An Elegy – By Kwame Okoampa-Ahoofe

 

Kwame Okoampa-Ahoofe
Asia 728x90

(For Rev.-Col. Emmanuel Boapea Boamah Sintim[-Brown] Aka Kwaku Brown, Retired Chaplain-General of the Ghana Armed Forces 1941-2017)

 

By Kwame Okoampa-Ahoofe

 

Part 1

 

When my only uncle’s

passing was announced

to me by phone

last eve,

across

the trundling waves,

I wept torrents

of tears…

there were five of you

on this side

when I arrived,

but you were

the only one

I could proudly

call my own,

the only one

who pledged yourself

to us,

till conjugal duties

partly tore us

apart,

it was not

your fault

but mine

for insisting

you treat me

like one

of your own,

I should have died

when I took

deathly ill

after those judges

were abducted

and slaughtered

in thickness

of night,

alas,

God didn’t let me

die,

S/He

would not let me

die

in premature

peace, I

guess…

when your passing

was passed on

to me across

the whistling waves,

I wept torrents

of tears

which were not

really tears

at all,

but reels

and reams

of memories

both good

and bad…

memories hauled in

by colorful

decoy baits

sewn to the mesh

hauled into buckets

of sound and

visual waves

across time

and space

long displaced

by the drift

of movement

and spent-shells

of what we would

rather not

remember…

the wayward

and wicked ways

of the remnants

of painful moments

lived and

forgotten

only to be rudely

washed ashore

and relived

all over

again,

things over which

the growing

man-child had

absolutely

no control –

that most painful

moment

when my dear Aunt

Bea,

your wife

got upset

and fed-up

with my

 criminally huge

appetite

’cause

the four-year-old’s

plate of rice

and beans

offered me

could barely

slip past

the base of

my throat,

my neck

when you are

looking in

from the outside…

when I got

rudely woken

from my half-eaten

dream in some sort

of suspended

animation

and got shoved

into Reverend

Kurt Bromley’s car,

it was a Golf,

curtly sent

on my way home

to Asiakwa,

to Grandpa Yawbe

Sintim…

that morning

was bitingly cold

heavily pregnant

with fog…

Grandpa Yawbe

Sintim,

nurturer

of the broken-hearted

the broken in

spirit and

soul and

mind,

nurturer

of the broken-hearted

rejected and

abandoned –

my parents

were cooling

their heels

abroad,

how neglectful,

my whole world

came crashing

and crumbling

like mud

in a mudslide…

I was 12

or 13 or perhaps

even 14,

I forget which

when the grim

and cold facts

of life and

the Stygian nakedness

of life

came into sharp

relief;

Grandma Akua Yeboaa

had already

waved me off

with the back

of her hand,

so there was

absolutely no talk

of taking

a leisurely stroll

underneath

the breezy

royal palms

of Kyebi,

I, Atoapoma,

who had been born

a slave

to parents

none seemed

to like,

I, Kwame Atoapoma,

born stark naked

and homeless,

save for an

occasional

kindly word or

two from you,

my dear uncle

Kwaku Brown…

once more,

tonight,

I stand

stark naked

on the banks

of this river-of-sin,

the moorings

of my mother’s

clansmen and

women, though

I have drunk

and washed

from the sources

of Awusu

Pusupusu

Amanapa and

Supong,

Birem and

Densu,

Twafuo and

Kankan-Sekyere…

once again,

I am all

alone

by Aboabo,

all broken-hearted

with only the shade

of my being

for clothes,

naked

to the depths

of my soul…

our elders

have said

it is

the water-carrier

who breaks

the crock –

Wofa Brown,

whatever your foibles

and blemishes

and flaws were,

you are still

the maker

of at least half

of what I am

today;

I stand here

on dry land

’cause it was you

Who first waded

across

the swamp,

with me comfily

seated astride

your shoulders –

my one

and only true

uncle,

my “Wofa”

’cause you allowed

me to take you

for granted,

and in so doing,

you gave me

a second chance

at life –

7/12/17

(RIP)