When Old Patriarch died the preacher came to cut down Awo Yaa’s tree.
“The children in this house must be baptized” he screamed.
Black blazer shed. Blue sleeves rolled to the elbow. White collar gleaming.
He alternates between Bible thumping and mopping his liquid brow.
“Faith of our fathers” the congregation melodiously hacked away
Awo Yaa’s tree. Deeply rooted. Thickly trunked. Abundantly leafed
Awo Yaa herself sagged wrinkled in the doorway the frame holding her youngish old body up. She watched sadly the commotion in the yard watched
The faithful pull out her covered pot of palmwine nestled in the cool earth under the shade
The evil pot goes to the dripping preacher’s house. Sanctification.
Awo Yaa slowly begins to fade away
Her shrinking body in the bed is no longer relevant
Is she mourning her husband Old Patriarch or her tree?