Month: October 2014

this piece first appeared on FB 09/29/14

My people, how did your weekend go? Mine run. It run faster than Fuseini Bolt. Sorry, I meant Usain. When your name is Bolt, why won’t you be superfast? Like wheeeem? Catch my drift? Anyway like I said, my weekend just vanished. I would have wished it to stay a bit longer. Lest I forget, I met my long lost sister from another mother. We covered three years of issues in less than seven minutes. Awurama Gaisie Boateng, you made my Sunday!!!

How many of you visited Worcester? In MA? Centerstage Gh. The man himself was there. He spoke. Eloquently. He assuaged hurt egos. He bonded with his people. He whispered sweet nothings into their ears. Odysseus had the sense to follow advice and plug the ears of his men. I veered off course and did not even venture onto my patio. My grill smiled in peace as I stayed inside. The corn is still in the fridge. All because I refused to listen to white faced arsenic rhetoric. It was music to their ears. Reading on social media this morning, one likened him to God. Hmmmmmm. I beg do not mock my Father. Please or as a fellow writer puts it ‘puuuleeeeeeese’. To further heighten your misplaced and distrust in him, he fires a small fish on Monday. Sorry oooo. Still on pre weekend and weekend activities. He said he has the will to fight corruption. Charity begins at home. Tell that to the majority of the people who hold the minors in public purses. Say it at home. It is only those who think with their stomachs and refuse to think beyond tribal boundaries, political ideologies who will swallow such hogwash. The will? Do it. Now. Action. I have lost confidence in you. My soul dons a black cloth with no footwear. My soul drinks water from a broken calabash. I can imagine what my mother, GHANA is wearing. No matter what, you are still the number one gentleman of the land. Your mannerisms and deeds should reflect so. Please change your email address. Dot gov dot gh.
Stand up Gh. Stand up Gh.

The writer is a motivational speaker, writer and poet. He is also currently a host on Sankofa radio (Sundays 11.30-1pm and every other Saturday beginning November 1^st 20014) transmitting on WRTC 89.3 and WRTCFM.COM

I am yawning. I am very tired but I owe it to my readers, my fans and those whom I will be lashing at, to constantly write. I am wide-awake. My phone beeped with a message from my friend Ebo. It scared me. The name, I mean. Please the only way to prevent is to wash hands carefully, boil drinking water, and be careful with the handshakes. Ebola is real. No cure for the dark-skinned man. Yet. Who will clear that place of that bush?  All the men dread to do it but it must be done. It will be done. One of them will do it. The land is ours. Each to their own. Let him who has ears do it.

Once again I embark into the tabernacle of worship. This time I enter as an elderly sixty-five year old. I am an usher in the church. It is my place to direct people to seats and perform other duties as assigned. I am also allowed to caution with finesse of language on any attire that in my eyes does befit the Holy Abode. What you will see today will shock you beyond description. I could not utter a word. I have neither created a human before let alone am classified as a god. I dare not. Why do you dare me? It is for this reason that I invited you to church today. See it. Criticize. Do not hide behind friendly lines. When I was growing up, to go to church was a must. That was the day of grooming. You put on your best notwithstanding the fact that you did not possess a pair of slippers. The only thing you could boast about was either your pair of khaki shorts or white evolved into brown shirt and palm kernel oil to be used only on Sunday mornings. Your feet and arms could shine like the sun. Reflecting and deflecting. The ladies were a simple, one or two colors straight dress. That dress was up to the neck. No room for those two tangerines to glimpse daylight. Your mother’s headscarf made sure your already bald as a coconut head was covered. I have said. I took you back in time. How long ago? 1900s? Now look around. Take a deep breadth. What does the Good book say concerning such? I leave it to you. I blame the man on the pulpit. I blame the leaders in the church. I blame myself. Have we led the flock astray? Have the flock refused to heed to the call of the master? Are the leaders wolves in sheep’s clothing waiting to pounce and devour? We have corrupted innocence. Innocence is doing her own thing. Your lack in childhood has paved the way for you as you drink milk and honey to shatter the mirrors of hope and determination and replace it with silver coated plastics that only melt at the slightest increase in heat. Back to basics. Refined basics. To suit the times

Why do act so amazed? That is the way they pray when called on to do so. This is the way they dress when coming to church. Visiting multiple churches in a Sunday looking for God has become the norm. I understand it is not reflective of their lifestyle. Ghanaians. Born and bred in the hinterland. Far from the lights of the clinic. The local midwife ushered them into this world. They were innocent. Westernization has corrupted their very innocence. I weep for Africa. I cry for Ghana. All I want is the truth. The will to help my brother, my sister. Devoid of any attempts to derail their efforts to bring sanity into brains.

Corrupted innocence

Where once stood justice

greed and avarice are rooted

Pillars of salt

Can and will be washed

Erection that will bear fruit

Must stand

Love, Peace, Truth, Justice,

Rooted by perseverance with sisterly determination

Sweet innocence

Will smile

Again

Young lady please take your vessel back. I am done with it. I had to borrow it for a few minutes. I pray my message is heard.

The writer is a motivational speaker, writer and poet. He is also currently a host on Sankofa radio (Sundays 11.30-1pm and every other Saturday beginning November 1^st 20014)