No Longer By The Fire's Side

Tell me what you know about her, (that random woman wailing by the street) except for the fact that you are sure she cries for a man whom she never really knew. You do know her, no? Tell me more about her, tell me all about that poisonous gift of a night when she rolled over, reached out for her loving anchor, and found him colder than their last fight. Tell me you know how it feels, those three seconds after realisation hits, when your stomach and heart both forget their responsibilities to keep your life and begin to grab wildly at your throat, daring you to breathe... breathe those breaths he will never again have... Tell me you were there, tell me of course you understood her wails, wails that were leaving her body like they were entrails decided upon by the rudest cannibal. Tell me you understood then, that little shuffle she did bent double, her hands on her head and then trying to grab hold of the sky... the way she couldnt seem to stand being in her own skin... and those things she kept screaming... those wailing dirges... she was clawing at the Earth... she was asking Her to give her back her lifeline... Tell me you saw that all then, but you are still not sure why she cries for this man; because you are sure you know all about her? Right? So you can tell me why she has left her house wearing the same cloth she hid herself in when they were trying to remind themselves about who her husband was and how much he had meant to them. Why she is walking past this mans body, beating her chest... bidding him farewell... calling him father... crying... shamelessly... why should she be doing this??? Before you tell me she is just putting on a show, help me understand what you know of symbolism, patriotism, your own culture, and respect. Tell me know why you greet your elders sitting from the right to left and when it is right to wear white to a funeral. Tell me you understand the significance of libation, tell me you know how to cook on a bukyia, tell me you have caressed the soil of your grandmothers farm between your city-bred hands, and tell me how you are in constant awe of how delicious that local dialect drips from your mothers lips when she is chattering with her sisters. Tell me how a mother can look at her eldest son of sixteen with heartbreak in her mouth and say Kwabena, your father is no more, you are the man of the house now and she who bore him, will respect him as such. Tell me you understand why your grandfather will sit quietly whiles caught in the middle of a disagreement between fowls, and why he does not spit on his enemys widow when he meets her on the way to his farm. When you are done with that, explain to me what it means to be the one to write the national anthem of a country. To be the one to immortalize the heartbeat of a piece of land that blatantly refuses to see anymore dark days and will run with its freedom like a woman with the thunder given courage to leave both the lips that kiss her and the hand that strikes her. Tell me what you would write on that sheet of paper; tell me what you would write to make sure every child to be a parent will understand that every time they placed their hands on their chest and sang those words they will not be for nothing. That those words will weigh heavy on their tongues and yank at their hearts and wrestle with their thoughts... so that they would have this unyielding need to live those words... to teach them to their sons. Tell me what these words mean: I am proud to be Ghanaian. Tell me. So when you can tell me that, you can explain to me the concept of living for something larger than yourself, that sense of community that is the embodiment of our people. You can

now tell me how feasible it is now to have your next-door neighbour come to your home at the time of your sisters death and weep and wail louder than your silent grief-striken mother, who will in turn thank her, because your 21st Century intelligence did manage to see the silent message that passed between them: <Adwoa ,me nua, due wai? I will cry those tears that are caught in your throat for you, its the least I can do. I will carry this burden with you. I will hurt with you. Akosua was my child too... A mother should never have to bury her child...> Then tell me you understand what place respect for authority, and authoritys respect for itself and the people, has in our way of life. So you know how to speak to authority, how to speak concerning authority, when to speak about authority... even when that authority is dead, and his funeral is expensive... or when he was alive even... and said ecominy... So tell me that woman cannot weep and wail because her President is dead. Tell me that even if this death should not remind her of a dead husband, she has no business wailing for her President. Go and tell her, that he was just a good man... not her President... her President...

My grandmother has two farms... I have never caressed soil from them between my city-bred hands...
KayCupes