Long before they dug up presidential bones
and placed them in a mausoleum.
A young Kwame Nkrumah was guest of James fort prison.
Eleven proud men shared the same bucket
equally defensive of their distinction.
Quick to make clear,
"our incarceration is political"
The path to greatness is littered with sacrifice
and so they endured the morning feed:
One cup of maize porridge,
no sugar.
Watered soup on Sundays,
and skin degraded daily.
In his story, Kwame wrote,
"the nut kernel was generally used by the prisoners to oil their bodies..
..on the account of their rotten diet and the poor quality of soap, the skin became scaled and cracked"
Making light work of the ritual
he would split the kernel
between strong teeth
precious oil was released
Spit, smear, repeat
great, small relief.
Spit, smear, repeat
until each crack was eased.
The years brought destiny;
oily kernels withered in memory.
The former prisoner wore linen;
his rise is legendary.
Predictably,
soft nature grows hard;
morals bend
under weight of great power.
Nkrumah now tyrant,
voracious, cold heart.
Sniffing and stamping
descent stood no chance.
Scores of young men imprisoned,
no trial.
My father's cousin,
guest of James Fort prison.
No kernels to extract oil,
No ointment to ease his suffering.
He remembers the tears when he paid him a visit; Nkrumah forever a villain.
