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