Tuesday, 24 September 2013

RIP Kofi Awoonor and victims of violence

I'm supposed to be editing a customer's book right now, but I just feel numb. Working from home, sometimes I find myself in a vacuum where the outside world isn't looking in and I can miss the news for days. Today I went to read it and I'm still shocked. I'm referring to the coverage on the BBC website about the shootings in Kenya.

Unbelievable. I feel shocked and numb.

I just read through the entire list of victims mentioned. The gunmen threw grenades at people, including children. How could anyone do this? It is beyond me. What happened to their humanity? They said only non-Muslims would be targeted. How I wish people did not act in an aggressive manner to others because they are different - whether it is due to their sex, sexuality, clothing, colour or religion. It is always wrong... as any sane person knows.

Why do we still live in such a violent world? Where is the sense in violence? There isn't any. And there will never be any.

Why do children as young as 8 have to be cut down by a stream of bullets or torn apart by grenades for some nonsensical cause when there is no cause? There is no sense. It is just pure hatred.

In a way it makes you almost ashamed to be human - the sheer wastefulness of violence. The only reaction I have is one of sadness and disgust.

I'm sharing one of the poems by poet and writer Kofi Awoonor, who died on September 21. From 1990-94, he was Ghana's Permanent Rep to the UN, where he headed the committee against apartheid - fighting for peace and unity, against violence, and promoting the view that we are all equal.


This Earth, My Brother

The dawn crack of sounds known
rending our air
shattering our temples toppling
raising earthwards our cathedrals of hope,
in demand of lives offered on those altars
for the cleansing that was done long ago.
Within the airwaves we carry
our hutted entrails; and we pray;
shrieks abandoned by lonely road-sides
as the gunmen’s boots tramp.
I lift up the chalice of hyssop and tears
to touch the lips of the thirsty
sky-wailing in a million spires
of hate and death; we pray
bearing the single hope to shine
burnishing in the destiny of my race
that glinting sword of salvation.
In time my orchestra plays my music
from potted herbs of anemone and nim
pour upon the festering wounds of my race,
to wash forever my absorbent radiance
as we search our granary for new corn.
There was that miracle we hoped for
that salvation we longed for
for which we said many prayers
offered many offerings.

In the seasons of burning feet
of bad harvest and disastrous marriages
there burns upon the glint edge of that sword
the replica of the paschal knife.
The sounds rounded our lonely skies
among the nims the dancers gather their cloths
stretching their new-shorn hides off offered cows
to build themselves new drums.
Sky-wailing from afar the distant tramp
of those feet in rhythm
miming underneath them violence.
Along the roads lined with mimosas
the mangled and manacled are dragged
to the cheers of us all.
We strew flowers at the feet of the conquerors
beg for remission of our sins…

…He will come out of the grave
His clothes thrown around him;
worms shall not have done their work.
His face shall beam the radiance of many suns.
His gait the bearing of a victor,
On his forehead shall shine a thousand stars
he will kneel after the revelation
and die on this same earth.

And I pray
That my hills shall be exalted
And he who washes me,
breathes me
shall die.
They led them across the vastness
As they walked they tottered
and rose again. They walked
across the grassland to the edge of the mound
and knelt down in silent prayer;
they rose again led to the mound,
they crouched
like worshippers of Muhammed.
Suddenly they rose again
stretching their hands to the crowd
in wasteful gestures of identity
Boos and shrieks greeted them
as they smiled and waved
as those on a big boat journey.
A sudden silence fell
as the crowd pushed and yelled
into the bright sharp morning of a shooting.

They led them unto the mound
In a game of blindman’s bluff
they tottered to lean on the sandbags
Their backs to the ocean
that will bear them away.
The crackling report of brens
and the falling down;
a shout greeted them
tossing them into the darkness.

and my mountains reel and roll
to the world’s end.




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