I

When a haunting silence befalls our land, as in a graveyard solitude,

Not with you, not with a stranger, let alone with a foe, I dare to share 

In the incandescent light, of everyday banter, of everyday platitude

Waxing, waning, in a welcoming warmth, of a people, unafraid to share

How often I mumble, but to myself, with no one with whom to talk!

I seem like a troubled mind, who, at my own shadow, into a smile I beam

How often you grumble, but to yourself, with no one with whom to talk!

You seem like a muddled mind; when agitated, you shadowbox to let off steam.

II.

Now, we know his kind of antics; he who forces upon us a stern silence

While high on adolescent innocence, we wager, when we play at marbles

When a bully overrules a rule, we put up with him, in a stoic silence

Still, hit or miss, winning, fair and square, makes for a good game of marbles

But when might rules the roost, the fabled strongman overrules our choice 

As missing the virtues of candor, of valor, of ardor; so, imposes on us his will

Bourgeois vices, says he, so vile, so vain, can’t, at the polls, pull off a fair choice

But relents when he reckons a legion’s indomitable will wilting his mortal will.

III

Wasn’t Asantewaah, the warrior queen, seemed as playing at marbles

While her men played possum, when a scoffer made demeaning demands?  

But her ground she stood, such as we wait out a bully at a game of marbles.

So, too, by a votive will, a people outwit the strongman’s domineering demands.

Now, a new matriarch bears a creed, but no sword of a queen warrior

Secular, prosecutorial, magisterial, she holds court to protect kith from kin

She abides the doctrine of “vox pupoli, vox Dei”, but no ideologue warrior

 Our matriarch cradles us in her ample bosom, cuddling kith and kin

IV.

Now, therefore, the glory of our people’s compact:

We the people have staked a claim to freedom’s story

As coops spring to life on a dewy African dawn, we enact,  

As cocks crow a revitalizing, timeless ritual, our story

Our heralds bear tidings, in images, as in a mirror held to the face,

Crooning, oohing, aahing, in cheers, in jeers, in heat, in wind, in rain, in a chill,

They bream our people’s travails onto our people, into the mind, the heart, onto the face

Still, above the day-long din of shrill voices lies freedom story’s thrill

Poet: Roland O. Akosah

October 23, 2024

J.H. Kwabena Nketia Conference Hall

University of Ghana,

Legon.