It is not all laughter, all the time.Who can laugh when the roof leaksAnd the walls give way to floods?Laughter is the seasoning of salt, andSalt is not food, but a seasoning for food.They have their sorrows, these men of the landPoverty stalks them by the hourAnd the Kente is a flesh in their lives: (Kente is a ghanian traditional cloth)Handed down through the rungs of the yearsFrom uncle to nephew through mother’s streamTimes disintegrating fingers, have by stealth,Loosened the threadsWhere the weaver of bonfire had joined the stripsThe dyes in the colors, red, blue , gold and greenSapped by the devilry of age,Have paled to where they can fade…

” I think we modern people have forgotten the taste of real happiness” i said to ertyass, and she frowned at me as if not understanding what i really meant. I was sitting with a kind girl who invited me on a local Ghanaian music concert, the ambiance was quite bohemian, with people who were still trying to live the hippie dream and the university students who were still forming their dreams……. the musicians started playing instruments i never seen in my life, instruments you may laugh at seeing them but all having such raw but mellow and pure sounds that you become entranced as if some old voodoo spell…