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| Fredua-Agyeman Nana |
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Chapter #: 6
Updated On: 26 December 2005 - Words Count: 1056 - Number of Reads: 200 |
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The Mo’ Crassy
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(To the Sheepskin Dictators)
Based on Ngugi wa Thiong’o’s Weep Not Child
Blue Beaks
Red Talons
White Heart...Black
Flying across the Atlantic,
The Mediterranean,
The Sahara,
The Kalahari
Into the heart of a fertile womb
...Eager Eagles that beak to blind
Red Talons penetrating skulls
Blood rivering from ball-missing sockets
Talons and Beaks cracking and breaking brains
Seeding acorns of crass philosophies into loamy grounds
Devoid of the thorns and the spines of the sower;
Stars of slaps stir and swirl
As playing Eagles in the Desert Storm;
Stripes of strikes screech
...On the land of plenty
Many famine and thirst to death;
Few brave Boros burn at stake
Effigies of flags and statues;
Those few protestors of trampling freedom
Are ferreted out from
Their underground hideouts
Like those village rats;
Cities strolled by lingering souls of powerless Boros;
By giant senseless manoeuvring manic machines—
Youthful cornfields foil underneath rolling chains
Stalks and straws and stubbles burn in ceaseless explosions
...With the seedlings destroyed and the roots uprooted
Many famine and thirst to death!
In the peaceful home of peace
They plant wild seeds into fertile wombs
Acrid air gathers above in a cloudy mood
And from within the moody sky
Fall food for fishes—grains impregnated
With slaughtering Lead and Steel toys
...From the heavens, it rains death
In masquerade of life;
In the name of God,
They burn butterhills of barley.
What is meant to be for all
As is their preach
Are forced on the few they knew to chew;
Earthquake of burning sounds
Encapsulate the wood and thatch village
And with cruel oil they attempt to put out
The resulting flames—
Mass graves of toddling octogenarians
Scatter across the village
...All in the name of allowing
The Mo’ Crassy to Rule!
Angry smoke swirl from inner barrels
And churn blood from the chagrin crowd
Who would remain not as stooges
With stones we match their tier-pelting pellets
With poisoned assegais their missiles
With our bootless soles we walk the streets they roll
With sheepskin cuirass we face their rolling armours
With nothing we match them all!
With thunderous vibrations the True-Sheep are vanquished
And in shame go a-bleating into their shack kraals
With bleeding tails tied between their hind limbs
And plastered eyes of pirates seeping teary blood
...We become Guinea Pigs
Of their endless research—
Test Breeds of dauntless experiments
Carried out in the Five Piece Powerhouse
The Waruhius and Jacobos of the land
Made so by a surging inherent greed—
Scavengers of the oppressors
Hyenaeous vultures—
Elevated as Elite of modernisation very much unknown
Even to them propagandists
—A fibroid civilisation sown in the womb of the land!
From their white castles along the green Masai slopes
In travesty of their masters
We kneel unto them—
Whilst they in turn to them
—Their GRAND MASTERS
On the mountaintop;
Into the burning oubliettes with four metal walls
One foot by one foot by one foot
They damp, doom to die,
Those who ratiocinatively challenge their cyanic thoughts
—The Johns of Patmosland;
On the line they throw those who won’t let go
—The Saro-Wiwas,
The Bikos,
The Lumumbas;
Yet, is Black dark?
Is White wisdom?
Wisdom lies not in earthlies—
Lead nor
Iron nor
Aluminium nor
Their alloys
Nor mortal strength
But in Earthlings
Mandela, Malcolm, Lumumba,
Kenyatta, Nkrumah, Luther-King
Sheepishly sprayed wolf
Genetically engineered Ewes
Finally, apocalyptically,
Bleat their hidden howls
Which resonate through the squatting huts
In the barren valleys
With goose-bumpy fear,
Nerve-racking agony
Heart-bleeding terror
...Deafening the ears of many...
Yet ears must very much not hear
Eyes must not shutter their shots
From the Turban Oil Fields
Across the Valleys and Slopes
To the Chadron Sandy Fields
Their bullying voices echo—their Rule of The Mo’ crassy
Continues
...Though they, in their lavish homes,
Are not ruled by The Mo’ Crassy,
But by them who are
Blood-born and blood-bond;
The Eagles flying ever deeper
The Sheep running ever faster
The Lions roaring ever louder
That which they assist to destroy
Rules them back home—those dangling appendices
The Lions—
Ruled by their bloodlines—
Sir Lord Baron
And such vague appellations!
Whilst our lines ripple concentrically
On eccentric pools of blood;
Chains locked in tongues
Tongues locked in chains:
Lips at gunpoint
Guns at lippoint;
Eyes must be blind to see
Ears must be deaf to hear
Brains must involuntarily
Shut itself down like a fired up gas station—
Blocked by glimpses of merciless machines
Parading the doorsteps of innocent citizens
...The True-Sheep are locked in their weather-stained kraals
...The Lion-hearted opposers stuck in the four walls or lined
...The Elevated Elite staffed and badged
And so...
Our mining-fields fill the pockets of their red priestly robes
Our sweaty skins soak their large pockets
Our bloody fingers fill their baggy stomach—
The propagandists of the Blue-Beak Eager-Eagle;
Whilst the sweat, tear and blood of the sufferers
Flow infinitely onward in the rift,
The preachers practise not their preach
The Elevated Elite live in concrete castles
With diamond glasses and drink red wines from red berries;
The Ngothos live under crispy palm-fronds
Covering termite-infested mud houses
With leaking kettles, draining eating bowls
And water soaked fireplace;
That Bleary Bush of Pyrethrums separates
The Howlands from the ‘Gothos
On the way to their castles, we live in our rickety huts
They zoom pass everyday and blow dust into our blazing eyes
Whilst we drag on our blistered souls
Whilst we wobble our Soweto-limbs on precipice grounds
And graze our dying cattle on lichen limpet land of the forgotten!
Amongst us
They still live
Their injustice arrest the hearts of the many
Who look no further than the pouch of their paunch
Who enthrone materiality on morality’s seat
Who only hears the churns of their tines
Who dance with the rhythmic cries of countless souls;
In the name of The Mo’ Crassy
We sold ourselves;
In the name of The Mo’ Crassy
We cheat and eat us alive
In the name of The Mo’ Crassy
They and us kill us!
The light is waning
Darkness is falling
Weep not, children
That anarchy has been bestowed upon us!
Cannot the centre hold? |
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LITERARY 
