After many days of cactuses experiences
I have come to believe in true self-accreditation
self, lies, tales, relics, fanatism don’t any longer push me
idealism, fame, heroism, stoicism, notoriety no longer tame this day-old backbone—

One thing is clear; maybe its the truth— sitting on true lies
that no demi-punctuated love wins over me like moss
but in the tunes of actualities and acrylics of the ‘now’,
no love tale sings best in this discordant heart
than sitting under the strings of a falling rainbow,
admiring each dust effervescence of me— in the days of aged.

That I am that little village boy,
a voyage signature in the eyes of the sea
that I am dust and claded crayons of clays
sandwiched by the wangtooth of an eight hut village
so even till now, those memories of a hunting boy
of a hunter’s sack-bearer, pelt of antelopes and deer
shells of tortoise and snails
beaded into radiant amulets anklets
forge their golden ink into this leopard skin.

I was told I was here before this day
that I am not new to this stage, a “come-backer”
that I settled the boiling hearts of kings
ceased arrows between milk-teeth from bloodsheddings
that I became a servant in eighty-five kingdoms
before this departure of descendants came
knocking at my old hut
where smoked rat and grasscutter meat had their
greetings to their elbowed-tongues.

Trifling gun-smoking gunpowdered tree
of this seed of battle-of-immortals
stares again to read the mysticism of this lips
which eats kola, sips palm wine yet tells of
thousands of forgotten ancestral drums beat
old age and wisdom, were the heritage that birthed true death
songs of heroism, were the carnivals that drove the hunter home after the quest
tongues of worship, were the crowns that graced the manly of kings!

Maybe I would go back after this toil and endless dry season farming
that I shall roast cassava of syllabuses
lit the clay swish of our mighty days
before time stirs her blood with diluted syrups of today
yet, this song and thorns of a farmland
of harvesting and grain winnowing
of palm wine tapping, mushroom picking
of snails hunting, wood carving
of sempiternal stick held in our molars and smoke of one-eyed lantern
shall be these salt-eye indelible imprints
of those moments, past and resurrection
be a recall of war of wails on the cells of today’s wooden-skulls…

Nana Abeiku Arhin Tsiwah
(The Village Thinker)
© All copyrights reserved, 2015

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