Showing posts with label Brong Ahafo Region. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Brong Ahafo Region. Show all posts
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Ghana farming - Kasapin July 2010.
As I write this I am sat in the middle of the African rainforest. The sound of tropical birds calling out to each other echoes in my ears. Insects project themselves, aware of their presence only by the abundance of noise they make, unthreatened.
I am sat on a tree that has fallen to the ground, sliced down by my host father's machete. Only three weeks ago I was in this same spot with Gifty, my host-sister, the only difference being I was sat under a tree and not perched on its side adjacent the ground.
Nana is clearing his land to farm some more plantain and cocoa trees, he tells me his father father gave him this land, "it is all mine, seven acres of it." I sit here in the Sub-Saharan desert in his seven acres, untouched by civilisation, unencountered.
The only thing these seven acres see are the people who love it for what it can provide, the weather and God.
God to which Nana just sat and prayed to before planting his first plantain sucker. I question these actions. Nana said, " I asked God to protect me, to protect my farm" Nana then broke off into traditional African song, hammering the ground.
A leather skinned old man walks by, with someone who I assume is his son. The mans skin looks like you could upholster a custom made chair with it. The leather man smiles and waves his machete as a sign of acceptance. A killer Ant passes by to my right, reminding me of an armoured soldier and the bites that the group received clearing the playground.
Nana calls to me, in broken English he tells me to pass him some plantain suckers. Some of them are rotten, or at least they smell that way. They are an alien finger reaching out through the ground and upwards, beyond, as if calling home.
I am told to go and rest, Nana and I laugh, we are reminded of an earlier conversation, how western life was too fast and that the important things like family and rest are left to pass by.
An oak coloured grasshopper makes an appearance, it doesn't move from my sight for over half an hour, sitting undisturbed; unless Nana makes a request about knowing the contents of my 'report', which he says is very nice.
Nana breaks from planting and asks me, "what are you going to do when you go back to England...teach, be a politician?"
I laugh and Nana joins in, we share yet another joke. I tell him that it is not very likely that I get into politics, I tell Nana that I don't like politicians, "they talk too much" he replies.
Several Ants pass and Nana chops down a rather stubborn tree, he has been doing so for the past ten minutes.
Crack! The crash of leaves and a dull thud, the tree has surrendered. The wind has changed and I can feel a chill in the air, rain is coming.
I am sat on a tree that has fallen to the ground, sliced down by my host father's machete. Only three weeks ago I was in this same spot with Gifty, my host-sister, the only difference being I was sat under a tree and not perched on its side adjacent the ground.
Nana is clearing his land to farm some more plantain and cocoa trees, he tells me his father father gave him this land, "it is all mine, seven acres of it." I sit here in the Sub-Saharan desert in his seven acres, untouched by civilisation, unencountered.
The only thing these seven acres see are the people who love it for what it can provide, the weather and God.
God to which Nana just sat and prayed to before planting his first plantain sucker. I question these actions. Nana said, " I asked God to protect me, to protect my farm" Nana then broke off into traditional African song, hammering the ground.
A leather skinned old man walks by, with someone who I assume is his son. The mans skin looks like you could upholster a custom made chair with it. The leather man smiles and waves his machete as a sign of acceptance. A killer Ant passes by to my right, reminding me of an armoured soldier and the bites that the group received clearing the playground.
Nana calls to me, in broken English he tells me to pass him some plantain suckers. Some of them are rotten, or at least they smell that way. They are an alien finger reaching out through the ground and upwards, beyond, as if calling home.
I am told to go and rest, Nana and I laugh, we are reminded of an earlier conversation, how western life was too fast and that the important things like family and rest are left to pass by.
An oak coloured grasshopper makes an appearance, it doesn't move from my sight for over half an hour, sitting undisturbed; unless Nana makes a request about knowing the contents of my 'report', which he says is very nice.
Nana breaks from planting and asks me, "what are you going to do when you go back to England...teach, be a politician?"
I laugh and Nana joins in, we share yet another joke. I tell him that it is not very likely that I get into politics, I tell Nana that I don't like politicians, "they talk too much" he replies.
Several Ants pass and Nana chops down a rather stubborn tree, he has been doing so for the past ten minutes.
Crack! The crash of leaves and a dull thud, the tree has surrendered. The wind has changed and I can feel a chill in the air, rain is coming.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Refracted Light.
The Sun sets in the sky
I look up
and gasp.
The twilight moment fills the air,
birds flocking to its back drop
A mirror image from its right,
cirrus clouds captivating a moment
holding on to it.
A spherical gallery,
I distinguish which way is West
I cannot locate a border of this light horizon.
Islamic song breaks through
wishing the Sun a fond farewell.
The break of day will be welcomed with prayer
as the birds process the same song.
A trival tweet, a religious fete,
all dancing and praising the same drum.
A melodic day time wonder
waving hello to the night.
Hello fair moon where art thou?
I shall sing you the same song.
A poem inspired by my surroundings of day to night and back again, Kasapin, Brong Ahafo Region, Ghana.
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