A PRIVATE HELL WITH A WINDOW FOR ESCAPE

                  –tipple–

In shadows deep, where demons dwell,

A silent dance, a private hell.

In amber hues, the poison flows,

A fleeting high, a sinking low.

———————————————

With trembling hands, the bottle’s grip,

A liquid solace, a slipping life.

In dizzying swirls, the mind succumbs,

To whispers sweet, from fantasies wild and grim.

————————————————-

The bottle’s call, a siren’s song,

A silent scream, a life gone wrong.

In empty rooms, where shadows creep,

A soul enslaved, in slumber deep.

——————————————————

Yet hope remains, a flickering light,

In darkest hours, through endless night.

With courage found, to break the chain,

To seek the dawn, and heal the pain.

———————————————————

For in the heart, where strength resides,

A path unfolds, where humility abides.

Through shattered dreams, and broken ties,

A new beginning, under open skies

THE SAVANNA PHOENIX

1-In shadows deep, he wandered lost,

Bound by chains of bitter taste.

With every sip, his spirit sank,

In the abyss, his soul he’d spank.

2-But from the depths, he found his might,

Fought the demons, faced the night.

Through valleys dark and mountains steep,

He journeyed on, he dared to leap.

And his Creator yanked him from the deep

3-With every dawn, a new resolve,

His spirit rising, his ego dissolved.

Through tears and laughter, he embraced,

The path of healing, love encased.

4-Now in the light, he stands so tall,

Once bound by chains, now breaks the fall.

A beacon bright, for those who, lost, roam,

From darkness, they can find their home.

5-With every step, he shares his story,

Of strength and courage, grace and glory.

For in his journey, others see,

The power to break chains and be free.

6-Oh how strong it’s to be weak

Before your Father, and meek

By that you’ll find all you seek

THE DIVINATION

From the dawn of our self-rule, in the hearts of right-thinking Africans, there has been a yearning, an imperative, the cry for unity. From the Sahara’s sands to the Congo’s flow, our continent’s strength, in unity, must grow.

With tribes and tongues and histories, the old and the young, a colorful array, bound by history, we must the past ditch and a brighter tomorrow begin to pitch. From the Cape of Good Hope to the Nile’s bend, Africa’s unity, our future to mold.

From the whispers of the Serengeti’s breeze, to the rhythm of cities, bustling with ease, in diversity’s embrace, lies our power, uniting as one, in every hour and growing our power. Let borders blur, and divisions fade, in unity’s embrace, we create a brighter day.

For Africa’s dreams to truly ignite, unity must be our guiding light.

So let us stand, hand in hand, across the deserts, across the land.

For together we thrive, divided we fall.

In unity, Africa stands tall.

LIFE IS A SCRIPT, AND EACH THEIR OWN!

Dear Nyaaba

When I woke up yesterday, in the savanna, in Tindonmoligo, a banlieue of Bolgatanga, to be specific, my ears were greeted with 3 competing sounds.

 First there was nature’s sound, the cockcrow, universally acknowledged to rise millennia to their tedium called life.

Second was the summons of the Muezzin, known and respected by all adherents of Islam, as the call to the first of five compulsory prayers and where time and circumstance allow, many more prayers.

The third sound was that of traditional drums rousing mourners to continue funeral proceedings.

I now recollect there was a fourth, the report of a Charismatic Christian choir, waking God with their prayers and supplication. Civilization!!

Or some incarnation of it.

Today I woke to the rumbling of tipper trucks complaining under the excess weights of greedy drivers.

Then there was my alarm, drowned-out by the evidence of city life. I gathered my bones and stepped out to confront life but a flat tyre decided otherwise.

I spent the day working from home through the white man’s witchcraft, and in between I gathered my thoughts into my column’s article for this week.

All this while something kept playing at the back of my head, that no matter who we are, on the day that our name will be prefixed with “late”, the sun will still go at its pace to evening and if we are not lucky, that night may not even have stars.

Humbly then must we traverse this set, play our part to the best of our ability, being careful not to be inebriated by applause and exit with as much respect as we can muster.

All considered, you can only be you, allowing only for the best you!

Kasise Ricky Peprah

The Honourrebel Siriguboy!

BATTERED, BITTER BUT UNBEATEN

-Osagyefo’s Children Cry

In Ghana’s heart lies Africa’s fountain of hope,

Yet as a nation she stands in her direst of days,

Economic woes cast shadows deep,

Yet hope persists, though troubles clasp her,

Nearly ridding her of breath.

Once and still rich in gold, in cocoa, and so many more

Now struggles haunt, a bitter brew, an embittered people.

Inflation soars, the cedi falls, the youth with no jobs

Frustration echoes through market stalls and within all walls.

Yet in the eyes of those who toil, resilience gleams,

Steadfast and with boiling rage, bent on a better future.

From dusty rural roads to bustling towns and to gleaming cities

Hope’s ember burns, knowing no bounds, that unfailing elixir

In Accra’s heat, in Kumasi’s throng and in a Sirigu made languid

The people’s spirit sings its song, amid sighs and between heaves.

Through hardship’s grip, they stand forlorn, with just enough strength to think each about themselves

Their journey long, their battle far from won.

With hands outstretched, they seek a way,

To mend the fabric, come what may.

For Ghana’s story, though tempest-tossed,

Resides in hearts unbowed.

So let us weave a tapestry bright,

Of dreams renewed, of futures right.

For in Ghana’s soil, in her skies so wide,

In her people, in her veins, reside enough

More than is required, to make us bold

And to stand us erect, in pride and independence

We have fed so long on hope,

Now for meal we want fair chance

To live in dignity,

And when the time comes,

To die in dignity

@Siriguboy

IT SHOULD BE DAWN BUT IN TRUTH IT IS DUSK!

The seeds were sown in our subjugation

Then from hearts that felt proud and stout

Certain of their place in history

Driven by conviction uncommon

They mobilized and evangelized

Until in us a yearning was born

Which we carried forth

And our destiny we claimed

At last our own masters or so it seemed

We set off with ambition unstoppable

Dreams became reality by day

Serfs became masters, of their today and its tomorrow

Flags and coats of arms

Anthems and pledges

Airlines and Shipping lines

Embassies and High Commissions

We had arrived

Time, our only master, or so we thought

Then from within the kraal, the dissent broke ground

And flourished, in secret

Disguised by “Yes Sir” and “Yes Boss”

Until it attracted scaffolds

Sinister in intent

Our burgeoning edifice to collapse

And with folly we applauded the beginning of our own end

In the maze we wandered

Blindfolded by fury and gung-ho

Deceived by demagoguery and chicanery

Into the holy book we authored

And in it we heaped our hopes

From it we created ourselves and by it we hoped to realize ourselves

But from same we have unpicked the very yarn of our hope

For in it we are present

Always

Deviousness in tow

Self interest in step

It should be dawn but, honestly speaking, it is dusk

Kasise Ricky Peprah

The Siriguboy

I KNOW NOT, OF ANOTHER PEOPLE, WHO LOVE THEMSELVES SO LITTLE!

I KNOW NOT, OF ANOTHER PEOPLE, WHO LOVE THEMSELVES SO LITTLE!

“Change will not come if we wait for some other person or some other time. We are the ones we’ve been waiting for. We are the change that we seek.” — Barack Obama.

Dear Nyaaba,

In 1979 and then in 1981, the people of Ghana, arguably, ratified the uprisings that were orchestrated by a handful of young nondescript military saplings. At their head was an idealistic young flight lieutenant who was burning with rage at the dire straits of his fellow Ghanaians despite the country’s huge reserves of natural resources. That is how the belt-tightening began and the communal labour were introduced and insisted upon. We tightened our belts until our skeletal frames went askew.  Saturdays and any other day we were required, we rose with a zeal  that today will be deemed a mania, and we joined in communal labour, singing and dancing to crude instruments of music. No one could have foretold that all those years of sacrifice would come to naught, if anyone dared, they would have been roundly lynched for unpatriotic utterances. Qualitatively, Ghana may just be worse off today than it was in 1981. Anyone who wants to argue that can go ahead and satisfy themselves, as for me, I am marching on with my epistle.

Nyaaba, on what did we the optimists base our hope? Was it an illogical expectation that simple time would conjure progress or was it predicated upon the belief that the Ghanaian would change? Whatever the foundation on which we constructed this optimism, we are all completely disappointed. Mere time could not do it and we the citizens have remained resolutely us, never changing for the better, only specializing and excelling at how to take from a system already in dire straits. Along the line we conscripted religion to join us in continuously lulling the masses into inaction, with the result  that we have a large chunk of our society content to live miserable in the hope of paradise after death.“ Why then do we make a pastime of complaining?

Call my rants what you may, I will not lose sleep, for the sorry state of Ghana already keeps me awake.

Your descendant

The Siriguboy

POWER, THE DEVIL’S BREW?

It wasn’t too long ago that President Macky Sall was cited as the shining star of democracy in our region.

That he has finally revealed his essential nature, for it is said that power doesn’t change, it only reveals persons, and has exhibited his desire to cling to power, has finally answered a nagging question that has long troubled me.

I remember, sadly, also, that jnr Kabila once postponed elections in the DRC on account of no money to procure logistics and to organise elections. But time caught up on him. And he used the Anglophone formula.

Then and recently, I have had to wonder whether power is so intoxicating that once one gets a sip, one gets so hooked on its flavour that one loses common sense and most crucially, morality, the little of which finds its way into that quagmire .

And those two are not alone in their appetites, Monsieur Ouatarra, next door, is not exempt, it seems.

But don’t be fooled, the Anglophones have their game too, they rig elections in favour of their preferred candidate, sometimes their protégé, sometimes their buddy.

Essentially, power, a la African, which vests vast power in the hands of the executive and with no real effective controls has proved to be a sweet and maddening potion, that once tasted, holds hostage all principles and considerations.

Just thinking

@Siriguboy

!!

29th February 24 @ Costa de Oro

 UNO

Convenient principles

Without scruples

Yet at full blast our bugles

DOS

Woke to my brother’s arm ripped

While many a head was dipped,

Not in sorrow but from heads and hearts hollow

Steeping in misery their and our tomorrow

 TRES

We have journeyed so long

But to antiquity we still belong

We might as well, in the market square, beat the gong

And extract, oil up and set ready the guillotine

For there is where we are, in a billabong

Of civilization.

 QUATRO

With flowing gowns and ill-fitting crowns

Brandishing the crucifix and the crescent

Preaching brimstone and fire, Armageddon come

But with innards teeming with maggots

Folly, hypocrisy and cowardice galore.

 THE END

Now for sure our doom requires, to divine, no dice

@Siriguboy@24