A Poem by Kofi Awoonor who was killed in the massacre at the mall in Nairobi Kofi Awoonor was born in Ghana in 1935 in the small farming village of Wheta, the son of a tailor and a chieftain’s daughter. He was educated at the University of Ghana and studied further in London and New York. Awoonor’s poetry, rooted in the oral poetry of his history, has kept close to the vernacular rhythms of African speech and poetry. “It is for this reason I have sat at the feet of ancient poets whose medium is the voice and whose forum is the village square and the market place.” This Earth, My Brother The dawn crack of sounds known rending our air shattering our temples toppling raising earthwards our cathedrals of hope, in demand of lives offered on those altars for the cleansing that was done long ago. Within the airwaves we carry our hutted entrails; and we pray; shrieks abandoned by lonely road-sides as the gunmen’s boots tramp. I lift up the chalice of hyssop and tears to touch the lips of the thirsty sky-wailing in a million spires of hate and death; we pray bearing the single hope to shine burnishing in the destiny of my race that glinting sword of salvation. In time my orchestra plays my music from potted herbs of anemone and nim pour upon the festering wounds of my race, to wash forever my absorbent radiance as we search our granary for new corn. There was that miracle we hoped for that salvation we longed for for which we said many prayers offered many offerings. In the seasons of burning feet of bad harvest and disastrous marriages there burns upon the glint edge of that sword the replica of the paschal knife. The sounds rounded our lonely skies among the nims the dancers gather their cloths stretching their new-shorn hides off offered cows to build themselves new drums. Sky-wailing from afar the distant tramp of those feet in rhythm miming underneath them violence. Along the roads lined with mimosas the mangled and manacled are dragged to the cheers of us all. We strew flowers at the feet of the conquerors beg for remission of our sins… …He will come out of the grave His clothes thrown around him; worms shall not have done their work. His face shall beam the radiance of many suns. His gait the bearing of a victor, On his forehead shall shine a thousand stars he will kneel after the revelation and die on this same earth. And I pray That my hills shall be exalted And he who washes me, breathes me shall die. They led them across the vastness As they walked they tottered and rose again. They walked across the grassland to the edge of the mound and knelt down in silent prayer; they rose again led to the mound, they crouched like worshippers of Muhammed. Suddenly they rose again stretching their hands to the crowd in wasteful gestures of identity Boos and shrieks greeted them as they smiled and waved as those on a big boat journey. A sudden silence fell as the crowd pushed and yelled into the bright sharp morning of a shooting. They led them unto the mound In a game of blindman’s bluff they tottered to lean on the sandbags Their backs to the ocean that will bear them away. The crackling report of brens and the falling down; a shout greeted them tossing them into the darkness. and my mountains reel and roll
Posted on: Tue, 24 Sep 2013 00:51:26 +0000
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