The Chronicle of a repented soul - 1

I foresee my death in the next second.. This foresight has shattered all my future aspirations; yet bring me to realize the day of “reckoning” as the Holy Quran describes it…. The day Allah will judge every human by their deeds and with which their faith will be determine.
It should have been a good thing to know I am dyeing and smiling, because heaven as it is described by men who are clued-up “is a land of eternal peace, riches, health and all that is desired by the soul”. Yet fear immerses my soul, for I have searched within to find a scintilla of righteousness… But few I have found of which is not worth a single room made by earth.
So in this last moments of my life I have come to realized all the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years have wasted on wordily possessions that are egger to say goodbye and cling to the next person who is as imprudent as I was.
Who among you my worldly friends and family can save me from the anguish of the grave… Remember! It was with you I share all my time and fortunes.
And the Hell fire! Who among you sympathizing can save me from its burns?
I should have known this (world) is no destination but a journey.. Before death takes the remaining breath, I share this knowledge that only few people have, with hope that the good with it will follow me to the next world…

GHANA IS A RAPE VICTIM!

I look at my nation through a pair of eyes,

That see past all the hidden lies.

Of all the people who roam the earth,
Who truly have no real self worth.

The things I see tear me apart.
They twist and stab my tortured heart.

The cruel reality leaves me amazed,
And I am left to stare in a helpless daze.

Brother, Mother Ghana has been raped!!
I’m filled with anger and overwhelmed by hate,
Dwelling on the pain of Ghana’s corrupted state.

Baffled by the unkindness that now surrounds her life,
Yearning for the courage to pierce the knife.

Brother, Mother Ghana has been raped!!

Right through her heart and into her soul,
Her heart can't survive with a deep black hole.

Brother, Mother Ghana has been raped!!

The hole in her heart it has no end,
No person, nor thing possess the power to mend.

I look at my nation through a pair of eyes,
Lost and in pain as no surprise.

Brother, Mother Ghana is being raped…..
By you………by me…….

THE SEX POEM

Oh Asana!!
Fairest of all our village maids!
Mma Rahi says your birth was in the forest shades
She says there were green leaves and glimpses of the sky,
She knew you’d be mine, looking into your infant eye.

Your trips to the village stream when a child,
And when you broke Mma’s only pot in the wild,
I remember cos I was there with you admiring the beauty of the place
Even then, I could feel the love in your heart and on your face.
On that day when the twilight fell on the trees and rocks
And when my fingers were lost in the shade of your dreadlocks;
My hand around your waist began to weave the weaves.
Playfully, we did something sweet behind the leaves
When the play was over, only “tita” the bird, sung in the atmosphere serene
And I wondered, “what we have done, has heaven also seen?”
Your eye lashes had carried a guilty – sweet look
And I read your curvy figure as if it were a book
The nim trees and the shea trees saw us against each other pressed
As I did what a baby does to a mother’s breast
It was all over – clothes back on body and pretense filled the air
Out from our calm solitudes, we went back to the village square.
We are still innocent, after all, we were not caught on tape!!!

by Abdul Hayi Moomen

Abdul Hayi Moomen

Dear Iddrisu Abdul Rashid,

Greetings from the biggest concrete Jungle in “Nkrumahland”
Of late, I have been looking for a baobab tree from every nook and cranny of our modern jungle. Alas! All the trees, including the nim trees have been replaced with concrete and steel in the name of modernity and accommodation. Oh, How I miss life in the jungle, where every space under the baobab tree belonged to everybody, but nobody in particular.

By the way, have I told you that to get a place to lay one’s head in a small concrete hut in this modern jungle, one needs not less than 100 of the cowries from our cousin’s land at the turn of every new moon? No. I don’t mean our cousin Issifu, the Koko seller’s son. I am referring to our cousin from Kenyanta’s kingdom, who by dint of hardwork and a huge dose of luck, is now ruler of the land where our great- great-grandfather Wunpini was taken to as a slave. (I hear, the underground rail network has a river flowing below it. – that river, I am told, has the blood and sweat of great-great-grandfather Wunpini flowing in it)

Anyhow, please don’t tell mma Hawa that here in the concrete jungle, her children hardly see each other lest she collapses with disappointment. Yes, we don’t see each other at all. Brother Alhassan Suhuyini is too busy being the chief talkative for one of the numerous gongong beating institutions. The only time he gets for himself is when the external visitors he introduces to his body through his mouth seek permission to leave through the rear gate. Inusa, Fred Amese, and “cominini” have all been at large. Our rich brother Daniel Mumuni was in town. You know he now lives and works in “albinoland”? (A bird just whispered in my ear that those people are called white people). Tell Yahaya, our albino brother, that I now know his country of origin. Anyway, I must also tell you that Daniel has been flying in a metal bird in and out of “Nkrumahland” like the way you trot between Daboya and Damongo.

How is my old bicycle doing? Please, tell mba Saani the bicycle repairer, that the last time I came home I noticed some of the spokes were loose. He should fix them before I come home again. Oh, how I miss that bicycle! All I need to propel it into motion is my own “man power” derived from a generous amount of Tuo Zaafi with dry okro soup and mushroom. Here in the concrete jungle, a metal horse has been forced on me. This horse does not eat grass. It does not eat hay. It drinks!! NO! not water. It drinks a substance called petrol. That one too, coin cowries cannot buy. Have you seen the new cowries made of paper? To buy a gallon of this substance, one needs one green paper cowry and one blue paper cowry. Our friends who went to the white man’s school say in concrete jungle terminology, that’s about GHC 15. The sad thing is that when I buy 12 gallons of the substance for my metal horse, it drinks up all the substance before the next market day.

Our neighbor from Bole, who now sits on the national skin says there is hope. Last week he sent his chief elder in charge of our cowry affairs to tell us so. As usual the elders who sat in to listen to him on our behalf ended up singing the same chorus we have been used to since 1992. I hear the song is entitled “politicization”.

The ink from the container from which I am dipping the tip of the feather to write has just run out. I will send Ayishetu to fetch me some more. In the meantime, please keep the baobab tree intact.
Our brother Kasise Ricky Peprah celebrates another step towards the grave today. Here in the concrete jungle, they call it birthday. They actually organise parties to have fun. Funny isn's it? Tell him to ponder and pray and not party.