Drum of Bawku, A Poem for Peace
Let us beat the drum of peace,
Let its echo roll over Red Volta’s breeze,
Where warriors once danced with pride,
And ancestors whispered truth to the sky.
Bawku, land of timeless grace,
Where the baobab holds the elder’s face,
Your market once roared with life and trade,
Now silent, where fear and sorrow parade.
Children no longer chase the dusk,
Mothers hush their songs in the dust,
Fathers speak with eyes, not tongues,
As rifles drown the talking drums.
But hear me now, O sons of the soil,
Why spill the sweat of kin in toil?
Why trade our heritage for hate?
When peace is still within the gate?
Gather the chiefs, the griots, the drums,
Let truth rise with the morning sun.
Bring the smock, the calabash, the kora string—
Let the spirit of Bawku begin to sing.
O Bawku!
You are not bullets—you are festivals.
You are not ashes—you are ancestral calls.
You are not silent—you are rhythm and song.
You are not broken—you are brave and strong.
So let us beat the drum of peace,
Let it thunder through the tamarind trees,
May the land that bore us, bind us still—
In unity, in healing, in ancestral will.
Let there be peace in Bawku.
Let there be love in Bawku.
Let Bawku rise.
Nuworza medo ooo
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