From New York to Chorkor — An Optimal Time Path - Nana Fredua-Agyeman

I speak of nothing especially not of you
Who, tearing his singed ear-ringed ears, sold his
Haughty humiliated heart to his hunter
Who, hibernating within a cocoon of assumed innocence
Would have been wiped dry
By the dawn-morn sun
But like leaves which listen not
To the dews’ news
You lost your hold
And he moulted into a bulldozing caterpillar

I speak of what must be of our being
…or perhaps should have been
If not for deadly deeds our hands have done
And searing scenes our soaring eyes have seen

In its seamless seeming search for meaning or sign
My unkind mind did find a wine
A seller had left in the cellar to unsell
Or perhaps to resell to well our cells
But which, upon further fermentation,
Fortified our fractured friendship with reason
Making our minds a fertile field to fruit
Root and recruit mutilators for the harvests of souls

I paint a pretty picture with pure passion
On the path of Picasso
And they patiently unite with the silent elements
To suck, crack and crush the colours
Off the canvass,

Kwame Nkrumah
             Jomo Kenyatta
                         Patrice Lumumba
                                     Steve Biko
                                                 Ken Saro-Wiwa
                                                             Nelson Mandela

Midnight light-censored life-imprisoned impressionists
Long-term time-tested thirsty surrealists

Prophets are not made
If you don’t believe it ask your God
Or your great great great grandmother
Whose bones are lost beneath stalagmites of green grass

To escape his wickedness
They walked back backwardly
Through mad halls
Through mud walls
And through floors and doors

                                                             Sani Abacha
                                                 Mobutu Sesseko
                                     Idi Amin
                         Foday Sanko
             Charles Taylor
Jonas Savimbe

The cart is before the horse now
And the pushers are before the cart
With their forty fore-feet firmly fixed in concrete
…pushing and ushering the passengers
Shamelessly through…
Demented halls
Granite walls
Floors
And doors
Into the enchanting chambers of charms and chains
Into the enchanting chambers of chains and pains

The train is railing waywardly
Toward the emergency ward
Of the fern-fortified,
Bent-bed ramshackle clinic…
The rails are all roller-coaster crooked
Hooked unto their over-bloating gloating greed

To feed these greeds
To sate these insatiable palates
They took the land many a yore
From New York
             …to Chorkor
Without regard to the lore