*Let me sit my somewhere*
I see people go
I see people come
Is there anything happening hereabouts or thereabouts?
Oh, let me sit my somewhere
It’s no business of mine
To nosepoke into fires in the hearth
In other people’s homes
That’s bad manners, bad manners
So we’ve been told
From good habits of old
Which we mustn’t put on hold,
Rather enjoined steadfastly to uphold,
They could be roasting a toad
Or they could be smoking a roach
But then, none of my business to encroach,
They could be dancing to the kakaracha,
Oh, let me sit my somewhere
I’m not a cockroach,
But then the scent from a smoking toad,
Wafting on the air just across the road
Could be sickening and it gives cold comfort
Oh, my belly bottom is retching
And ready to implode
I fear my belly will cave in if I throw
So nobody can tell me something?
Here I am sitting my somewhere
I see them go to the Airport
To and fro
They go
To and fro
They come
Just like visitations to the teaching hospital
Yet, there is no dokita (doctor) around
Nor do norses (nurses) abound
I see strange strangers
I see weird ladies in fine laces
Crime is writ 3D on their faces
They seem people who go places
I smell a rat cooking in an African cauldron
Or could it be a python simmering in
Obe nla (big soup)
In a gargantuan African cooking pot?
Strange scents evoke fanciful imaginings
Of the goings-on and the goings-under
So nobody will say me something,
Anything juicy to quench my thirsty African curiosity?
But I get krokro (20/20) eyesight oh
And I get bloodhound olfactory nerves oh
Ibe, I get pin-pricked rabbit-like ears oh,
Only way the thing my eyes don see
My mouth no fit talk oh
My mouth dey fit shut like a clam oh
To and fro
Fro and to
They play seesaw with their entrée and exit
Like the tides at the shore
Ebb and flow,
They reap but do not sow
As they say, no one defecates without stooping,
To the Airport they go to and fro
But these don’t work at Airport
Neither do they work anywhere
Yet they drive German posh cars,
Eat Russian caviar, smoke Havana cigars,
Drink French Cognac, Scotch whisky, Italian
Wine and wear vintage Spanish or Moroccan leather
Shoes, even American stiletto–heeled shoes,
Besides, munch Hungarian sausage and English fish and chips,
They strut about with lazy bone girls,
Girls who dunno how to get a life,
They fit no sane man’s criteria for a wife
He-men adorn their bodies
With satanic tattoos and ensigns
They wear expensive garbs and habiliments
Fit for kings and queens
Yet, their outfit taste is an outrageous distaste –
Chains, rings, jewellery of sorts
Adorn ears, noses, necks, fingers, ankles and toes
In the wrong and most unlikely places,
Tongues, navels and genitalia also,
Above this cacophonous riot,
The never missing high society perfumes
Suffuse and gag the air,
They have affectation for the gang rag-tag,
They shit expensive shit oh, oga
Yet they covet my simpleton style,
My brother, my sister, these 419s are true to type,
Nowhere cool at all at all oh,
I bet my bottom, they envy my unsung stool
Perhaps, it has not stunk enough oh,
To merit the media limelight,
Perhaps, I need to do a great publicity stunt,
Today is party day,
They blare funky rap music at the loudest,
The way it happens all over the city
When there are funerals the Ghanaian way,
So are they partying or holding
Their own funereal funerals,
Before d-day when the storm breaks?
They dance the dance of the uneasy rich,
They fake fake happiness,
Oh my brother, my sister,
Their inside no cool at all at all oh,
They drive on the suicidal fast lane of life
Abi, but me, I dey my corner oh,
Let me sit my somewhere oh,
Ino be cockroach oh!
One day, yes it took only a day,
Their secret leapt out of the gate
Like a freshly caught fish out of the basket,
A kid brought from up country
Spilt the beans,
He let the cat out of the bag
Yes, he spewed the beans like hot potatoes,
It was indeed a birds’ whisper,
‘You know what, they cook magic powder
Day and night
So they get dollar power here and there,
They sell to throwers and couriers
At Kotoka International Airport (KIA)
Perimeter in Accra,
We count dollars day and night
In wads, rolls and bundles,
Oh, you can smell the dough in our domicile
Blah, blah, black sheep------------------------
Oh, so magic powder is secret of their
Dollar power?
Cocaine, they call it?
My brother, my sister,
Let me sit my somewhere,
Nowhere cool oh, at all, at all oh
I no ibe cockroach oh! And Ino be
Kakaracha or nkakaraka oh!
Cocaine is cooking and brewing a storm,
When cooked,
They will eat and shit and sneeze,
The scent will create a stench,
Soon, they will swoon and ‘quench’
With BNI and FBI hot on their trail,
They will shrink and resist drinks
Their tails will shrink between their legs,
They will gnaw at their fingernails
And their faces will become crescent–shaped
But me, they think I’m a snail and a stinker,
Yet we all go reach our destination,
Oga, let me sit my somewhere oh,
Where I see them go and come,
To and fro, to and fro
In East Legon and Spintex Road
They live in majestic mansions of the Gold Coast,
But me oh, Ino be son of a smoking gun
To be constantly on the run
I run no business of illicit rum
I will sit still on my bum
Whilst they go to and fro, to and fro,
Let me sit my somewhere,
Somewhere on the fence
Where I’m risk-averse
My decision has no reverse
