The matter that we have come together to chew on, my Oddinary friend, is nothing new under the sun, yet, the sun has not wearied of rising upon it. That about which I write is bread, bread so stale, but we must nibble on it as though it were freshly baked. It is a tree, fallen and very dead, but we must lift it up, prop it with hope and sit under branches which were once well endowed with a luxuriant supply of leaves and luscious fruits.
In ‘From across the Ocean’, I write about this country, my country Ghana and her apparent gangrene and I dare say I write about this continent, my continent Africa; who looks like a graceful woman with a well tied “duku”, albeit it is askew in reality.
The first stanza of the poem:
What were alien have become native
What were uncertain now very surely
Creep insidiously through and through
My defense gate
With its arch
Broken for my back
And its star
At this dawning now so far
talks of the infiltration of the land by those not of the continent- the wind from across the ocean.
The stories that I have been told, the books that I have read and the monuments that I have seen tell me of what once was. I do not lament. I do not mourn, for those who lived in those times of what once was mourn for me. They who lived in the years before the wind from across the ocean blew mourn for they who live and breath of that wind.
They sing dirges as they did when their kings died, because the first blast of the wind dispersed their seed onto another’s land; the second gale toppled over their kingmakers and the third, of which I breath, seems like a mere wisp. Insidious. Unnoticeable. Subtle. Deceptive. It is a deception. And it is called neocolonialism…
…to be continued in the next post