In the palace of the oppressor, the sword massacres

Dennis Ghanaweb Denis Andaban

Tue, 24 May 2022 Source: Denis Andaban

From their innocent looks,

To their words and actions,

One sees nothing more than a united force to plunder.

They have moved from the secret shrines,

To the village market,

Only to announce their deeds in pride and power.

They wage their tails

And shake their protruded balloons, Signalling that,

They hold the sword,

The one which can massacre their foes in multitude.

They choreographed in an orderly procession, Singing out their next paths of greed, wickedness, and aggrandizement.

When the sun goes down,

They return to the decorated palace to celebrate the success of their choreography.

In their celebration, cutlery dances from their fingers to their mouths

While another glass full of blood-liked water awaits them,

To wash down their throats

Yet the men in tattered clothes return from their farms tired, hungry, and hopeless!

In their quest for water and grains,

The announcement of another poll tax is heard from the palace.

With pain, the hungry farmer takes to his piano,

To sing dirges even as he is urged to cough out a mole to feed the king.

Later at night and in the brightest light at the palace,

Drops of moles on the shinny and glassy corridors,

Are raked and taken into the dustbin,

Awaiting disposal by the next servant.

Such has become the ritual at the Kings' heaven.

The dirges are listened to by a multitude of servants. He is quite aware that his dirges dare not cross the air,

To the palace and even When it does,

It must be soothing for the sleep of the King.

It has become taboo to sound unpleasant to the King.

Yes, that is how it has been ever since the King was installed!

Now, men have become women.

Even the few and poor heroes knock their chests,

Only in their compounds.

The voices of dignity,

The linguists and orators, Prefer the song of silence,

For reasons, the gods are yet to reveal.

Until the revelations of the gods on the next step,

The man with catapult, cutlass, and hoe shall continue to count the suns and moons

And only whistle pain at farms.

Columnist: Denis Andaban