our bosomtwi

In the abyss of Bosomtwi,
Lies the nakedness of mortals,
Her shoulder is their comfort
And her tenderness
Caresses their doubt.
Her chest was Maame's breast,
It quenches their thirst for blood
And reminds them of the blood.

She calls them by name,
Abena, Serwaa, Ampaafo, Brakatu!
Come, sit and dine
For here is your Rehoboth,
She assures them of her laps,
The very one of Yaa Asantewaa;
Soft and hard enough
To cheer and chant the feet of the runner,
To the bosom of laughter
Where the lip excuses herself.

In the abyss of selfishness,
Lie swords and bullets,
Gnashing of teeth
And gushing of blood,
Waiting to walk in the hearts of mortals,
To dance Adowa with the Ohene of heart.
But in the banks of Bosomtwi
Sit Nananom,
With the Nk)nsonNk)nson of disappointment
To render failure to their windows.

Come!
See, the woman of Nkrumah, who sits on Bosomtwi,
Adorned with gold
And clothed with sanity.

Her lamp, the sun
Her footprint, the green
Akwaaba, her accent.
She!
Is the crown of her comrade.

Author: Judith Amoako

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