An Elegy – Part 2 By Kwame Okoampa-Ahoofe, Jr.

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Kwame Okoampa-Ahoofe, Jnr., Ph.D.

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

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Memory

has a funny way

of playing tricks

with our minds,

at 50,

when the intellectual

equivalent of

rigor mortis

begins to catch up

with us…

Wofa,

I just realized

your first given

European name

was Eugene,

not Emmanuel…

in those days,

when Western civilization

was the IT

and we were

fervid supplicants

at the crossroads

waiting to be

psycho-spiritually

cleansed and

let in…

yes,

I just realized

Emmanuel

is the first name

of Wofa Kwabena Okwanin,

who at 87,

has outlasted

all the males

of your breed

and age,

except for

Uncle Kudjoe,

Leslie George,

the last

and funniest

of you all –

that silly one

who stood

at the edge of

Grandpa Sintim’s grave

and asked

which of you

would be next

to face

the blank wall

of death…

our forebears

must have been

a civilized lot,

indeed…

Leslie George,

it is about all

there is

to the man,

as far as

my rack of

memories

is concerned –

I guess

longevity

has afforded me

the right

to scold

and even

insult…

when mother passed,

and we met

to collate and

reconcile

accounts,

it was Uncle Kudjoe

who brought in

that divinely carved

phallus;

I suppose it was

a wooden replica

of his own

penis,

definitely

of genius make,

for sure…

I gave that dirty

old schmuck

that stern look

of death;

he got my drift

and quickly stashed

it away,

that wayward slob

of a dog,

I love him

pretty much

all the same,

in spite

of myself –

in retrospect,

I realize

we needed

his brand of

foolery

for comic

relief,

oh, great bard

of Avon,

it shall not

be long till

we all

dissolve

into dust,

I am dust

therefore

I rise

and rain

like

clouds…

that silly old

salamander,

he called

the old lady once

from Lebanon,

where he was

peacekeeping,

might just as well

have been

pussy-keeping,

or cunt-keeping,

or dick-shooting,

who gives

a fuck,

to tell her

his end

was near,

doctors treating him

for an unknown

disease

had told him

so…

that bloody

pussy-scrambler

and ass-licker,

I huffed

underneath

my breath…

as usual,

Mum was all

beside herself

with sorrow

and pain,

I couldn’t care less

and swore

it was all

a hoax,

very likely Aids

contracted

from a whore,

my Uncle Kudjoe

is a first-class

whore…

well,

good news is,

even as I write,

Uncle Kudjoe

is still alive

as he ought to,

I have more jokes

to share

the next time

we meet;

I know that

curmudgeon

like the back

of my palms,

he may not like

this portrait

of his,

but he darn well

knows I couldn’t

care less;

he made this bed

upon which I

must put him

to sleep,

the sleep

of he-whores

and naked

kings –

7/13/17