They say time moves forward…
But I have seen it kneel at the feet of history,
pleading for a chance to retrace its steps.
I have seen time run its fingers along the ridges of old wounds,
The kind of wounds that still whisper in the wind at dawn, when the streets of Accra
breathe before the weight of another day sets in.
We were not meant to forget.
We were not to forget the way the ocean cradled our stolen voices,
We were not to forget the way our mothers clutched their sons; afraid that freedom
might ask too much of them.
But still, we stood.
Our backs were curved, by years of carrying nations on our heads,
Our feet were pressing deep into the soil,
Our hands stretched toward the promise of morning.
And morning did come…
It did not come like a sudden storm,
But like the slow unveiling of a hidden sun;
Then the sunlight carved roads through our fear,
The sunlight’s warmth reached into the ribs of a people, who had only ever known the
cold grip of a master’s will.
We called ourselves free;
Although, at first, Freedom was a strange language on our tongues.
It stuttered through policies and hunger,
It stumbled over coups and cries for justice,
Freedom faltered, and then it stood up again,
Learning the shape of its own body, in the process.
Do you remember how our fathers raised their voices, like drums that could not be
silenced?
Do you remember how our mothers wove rebellion into every stitch, in their cover
cloths?
Do you remember how our children ran barefoot through the dust, laughing as if the
weight of a nation had not yet settled on their shoulders?
Do you remember how we promised never to bow again?
And yet, today,
We kneel before a different kind of master,
One who does not hold the keys of our chains,
But who walks in empty promises, and on broken roads.
One who shakes hands with greed,
While the hungry look on, wondering if this is the freedom that our ancestors bled for.
But listen…
This land is stubborn.
This land remembers who we were, before we learned how to lower our gaze.
This land remembers the taste of revolution.
This land remembers the scent of sweat-drenched sacrifice.
This land remembers the fire of the voices that refused to be drowned, by the weight of
impossible things.
So, rise.
Rise for the cocoa farmer, who still wakes before the sun,
Rise for the fisherman, who still casts his net into a sea that often fails to give something
back to him.
Rise for the market woman, whose hands are calloused from carrying both burden and
hope.
Rise for the child, who still dares to dream, in a land that sometimes forgets how to
make space for dreams.
Ghana,
You are not the ashes of a dying fire.
Ghana,
You are the flame itself, refusing to be snuffed out!
This morning,
As we stand in the light of another year,Let us not only celebrate…
Let us remember.
Let us build.
Let us rise.
© APIORKOR 2025
