Kris Atta Pappoe
Easter Morning - Poem by Kris Atta Pappoe
IT WAS BARELY MORNING
BUT THE SUN WAS RISING EARLY
AND PEOPLE WERE already abroad
Seeking their varied shores
Then the bombs went off………..
Two bombs, one after the other
One at the Gate that was called Beautiful,
And the other near the Temple.
Within moments everything happened
As if this had been long foreseen.
Series wailed and the ever-ready troops,
Rushed into positions already prepared
People took over for safety.
Of the wounded and dead
While frenzied hand quickly took charge
Then from their hidden nests
Missiles streaked towards Palestine
Where it was assumed
The bombs had come from, anyway.
That morning, we sat oblivious
And watched the serried ranks march past
As with palm fronds and leaves,
They reenacted the beginning of the end
And the end that was the beginning.
There was no donkey, nor ass nor mule
And the Son was not there to be adulated
As the throngs marched through the rubbish filled streets,
Sending their bad breaths sky high in varied song.
They marched on in their Sunday best
Singing, laughing and chattering,
Completely unaware of the day that was.
They marched to the tune of the brassband,
Led by the frocked priest who deputised for the Son,
And the choirs and knights and worthies followed.
Then came t he masses, made up of retired sorcerers afraid of hellfire
Seeking remission for sins unconfessed,
Young eligible damsels, painted and brightly clothed,
Gyrating their waists suggestively to the music,
Hoping someone wound notice their half exposed breast and
tightly bound behinds ….
In the train came practicing witches
And dread warlocks,
hoping to distract opinion by their participation
And they followed the throng
As it snaked its way in this backyard
Carrying before them the Crucifix
Of Him who was yet to die for them
They sang the songs once sang for their fetishes
But which they had modified to suit
In that joyous mood,
They went, not remembering, not understanding,
That it was the beginning, not the end,
And that there was Getsemane,
And also Gabatha
And ultimately Golgatha
Where their laughter would turn into one wild howl
That would rock the Universe,
And awake them from their dream
We sighed as they disappeared
and the music faded away
Then we sipped what remained
Of the fresh palm wine
As the cooking women
brought in the cassava fufu and palmnut soup.
It’s Palm Sunday.
‘He entered as a King
And the Nations shouted ‘Hosannah’
Oh saviour meek, pursue thy road
With scattered garments and palms littered’
(FOR LUKWENDA HOWARD)
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