The Sierra Leone Web


Alpha Sanunu Bah was born and raised in the Western Part of Freetown, Sierra Leone. He started his writing career at a very young age when he was still a junior pupil at the Prince of Wales Secondary School, within which he was granted a lot titles and awards and also made great achievements. A.S Bah attributes his writing to those of the classical writers through the unique style of writing that he uses and is most renowned for his Pen Name A.B Ravenkins. He studies Law at the University of Sierra Leone and has provided his services independently as a writer through various platforms. He is a member of the African Poetry Society and a Co-Founder of the Legends on Paper Poetry Hub. A.S Bah currently lives in Freetown, Sierra Leone as a freelance writer.



Let it be Told

Let the story be told of our Motherland,
Let all praises be sang to our home,
Let the mountains call out, let the hills answer, -and
Let the harbor that holds us be our chrome.

Her story started so long ago,
When her sons and daughters sat on trees,
When they sang in voices soft and low,
And danced with nature's twos and threes.

But her heart was broken, her mind was torn,
When her sons and daughters were shackled and killed
By her bigger children, for pipe and gun,
And lesser things that the eyes won't fill.

She saw her children swoon in bondage,
As the hairs on her skin became bald,
And when at last it was freedom's age,
Parasites in her body stalled.

They sat on her brain and produced offspring,
As they drank deep from the milk of her breast,
And when satisfaction hard stroke on their rings,
They left her body for a test.

And our Mother's children, so deceived they were,
As they cried in ululating voices,
Of joy, deep joy; independent they were!
As though it were their choices

Then again she was left in all her ways,
To watch her children sang,
But no voices were heard and the playground no tree,
From the south what she heard was a, Bang!

Her sons and daughters on the soil they hailed,
Danced with broken bones,
As peaceful thoughts from their mind had gone,
To violence and sticks and stones.

Our mother cried for the worst to bear,
To see her youngest sons
Who tore meat from bones
And limb from limbs,
With hell in their hearts.

When at last this moment's past,
"Pa Chol3" made his way,
A buoyant fellow that was clothed in yellow,
And whose touch stroke hard on bowels.

He took her daughters and carried her sons,
To a place well unknown,
He took the news back to his fort,
To his kind, and foes and his friends.

Yet not so long but with much corruption between,
Mr. Ebola paid a visit,
Another buoyant fellow, so clothed in white,
He roamed and roamed and played his part,
That sad tear from eyelids start.

She's faced so much than most can bear,
Our mother Land has seen despair,
Yet to that time when her heart no more could hold,
Her wrath on her children fell.

Her torrent of tears drowned her sons,
As she slide down a bit,
All her children wondered what went amiss,
They cried and cried
All her children cried
As the number fourteen made a mark.

Yet this was but another trial in her eyes,
She stood upright as she does today,
"Count it all as a passing strain",
She whispered in a low sad voice.

Let it be told of how far she's come,
Let the world marvel at Her strength,
Though Her past is deep and some,
And Her pitfalls are raw in length,
Yet her green hair is bright,
Her peaceful heart is fair,
And the blue waters on her skin are ever in light.

I am a Child

In my hand should a tidy pen,
Not a hammer of stress as those of men,
Pages in books should I be turning,
Not wheels of burden only for surviving.

In school is my place as those my age,
Not a labouring ground with wanton rage,
A schooling uniform should I be wearing,
Not a cloak of stress and accent frowning.

With the beaming sunshine on my face,
And my torn brim's jaunty grace,
Deep in my heart I give no joy,
For sorrowful me, I'm just a barefoot boy.

O blimey! O blimey! I make my rules,
For worthy knowledge I never learned in school,
With the breeze in my face every now and then,
Brings back nothing of yester when.

I live my life like men of old,
So young I am. Shouldn't I be walking on gold?
But burden and sorrow is what I'm faced with,
And every ungracious day I have to hustle to eat.

Words I cannot find less tame and old,
To paint my form and face of perfect mould,
For begging my way through food and money,
Is one of many ways I make my day sunny.

But can I not by some metaphor divine,
Describe the life I quaff like a bitter wine,
The struggles I face in this halting verse can naught express,
No English verse can half the truth confess.

My physique and face tells that I am a child,
But the struggles I face, words cannot compiled,
And every now and then I feel like a man,
Doing mild things and the things that I can.

I am a child but no one cares,
My story I'm writing as I go down the stairs,
With sore feet and toes with which I can't run,
Yet I am a child so help me be one.

The Tale of the Ministrel Boy

On a summer morning as the bright sun woke,
In a fine, a fine beach sand,
A minstrel boy with thoughts of smoke,
Stood on his feet and hand,
With a drowned mind in thoughts of how,
His hunger and thirst will soothe,
He caress his face; blimey! –a thought now allowed,
Quickly he's two worlds off his root.

He went and stood head down in a park,
In a park with Victoria's name,
He had his box, such piece of rack,
That held in all his game.
He took out a flute and played a song,
And a crowd on his shoulders stream,
He shook his head while he played along,
As the sun smiled down on him.

With ten Leones in his bank to a building he went,
To a building with Bangura's name,
As he played again every ear spent,
On his melodious and magical game.
And hence now ahead the minstrel boy went,
Went on with an ever stretching smile,
For added to his bank is more Leones and cents,
Trust me; he's never been so agile.

He went to a church at central town,
But the gate wouldn't bare him in,
He sat on the ground and his box he laid down,
Then from his flute another song begin.
Passers-by and Bystanders, workers and crawlers,
Now all around him stood,
Watchers free and all saint beholders,
Gave freely as they should.

With a fortune and a frown the street he caught,
And sat in a silent end,
He stretched his hands and folded his thought,
As his hunger no more could pretend.
He stood up alas and chased to a store,
To a store in middle town,
With all his money he took not a penny, -For
His song was yet again crowned.

With a shot of some apple juice and a sandwich bread,
The shopkeeper hailed his song,
And a sight of flaw on his face he read,
As he asked him where he belonged,
Everywhere do I for my past is dead,
And my home is now the street,
The minstrel spoke as he bowed his head,
Staring straight down at his feet.

But the minstrel boy is no sucker for satisfaction,
And his greed is not easily succumbed,
With all his gain and all perfect contractions,
He was yet still needy gunned.
To some he'll be seen as grabby and greedy,
For the shopkeeper did offer him a bed,
But that offer he rejected and continued being needy,
As his pre-gainings were now up his head.

With a soaring mind the minstrel boy went,
He went to a dock nearby,
He took out his flute, another song he sent,
As his melodies were mounted high.
By then the sun was chasing his shelter,
And every man and woman beneath,
Yet the minstrel boy played even louder,
Until more coins were laid at his feet.

The sun was down and it was already dark,
And the dock was stripped of all sound,
From the shadows they came, two men in black,
And at the minstrel boy they hound,
They grabbed his hands and grabbed his foot,
And threw him like a Cain,
They stole his box and stole his flute,
Leaving him robbed and vain.

The minstrel boy was left with none,
But pain all over his back,
He basked in regret of what had done,
And wished the shopkeeper back.
But a man in his choice is a king in all,
And each step counts for a rain,
The minstrel saw as he learnt to fall,
That his hope was to start again.


O Wealth! Why Hast Thou?

O wealth you fair but rash illusion,
Why hast thou buried the world in vain?
All your beauty and peaceful confusion,
That on the weak hearts of men reigns.

Why hast thou let thyself a stand
From the cage in which thou one'st bound?
By he who hath the world in the hand,
And thy mystery of every sound.

Why hast thou escaped transmogrified?
To that for which the hearts of men lust,
And for which innocent souls have tried,
And now lay waste in thrust.

Withal thy means is just in thy way,
And thy will is off-coursed fulfilled,
But man in all his course and may,
Provokes his purpose and his reason killed.

Assur'd this be thy flaw,
And in this is thy sacrament,
O wealth! Why hast thou assure,
Mankind to all thy torment.


Our Father Bio!

Our father Bio! Oh Maada Bio!
How doth our hearts dance in trio?
For he, our chief, on Lion's throne,
Sits in pride of trumpets blown!
'ough his house in hiccups drowns,
With wonder plans himself surrounds,
And 'ough his children's fears surpass,
The daisy notes he plucks alas,
For he, in hopes, is fair and just,
And vice away forever must.

But let not he on that treacherous path,
Dance to that which our history starts,
In hopes to gain the greenest light,
And leave his house in distant blight,
As bleak and pale is our house today,
And gone is he that blest this day,
For the hes in the Lion's then before,
Swayed the roof and walls galore,
Yet why must a man his own golden bed,
Must away to ocean's red?

Our Father Bio! Dear Maada Bio!
Here now our hearts dance not in trio,
Yet with hopes and tears our voice we raise,
To celebrate your awaited praise,
For trust have we in your golden plans,
Yet furnace pins in my heart demands,
So as you sit in your golden chair,
Lead your house in 'just and fair',
And as your children's voic' are raised,
Heed their call in all your days.