I hate to fill my wall with the wails of death

Icy death, who knows not nobleman from commoner

Who nips the beauteous flowers before they seed

Very rudely reminding us that life is but a fleeting breath

I never knew Komla in person

Never shook his firm hand or regaled in his laughter

But I knew his voice like I knew my own

And he was the virtual uncle I so adored

Way back in Ghana, on the super morning show

He was the only reason I turned on the radio

The sophistication. The class. The richness in his voice

Floored me every single morning I heard him sing

When he moved on to the BBC

I lamented the loss of my favorite broadcaster

And wondered where I’d get my morning news

Until I realized Ghana’s star wasn’t mine to keep

Years later, I screamed for joy

When he accepted my friend request on Facebook

From a distance I marveled at his wonderful work

And the utmost humility with which he carried it out

I never had to delve too deeply into the news

Because I had my own celebrity-friend

From whom I could get the inside story

And with whom I could travel to palaces and hamlets

I swore someday I’d get interviewed by him

And hear that deep baritone voice in person

I watched from afar as he raised his children

And wanted to be a daddy just like him

And then I woke up this morning to the ominous news

A clouded newsfeed. Whispered dirges. Komla, my Komla, is no more…

Unbelieving, I clicked right through to his wall

To be met by a deafening silence and unanswered questions

I still refuse to believe the news - and probably never will

Was it not only yesterday he took his little daughter to school?

Did he not console us with his eulogy for Awoonor and Madiba?

How then could he possibly join them so soon?

Oh, Efo Komla, please tell me this is not true

Togbe Tenuvi Afetor, please like my post and tell me all is well

Boss Player, please please tell me this is just a cruel joke

Tell me it will come some day but just not today

Mama Kwansema, I weep with you

Elorm, Selorm & Emefa your daddy was my hero

Dumor Family, I share your pain

Mother Ghana, our son is no more

For the days of man are indeed like grass

But some grass grow tall and manage to bear flowers

And what a flower Komla was

A brilliant flower that smiled so bright

That even in the land of our ancestors he’ll be our shining star

Damirifa due, Uncle Komla, Damirifa Due…