The Match To The Flagstaff House

They will come and go

whose promises are weighed

measured and found wanting.

Victory fallen on the hands which went higher

from minds heavy which can’t be sustained.

Dark sky gave birth rejoicing

and victory song chanting

when the quest at last attained.

In joy their tooting horns wept

their vuvuzelas failed not to proclaim.

They flooded the streets in their numbers

in borrowed colours and flags

which on their neck and waist hanged
with dances which have lost its shame.

The march to the flagstaff house is on

some to fill their pockets full

others to hoot and at her loot

while I wonder if they will indeed serve

in a house divided,

stained with vindictive blood

echoing in the mind’s eye

all pointing at this same hand.

Ghana was in labour

her wedding cloth she now wears

marching along with her born child across the seas.

Let no hand remove her gown

her bright cloth taint

or her baby kill

till the end of time.  



N.B 
Down memory lane with election 2016.