Epitaph
“ Near a century, full of bright years she walk’d as mother and Queen, and leaveth to Asanteman a throne eternal, crown’d with love and wisdom.”
Hush now thy drums, O forest vast and wide,
For Asanteman in sable robes doth hide.
The Golden Stool is clad in mournful hue,
Its sacred silence telleth grief most true.
Lo, Konadu, thou star of Asante’s night,
Hast cross’d the river, fled our mortal sight.
From Benyaade’s shrine thy dawn arose,
To shine on kings, and soften all men’s woes.
Her brother sits, the Asantehene weeps,
Within his breast a wound unspoken keeps.
Osei Tutu, mighty yet undone,
Laments the sister who was crown’d as sun.
Nearly a century bright circuits round the sun,
Her mortal race with patience she hath run.
From maiden bloom to matron’s noble prime,
She walk’d with grace the pilgrimage of time.
O length of days! A crown of silver hair,
Bestow’d by Heaven, token rich and rare.
Her winters shone as bright as youthful spring,
Her wisdom grew whilst years did softly cling.
She saw the dawn of Ghana’s freedom rise,
She watch’d the flag uplift to endless skies.
Through decades vast her constancy did stand,
A pillar fix’d amidst a shifting land.
Her age itself a psalm, her life a rhyme,
Each year a stanza in the book of time.
Till now the volume clos’d by God’s own hand,
And seal’d with peace, she joins the silent band.
The courtyards groan, the palace gates lament,
The trees bow down, as though by Heaven bent.
The talking drums break forth in broken sighs,
Their tongues are cleft with sorrow’s sharp replies.
Paramount chiefs, in solemn order, stand,
Their staves of office heavy in the hand.
They rend their cloth, they pour their dust in tears,
For she who rul’d with wisdom through the years.
Queen mothers gather, sisters crown’d with gold,
Yet lo! they seem as widows wan and old.
Their voices weave a dirge both deep and long,
Their lamentation maketh sorrow strong.
From distant lands, behold the strangers come,
To pay their homage at her silent home.
Governments bow, ambassadors confess
That Ghana’s womb is robb’d of tenderness.
O Konadu, thou palm whose shade was sweet,
The poor did find refreshment at thy feet.
Thy hand did heal the sick, thy purse did pay,
Thy counsel turn’d the erring from their way.
The newborn babes drank life from thy decree,
The mothers bless’d thy breast-milk charity.
Komfo Anokye’s wards still breathe thy name,
And Manhyia’s halls resound thy gentle fame.
Now Offin weepeth, and the Pra doth moan,
Their waters darken, heavy as a stone.
The sacred rivers bear their tribute slow,
And with their tears they mark the land with woe.
The forest drums are dumb, the horns are still,
The earth itself laments against its will.
The moon hath veil’d her face in clouds of night,
The sun declines, bereft of golden light.
Yet lo, she entereth the stool-room fair,
Where sainted mothers breathe immortal air.
Afia Kobi lifteth her with cheer,
And Yaa Asantewaa crieth, “Daughter, here!”
Now angels weave a kente bright with flame,
And crown her brow with everlasting name.
The ancestors receive her with embrace,
And seat her high in heaven’s golden place.
So mourn, Asanteman, with voice profound,
Yet know her soul in death is glory crown’d.
For she shall guard the Golden Stool from wrong,
And breathe through ages like a timeless song.
Rest, Mother, rest; thy pilgrimage is o’er,
Thy wisdom echoes on from shore to shore.
Thy crown eternal none can e’er remove,
For thou hast reign’d in righteousness and love.
CRAFTED BY COLONEL AUGUSTINE ANSU RTD
15TH SEP 25
