On my introductory day at work in Accra the heart of Ghana,
I live in the suburb of the city, Adabraka.
It's a little far from Kotoka,
I picked a taxi around 5 am for Kaneshie to enjoy early morning kooko from Ashie who lives in Teshie.
Life in this part of the world is speed if not stamped.
Unlike the market square at Abgobgoloshie.
Maybe, due to its numerous gates to the surrounding villages namely Lartebiokorshie and Aworshie.
This market is busy throughout the year. Without the fast pace movement of people.
There is always quite a cute queue on every food joint namely check_check or tables tops chop_ chop.
In the morning you have to queue for porridge and in the afternoon you have been on the row for toasted ripe plantains and roasted groundnuts pka "Kofi broke man"
What you call dinner, is ga kommey ke nkenam ke shiito.
This is how life is to be in the city, if only you want to make it back to your village as been_ to.
However, there are restaurants and chop bars without convoy, but the take _I _go is the difference.
When you get to Labadi and lashibi.
You meet different kinds of society above our line of financial stands.
Unlike our brothers at kotobabi and Mamobi. Not forgetting Abgokobi who live afar as affluence.
They spent their money in hotels and motels.
They rent their properties out to enjoy the take-me-go.
It is here where the true life of the presidency dwells with the residency at parallels.
It is on this land that we were promised milk and honey flowing from every dwells.
It's here, promises were made bigger than the oceans.
Those pledges were pleasing to the hungry listeners with their burdens on their laps.
Awaiting for the newborn age with empty pots before the taps.
Seasons are born and they grow with sharp teeth at labour.
Reasons for disappointment flood the street with reasons hard to fathom with your neighbour.
In Osu, you find symbols and monuments of our colonial Masters engraved on our skins and tongues.
Enslaved through borrowing to kill our national economy whereas we live and die on the very grounds called gold coast.
At Fosu history was written down on the rocks and rivers reminding us of the pains of yesterday like a ghost.
Today tell our falling heroes that we are writing our history on the templates of our skins hence we owe nothing to boasts.
©® Felix Atta Amoakoh
28/03/22
©felixatta
F