Biomedical Sciences student and emerging writer writing as Scott Frost with a passion for storytelling, poetry, and African identity.
His work often explores themes of ancestry, tradition, and memory, drawing inspiration from everyday life and Ghana’s rich oral heritage. When not writing, he participates in debate, academic competitions and creative projects that amplify youth voices.
A Voice from the Dead – Ancestors Answer Me
Nana / I poured the schnapps on the earth / but silence came before sound / Have you forgotten me / or only I you / Child / we have been speaking / In the whisper of trees that startles Akosua Afriyie late in the night to guard her children / In signs / the rhythm of lost heartbeats in Ashiagbor’s house is no coincidence / In the tears falling from an angry, unforgiving God / the one in the Old Testament who the Whiteman said drowned sinners without a trial / In the thunder you feared as a boy / Nana / meguare nsu a / Mefrɛ wo fi mekra mu / Na ɛyɛ dɛn na menti wo ne bio? / (Grandfather, I bathe in water / I call you from my soul / So why can I no longer hear your voice?)
They said you were a drummer / That your palms sang louder than a war cry / on the naked skin of the fontomfrom that sent you off from home/shoulder high… / I only hear echoes in mine / Fisɛ mpanyinfo se, ankorɛ hunu na ɛyɛ dede / (Because the elders say, it is the empty barrel that makes the loudest noise) / So, I keep mute and beseech your help / I walk this earth in cities built on your bones / Mogya a yɛn nananom hwie gue, nya de too hɔ maa yɛn no na ɛsɛ sɛ yɛbɔ ho ban / (It is the blood our ancestors shed and used to secure this land that we must now protect) / The sons of men that brought you home shoulder high / do not remember my name.
Abɔfra, yɛn paa w’agyi da / Nantew dwoodwoo / fi sɛ w’abrabɔ yɛ anansesɛm a yɛato dedaw / (Child, we never truly left you / Walk gently / for your life is a folktale we’ve already told) / We live in your tongue / When you fearlessly protest on the streets against cultures which aren’t ours / when you lower your kuntunkunu and remove one ahenemma to pour vintage wine / to our thirsty land / Tweduampong Kwame, nsa! / Asaase Yaa, nsa! / Nananom nsamanfo, nsa oo! / (God of Strength, drink! / Mother Earth, drink! / Ancestors of the spirit world, drink!)
But
I speak English in courtrooms / wear kente to funerals / forget your proverbs in protest / Teach me again / how to kneel when I greet Kofi papa, Agya Nimo / How to take weight off the weak bones of the old lady I see with load every now and then / Teach me how to listen when your silence speaks / Yɛde mogya na yɛtua ka / Na ɛnyɛ sika / (We pay our debts with blood / Not with gold) / You carry our memory / Not on paper / but in your scars / In the fire that parches your throat / that screams freedom and justice / In your sharp reflexes that stop you when you hear Yɛn Ara Asa Nie / and make you salute our raised flag / reminiscing the fights we fought for you / Then I will speak / When they ask who I am / I will say: I am the voice you buried behind the little akasanoma / In drums / in folktales / in staple foods / in fashion / and dance / I am the story refusing to end
Ɛnneɛ yɛtease mpo sɛ yɛwuwuo… (Then we are still alive, even in death…)
