‘Son—


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my son, thou my dearest
note these inscriptions
written along my sick-bed
that when am made
to silently walk beyond mirrors
of this empty mundane life
and my sculptured mortality
made to submit to the hummings of dirges
with glorious days inside this coffin
let not a dry tear from your eyes
hit this tender heart of the earth goddess

     ——For I have seen where my soul shall go.

Tell mama that papa is now a smokeless fire
he no longer produces fumes
like an old “nt3fr3 (cockroach) car” does through her nose

   ——For I know where my place of rest shall be.

my son, drop of my blood
stain of my dirt
go tell the winds
and whisper into the ears of the ‘Okomfo’ (priest)
that this is not a battle for mortals
nor an irony for a rat’s desire to pound ‘fufu’ in his hole

    ——For I know why I have parted with mortals on this hot day.

One thing my son you should know is
life is not a matter of choice
nor a matrimonial devotion of praises
instead a wake of the whims of the taste on kola
so serve with your heart
and act with your head
for if mortals don’t see,
“Kronkron Nyame” and the ancestors see
I bless your soul my dear son….

The Village Thinker © 2014

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