Elder Root

The scent of market spice, from Accra street it burn,
For the elder whose wisdom taught this weary earth to turn.
Her old hands, like rich, dark soil, would hold me fast,
With proverbs sown, a potent strength designed to last.
She pruned my spirit with a patience deep and wide,
No concrete wall could ever break the roots inside.

Oh, Granmama's roots, dem run so wide and free,
Planting truths, deep inside of me.
A living garden, strong against the stone,
Her love my harvest, never walk alone.

That wooden spoon, sometimes a warning, sharp and clear,
Told me true strength resides, to conquer every fear.
She bake the patties, golden, fi' feed my hungry days,
Her laughter was the sunlight, through life's winding maze.
In every story whispered, by the dimming lamplight glow,
The rhythm of our ancestors, she taught my heart to know.

Beneath her ancient canopy, I learned fi' truly breathe,
The silent language that the old vines intertwine and weave.
Now I feel her spirit in the bassline, strong and true,
A powerful echo in every single thing I do.

Still feel dat love, still hear her ancient hum,
From ancestral soil, my roots will overcome.