The poisons in the pot

 EI! Ei!! Ei!!! Umofians, hear this! They say when the chicken comes home to roost, it is not just about feathers, it is the whole farm that trembles! And when the drum beats, the elders have no choice but to gath­er. Ah! The drums have sounded and the elders have indeed gathered.

Umofians, the winds whisper tales of a certain maiden causing chaos in our land, and the people are at an un­rest. Hmmmm! As the elders say, “The thief who steals in the night forgets that the sun will rise.” So, too, will the truth rise, exposing all who hide in the dark.

Ah, how can a servant of Umo­fia be pocketing GH¢84,000 just for clothes, when the very soil cries out under the weight of Umofians suffer­ing? Ahhh! Even the goddesses of the fashion realm are shaking their heads in disbelief. And GH¢7,000 for enter­tainment? Ah, what sorcery is this?

Eii, our forefathers are rolling in their graves, scratching their heads, wondering if this is the same Umofia they fought, shed blood and tears for. Ah! Indeed, wonders shall never end.

Is it not in this very Umofia that children, with the perseverance of seasoned marathoners, are trekking barefoot to school, their classrooms nothing more than the shade of a tree?

Is it not in this same land that young lads and maidens lie in rusted beds under a decaying and leaking roof at Umuofia’s so-called “premier” hospital, suffering in silence without hope? Ahh! Yet a few privileged ones feast on the spoils meant for the whole community, while the rest of Umofians are left to endure the rust, the leaks, and the empty promises.

Is it not in the same Umofia that Nurses, Doctors, Teachers, Kayayei, Masons, and Police officers are work­ing tirelessly to keep the community running, while barely scraping by? Ahh! Such are the tales of the indi­genes of Umofia.

And yet, a certain maiden in this land negotiated a deal with no con­science, probably strutting around like a peacock, all while singing hymns in church on Sunday. How wickedly can one be to lose their own conscience? Ah, Afia Mansah, my heart bleeds ooo, and even the gods are weeping at the state of our land!

You see, our elders say, “He who dines with the king must not forget the village.” But all I see and hear of are the many who are chasing the stool of the Kingdom not to serve, but to fill their pots like greedy goats that feast on a farmer’s crops, leaving nothing for the rest. They come with mouths full of promises but leave with hands full of riches!

Ohhh! How I long to see the day when many of the King’s men would stay if they were paid as much as the village drummer who pounds the rhythm for the King’s dance.

I wonder how many would remain when their pockets are as empty as dried gourds. Even better, I long for the day when the kings’ men will be paid based on the true progress of the work they do. Umofians, you will watch how quickly their promises turn to dust and their feets move faster than a rabbit evading the hunter!

May the ancestors in their infinite wisdom deal with every one of the rotten heads of Umofia, without mercy, until their fifth generation. For they say, “When the roots of a tree begin to decay, it spreads death to its branches.”

Goodnight, Umofia, may the stars shine bright upon us, and may the dawn bring hope and change.

With Eyram, the Tale Bearer