What happened on 29th March is a call to reason. To reason on politics and the problems that it brings. By solemn appeal, we are to reflect and refresh our minds always, on how our predicaments are being booed in our own courtyard.
The sky was blue, yet bloomed, for an unanimated President. His day was a shine, in the shrines of government. The cult of his country, even though without trial, has been jailed for mistrust, suspicion, and austerity. A magnificent chair, that chants the ghosts of 16 century dukes, has to suck crude oil in order to serve his sitting for its namesake. Security from the government fist was enough to serve as a fingerprint in refuting the thumbprints of the people whose monies were being spent. Though it stinks, it never penetrated through the skins of the ordinaries, whom with a tiny bouquet of political flowers, will celebrate as if a Victorian Queen has arrived in Gold Coast.
When the President wanted to bathe in the sky, the sweat of his entangled subordinates was enough to shower him with a condensed joy from all who were utterly breathing the vapors of toils. This President, when he was behind the gates, six years ago; had a voice, being weary as a political hustler, was a mixture of venom and honey. During that time the political rhetoric filter of Ghanaians was in repairs, and the repairer, had been shot dead by several bullets from the guns of corruption. Hence, our students and the unemployed graduates were made to believe that the honey was from bees. The venoms, only from the earthworms, but not from vipers.
He was eventually opened, to enter straight into our miseries, thinking that we were step forward to outlive the woes. Now the honey is finished. And more venoms keep coming. We’ve been trapped in the citadel of vipers!
The morning dew on the 29th March, was neither contaminated nor screwed, it was cooled by systematic pulls of news that were good. It was as if the cosmos, while celebrating Kepler, heard an announcement that Newton had been resurrected. But the people were wrenched; they had been asked to explain the theories of Archimedes in the morning, only to find out in the evening that the Alchemy exams had been passed. And so, the President will glitter the evening success with a camera, to image his morning smile with a beam. The beam was an eviscerating machine from the government to ray our pockets towards their opaque business. Only a hit of a net in Abuja, was enough for us to be convergent. A divergent attention from our miseries!
It was a levy on which all our problems have been electronically queried. Its emergence was like a fury, as if Ghana’s destiny has refused to go into civility. Democracy and populism had wrestled with rambling turns; one was indeed, separating powers, the other was orchestrating loud voices. But the orchestra couldn’t parade the powers, and so their melodies had to be shut for a call to order.
One of the powers will remind the people that Dracon is not dead. They will sit in the erudite architectural monument, beautifully designed by Magna Carta the famous Draconian architect. Their levying, though not levied electronically, have to be rallying in favor of problems that are to be varied against the demoralized people. Their voice was Churchill, but the words were Hitler.
To the Major-filthiest, it was historical, to the Minor-uglies, it was grotesque. But both know that, they and the Jury-shanties echoes the same profanities.
The President, though not in the seaming yard on the 29th, his silk was there. To be seam to fashion his electronic shirt. A shirt he intends to wear by all means. His tailor was a blood; a grumpy gentleman who appeared first, like a nobleman in London, but now look like a hunted Nazi soldier. His eyes wallow beautifully for an inattentive audience, with a smile, covering too many vessels of Ghana’s economy. His vitality, now a liability.
He has borrowed all the sweets of the people, as if Yale was like a grocery trail. Now, he fails, even to tell the tale of his own maze. The people’s sweats and toils have swelled his body like a dying pig, perhaps, like a mummified Egyptian prince. At the seaming chamber, his voice sounded as if a Victorian prince was having an orgasm. His words bounced in a Shakespearean tone, yet sounded like postmodern era ambiguities. Like the tales of Vikings, it was a vulgar tone in the people’s eardrums.
He had refused to Bow down to Maier, because he thinks he is economically Yaled from the Americas. Now he’s been nailed in the curtails of nay mathematics. Inside the abyss of his financial monastery, there are orgies of bloodline fornications, with the nuns of the people’s taxes. Now everything is busted, only that the letter ‘K’ of his name has to be replaced by ‘H’ for him to realize his legacy in Ghana’s economy, has been a mere foul.
Inside the law-forbidden chamber, where comedies and jokes flow as if it is a cinema. He was with his fellow comedians to pass the electronic misery. On the left and the right sides of the Mr. Unscrewed-pal were the Minor-uglies and the Major-filthiest, who instead of having the people’s predicaments weigh on them like alps, play with their anguish like gestapos in concentration camps. From the beginning, the people thought the Minor-uglies may turn into Minor-beauties. After a few minutes, they were like zombies. Their moving away was having the lock of an opened pandora’s box in their pockets; rendering their left behind colleagues no option than to unleash it. Now the people await the woes of what the pandora’s box brings. If at all, they will live to miserably tell the tale
The whole scene looked like an adventure movie, having destiny and beauty mixed together. But it will still be a worthwhile fairytale in the orals of noblemen who are dying in dissent. It will also be a milestone, to be sailed and journeyed bit by bit, by all who witnessed with true eyes and pure minds. What is to come today and tomorrow, wouldn’t be different from what just transpired. Yet, many of us will refuse to take breath, relax, to soberly reflect on how foolish we’ve been treated for three decades.
If these times fail to clock our minds in a reasonable clockwise direction, still the waking alarms of our political slumbers will deliberately be distorted. We will go down in abyss and anguish. Our children will plunder in mal-nutritious feedings in schools, their brains would be tamed by high quantities of free education and will come back to deliver nothingness.
Politics should have been a shadow. For the sake of raw anger and tribalism, it is an image. An image which doesn’t reflect our true object. We have mellowed for these portraits for decades, yet still wallows around it mismatched aesthetics. The beauty of it is projected with an idiotic bliss while the uglies of it focus on us like a pinhole camera. Treacheries and scums are called honorables. They stampede on foot soldiers in a grass rooting manner to engulf our free space. Just to devour our conscience! We are clandestinely booed, secretly laughed at with cremated policies and projects.
These are conditions that ignite enlightenment. It is at the same time, the temptation to be drunk in ignorance. The choice is ours to make it count. If we will, it will turn out to be history. If not, then hades of negligence await us. What needs to be done is the eradication of all political impurities, tribal absurdities and laziness in thinking. Overhauling of the entire system of perception, though difficult, has to be considered. We are just being fooled, only because we are vulnerable. Statesmanship has become too cheap for those who don’t deserve it, and that should be a matter of concern.
We might not have a time similar to this in the future in making our politics right. Because, in history, nations don’t get peaceful atmospheres like this to turn their political history around.
We can render politicians useless, only by not listening to them. Unpopular propaganda becomes profanity in political rhetoric when it goes extinct. That negates charismatic sway and the unusual emotional appeasement.
Will we continue to follow alibi, or we will embrace enlightenment to free ourselves from these political chains? Should we restore an enlightened political discourse, or we are okay in our slumbering political nightmares? History is not a second chance giver.
By Opoku Andrew
Email: [email protected]
