An old man tells a short tale to his children. Right besides them are their wives and his grandchildren resting in the bosom of their mothers. He narrates the tale around the warmth of the night fire. The rains came. All grass wet. The lands fertile for tillage. The flowers blossom, showing their petals gleefully to the sun.
As he walks through the resting grass, kicking dew off their straws, the old man prays the gods of the skies to bless his hands. He talks of his plantation.
“Oh my children You know
I have a large plantation
I have farmed acres
Of a vast number
And my harvest
has been bumper “
He pauses for claps. And continues.
“I have given you food
You have enough to fill
And enough to trade.
So I know that you are not hungry”
As he continues his tale, his audience remain excited. Though there are some moans, but everybody is asked to shush.
“So I am like no other
I am the best of fathers
Can’t you see how much
I gave you to eat
See your fat bellies”
As he continues to blow his trumpet amidst the cheers and ululations, midnight comes. The mothers snore. And the stomachs of the children rumble. The husbands tire and begin to walk into their rooms.
“So when you go to sleep
Remember what I have done
And don’t say anything other
I am your best father
I have farmed the most
And have given your food “
His voice echoes into the darkness and fills the skies. The cheers follow. Everyone else, possessed by his tale of glory and self appraisal, drag their cases to bed on empty tummies. And no hope for any food when morrow comes.
“But we believe
all that he say
For he tells us
what he has done
Our mouths are mute
So we can’t say
what it is that we feel”
One of his children mummers.
On a cold night, can someone tell our Ghanaian leaders that the warm tales they tell us of what they have done, do not give us cover against the cold we feel. They tell us what they have done, yes we hear, but they cannot tell us what we feel.
Lansah Lawrence 