Blewu… Blewu…
Slowly they go,
with the grace of ancestral trees bowing to wind.
Their departure is not silence,
it is thunder without sound —
it is the kind of grief that grows roots.
Let the land pause .
Let the sky lower its gaze.
Let every river remember their names.
For from the belly of Ghana’s greenest sorrow,
we mourn not just men,
but the rhythm of national purpose
interrupted mid-beat.
From the skies they descended —
not in retreat,
but in ritual return
to the same earth they sought to protect.
They were not idle passengers.
They were architects of peace,
custodians of the soil,
watchmen over rivers
that now whisper their names into the mist.
Dr Edward Omane Boamah .
He bore two stethoscopes —
one for the heart of a patient,
the other for the pulse of a nation.
From healing flesh to shielding a country,
he left behind the scalpel to wield a shield.
And when war loomed as smoke on the horizon,
he rose — not behind a desk —
but into the clouds,
charting peace from the sky,
even as death waited below.
Alhaji Dr Murtala Mohammed.
To him, the forest was not just trees —
it was a living being with veins of gold and lungs of chlorophyll.
He waged a quiet war against the rot of galamsey,
even when the earth bled mercury
and rivers turned to ghosts.
He believed a nation could breathe again —
and that belief, like him,
now lies folded in a uniform of silence.
Alhaji Muniru Mohammed .
A man of shadows,
not because he hid,
but because he stood where danger lived
— between chaos and country.
He gave Ghana peace without headlines.
He gave her safety without applause.
Dr Samuel Sarpong .
In corridors of governance and cities of trade,
he was both compass and candle.
A torchbearer of service,
whose steps now vanish into eternity.
Samuel Aboagye .
The promise of tomorrow,
snatched by today’s cruel hand.
He never reached the chamber,
but he carried the heart of a statesman.
The three gallant airmen.
Not just pilots —
but sky priests.
They carried our leaders on wings of trust.
They soared so we might stand.
Their cockpit was not just metal.
It was a covenant.
And now, from the ashes of Adansi,
eight lights go dim —
yet their glow lingers.
Ghana, let us not move too quickly past this.
Let us walk blewu —
slowly. Reverently. With purpose.
Because if the land these men served
becomes indifferent to their loss,
then we bury not only bodies —
but conscience.
Their fall was not random.
It is tethered to all we failed to confront —
to mines that defile the land in greed,
to waters that cry out in chemicals,
to forests choked by the hands of the same men
sworn to protect it.
They died in motion.
And so we must live in action.
Let this not be tragedy.
Let this be prophecy.
A moment where Ghana turns —
from silence to stewardship,
from consumption to care,
from forgetfulness to fierce memory.
Let no child drink from poisoned streams again.
Let no leader fly into danger
while we sleep beneath the illusion of peace.
Blewu… Blewu…
Slowly, they return.
Not to rest —
but to rise
in the hearts of a grateful people.
So build them a shrine,
not of marble,
but of deeds.
Let every tree planted in protection,
every river restored,
every illegal mine stopped —
be a libation poured in their name.
May the ancestors stand in salute.
May their spirits find rest,
not only in earth,
but in the awakening of a nation
they died loving.
Blewu… Blewu…
We will walk slowly now —
but forward,
always forward.
Richard DABLAH
