for the game.
An ol fashion kickabout
With a coveted trophy at stake.
Herald the roman soldiers from Italy
The Aztecs from Mexico
The torch and pot bearers from Ghana
I can make out Uncle Sam in his top
The God save the Queen singing English
The ever green Nigerians
The rainbow goggle wearing South Africans
All tooting vuvuzelas and doing the Mexican wave
Interspersed with intricate dances and welcoming smiles.
Spectacular and colourful
Feast your eyes on the stadiums
Just like ancient Rome’s coliseum
Maybe a tad more spectacular
Packed to the hilt
With a cacophony in songs
This is where football lives
We’re the fans of the game
We sing concertos just for the game.


Let the games begin,
He’s everywhere
He defines the game.
In Africa, we call him Jabulani
You can just call him plain and simple
A soccer ball.
Keeper fumbles
He spills
Easy tap in.
He hangs his head in shame
But wait he recovers, guess what
Blame it on the jabulani.
Long range effort, keeper’s at full stretch
Fantastic catch, he beats his chest
And asks, who’s your daddy?
Don’t worry about me, I’m all over the jabulani.
What’s a footballer’s excuse for a wayward shot?
Just blame it on the one they call jabulani
He’s too erratic, lacks cohesion
Talks too much, listens to loud music
Too round, full of hot air
In short, we hate the jabulani.


After years of waiting
The world has Africa under the microscope
Listen to ‘em, they’re at their blabbing best.
So many complaints and nitpicking
Too much rainfall
We wish it were summer
The winter’s too cold
We’re scared of frostbite
The food tastes lousy
The stadiums are too packed
Vuvuzela’s too loud
Please somebody, save us from the vuvuzela
We hate the noise, these Africans are too loud
So proud, they love the game too much.
To all their excuses, complaints and tantrums,
Just tell ‘em jabulani…..
Stand tall
Stand proud
We are Africa
We love the Jabulani
We love the vuvuzela.
From the pyramids in Egypt
To the slums of Soweto
From the horn of Africa
To far reaches of West Africa
We declare our love for the beautiful game.
Welcome to Africa’s world cup
Welcome to Africa, the world’s centre stage.
This is our coming of age party
This is Africa!!!!!
This is where football lives…..

PAINFULLY REDUNDANT OR CULTURALLY VIBRANT

PAINFULLY REDUNDANT OR CULTURALLY VIBRANT

A tool of the past,
A blast from the past.
Respect and selflessness gracing a throne
Back in those very days.
Osei Tutu, Yaa Asantewaa
Just mentioning a few.


They had loyal subjects
None engaged in subversion.
The people felt safe
They respected their kings and queens.
They were one with the people
One happy family.


Kings led the people in battle
Selfless and courageous.
A queen once led in battle
Yaa Asantewaa of old, subtle and bold
Never afraid to be lost in battle.
They led the charge, they rode their mounts
Into the eye of the hurricane
And fought for the good and safety of the land.


Those were the true kings
Those were the bold and beautiful queens
They were the true embodiment of royals.
Loyal,
Visionaries,
Graceful as swans
Sage as those bearded Chinese old men.


Gone are the days of the selfless royals
Gone are the days of a people so loyal.
Herald the dawn of the greedy mixed breed
Herald the age of the greedy weeds.
Far up north chieftaincy in chaos,
Royals in waiting in two separates gates
Two gates claiming ownership of a proverbial skin.


Yes a skin,
Not sure what kind of skin this is
But all that bloodshed and beheading of a king?
Must be one pretty impressive skin.
Hope they allow me a photo on the skin,
I just want to know what it feels like to sit on a skin
I seem to have grown tired of swivel chairs
Garden chairs and all kinds of orthopaedic wares.
Please give me a skin, I hear that’s the in thing.
One with nature, a beautiful skin,
I must get me a piece of that contentious skin,
Eyes peeled guys; I’m gunning for a northern skin.


Travel the map further down the middle belt,
In those parts, they hit right below the belt.
Trust me, they wear Teflon suits
They’re slicker than cans of oil in cahoots.
Chaos runs amok, shots fired
Our king’s been kidnapped
Wanted, wanted
Faces all over town plastered.
Allegations and counter accusations
Wasted taxes in investigation
And privacy invasions.


I demand allegiance, I abhor reticence
I’m sorry, I owe you no allegiance
I claim independence, I call you good riddance.
Ultimatums and condemnation
Politics stealthily laps at this chieftaincy confrontation.
Lovely milk for political points
Watch them lap at their crooked joints.


Further down south
Along the coast,
A palace has been raided,
Miscreants, capture evaded
The sanctity of chieftaincy invaded.
So many suitors of a throne being paraded
All visibly interested, none looking jaded.
All clamouring for the throne,
Hoping to line their pockets and ride on wheels chrome.


Chieftaincy,
Decadent and archaic?
Hopelessly dysfunctional?
Disjointed and contorted?


Chieftaincy,
Lost in politics and bags of tricks?
Effective but yet to find its modern feet?
An institution worth fighting for?
A piece of culture worth dying for?


Chieftaincy, what is all the ruckus for?
An ancient culture headed to pasture?
Or a worthy culture drowning in selfish banter and
Democratic overtures?
Chieftaincy, is it anything more
than just a game of musical chairs?

BIG-BREAK

BIG-BREAK

The intercom crackled to life with me struggling to open my weary eyes. I could hear a voice in the background but could not make much sense out of what was being said. I sat upright rubbing my bloodshot eyes while listening to the voice of the captain of the Cessna 184 airplane float eerily through the cabin. Then it dawned on me, we were minutes from touching down at um khonto we sizwe Military Airfield. Largely thanks to sanctions and embargoes imposed by the international community, the air force of Tim-Book-To could barely manage fly a kite let alone an F16 fighter plane. Um khonto we sizwe in loose translation means the spear of the nation. I sure hope the spear of this nation would be sleeping come touchdown. I leaned closer to the nearest window wiping frenetically at it in an effort to catch a glimpse of the airfield below.


Sadly, the Cessna was as old as its captain who had earlier on bragged about flying covert missions into the then soviet union during the cold war. Its windows were impossible to see through and left me wondering how the captain managed to take flight and land virtually blind. My application for a permit into this reclusive nation had been turned down earlier on but there was no way I was missing the eleventh coronation of this lifetime President who extolled the virtues of democracy and practiced them selectively like a kid picking peas out of a bowl of salad. This was my big-break, no more selling my work for a few measly bucks to the major news outlets just to get by. Freelancing is no journalistic heaven. I persisted and eventually came across this old coot of a captain claiming ownership of a plane past its prime and on its last legs willing to fly me into Tim-Book-To for a few flimsy bucks.


But now, I was in two minds seconds from touchdown, fearing the worst and wishing I had stayed home to watch a re-run of Two and a Half Men on TV. I was on edge digging my fingers into the last remnants of an arm rest that had seen better days while praying the darkness would be enough to mask our entry. Earlier on, the captain had declared boastfully that his hopscotch manoeuvre was enough to evade detection by the obsolete equipment in the employ of the control tower. He sure sounded like a genius back then but now, I harboured doubts while imagining how my small frame would fare under torture. Torture was a notoriously effective method employed by the security service of this country. Brace yourself!! Hollered the captain over the intercom, rudely intruding on my train of thought.


I held on for dear life, debating which would be better, death on crash landing or torture upon survival. After a few heart stopping moments, nosedives and suicidal manoeuvres with me enduring a few dizzying bouts, the captain hurried me out of his plane croaking loudly like he just won the ultimate in sweepstakes. Seconds after my feet touched the ground, I turned around and to my dismay, the old coot was gone, plane and all. I could not help but laugh given state of plane and pilot. A bit further to my left, I could hear shouts of Boss! Boss!. It then dawned on me, Joseph; my contact was already in position. I shuffled nervously towards him while avoiding lights that came on and off intermittently. When I finally got closer to him, he asked, how well can you run boss?


Before I could answer I made out a figure vaulting over a fence and running with the wind in his sails. Guess who that was….Joseph. I tried my terrible best to keep up with him but it seemed he was on some kind of performance enhancing drug because despite my best efforts, I could barely keep up. At this rate, he sure could give Usain Bolt a run for his money given half a chance. On making right minutes after Joseph had, I was greeted by darkness. I began murmuring these words, dead man walking…..dead man walking and duck behind some cardboard boxes to catch my breath and ponder my next move. Suddenly, massive hands the size of timber grabbed me from behind, I did not dare make a sound. Either way I’m dead I thought. Out of nowhere, light invaded the dark and I came face-to-face with my captors.


As I looked closer, I could make out Joseph and two other men. This sight brought me a semblance of calm. He said, sorry boss, you too slow. I wait here for 10 hours for you (definitely an exaggeration on his part, I sure am no slouch). You run like you carry baby he said, all three breaking into a fit of laughter as if on cue. We made out of the airport no longer Usain Bolting but rather walking. At a point, we passed by some workmen to whom Joseph seemed familiar because they spoke in a language of which I could make no sense. Ten minutes after making my illegal entry via Um Khonto We Sizwe Military Airfield, I found myself in a slum with Joseph and his two friends for company. They later introduced themselves as Desmond and Oliek. Joseph said, not safe to walk in city at night.


You sleep over here with us, pointing to a shack ahead. I show you freedom square in the morning. The coronation of President Am A Glug Glug was to take place there. They led me to a ramshackle hut with a mat for a bed and air for a pillow. We then said our goodnights and I fell asleep. My head had barely touched the mat when I was awoken to Joseph’s smiling face; cup in hand with something that resembled bread though much more darker looking as complement. He offered me both and I took a few bites and a swig to impress my host. The bread was mouldy and my cup contained a sour brew. He waited on me till I was done and then he began chatting noisily. Like a freedom fighter, he finally declared, we leave for freedom square now while making for the exit.


I grabbed my duffel hastily and followed him gingerly. We made past several huts the size of the one I had slept in earlier on. Some had music blaring from inside with a particular hut proudly declaring a 50 cent tune. This prompted my question, do you have electricity here? Too expensive Mr. Boss, Joseph replied. We use discarded vehicle batteries from the landfill nearby, less expensive and very efficient. I smiled and declared; there’s an engineer in us all. All we’ve got to do is find him. Joseph laughed. We continued the rest of our journey in silence. To sounds, pump and pageantry we sneaked into freedom square avoiding the odd policeman or soldier on our way. We made our nest atop a tree, nervously looking around as the ceremony went on.


Tim-Book-To’s decadent military might was on full display with the odd Abrahams Tank dotting the ground below. I wonder where that came from, I said to myself. School kids and other civil servants filed past, regaling a lifetime President who has ruled this nation with an iron fist for many decades. There was a lot on offer, from long speeches, botched acrobatics, a swearing-in and a minor scuffle leading to a young man being bundled into a waiting vehicle amidst roars of laughter. The ceremony came to an end with a prayer by a man in khaki pants draped in the national colours. Exiting to shouts of Siempre!! Siempre!!, the President was whisked away from the grounds in an open-top vehicle with the words “KING OF KINGS” emblazoned boldly on both sides with him waving back at the frenzied crowd.


We eased out the parade grounds with my camera and notes nestled comfortably in my duffel and made for the lorry station. After long negotiations and intermittent shouts of NO!! NO!! Joseph found me a vehicle (called MATA – TU by the locals) willing to take me to the border. I offered Joseph money but he refused rather saying, I have not had this much fun in years Mr. Boss, thank you for coming. Hope to see you again Usain Bolt, he said; poking fun at my attempted sprint. With those words, he made his way out the lorry station with dust trailing in his wake. I boarded the vehicle and we hurried towards the boarder using rather unconventional routes. The driver, noticing a confused look on my face said, too many checkpoints and questions on the tarred roads Mr. boss.


This route much safer and shorter. I smiled back at him not knowing what else to do. Amidst moments of sudden acceleration, deceleration and near collisions, I made it to the border a bit shook up and crossed into the neighbouring country from which I had earlier made my flight. I then made my way home from there, catching the earliest flight out. I slept the entire time oblivious to my surroundings and woke to the sound of a gentle voice saying, put on your seat belt sir. My eyes opened to a hostess with shiny teeth beaming from ear to ear. I did as told and the plane touched down with minimal fuss. I got home from the airport with a voice in my head saying repeatedly, here comes your big-break. I sure loved the sound of that voice.


Sadly enough, I sold my story and footage of the coronation that very afternoon to a pudgy chap in a suit with musky cologne on driving a sleek Mercedes Benz. My bills were overdue and my landlord was on edge, unimpressed with by inability to pay him his due. Later that night, I saw the pudgy chap on television, grinning like a Cheshire cat while passing off my work as his own. All sorts of accolades were being thrown at him with many suits in attendance. All I could muster were expletives and phrases of insult. So much for my big break, I muttered to myself. Red faced and fuming, I wrote this story a week after my BIG-BREAK-DEBACLE on a bar napkin, drunk and still in search of that ELUSIVE BIG-BREAK. If you chance upon MY BIG-BREAK, do tell him I said hi for he still eludes to this day.

HARBINGER OF PAIN, WE CELEBRATE ONE THOUSAND

HARBINGER OF PAIN, WE CELEBRATE ONE THOUSAND

I picked the morning paper,
I balked at the news
Our northern dragon was cooking a sour brew
It had actually grown ten feet tall.
Casting a shadow over our neighbour’s wall.


Our northern dragon was brewing up a storm.
The women had fled with children on their backs
Onwards to our neighbour on the west
All roads lead Togo on the west.
Looks like it’s a free fight for all
Heads, arms and teeth lost in the brawl.
Sadly, common sense eludes us in the northern hall.


So much for your charades
So much for your cloak and dagger trick or treating.
Violence rears its ugly head over and over again
Go do fire fighting
That’s what you do best.


The next morning, I heard the news,
Calm restored to our country’s north.
Looks like the north enjoys living in the stone age
Back then it was survival of the fittest
No holes barred, all one had to was pack a punch.
All one had to do was deal some smack.


They claim conditions conducive
They claim a northern calm
They jibber jabber without the slightest bit of qualm.
Send out the buses into the yonder,
Go carry them from across the border
Keep reveling in your nine day wonder
Keep on politicking with a northern thunder.


They disagreed on numbers
They went on and quickly fiddled
With refugee numbers.
The refugees only number a thousand
And not three thousand, they hollered on the horn.
We did a head count, go tell BBC they got it wrong
We even employed DNA tests, body scanners and all.
Please open your eyes, do sit and ponder,
Pay rapt attention to the northern harbinger
Do not play hopscotch with the northern danger
Else you just might go on singe you fingers.


A thousand refugees, a million refugees,
Why should there be refugees?
Should we be happy because you discovered
Only a thousand Ghanaian refugees?
Should we be happy Ghana now has its own refugees?
Aren’t you worried they feel a need to seek refuge?
Can you not smell the simmering anger?
Please go on, tarry no longer.


You waste millions chasing a runaway train
Everyday we hear you go after the same old train
Choo chooo goes our northern train
Leaving in its trail mayhem and pain.
You hold meetings, you wear vague political appeals
You play to the gallery with so much ease.
You deploy troops in drudgery
Draped in fatigues as though you were some haberdashery
They then go about and indulge in all sorts of tomfoolery.
Please put away the paint and aesthetics
Instead, give the north some antibiotics.


Take a load off, look at the big picture
Take your political cap off
Try carrying a northern pitcher.
Be wise, try curtail a northern mishap.
Slowly the north drips like a tap,
Tarry and you’ll soon be knee deep in crap.
They engage in barbarism
And despicable acts.


I really do not condone these very acts
But for how long will you keep holding
Fanfares, durbars and comical parades?
Can you not see your performances below par?
Your curfews and interventions have failed so far
Yet you still cling doggedly to these ways,
Change your ways, vary your ways,
In so doing you just might make headway.


If you want the north be your Achilles heel,
I say go on and play to the gallery
Throw in a few shenanigans while you’re at it.
Go on and aim at making the seven o’clock news
Go on, keep up the manic charade.
A fire threatens from three houses away,
I pray you, do something better today
Else you’ll be sifting through cinders come tomorrow’s day
All you’ve achieved so far is chase your own tail
Be smart, go on, don’t be snail.