In a corner of a dark room, I sit.
Outside, slippers and heels clap, heading no where.
Actually, they are heading towards the tongues of the speakers which make me want to lend my ears to a hermit.
A slum? No! An estaste? It should be!
Wry citizens elicit alcohol induced prattle.
My thoughts elevated onto the wings of a soaring eagle,
Are plucked by the babble of the people.
These babble tear down Chinua Achebe’s toil to elevate,
The minds of his kinsmen to nothingness.
A Man of the people
Where are the people?
On a cold, bare floor I wail,
Because of our deafening indifference.
Because of our choice to dance,
In place of realizing this is the chance to pounce.
I wonder why like bees we have sucked our mother into retirement.
Forgetting whatever starts, ends.
I wail because few are nourishing while many are farmishing.
But if the one reduced to a slave cares not who gives a hoot then?
A Christmas spent thinking!
A Christmas spent wailing!
Kofi Boateng (Ghana Institute of Journalism)