Mythology is the bread of this nation. They make new ones, every morning, which they forget by tomorrow. This present state of recall is archipelagic. But myths demand memory, need kneading to survive. The last time I flew, Grandpa asked Uncle, my Dad, my cousins and I, if we were his children. Our yes was a yeast-like yes. We were myths in flesh, raising his spirit to say well, in that case, we thank God.
Tradition is a step in time that ends decades of roaming for a place unnamed on a modern map. The songs they used to sing there, with a rhythm you still dance to. Watch kpanlogo and see. Mind the beat. The feet have muscle memory. They testify to the dust. Tread bloodlines between the past and present and, maybe, from the wrong side, maybe they will not touch freedom. But kakaa akweo, nonetheless.
‘ka akaa akweo’ – ‘Let us at least try and see’ – in Gaa language
from Girl B, New-Generation African Poets: A Chapbook Box Set (Akashik Books, 2017), © Victoria Adukwei Bulley 2017, used by permission of the author.