Prayer Of A Boy By The Roadside


Prayer Of A Boy By The Roadside. 

his lung wrote home
while his face wrote solitude.

here was a soul, lost
amongst boundless feathers
falling off a lone bird’s tail.

his eyes greyed the half-seated moon
and you could read
memories holding themselves
to the feel of an aged-past.

the tuckiness of history
panting down his scored skin,
sent peaceless pieces of pains
which whispered through the exhaust
of wooden vehicular fumes
that fast passed him in gossip.

behind his reddish-dusty hairless head,
a chapter of his prayer wrote:
do not circumcise me..
do not break me..
do not curse me..
for i hold within me
uncured illnesses of a broken home.

© Nana Arhin Tsiwah
All Rights Reserved, 2016
image credit: national geographic tv





there is a story we cannot
tell quietly at night
there are erred stories
we cannot finish writing
they hang losely under sagged
pointed breasts of

whenever these songs find
their feet into my ears,
it breaches wilting hymen
of voicless breath
of ailing mothers..

¶The Village Thinker

Nana Kwamena Ansah.

Akan Chief

Nana Kwamena Ansah

my King, yellow buds have settled on our flagging flower,
white butterflies have danced backwards out of time
they say, the fire of the hunter has dimmed on his way home
he no longer finds the trails of ashes which leaked from his threaded sack,
green ferns gather in number on palm trees;
they swim under deep tapped roots of innocence

my Lord, flamboyant flames glow out of mahogany trunks
it laces bequeathed bee to childless crowns
thick clouds anoint their burned foreheads with kernel oil
the firmer their weights coalesce, the uglier they grow
the uglier they grow, the warmer the feet avows
holding helpless anthropological anthems at wake of dawn

a letter from the carpenter sent for your ears whiles at family sitting,
it reads with Obaahema’s apparel dotted in red pigment
it reads with heavy and overpowering proverbs
proverbs that licked the brain by the saw’s piercing teeth
I knew at glance, from the battling alphabets that
our old butterfly has broken its wing whilst attempting to deep-breath

Nana, to this day, the log hasn’t been carved;
those over-priced boards have failed to meet at measure
where the old nails kept dancing anguishly
ever since your wooden stool got the looks of the rain,
the sun and the moon have heightened their unrepaired enmity…

© Nana Arhin Tsiwah

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-—-Sabbatical Sacrifices-—-


-—-Sabbatical Sacrifices-—-
(In memoria of the nation that never resurrected)

Ask the world beyond:
The fight is not for the muscular
Neither the palace for heavings of charlatanism.

The battle is not for self-tormented mortals
Archiving their hearts in the name of disguised evil-fear!
It is for the limbers of gods and divinities
The sanctimonious utopian goddesses who lost lust…

In praise of the gods,
I have placed a willing for the God.
In praise of the ancestors,
I have placed this omen of an oracle in droplets.

For in cows and flames,
yields vegetables and plaques.
The fire soaked the water instead
Causing felony to be appraised
By the holier men in the holiest of holies.

The peoples man, the man’s people
Have gone home castrated by the masses
In the throbbing manger of alcoholism
For in doom, the heavenly smiled no more!

With our pleas fleeing the obesiances of the sea,
Would deserted discomfort souls
No more pay courtesy call on divine federalism and centralism
For we, (a people of discomfort), watch from pigeon-holes
Those warm embraces of the moon
That never settled on the poor man’s hut.

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

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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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Nominations for the honorary poetry awards has been opened…
Nominate your favourites African-cultural poets(esses)

Date: 11-15 April, 15…
Nominate the poet and one of his works on “The Village Thinkers” page on facebook…..


**Best poet/poetess:
This is meant for a poet/poetess who in diverse ways have proven to be consistent in their writings and have keep the anchor of true African poetry….

**Best speaking poem:
This is meant for a particular poem which sought to speak or address a problem be it cultural or African-related….

**Identity inclined poet:
This is meant for a poet/poetess who all through his/her writings have demonstrated unique presence with his tone, language and style of the rich African culture, history or Africanism…

**Africa’s eyes of poetry:
This is meant for a poet/poetess whom every reader of his/her works can be proud to say; this poet/poetess holds the torch of Africa’s poetry in the near future…

**Order of the village
This is meant for a poet/poetess who clinically defines most of his/her inspiration for writing from the village and continues to appreciate his/her root….

**Bearer of the sword of truth
This is meant for a poet/poetess who no matter what be the situation has made it a point to write and tell the sweet-bitter (true) tales which defines Africa and her culture…..

**Honorary conferment (for distinguished elder):
This is meant for any lover of poetry who from day one has continued to explicitly show his/her support to the course of this poetry vision and movement (The Village Thinkers). Such individual as specified must be an elder who has assumed a thumb for the realisation of this aspiration.

**Voice of old:
This is meant for a poet/poetess who in his/her writings makes use of African proverbial language and brings to readers profound reflection from the days of generations that lived many years ago…..

**Soul of Asaase Yaa:
This is meant for a typical traditional poet/poetess or a poet/poetess who can easily be identified by his/her persistent use of a local dialect to express his/her poetic thoughts….

**Outstanding Personality:
This is meant for any poetry personality who through out his/her writings and self-realisation has made it a fountain of inspiration to many young and upcoming African poets…

**Most impressive poem
This is meant for one poem which reveals through beautiful poetic elements yet still digs into the cultural heritage of the African….

#PriceTag: Certificates of honor, gift packages and special interview plus features of winning poems and interviews on the following inking world…

The Village Thinkers:
“Nurturing tomorrow’s African poetry giants”

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—- A while on a prophecy —-

Even now after death,
I know that bats
and owls do not
compose the same song
for the virginity of the night….

I have known one thing after birth;
that one song of owls
which drinks the wells
of our brains at bed
that one cold tears of the bats
which pounds the walls
of our pupils in the day….

To say family is a shame
is to play the tune of mockery
at the brown teeth of society,
to dance to the tune of ghosts
is to be at appease, on licking hoes
with the drums of this time…..

Let he who said to me yester-morn
that fears not the finger of death
come home to the lips of a woman,
Let she who said of tonight’s eve
that finds joy in adorning the skin of life
come home in the beak of the casket,

This hut is for believers, sinners,
barbarians, the ostracised; the rejected
of all that the world says it is dark
this hut coined in heartaches
belongs to those that lived and still live
from one lip of exorcism to the other end of a broken pot…

And now here is the message that fell on the pillow
“until the hunter becomes
the game itself, let he who
bears grey listen to the riddles of the spider”
these words shall ferment not under
the brains of the palm tree….

But I do not say we cannot question this fibre
of course he is not only immortal
but a mortal with a forbidden weakness,
neither am I saying we should use the hips of the Obaahemaa
as the stone to ignite the blunt ribs of time;

So while we look to see the beauty of light,
dancing in three-lines with our backs like dwarves,
we cannot forget to admire for a while
the wisdom of darkness even though
they might pretend not to knit their tongues on the blades of our farms….

Tomorrow may not always be golden
like the last stanza of the prophecy from the shrine
and maybe noon shall soon depart her liver
from the acquainted hymnals of the parrot
yet we; the salt of her blood
shall while we sit nursing the bloodied wounds of Mama Africa
embrace not our misquoted proverbs from him….

Nana Arhin Tsiwah
© All copyrights reserved, 2015






As part of it conscious efforts to continually inspire African and culturally based writings, “THE VILLAGE THINKERS” introduces its maiden honorary awards initiative to award its ever-soulfilled poets and their writings.


To inspire a generation of writers who are not dissuaded in any means by these esoteric and recondite foreign writings, but are ever ready to tell the stories of this continent in it simplest and uniqueness.


To break the long held chronic monopoly of foreign writings that has eaten into the mindset of the African and portrayed the culture of Africans in its bad light.

Mode of honoring:

The mode is just a simple cut-in methodology, that is, to be honoured in this respect, the writer must at least first, believe in the true beauty of the African culture. Again, must be a writer whose interests seeks to tell the neglected stories of old. Third, such individual must at least in his or her writings be proven to demonstrate a lasting desire to perpetuate the heroic, spiritual, religious, political, social, environmental and mental forthwithness of the African heritage; be it those of his own country or the continental ribs at large.

—-List of honorary awards—-

**Best poet/poetess
**Best speaking poem
**Identity inclined poet
**Africa’s eyes of poetry
**Order of the village
**Bearer of the sword of truth
**Honorary conferment (for distinguished elder)
**Voice of old
**Soul of Asaase Yaa
**Outstanding Personality
**Most impressive poem

Nana Arhin Tsiwah
(Village Lingiust/Awensem Servant/Village Polemicist)

Land of my birth



I have come again to this land of my birth
to this land where my navel was deeply buried between her  twin breasts
o’ land of the spirits of my fathers’ 
I stand in lonesomeness at the bank of this devouring river
with brown kola plucked from the sacred wild forest
a calabash filled with palm wine fetched before the last seventh market day
I am caught in the webs of myths and wits
stricken beyond silent horripilation by songs of old
I am versed beyond dying eyes of life by unfolded tongues of the gods

While I stand under this danka dua of old
my soul walks in it emptiness
feelings of loneliness grips me by the shoulder
times of old lost between the ills and malevolence of this  generation
I have lost count of the smiles of the aging moon
she no longer smile for the squirrel hunter
where can I find that last griot whose tongue holds the tales of old?

But before this cold air takes me to the land of my ancestors
let  this calabash I hold carved out from the belly of peace
with deep whispers from my throbbing heart
bring forth thousand apparitions to the huts of my kinsmen
let the future of the fertile womb of these beautiful maidens
come home once more with victory songs
through the mightful mouth of reincarnation
that this land shall once more set sail of old
in search for the lost gray and sage of the spirits of our fathers

The Village Thinker
© All copyrights reserved, 2015