Imagine this. You’re sitting along side a stream somewhere, cloth around your loins, titties out, washing your clothes in the same river you drink from, no school, no worries, your husband has yams in abundance and life is good. Then boom, some pale skin alien from another land brings you a urine colored foul smelling liquid, tells you it’s called whiskey and someway somehow convinces you it’s the value of your gold, your children, your cocoa, your land. You die, you become an ancestor, ladida. Decades have passed, your descendants speak a strange language, the pale mans tongue. They don’t pray to you, they pray to the pale mans God, they drive metal boxes and press stones that emit light… okay you can stop now.
No, I’m not about to slander colonialism or any of the white mans inventions, no no no no. I just want to ask you what standards you live by. I’m not questioning them. I’m just asking. Do we as Africans have our own identity or we are working to become the pale skinned man? Would Okwonko be proud? Or is he turning in his grave?
You see, the purpose of knowing who you are is not festivals and meaningless arguements like what to wear or what road is better or how foreign goods are better than ours. The point of knowing I’m African is so that I will be proud of myself as an African and take the whitemans provision and build on it . You reading this, you claim you don’t eat local rice, right? You only eat Royal Feast perfume rice, very expensive, you’re DB, good for you. Now let me ask you a question. Did you know Ghana produces global quality rice? It’s called Champion rice. Look it up. I know you won’t because you don’t care. You’re stuck to the pedantic notion that made in Ghana is not good. Even if it were, it would tarnish your image. Remember, African, remember that those who gave you these standards and benchmarks only did to control you. And until you take a stand, and take matters into your own hands, and stop sitting around for your pot bellied pigs of politicians to save you, the continent as a whole will continue to suffer till the end of time. To conclude, I will like to quote the great William Butler Yeads, in his poem, the second coming.
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.