The Good Old Days
Poem By Emmanuel Owusu Ansah
Swept away are the memories of the good old days.
In the cold night by the fireside sitting around in circles
To have an earful of Nana's tales
As she spat words of the oracles
The heavens blessed and washed us with heavy rains
As we jumped in mud and played in it
To bless our childhood and shower away our pains
Our pants were dirty, but lives of our childhood were lit
Busy heels on the run as our heats pant
Sacks hanged on shoulders, bows and catapult in pocket.
We whistled to hunt
Unimaginable happiness within as we chased preys; shooting our catapults like rocket
Whilst girls in only under pants played ‘ampe' and ‘annhwƐkyir',
Topless boys opted for ‘Chaskele' and ‘Pilolo'
Even the dump, growth retarded boy Egyir
Had a role, feeling not so much solo.
Beauties walked in line with their gourds in their armpit
Walking majestically to the outskirt into the stream
Full of honor and wit
The scene they paint leave traces to make a day dream
The dignity of young girls portrayed
As their rites of puberty were performed
Having them in state laid
With mashed yam and egg signaling their fertility summoned
Lovers met under trees; while the moon kept watch
Sneaking through windows as papa snored
Siblings in position to keep watch
They talked, hugged, held hands and never we were bored.
I miss those days
When these were real; not memories
The new generation had them change in many ways
While they scribbled about them as histories
The good old days forever are buried
Buried along with it; the happiness, thrills, the smiles
Away they have been carried
With no traces like stolen stars of the skies.