Black Testament Poem by Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah

'Fools are always fools-

nothing can wash them clean, not even pools.'

In the beginning there was no short character sketch of Joy Boyle when the president invited us. Suddenly, she began producing heads and portraits in markers, airbrush painting, and those who were waiting for the leaves to fall down when the wind turned its direction from the South to the North formed long black ants of demonstrations and seized her genres. So everything at the end became beginning so that there was nobody to lead the fledgling artists at post. Maybe, your reporter will grimace your disassociated body parts and set his camera on the blood denunciations when a new queue from the president's steps to the graveyard is ordered. Now, have you recognised at once the smell of the corn dough from the corridor where the children have just packed their dirty school uniforms? I do not want to disturb this man's silence who is still ashamed because he has again Frenchified his extra lights with 'Correggiosity of Correggio'. So can her knife get through this flesh before her very soft painterly style? Oh, no! They say. Now neem (nim) tree, bamboo, grass, mango, pawpaw, hibiscus, and sunflower are growing in this dilapidated house while we live in the uncompleted single rooms next to the collapsed well, she has eschewed recognisable objects by using thick impasto, agitated brushwork.