My clash with Duakwa Komfo - Occasional Kwatriot Kwesi Yankah write

(I share the following nightmare from my Memoires)
Venue, Agona Duakwa

A young boy in my late teens, just finished 6th Form.

One Saturday early 1970, I retired to bed in my father’s house, after a busy day. I had visited the town center with my closest pals: Albert Botwe, Kweku Asare Kumi and Kobena Ayensu. After a little loafing around town, I saw my colleagues off and retired to bed at Nkubease suburb; my room, adjacent to a venerable old relation. Being the last to retire, I locked the main gate and dashed to my room resting on the bed. From a distance, I heard the sound of drumming filtering down from the town-square (Nkwantanan). It was past 10pm. The drumming soon ceased, taken over by familiar metallic jingles.

This emanated from the nkowia, a pair of tiny ritual bells with contrastive tones, which produced a distinctive signal, the hallowed signature of Kobena Yamoah, the famous traditional priest. Following the trail of his jingle alone, one could trace the contour of his movement down town. That was mostly after 10pm, when the streets were empty, and the townvirtually dead.

It was this distinct signal I heard that night. After 20 minutes or so, the ritual jingle would come nearer and nearer, then taper off. It got nearer and nearer again, this time not waning.My heart pumped in fear and panic unsure if Okomfo was visiting any of his clients next door.

But there was no cause for alarm, since there were no accompanying gun shotstypical of his night moves. It was 10.30 pm. The old man next door was fast asleep, and so were others in adjacent rooms. In the next few minutes, Okomfo’s ritual sound went past our main gate and stood still directly behind my window! Not moving! My heart jumped almost melting my body frame. It was no longer worth asking ‘who are you, Mr Intruder.’ I guessed. But what were they looking for? Had he missed his way?

Here was a dreaded traditional priest I had only distantly seen, now at my doorstep towards midnight. And he was not an ordinary human; it was the great Duakwa Komfo, both beloved and dreaded! His mystical beginnings had played out before our very eyes as young boys. 1962, captured by dwarves when he was a school boy, transformed into a potent priest and brought back home to heal the sick and protect the town. Often a source of fear and panic! In 1968, he died and was laid in state; but bounced back to life during the procession for burial.

People panic setting eyes on him, and sometimes flee! This was the man at my doorstep when the entire town was wrapped in silence.

The main gate was securely latched; my own door was locked; the ritual noise did not come with gun shots, but that was not enough to lessen my anxiety. I tossed and turned. Should I hide under the bed? Should I shout for help? What if they broke into the house, and into my own room? In any case, what right did they have to intrude upon my privacy? And was I alone in the house? The venerable old man Astoka, my father’s uncle, was fast asleep. I could not tell who else was awake in the compound house. My heart kept pumping, and if the earth could split wide enough, I would rather slide between the cracks, than a midnight bout with an elf.

After three or so minutes, that felt like half an hour, the footsteps and accompanying bells mercifully receded towards the corner, eventually turning towards the Thomas family behind our homestead. Progressively, it tiptoed in the direction of the Zongo, presumably towards Okomfo’sresidence, half a kilometer away.

Had he missed his way? Was I under attack, suspicion? Had he seen an evil spirit that needed to be expelled around me?Was he the evil spirit himself?

I heaved a sigh of relief, but subsequently endured a harrowing night, jolted every minute by the slightest noise from far and near. I kept wake for hours on end, until a friendly noise came at last and set my heart at ease: cock crow. The friendly crow of the rooster which was normally a wakeup call, finally put me to sleep.

Daybreak, to whom should I report this unspeakable? The local police? Parents? My uncle the chief? If I told the old lady, she would probably have collapsed hearing this.

I hit on a plan to narrate the experience exclusively to my close friends. Hearing my ordeal, Albert, one close pal,initially chuckled; but finally gave me a response which was even more stunning.

‘Kwesi, it was an act of intimidation,’ he said.

Okomfo Yamoah may have been looking for a lost pearl suspected to be in my company that night!!!

(Excerpt from my Memoires, The Pen at Risk: Spilling my Little Beans)

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