Torgbui Wenya's World Poem by Doris Dzameshie

In the quaint village of Anloga, where palm trees sway,
Lived a man named Torgbui Wenya, in a most peculiar way.
His lineage traced back to ancient Ewe kings,
But little did he know, destiny had grander things.

Torgbui, with his kente-clad attire and regal gait,
Dreamed of ruling the world, both early and late.
He'd sit under the Mango tree, sipping palm wine,
Plotting his ascent to power, oh so divine.

His throne, a humble wooden stool, weathered and worn,
Yet Torgbui believed it held cosmic secrets, untold and sworn.
He'd gaze at the horizon, squinting his eyes,
Imagining himself as a global ruler, oh so wise.

One day, he declared, "I shall conquer the seven seas,
From Accra to America, and even the Hebrides!
My edicts shall be written on papyrus paper,
And my subjects will bow, for Torgbui never deceives."

He sent emissaries to Buckingham Palace and the White House,
Bearing baskets of ripe plantains, a gesture so douse.
"Behold, " they proclaimed, "the wisdom of our king,
His rule shall be sweet, like the taste of ripe spring."

But alas, the world leaders chuckled and shook their heads,
"Sabala for treaties? This Torgbui must be misled! "
They patted his shoulder, offered him a seat,
And whispered, "Dear Ewe man, stick to your Akple and Fetri Toto."

Undeterred, Torgbui Wenya donned his woven crown,
Held court in his thatched hut, as the sun went down.
His decrees were baffling, yet oddly profound:
"Thou shalt wear Chale Wote on Tuesdays, and dance all around! "

So raise your abolo's, toast to Torgbui's fame,
For in his whimsical reign, we all played the game.
And if you ever visit Anloga, by the palm-fringed shore,
Ask the locals about Torgbui Wenya, and hear more!