We Clock One!

By Ebrima Papa Colley (Gambiano)

Alack! Let Microsoft invent, O reader, that which, perchance could type Gambia’s unceasing sorrow

With keys of tears—O thou with a heart for a prosperous present and our offspring’s merry morrow.

At our woes, let Google ogle, and apps be applied; let Pinterest show interest, and Instagram program

All that is there to see of a miscarriage of governance too fetid beyond verbals or yet, artful diagram.

With the same tears from a keen-sighted craft and aptitude, let zest bereft of genial best bid adieu

Lo! Witness a sacrilege incentivized—where treason mocks at reason; and caressing corruption, in lieu

Of conscientious wont, markets our sovereignty’s wares to surreptitious France, Senegal, and Covid

And these tragically concomitant, we still clock one at forGambia where there isn’t a dearth of neurons for thoughts this vivid.

Yes, we clock one, thanks to two Julys gone; and with them, Gambia’s independence and rightful hope

For a better Banjul, Brikama, Bakau, Serrekunda, Basse, or Bansang reduced of unkempt mud or slippery slope.

See that little girl with a plate of five, six, or seven mangoes atop her scalp—her prices feebly broadcast?

Kindly contrast her malignant misery to per diems of the Trades minister who dines with all, but I the iconoclast.

See that widow’s dwelling down, her poverty uncovered by rains that delight in a roof’s ramshackle?

See that perennial water and electricity cuts, that lack of hospital oxygen tanks gov’t refuses to ever tackle?

See that donkey driver in the muddy streets, drenched to waist while adamant Adama sleeps, belly-fully fed

Or grins with disregard if awake? See that emaciating kid that cried, or the knife-attack victim ghastly bled?

See that rising cost of living, amid dizzying heights of corruption superfluous, where a Range Rover drives past

A slow-paced donkey cart on a flooded street of unthinking, venally-situated  gov’t officials speeding fast?

See that corporeal frame at hospital departing not due to unsolvable homeostatic imbalance or mishap

But a rationing oxygen while our president’s son sports a Seattle house—and he, only a young chap?

And behold! How we dare address, O Gambia, those disdainful enterprises of stealth,

Too cormorant and steeped in ill gains, of bricks in Brufut, motar, vixens or any filthy wealth,

As do we those that aren’t real journalists; thence, let there be axioms piquant of deep flattery galore

For minds too destitute of wisdom to adore.

Adieu! these usurping signatories to our noble art

Who pose with bleeding daggers and seek to start

An unchivalrous bout with those not too bellicose.

O glutinous bellies, beware of choleric cellulose!

Prithee! Submit regalia, O thou enrobed, yet naked.

Exult not at borrowed dividend, nor wisdom faked.

Let vanity and its avuncular egotism quickly fade

For beacons of chaste, hygienic pharaseolgy to evade

Baits and Barrow’s courtesans, whom with poise, we forbade.

In the above photo, aforetime are some keenly committed

Journalists, while others due to space, regrettably omitted

And rest in peace, O Chief, an innocent soul sadly submitted.

EDITOR'S NOTE: The photograph above was taken in July 1999 by a photographer paid by Chief Ebrima Manneh. The scene was at the Daily Observer Bakau premises, on the balcony. The young journalists in the picture were all friends and colleagues of this editor, and do not work or report for forGambia News & Radio. But their warm contribution to Gambia's younger days of journalism still glistens with excellence! RIP Chief Manneh.

WE-CLOCK-1-converted