Walking Down Ghanaian Streets
Strolling down the street. No!
Manoeuvering through hoards of trolleys and gleaming bodies
Holding breath in the thickness of the stirred dust
The burden-bearer trudges past me,
The weight of the world on his able shoulders
The sweat falls freely, the laboured breaths come rapidly.
For a few pesewas he sweats;
The daily toil that puts stale bread in a scarred palm, in the decade-long-famine-silo of a stomach.
He grunts and heaves, the guardian of another's occupation, of others’ stomachs.
The ‘waakye’ must be delivered by head and head-pad.
The ‘waakye woman' must serve tardy workers
On their way to a source of meagre living.
Onwards, the taxi screeches to a halt.
“Out of the way...” and a few curses.
The first trips are crucial, determinants of the success of the day,
Profits made into another's pocket.
The honking comes on!
The little lost school child dashes across the road,
Lest yesterday's sad scene repeat itself.
And a few extra curses and wild gesticulations from the driver's free hand.
Onwards, stop!
The week's supply of eggs stacked as high as Afadjato right there,
In the way, on the street, belonging to the middle-aged mother of five, hastily working the rusted lock of a dying kiosk worthy of recounting the country's history.
One false move and you will be opening an emaciated wallet.
Onwards and as you near, you hear the familiar incessant energetic chants of rickety-car drivers and their mates.
The century old Tata, the minivan which will survive another day
Of plying pot-holed roads to make a living for their drivers and a profit for strangers.
On your way, they beckon strongly like the father far-off, beckoning the repentant son to return home.
They don't need you. They need your cedis and your pesewas.
Life must go on, man must eat!
Here in the big city, the daily drone is normal,
The unbearable cacophony is accepted.
The stench from the open drains is typical,
The dust will continue to rise.
The brisk walking, the full-risk hawking,
the shouting, the speeding cars, the crossing schoolchildren, the beckoning van drivers,
The busy hum, the drum and the buzz of these streets are all normal, all daily.
The ‘Blood and Toil' was not enough it seems.
Some great leaders toss and turn in their graves.
