The Kayayei's Tale Poem by John Agandin

I walk my beat in many cities and markets
Up and down in the perspiring sun.
From Tamale to Kumasi Kejetia
From Techiman to Takoradi market circle
The mighty Accra is my home base.
Whether it be Nima, or Mallam Atta,
Agbogbloshie or Makola, I am there.
Down I come with a head pan in hand.
To tread the markets and lorry parks.
From six to six each day, rain or shine,
I carry my wares; other people's loads
Who strut daintily behind me
Watching intently, anxiously,
Whilst I shout and nudge my way in the crowd,
Lest I should be lost with their goods.
Yet when I finally arrive, these opportunists;
These women, mothers, genteel ladies and lazy men
Even they, begrudge me my wage.


Foxes may have holes and birds have nests
But I, a mother, a daughter, have neither.
I make my bed in lidless shacks and verandas
Where I chase elusive sleep on weary pillows
I am the prey of mosquitoes
And all blood-sucking creatures.
Unscrupulous men lurk about me
To plunder both my purse and womanhood
And make of me a penniless mother
To carry a double load thereafter
And shout and shove through the same crowds.


Shop-owners scowl at me, drivers curse me
Shoppers call me scornful names
Unless they're after my wares; my head
To carry loads they're too decent to carry.
I am paraded with my head pan at rallies
As if I am not me without it or perhaps
To show the politician that I have no job.
How can you possibly know?
You the scowler, the curser, the labeler
You the gentleman, the lady, the man, the woman,
You the politician, the executive, the big man,
I would have you know,
That I am not, I become!