I am wearing my long skirt

And my long sleeve shirt

Coupled with my korle bu powder on my face

Magye me mooku, ko ko ko

Mashԑ me spԑԑce

And I’m looking fly

But Braa Kwame says not to come close


Tell me I’m beautiful

Tell me I’m fly

Adԑn na wo hwԑ me saa,

Ԑnyԑ fԑ anaa?

Na anka ԑwↄ sԑ me shԑ mini skirti

Ԑne bare baacki?

Whatever the case

Call me pretty


Mabↄ mahuma tire

Mayԑ heavy

Mate nkuto abↄmehu

Me honam ayԑ shiny

Matwe me duawa tintintini ahyԑ m’ano mu

Cleaning to avoid mouth odour

But Braa Kwame says not to come close


Tell me I’m beautiful

Tell me I’m fly

Adԑn na wo hwԑ me saa,

Ԑnyԑ fԑ anaa?

Na anka ԑwↄ sԑ me shԑ mini skirti

Ԑne bare baacki?

Whatever the case

Call me pretty


Madi me nana afutuo so

Ahyehyԑ me ho ama wo

Granny says;

 Of all pomades shea butter is best

Of all powders Korle bu is best

Of all clothes, the most covering is best

Of all hairstyles, threading is best

Na afei adԑn na wo yԑ me saa?

Wohunu me a, na wo guane guane

Wo hunu me a na wotetԑ tetԑ

Braa Kwame, why can’t I come close?


Tell me I’m beautiful

Tell me I’m fly

Adԑn na wo hwԑ me saa,

Ԑnyԑ fԑ anaa?

Na anka ԑwↄ sԑ me shԑ mini skirti

Ԑne bare baacki?

Whatever the case

Call me pretty.

  Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.


Let’s go out and play

In the rain with the clay

The Lord God may

Bless our day


They are at the bay

Playing in the hay

I love to see the rooster

 Lay eggs in the hay


Stand up, bend down

Go up and down

Powder like a clown

And let’s go round the town

  Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.


Fancy me under your feet

Foe fancy me your litter bag

And do it all to me

All you’ve thought of,

Do it all to me

Even if it means your crushing my skull

Just touch not my hearts

Touch not even one of those hearts please.

I wronged, I did not kill

So wrong me all you can

I did that wrong, so wrong me all you can

But let them go

They are faultless

I’d be grateful if your revenge can take place in your fancy

Then you can let go in daylight

And maintain that piousness that you deserve

I’m not worth sacrificing that loving kindness

   Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © @014.


She pants and frets, 
Investigates his authenticity and gets 
Nervous, sees a little bad air hovering and runs like a scared little pet 
She settles in her cocoon of darkness, ignoring the many bets 
On her, then tries to forget 

But the scorned man calls her a man eater 
A man eater who is not a good beater 
A man eater who cannot roar 
And does not have strong paws, fangs nor obvious instinct for blood 
While she purrs like a scared little hungry lost cat in the dark 

All mouths connive to give her a beating 
All fingers meet and agree to point to one direction, hers, in a sitting 
Even her most treasured parts, give her a whipping 
Yet she has no ill thoughts but a yearning 
To be heard and parted on the back and told, it’s alright; everything 

But the scorned man calls her a man eater 
A man eater who is not a good beater 
A man eater who cannot roar 
And does not have strong paws, fangs nor obvious instinct for blood 
While she purrs like a scared little hungry lost cat in the dark 

Just look keener for a moment 
Before the comments form and pour in horrible torrents 
Not all lurking pain peeks through beautiful garments 
Sometimes, smooth assuring words are potent 
Than humans’ tongues of serpents 
                      Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.


Mannequins dressed to the tee!

Mannequins of jokers in experimentation!

Laugh not in sarcasm,

Walk not in thoughts of others’ derail

For you are a mannequin,

And a highly dressed mannequin is still a mannequin

Like zombies being led to kowtow

You’ll bend, laugh, cry, sleep, kneel when need be,

Not like a fashionista,

But like a shamed idiot obeying his or her master

The air will make faces of teasy kills

Just to mess with your head in your process of madness

So wipe that smirk off your face

And be grateful for every second

Because better mannequins evolve by the day

   Amoafowaa SefaCecilia © 2014.



The bridge stood firm and beautiful

The bridge was the beautiful eye of your town

She beckoned for you to enter her bosom into new heights

You refused and said that was the grounds for royals


You took to your heels

The bridge, stuck to the ground, made to chase

But then, realized that she was grounded

She waited patiently for your return

All the while being climbed by heavy objects and men

Some with their families, animals and goods

Others for the mere fun of it

Until she caved in, falling into the very deep waters

That she prevented many from falling into

While caving in, she called for you, her only need

You were nowhere to be found.

After rusting and almost a scrub, you show

Wanting to honour her earlier request

Late is late, time goes not backwards

Now you are the royal and she is fallen

She doesn’t want you in her world

Because you will be of no use

Stick to your royalty now

As you stuck to your commonness then

     Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.



It seems long ago;

Kings were in charge

Kings with authority were in charge

It seems long ago when mouths were closed

It seems long ago when living was simple

Money, gold, diamond and silver had no murderous hands in ruling

It seems long ago

When apparels were simple and the feet were the best sources of leg protection

It seems long ago

When we breathed the scent of the earth without inhaling sicknesses herbs can’t cure

It seems long ago when dust was used for building and not blinding

It seems long ago when theories of headaches were not forced into poor heads

It seems long ago when fame was nothing to die for

It seems long ago, long long ago

When politics was nothing but a word unknown

And peace ruled the earth

Now mouths are widely opened

Titled kings bow to their own shadows

As overall bosses kneel to ascend godship prominence

To eventually kill beings like fowls for their buffet

With sharp machetes of greed

  Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2013.



Turn to the right

Turn to the left

Touch me here

Touch me there

Now kneel, no, not like that

Kneel with your back towards me

And don’t you dare move an inch no matter what happens


A man is a boy

A man is a boy who must be set right

In her court, a toy

Which can be made bright

By her touch, and can shiver with fright

At the rise of her voice


Like a leopard, she gains all the submissiveness due her

And pride in her ‘masterness’

Although it is for a few minutes

Because she knows that is the only time she has to be a master.

Known outside as the mistress of many,

Her sole purpose to quench the inferiority society has embedded in her

Is to rule no matter how

But she gets the ‘mistress’ name with a small ‘m’

So she vows to: …


Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.




Pleasure of flesh has waned 
Time has contributed to them being maimed 
Flesh is always at work, in order to be tamed 
While bones whine all the time to have them as cover. 
When trees were the summer huts, 
And fresh fruits were in their natural abundance 
The singer birds woke us to promising mornings of tilling the land 
The fresh leaves showed their funny sides and made us smile 
The natural cool water penetrated our skins and cooled us from within 
And we ate as we wished, without thinking of the body 
Now everything has changed 
There are little or no natural things 
So the body becomes a workaholic, 
A workaholic who pays cash to have pain 
In order to stay the same. 
Oh monstrous time! 
Torturous time! 
I wish you could go back to take away all the accusing fingers 
For the non-working bodies, 
Wishes they say are not chariots, hmmm! 
              Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014. 





No breast milk, no silk

No cradling, no humming

No squeezing, no perfuming

No praying, no blessing

No ‘prouding’, no loving


No running around, no chastising

No grounding, no hugging

No complaining, just listening

Just following, just indulging

Just watching and wishing




Stomach rumbling and squeaking

Swift aching and paining

Heart opening and closing

None offering a loving

Heart breaking and hardening

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia, (c) 2013.




Moon! Moon! Moon! 
Where are you, old moon? 
Come let me make you swoon 
I really, really want to make you swoon 
So that you can die soon 

Moon! Moon! distant moon 
You have to be my baboon 
Just thrice, no, only twice every month, be my baboon 
Not just once, because I am not a business tycoon 
Your death must be my cocoon 

Moon! Oh dear Moon! 
How can you be this cruel? 
I am in a severe typhoon 
In the South Pacific on a very hot afternoon 
And only your death will make me sing happy tunes 

This may make you irritated 
Your death to me is highly anticipated 
Because only that death can get me liberated 
So be like the biblical Jesus and get me emancipated 
For waiting that long time, gets me frustrated 

Old Moon, don’t let me come there 
I’ve tried everything to be fair 
How can you not meet me square 
Do you now want me to swear? 
I guess, it’s no use, because you know I’m talking to thin air. 
      Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2013. 


According to Wikipedia, jealousy is an emotion, and the word typically refers to the negative thoughts and feelings of insecurity, fear and anxiety over an anticipated loss of something of great personal value, particularly in reference to a human connection. There happens to be many forms of jealousy but I am going to touch on sexual jealousy in humans.

When we mention jealousy, what comes first to the minds of many individuals especially from our side of the world is the picture of a woman pulling the hair of another woman or cursing her man because he may be involved sexually with another woman. Yes women are jealous beings but men are worse. We do not often see the worse nature of jealousy in men because most societies ban women from engaging in affairs with more than one man. Of course you know there are some who do not follow this rule and so become social misfits and or are beaten by their men and thrown out of their family houses or dumped. But once in a while, when cases involving jealous men are brought to the fore, it is worse.

I will say that whoever or whatever made us, created us in such a way that, we hate to share our sexual intimacies with other people, no matter the gender. So those in love love the one man one woman rule. Even those who say they are not jealous cannot stand public display of affection between their lovers and their lovers’ lovers. Why? Because that tendency of betrayal nudges you in loins once you see it. So it is not that you are not jealous, you just have a better way of controlling your emotions or you are simply too proud.

Now since humans are greedy by nature and our greed is stirred by abundance and many researches show that women are in abundance, what is a woman to do so as not to find herself in unpardonable situations caused by jealousy?

One would think that since we all acknowledge the fact that there is an emotion called jealousy and that it is an unpleasant feeling, we would come together and stop provoking it. But no, humans, I always say are very complex beings. Some are happy just by stirring jealousy in the faces of their loved ones or their ex-loved ones.

Here I am, a woman who has two children with a man who no longer desires me and wishes to leave me for another. The burning desire of anger can cause me to commit murder so as to refrain from seeing what belongs to me in the possession of another. But after that there are repercussions.

 The state will come in and will not see the fact that you were wronged as a justification for your misdemeanor and will prosecute you, unless you prosecute yourself by taking your own life after that. But in that case, what happens to your loved ones and/or the children?

 Either way it is a bad idea to fly on the wings of passions of jealousy. This is because we are in a world that allows freedom in many acts, acts of homosexuality that cannot produce a human being. (And I am not trying to look down on them; I respect them for the lives they choose for themselves)  This is an era where many dramas show the woman or the man who prevents people who love each other from being together as the villain, and you know there are many drama lovers all around the world. So how can you prevent someone who does not find you alluring anymore from leaving you?

The answer is there is no solution. If he or she means to leave you, even if you kill the person whom you think serves as the stumbling block in your relationship, he will find you more disgusting. And will rally behind the state to kill or imprison you for life.

You’ve been wronged yes. Your heart hurts, no doubt, you wouldn’t be a human being if it didn’t, you feel like killing yourself yes, but if you let that feeling conquer you, then you are no different from the woman or man who has been beaten by a toddler. I mean to say you are a COWARD. A big fat coward because you couldn’t hold onto the struggle of life! What is life without a little heartbreak? What is life without pain? Life is woven around conflicts, the more you are caught up in conflicts, the tougher you become and the stronger you’ll grow earning the respect of even your enemies.

So the best way is to look your best even as you walk through the exit with your heart on fire and the bitterness forming tears that look for a gate-way through your eyes. This way, you maintain your greatness and your adorability and most importantly, your dignity!

                                                                                                            Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.


Sing me a song

Sing me a hearty song

Made from the vocals of a tiger, a dove and a nightingale

Sing me a song

A song like melodious news

A song that makes room for all views

A song as wanted as the healing morning dew

A song that will not be heard by the few

A song that will make everyone a crew


Sing me a song

That powerful song

That will resound louder than the loudest ding dong

Let the song, like the great king, the people tame

Let the song, like the grave law, make the people same

Let this great song, move all aggressors and make them lame

Let this song captivate the captor like an unfathomable serene frame


I long for that song

To penetrate unscrupulous hearts that know nothing but wrong

And make their goodwill strong

Then the song will stand will stand tall

And the wind, sun, thunder and lightning call

To take the fall

For our many devious faults for the benefit of all


We are the brilliants

We are the spiders

We are the brilliant spiders who take nothing for granted

Our meticulousness brought about the beautiful kente

“Ahenfo ntaade,

Amamafo anuonyam,

Ahuↄfԑfo ahokade,

Ye si yԑn bo ka no pein!

Aaane, yԑ nyansaa sene Kwaku Ananse”

And so we are proud

Ɔnyunu akԑntԑn

Ɔnyunu anyansafo nkatasoↄ

Yԑ nyansa sene anyansanfo nnyinaa

Enti yԑ nwine kente nanso yԑnwine yԑ kro

Yԑ kente fԑfԑԑfԑ nanso yԑ kro yԑ bↄ tirimuhwԑ”

We are the wiselings with beautiful weavy fingers

But try-and-visualise township

Which is no comfort zone

But we must blow our horns

Because we are ‘Asanti mma,

Ɔtekↄkↄↄsoↄ nananom”

So hold my hand

Let me hold your hand

Let him hold our hands

Let her hold our hands                               

And like the spider, weave our dream nest: Bonwire.

   Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014.


Showers of love,

Myriads of favour

That pushes the storm,

Lilies of the garden

Smiling and bounded together

Comes unaccompanied

To greet your smiles.

Honour and dignity,

Light on shadow sources,

Bright covering darkness,

Success knocking defeat,

Faith knocking shivers,

No latters battling formers,

Like night battling the days.

Grow eagle wings

Fly to your destination

And land with satisfaction

   Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014.


I had a dream

A very scary dream

Where everyone wore clothes that made them white

And I wore a dim colour making me dark, noticed but not properly seen

As soon as I entered, there was silence

As they all struggled to see the dark intruder

I yearned for the white robe

I hoped to have one of those white robes

Not because it was beautiful, but because it would make me fit into my Rome

But tried as I could, I got none of the white robes

They laughed and mocked

They told me to peel the black robe

I tried in desperation, and realized that I could have that white robe

But it wouldn’t fit me

What I had was a gift

A unique gift

There were no clothes

There were simply no clothes

The puzzle revealed itself

It was just a blessing

Blessed natural clothes that none could have no matter the determination

I knelt down and thanked my maker

But sunk into a bottomless pit into wakefulness

  Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.



As young as I was, I knew everything would change when we reached Accra. I knew not what to expect when the vehicle was speeding through the muddy road from the village called Israel, where I stayed for some months with my mother and the man I knew then as my father. So I stayed quiet throughout the journey to Accra. Even my ‘father’s’ mother was alarmed. She repeatedly asked me why I was quiet, with no words to express how I felt, I kept quiet. She bought some roasted yams and gave me some. I was very thankful, for I was very hungry; I ate as hurriedly as a child of five could. Then we reached Accra, Lapaz to be precise.

Everything seemed new to me. The structure of the house was not the same as our family house in Obo Kwahu where I had spent most of my life with my maternal grandmother. (In Obo, our house was built with blocks. It was a nice self contained house with pink tiles in the living room.) . Neither was it like the one in Israel, which was built of mud. This house was built with wood; it had a very spacious compound and a very tall block fenced wall with two big trees situated in the middle of the compound. I looked around and saw a small wooden structure situated near the fenced wall that was opposite the two wooden buildings, then looked right to see another small wooden structure, for that, I immediately knew it was a bathroom because someone was coming out of it with an empty bucket and had only a piece of cloth tied around her chest down. Suddenly, I missed my maternal grandmother and my mother and ‘father’. Without having to rest, my grandmother who asked me to call her Nana introduced me to the people we met at home. They were about seven. One was ‘turning fufu’ while a fat tall man who had only four teeth was pounding it. There were about three people eating and one lady seeing to the soup and stews. The one who had just finished bathing stopped in front of me and observed me keenly. I later learnt that Nana was a chop bar operator. Then I was asked to pound some palm nuts which I did obediently.  After that, I was given some ‘banku’ to eat. I ate hungrily. Before long, I felt like easing myself. But I was so shy to ask where the latrine was. I felt that easing one’s self was a sin and it was also shameful to tell people whom you barely knew that you felt like doing it. So I kept quiet and was bidden to wash the dishes. The plates were many and they kept bringing more. Before I knew what was happening I had defecated on myself.

I never liked Nana much, but my fear and dislike for her increased that very day. She gave me the beatings of my life. Amidst shouts that I was too old to be doing that and asking me repeatedly if I didn’t see the small wooden structure close to the wall just opposite the rooms. After I had calmed a bit, I was given water and soap and was asked to take a bath and wash my clothes. Most of the people assembled pitied me. For aside the fact that I was merely five, I looked younger than my age. I actually am naturally skinny and of average height so I guess I was a sympathetic sight. I did as I was told amidst tears and wishing to go back to the village or to my maternal grandmother. After I had washed down and washed my clothes, I went back to finish washing the dishes. After the food got finished and the customers were gone, which seemed like a long time, I was shown to a room, since there was no mat for me, Nana gave me some big rubber to lay on the bare floor and sleep. Later, she brought me some cover cloth which I was very thankful for because it was very cold and I could feel the cold from the rubber I was lying on which was plastered on the bare cemented floor. I was thankful that at least I had a place to hide my shameful face and also, I had a bit of time of undisturbed peace throughout the night.

As I lay there, I saw through the dark Nana going to sleep on the bed. After some time, I saw a tall and healthy man going to lie by her side. I kept quiet and wished that I was not noticed. I prayed silently for I was taught to be very prayerful as that could save me when I’m going through hard times. The night seemed short, for just when sleep was most sweet, I heard my name being shouted together with ‘lazy girl’ as its qualifier. Before I could open my eyes, water was being poured on me. I got up as quickly as I could for it was cold. I didn’t know the time but I saw that it was still dark. I was told I had to follow some neighbours to fetch water as water was scarce in the area. I was given a small bucket and I followed the grownups to fetch water for the house. The place was a bit far, and there was a standing pipe where people cued for the water. I realized later that I was to fetch water not only for the house, but for the chop bar too.

When it was about 9am, when I felt like my legs would break, I was called to brush my teeth and take my bath. After that I was called by Nana to meet her husband who they all called ‘Oluu’; short form of old man. He was handsome and seemed strict to me. But when he took my hands, I felt he was friendly and that I liked him better than Nana. Then Nana asked me to go and continue fetching water until the barrel was full, then I could come for my food. But Oluu confirmed my thought that he was friendly and good by asking Nana to give me some food first. I ate and after resting for sometime continued with fetching the water. By now, I was very used to the continuous growth of the population in the house. I knew that Nana had two sons staying with her and some close relatives of hers, a man and some women. That was a Saturday.

On Sunday, I didn’t go to church because I had no presentable clothes, as Nana called it, to wear. But I thought otherwise, for I had some clothes which my maternal grandmother bought, and they were beautiful. I fetched water for the house. Some using some to bath while others used some to wash their clothes, it was obviously not enough as the bucket I was using was small, so some of the grownups who couldn’t wait joined me to fetch the water. The chop bar was to operate in the afternoon since it was a Sunday. Although I was sad that I couldn’t go to church, I was relieved that after all, I had time alone to stay at home after the barrel becomes full without anyone shouting at me or threatening to beat me. But I was wrong, apparently, church closed before I could fill the barrel to the brim.

Then I heard:

          “Hey Tawia! Why haven’t you finished filling the barrel?

Were you crawling or what?

 Lazy girl!

 I’ll not tolerate that timid character you inherited from your mother.

Stupid girl!”

 I was made to do more chores after finishing with filling the barrel. I then learnt that I was all alone in my own world.

On Monday, it was worse, Oluu was not there to feel my hunger so I was told to finish filling the barrel and come for food. But as I fetched the water, it was being used, so I never got anywhere. I actually felt that I had been sold to work. And so I worked tirelessly and cried when I could because that was my only consolation. I had no friend, I knew no one and I was consistently insulted and told I was ugly. I was beaten when I did what I’d not been told, or when I was seen to be doing things in a very slow manner.

With time, I became used to seeing children going to school while I worked. I got a friend whom I was told was my cousin, my ‘father’s’ half brother’s daughter. Her name was Eno. Her father was abroad and they lived close to where I used to fetch the water. She fed me every morning so the weak feeling of hunger every morning vanished from my life. I cared less whether I’ll fetch water all day or not. I looked skinnier by the day, and my clothes kept tearing apart. With time, I had no panties to wear. I was now six years old. Oluu had mercy on me and volunteered to teach me at home, he was a teacher. I was very thankful for this because I liked schooling very much. I grew fond of him and was thankful anytime he called me to come to the room for the classes. This was because all the house chores seized for me.

Eno started giving me money because their school was changed for them. So I used some to buy food and saved some. One day, on my way from an errand, I heard a commotion and so I run quickly to see what was happening. Lo and behold, the polythene containing my clothes was outside and Nana was holding a cane. She seeing me and aiming at me was spontaneous. Before I could ascertain what was happening, most of the inhabitants of the house started calling me a thief. Nobody asked me to explain, so I received the canes with aches within my heart and body. By now, I was still not used to the spanking. My body was always full of sores for my skin is naturally very soft. Oluu was not there so when he came, my charge was put before him. He called me:

“Tawia, kneel down.” Oluu said, and I obeyed.

“Tell me why you stole your grandmother’s money. Tell me everything.

I did not steal any money Oluu. Eno gave it to me. She gives me money to buy food most mornings and so I saved some” I said timidly

“She is lying. I saw ten cedis in her bag. Where in God’s name will she get such an amount of money from? This girl is really poisonous. Look at her ugly face, ‘osasaafo, ose nie ose’ ”

Nana said. But Oluu did not mind her and sent for Eno.

Nana as usual was shouting on top of her voice insisting that I was lying. Eno also confirmed that it was true. Nana, accused Eno of being a bad girl by siding with me. She also threatened to tell her mother, which she did. So Eno’s help ceased too. I felt lonelier than before.

Sleeping with Nana also became a bit horrible for me.  I was accused of being a witch just because I yawned loudly one night. Nana in the morning called for all who could come to watch me and told all assembled of how she supposedly caught me red handed trying to fly to my witch camp. According to her, I was calling her name since she was my target for the night but God, opened her ears and she heard it and caught me red handed. All efforts made by Oluu to say that I was merely yawning fell on deaf ears. People hooted and cursed at me as few watched sympathetically whiles Nana continuously slapped me with her hands. When Oluu couldn’t help it any longer;

“Leave the poor girl alone. You’ll kill her. What is this attitude for?”

Then he tore me from her grip but Nana had not finished with me and added Oluu.

“Eh, so Tawia, you have ended up bewitching my husband as well, haven’t you? And you foolish man, you don’t know when you’re spoiling a witch.”

 Oluu on his part did not know how to bandy words with Nana, so he kept quiet and sent me to the room and asked me to calm down, which I gradually did.

On one occasion, I heard Oluu trying to advise Nana to feed me properly as I looked horrible by the day, but Nana only got offended and insulted him very well. Then Oluu insisted that I be allowed to go to church. So he took me to church every Sunday. With time, all the Sunday school teachers became my friends. They continually commended Nana, who was a women’s fellowship leader for having an intelligent girl like me for a grandchild. I took church activities very seriously; sometimes my Sunday school teachers would come and ask for permission for me to join in activities like bible quizzes, singing and drama, which Nana reluctantly permitted. I grew prayerful by the day, hoping that my situation would change in the near future. With time, people asked me to pray for them for one sickness or another and they confessed afterwards that they were healed. Nana became very alarmed with this and forbade me from praying for anyone or to ever participate in any church activity. Oluu tried to change her mind but she was adamant. She gave some more excuses as to why I could not attend church even on Sundays which included; I had no decent clothes to go to church with, thereby embarrassing her with my appearance and there’s nobody at home who will prepare the things for the chop bar. In the end, I stopped attending church once again. But I continued to pray though I had but only a New Testament bible. With time, the chop bar business collapsed.

I was very grateful to the lord because the “too much fetching of water” stopped. So for some time, although I did all the chores in the house, sweeping, fetching water, cleaning, doing the dishes, and running errands for the house, I had some time to rest.

Nana got ashamed one day when I took off my clothes to bath and a church friend of hers saw my one and only panty. It was torn in front and looked very faint due to too much washing. I heard the woman commenting on it and asking Nana to take very good care of me as I looked like an uncared for child. After the woman left, I received another bout of lashes for disgracing her. But the next day, she came home with a panty seller when she went to collect money from her debtors. She asked the woman to give me two of the panties on credit as those owing her refused to pay her that day. This panty seller came there week after week but Nana will run to the room and tell us to tell her that she is not in. one day we all heard the bell of the panty seller, Nana hurriedly ran to the room and warned us to tell her she wasn’t around;

“Children, where is your grandmother? The panty seller asked.

She is gone to the market” I said

“She’s gone to meet someone” Isaac; the son of Nana’s friend said

“No she’s gone to fetch water” I said

“No, she’s going to buy me some food” Isaac said.

 In the end, the panty seller deduced that Nana was in the room and told her that:

“You can keep the money you cunning old woman.

 I know what you do to those who owe you.

I know of course that you’re in that room.

It is money but it is not that much.

So you can keep it.

 Only God will judge you.”

  I felt very bad. For I knew what Nana made me do was a sin against God. But I dared not utter a word. She never came to the house again.


Meanwhile, Nana had a new business. Buying and selling fresh fish. She brought one of her grandsons to stay with us, his name was Yaw. I was thankful for the company but soon, I saw that he could do anything he wanted without any reproach. And I was always responsible for all his misdeeds. I remember having to receive one of those beatings because he decided to play with a knife and got wounded. Nana blamed me for it and I never understood why, knowing that Yaw was stronger and older than I was and if I happened to get on his nerves, he could beat me to a pulp.

There was not much to do but I couldn’t go to our neighbour’s house to watch television. I tried that on two occasions and got seriously thrashed. So I kept to my part of the house without venturing out unless I was sent. Yaw on his part tried everything in his power sometimes to frame me up, so Nana could beat me and he succeeded mostly.

The fresh fish business also collapsed and Nana resorted to making Yaw and I sell ‘krobonko’. This is a green fruit, longer and bigger than a cucumber with sharp lines around it. This fruit is of no use to many. When it dries, people use it as a sponge. In its raw state, some use it in place of garden eggs. Nana will sack me to sell the rest even if it is dark before coming home when I happen to come home with some of the ‘krobonko’. But Yaw could sell one and go to the park to play football, then spend the money and come home to tell Nana that the money got lost and people did not buy it. She’ll simply say that Yaw was a bad boy and ask him to go and eat. With time, people started buying my ‘krobonko’ for sympathy. They wondered why I hawked even in the evenings when most children were sleeping. But I usually said nothing, fearing that Nana had spies around who could report to her and put me into trouble.

Then one day, my maternal grandmother, whom I called Nana Adwoa came to Accra to visit me. She wept when she saw me. But I pretended as though I did not recognize her, partly because I felt she was part of my woes. Had she not connived with my parents to sell me to Nana? Then I heard her quarreling with Nana. I was sent on an errand immediately. When I came back, she was gone. That day, sleep eluded me, I cried silently in my sleep and before I knew what was happening, I had urinated on myself. My cloth was used to tie my head and children in other houses were called to hoot at me. I felt very embarrassed but I knew I was wrong to do that so I cried quietly and washed my clothes and cover cloth after that ordeal.
 I received the greatest shock of my life when Nana asked me to go and have my bath as Oluu was sending me to school. All my tears turned into joy.

On my first day at school, I felt lost. The school; a Presbyterian school, was a very big school. The primary school was farther apart from the Junior Secondary School. I was taken to class one. But I saw to my disappointment that I knew virtually everything that the teacher was teaching. Oluu was the class two teacher so my class teacher told Oluu about this. He still insisted that I remained in class one. By this time, I was about eight years old. When I reached class two, most people in the school knew me because I was very intelligent. Oluu kept teaching me at home, even some of the class five pupils could not compete with me. At home, it was the same old story. I did many house chores and the little time I had, I was taught by Oluu.

Now, Nana was selling baf loaf. One day, on my way to school, I went to look for counters at a bar which was situated by the road side. Then I saw a fifty cedi note on the floor. I gave it to the bar tender who said it must be for one of the people who came to the bar the previous night and asked me to keep it. I gave it to Oluu, who said he would use it to feed me. He did feed me for months. But I later learnt that he used that money to buy a kente cloth and fed me with his own money. I cared less. I wouldn’t have said anything even if he had asked me to give it to him without promising anything. I liked him very much.

On my way from school one day, I saw that we had company. Then Nana told me that my parents are back from the village. I received this news with indifference. Then I saw my mother pounding ‘fufu’. I greeted her and went to change my clothes (which was house attire). I heard later that she and my ‘father’ were to settle in Accra for greener pastures. So my mother will sell some of the baf loaf while my ‘father’ looks for some work. By now, my mother had one more child in addition to the one I knew in the village. That one had grown almost like me.  I knew that I was the third born and that I had two sisters before me though I didn’t know them.   My mother looked like an angel. She was very fair, had a long jelly hair and a pointed nose. She was fairly tall and looked like a very quiet lady. I tried to marry her with the mother I knew in the village. That one was quiet and fair as this one, but I never thought she was as beautiful as this one.

Her staying with us made no difference. She could not defend me even when someone was molesting me. Actually, she herself was molested many times that I sometimes felt sorry for her. Nana was always on her case, it’s either her cooking was bad or some chores had not been done or she was a fool. But my ‘father’ was a bit stronger; he was always defending my mother to no avail. My baby brother was very fat. So people started calling my mother ‘obolo maame’ meaning the mother of a big child. Every morning, my mother would wash her sieve and fill it with the loaves Nana will give her, and then she will strap Kwabena on her back and go for hawking. I learnt then that everybody had his or her own problem. I had mine and my parents had theirs. So there was no need expecting someone to protect me.

One day, Nana Adwoa came for a visit and brought me three dresses. I was the happiest girl alive. It was a long time since I had worn beautiful clothes. I tried each one of them to see if they fitted. They fitted perfectly. Then my mother went to put them in her bag which was in Nana’s room, for we all slept on a mat in that same room. The next day, she gave me one to wear to church. The next Sunday, my mother searched and searched for the other two dresses but could not find them. Then she came to tell Nana, who insulted her that she was slow and foolish and so she would not find them. Nana herself got up and went in search of the missing dresses but could not find them. Eventually, we came to the conclusion that the dresses were either not put in her bag and someone had mistakenly taken it somewhere or some thief came for them. I did not cry. I wasn’t even surprised because I had gotten used to the fact that my story was always different from the others. So I made do with the one for church services. That dress was a straight dress, white with red flowers with buttons from top to bottom in front.

 The pressure in that house had become too much for my parents so they decided to find their own place. It was a year after my dress incidence. Then we heard that some of Nana’s relatives were coming to visit her from the village. One fine Saturday, as my parents were getting ready to go tidy up their new place and I washing one saucepan, I heard people shouting ‘here they come, here they are’. Then we saw a woman coming with two girls. Those two girls each had one of my dresses on. Those who saw my dresses when Nana Adwoa brought them were awe struck.

My mother being who she was; quiet and humble, looked at me sympathetically, without a word. I always felt that she did not like me. I couldn’t put my fingers on what kept us apart, but I felt my mother always felt distant from me. But she seemed genuinely sorry for my plight. I looked on for a while and continued with my chore. By now, I’d become used to swallowing every bit of maltreatment and making it generate into bitterness within. And my nearness to God sagged with each hurt.

                                          AMOAFOWAA SEFA CECILIA


Long ago

In plural

In areas rural

When the most revered art was the mural

When nature’s abundance helped us play with the squirrel

When things of appeal have not gotten to our neural

We lived without peril

For love emanated from the visceral

And we were thankful to be in the land of the liberal

Taking all that were said in the literal

And habouring no immoral.






Now, we with words, without codifications, crush

Pulling with bare hands the human heart in a rush

Without a blink, not to talk of a hush

With magnifying cannibalism we blush

And pleasure in terrifying terror and lust without hearing a shush

When engaging in heart wrenching deeds with even the thrush

Of seductive women in apparels plush






Where are we headed?

What is the destination?

What will bring the satisfaction and erase the longings of hate?

What will our pride be in the end?

Why do we engage in these misgivings?

Whose benefit is the goal?

Who sits in the bench to judge and award such hideous engagements?





In the end, we are nothing

But the sand under the feet of the fruits of our wombs.

      Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia, (c) 2013.


It is a well-known fact that Africans are hospitable; though there can be few who fall short of this trait because of unpleasant experiences or by choice. We show our hospitality to people we meet even for the first time by helping them with whatever they need. We are so hospitable that we can even accommodate people we know nothing about in our homes.

This trait I think started with families relying on their most capable member or members. And so a man or woman may be taking care of his children, brothers and sisters, and if they inherit from their mother’s side, his nephews and nieces, his mother and father and their siblings, some of his wife’s family members with his in-laws being an obligation. All these people having no thoughts of being grateful and thinking that it is his duty.

 In effect, if you are a dutiful son or daughter, you have to be able to cater for all the needs of these people. It is not a bad idea but the high cost of living in this modern time must prompt people to be reasonable enough not to burden their benefactors too much. Can you imagine a nuclear family producing seven or more children without any proper ways of earning income and expecting a perceived rich sibling of either the man or the woman to bear the responsibility of taking care of every facet of the lives of those children including themselves? Now if this person who also has multiple responsibilities fails to honour even a fraction of that, then there is the perception that he or she is wicked.

With this type of emotional blackmail, how do we expect our people to grow financially with good health?

Let us learn that if our chins are falling off and someone decides to help us hold them, we do not leave all for them and throw tantrums that it is their responsibility to see to it that the chins heal.  The world is changing so do not incur responsibilities thinking that someone must take over that responsibility by virtue of your birth. When you decide to give birth, do so because you are capable of taking care of the child not because someone you know has the means of taking care of you and whoever you decide to give birth to. When someone decides to help you in any way, be grateful no matter how small that is because that is not his or her responsibility.

We are Africans, yes, we are hospitable, yes, but we must not abuse this nature. 



There is the white pot

There is the red pot

There is the black pot

But based on the value placed on each

They can be same

The same clay makes the different pots

Why the preference?

The same force can break them all

Why the preference?

Why must the black pot be rejected and made dirty

When they were also made from the same mother earth?

Think about it, most black pots hold more value as they’ve been

Through more torturous flames to attain their stature and complexion

So why look down on them because of how they look?

“Honam yԑ honam, wo diԑ yԑ fitaa, ԑna me diԑ yԑ tuntum

Ԑwↄmu sԑ me ankasa me sԑ so fo de tuntum ayԑ awufo nkaedeԑ deԑ

Nanso, me gye me ho di sԑ meyԑ fԑ paa!

Enti adԑn na wopԑ sԑ wodidi ma ahwehwԑ atԑm?

Adԑn na wopԑ sԑ, wo ma me gye di sԑ nsu a ԑnam me mu no nnyԑ kↄkↄↄ te sԑ wodeԑ no pԑpԑԑpԑ?

Ewiase wↄ hↄ yi, obiara wↄ ade a yԑbԑtumi de no atotohu,

Sԑ wofrԑ me aduii a, menso mԑtumi afrԑ wo prԑko

Hunu nso sԑ, aduii nim nyansa bebree sene prako”

So treasure the pots equally and let’s stop this conversation of naught

For they never choose their sculptor and their form

If these differences persist

The least favoured pot may scream and fall

Since they are mostly placed side by side,

The fall of one can be the end for all

We are the earth

We are mortal

We are the pots made by the same sculptor which self-destructs with time

Bickering and differences will not change that

      Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia 2014.


Innocence and purity

Extended hands, role models seeking

The fresh snow look- alike hearts that are unsuspecting

Welcome all without a thought as to the existence of bad

So what was their crime?

Should they be charged for being too trusting?

Should their creator be charged for giving them clean slates of trust?


Grown children with dented souls

Crying within, masked with adulthood

Trapped by responsibilities, nosy eyes and fingers

Even the bright light reveals not their hidden little selves

Beaten and bruised by monsters who roam free

Leaving them tired, bitter with loathing

And making them the apparitions of their monsters.


“Tro” I was told meant “a pesewa” the least currency of Ghana in times past in the Akan parlance when I was very young.  I grew up knowing that the local buses that run short distances are the “trotros” named after the pesewa which was the fare then. With growing need to make silly local words sound unique, many young people have adapted the name “troski” instead of the original name “trotro”.

Most people have no regards for the troski; they are meant for the poor and average men who cannot afford taxi bills. In most areas, one has to cue for a long time before getting the opportunity to board a troski to his or her destination. Of course knowing Africans, some lorry stations are no new comers to frequent bickering and fighting as some cantankerous individuals will never want to be in the cue to wait for their turn. In the evenings, one had to watch his or her bag or purse very well as some of those who were in the cue and pushing or squeezing so hard had ulterior motives.

I hated being in the cue all the time I lived in Accra and God knows that was a long time. I complained of the child like arguments, political arguments, the frequent breakdown of the troskis, the bad roads, the bad nature of the troskis, some stinking mates and sleepy passengers. I never for once thought of the fact that it was helping the average earners “cut their coat according to their cloths”.

Now I am living in an area where there are no troskis and means of transportation is either through a motor bike, your personal vehicle or a taxi. The immobile ones like us must always rely on the taxis which are now charging exhorbitant prices or the ‘red bus’ (walking to your destination).

I now miss those Accra days and wish there were troskis here. I wouldn’t mind being the goods that I thought passengers of troskis were in my early years. But the problem is; it is probably too late to wish for what I had but never appreciated, unless I decide to go back to Accra. With increasing cost of living in Ghana, one cannot stop thinking about ways of cutting cost. But Tamale will have to deal with the fact that they can do nothing about transportational cost, because the last time I checked with the rumour mongers, the one who tried to operate a troski here was nearly lynched by the taxi drivers.

But there is the other side of the coin where people have turned to motor kings as their means of transportation to their villages, dangerous but what can they do? Maybe some of us will resort to that.



Look at me

Look through me like a mirror

And see yourself.

Look at me

Look deep within yourself and see me

Yԑn kↄԑ!

Hunu me sԑ nnipa na me yԑ wo nua

Aaane, me yԑ wo sista, sista, sista, sista, sista

Biibi na ԑdane yԑ ntira

Anka mԑtumi ayԑ wo broda, broda, brada, brada

Mmrԑ bi a atwamu no, na me yԑ abaayuwa

Ԑyԑ ntokulo bi a obiara mfa nani nhunu na na eyimema

Mmpanyinfoↄ no nso bↄↄ masumu toklo

Sԑ amansan nnyinaa nhunu sԑ me yԑ abaayuwa

Na wↄn a wↄpԑ ntiatia me so

Bↄↄl a, mebↄↄ bi

Amirika a, metuu bi

Dԑn ara na mmberimawaa yԑԑyԑ a manyԑbi?

There were absolutely no differences

I was told to be an ‘akateesia’

To cover and hide my pride

Me kata me ho sieyԑ

Nanso adԑn na ↄbarima biara hunu me a na ↄrehwehwԑ?

Na ↄrehwehԑ dia mede masie yi?

Is my pride really something that must be covered in clothes?

Yԑse me yԑ ↄbaa sima

Asekyerԑ ne sԑn?

Asekyerԑ ne sԑ, mԑsi nnuↄma ama anaa?

Me sua no, na yԑfrԑme abaayuwa kromo

Aseԑ ne sԑn?

Asekyerԑ ne sԑ, mԑ wo ahyԑ koro no ma na y’ama me amo anaa?

Eno, ka kyerԑ meԑ

Papaa, ka kyerԑ meԑ

Efirisԑ me gye tum sԑ nnipa gu mu ahorow

Nanso nka obuo a ԑyԑ korↄ bi baa mu a

Anka megyidi sԑ ԑbԑyԑyie

Wo bu me, na menso me bu wo a

Ede dԑn na ԑbԑba?

Enti nea mmaa bebree ayi adi akyerԑ wiase yi

Ԑwↄ sԑ meguso brԑ?

Please look at yourself

Look within yourself and see me

The me who wants to do everything you do

The me that wants to be hailed as a super being

The me that will have nothing to hide for others to look for

The me that will have wings to fly in the minds of your godships.

           Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.


I remember the election days like yesterday but it has been a little over a year now. I remember when people in Ghana turned against each other in their quest to defend their preferred candidates and make them have their mandates at all cost. 

I remember news of husbands fighting wives over who was suitable leading to multiple divorces at the local stalls. I remember news of people killing each other because of differences in opinions as to who was suitable for the presidency; Nana Akuffo Addo or John Mahama. 

I remember hearing people having heated arguments wherever I went over the qualities of both candidates as though Agya ‘mfinfim’ as Mr. Nduom was called and the other candidates were just joking tools accompanying the work men. Then the elections took place amidst controversies of rigging. There were fractions ready to butcher others by word of mouth and others threatening hunger strike; I was never fooled, I knew even those who claimed were on hunger strike were eating when people were not looking.

The most important discussions were the manifestos of the candidates. Some claimed the NPP could never follow through on their promises to make our High School education free while Others claimed it was highly possible. Me, I was of the opinion that Agya Mfinfim could give us a different view of the political arena but no one listened and they called me a joke. For the record I knew I was a joke considering the nature of Ghanaians. Then there was the youth issue, where the supposed youth of Ghana wanted a young man to be president. I am part of the youth but I saw no youth in my area wanting this. Let’s just say a few youth spoke for all of us.

Now we are here, with a very vibrant youth president but we know not what is happening. It seems we are in a  hellish dream of unfathomable nightmare that even the bite of the devil cannot wake us from.

We were blinded with a 10% increment in salary and then bombarded with more than a 100% of increment on everything ‘buyable’ (May be exaggerating so you can check it out). 

Now we cannot take short distance vehicles in places where there are no ‘trotros’. In 2012, taking a taxi from the central town to Sagnarigu; a surburb of Tamale was 60 pesewas. Now I am proud to say that it is 1:20 pesewas, double the 60 pesewas. Isn’t that great?

I could use ten cedis worth of pre-paid electrical units for a month. Now even forty cedis does not last for that one month. Are we in the land of reality now? Is this what we bargained for? All that time we were busy looking for who to tax in exchange for our votes, did we pause to think of the repercussions? And those who had the bicycles and the ‘rumoured’ cars and motors how are they faring maintaining and fueling their vehicles? I bet they are also living in the lands of the heavens. What about those who had the 50 cedis, clothes etc…? Hahaha I love my motherland!

Whatever Ghana has become, whatever Ghana will become, we are all in here. We will all face the music and those who find it easy will also in a few years join the “crew of criers”. Except they amass enough and decide to bolt, even in that case, I do not envy them. Living like strangers on the land of many hostile hosts, is a no no for me. I love that we are in a rat race, chasing each other in a burning jungle while hearing the painful cries from the chaser and the chased.


It’s been a while I’ve heard NDC faithfuls giving their loud voices colour, emotions and vigour in support of their football team, ei sorry o, their party. Apart from the paid radio and TV propagandists. Even a faithful friend who came to my house to gloat of their victory and being disappointed because of the realisation that not all southerners were supporters of the NPP now complains more than the NPP supporters. What I can finish this with is:


“Sԑ ↄman yi bԑyԑ yie o


Sԑ ↄman yi ԑrinye yie o


Ԑyԑ nsemndahↄ sԑ


Ɔmanfo bra na ԑbԑkyerԑ”

                                 Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia.



Men women with wings should never go in for:

  1. Married men; I don’t need to say much.
  2. Extremely jealous men; they’ll embarrass you in places you can never imagine.
  3. Men who want you to foot bills during outings, they may never be responsible towards their children.
  4. Men who talk nonstop, they’ll never listen to reason.
  5. Men who play mind games on you by repulsing you, intending to corner you into noticing them, Those are always selfish and would want to have their way all the time.
  6. Men who say shameful things when drunk, you know he will wash all the *** In public.
  7. Men who have no sense of humour that is the most horrible thing that can happen to any woman. He will find nothing amusing and can never make you laugh. He will also find faults with all your efforts of breaking the ice of silence.
  8. Colleagues; dating colleagues have never been a good idea though it works for some. Some of them are too needy and if you happen to dump them or the other way round, they become weird to have around.
  9. Men who introduce you to everyone they know, adding your qualifications all the time; those men just need you to raise their status.
  10. Men who say all the right things at the right time. Those are the chronic players, trust me.
  11. Men who insult for fun; you know the implication right?


You never have to look down on the guys who cannot form proper sentences around you. Most of the time, they are the very people who can make you happy. Remember in choosing a partner, perfect looks must never be a criteria. There should be an attraction though.


Here I lay in the pitch dark night

Counting the ceiling

Faced squarely with fear, with shivers being a feeling

Here I lay

Wrapped around the fingers of darkness

Worries chasing each other in the thoughts of madness with fierceness

Mocked death poking with determination in the heart of blackness

Countless sins poking their noses, wanting to be my weakness

Here I lay

Unseen by eyes, being chased by fearsome looking creatures

Creatures with no eyes but are all seeing

Creatures who want nothing but to lead me into insanity

Creatures stuck in my head with no sympathy

Here I lay

Murdering in cold blood my enemies of progress in thoughts

With revenge blinding my better judgment

And bitterness driving my bad intentions at top most speed

Here I lay

Doing every calculation without figures to match

And shamelessly crying my heart and eyes out

In a monologue of psychosis

Here I lay

Wishing the cessation of breathe a better option

To the detriment of the rules of the fearsome God

Who according to long written books knows before I thought

Here I lay

Dreading the morning but breathing every second to meet it

Occasionally thinking of survival intakes

Here I lay

Frozen in the very fabric of life

Dejected by disappointments and pimped by failure

Here I lay

A human corpse with thoughts on the run

I must be a coward after all

Stepping out of the realms of thoughts

Waking, walking and clearing the countenance

Forcefully infusing humour

To meet the day as though there were no confrontations with inner me

Should I say I am brave?

For overcoming the confrontations and hypocritically greeting day?

Darkness is a cover after all.

   Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©2014.


I know I am obsequious. 
No, I pretend to be obsequious 
That does not mean that I am not susceptible to inhuman treatments 
Yes, I have to be obsequious 
In order to feed 
But that does not make me less of a human seed 
For I have the feelings 
Yes, the feelings you have 
To be venerated 
I have the feelings 
To all unfair treatments repudiate 
But I stop to think of my solar plexus 
Now get a dictionary! 
Have you ever stopped to think as a human, the story behind the silence? 
Have you ever looked beyond the broom, the mop and the rags? 
Have you ever pried as to how I stand before your eyes disgusting and shameless? 
It has been years of suppression! 
Years of personal robbery! 
Years of pain and torment! 
Years of curses and humiliations! 
I wanted to be a Professor. 
I, too, wanted to be a professor! 
Moving closer to my dreams, 
Many held my collar and passed 
Leaving me hanging. 
I was robbed of my virtue severally 
In the darkness of the night under unholy skies 
An un-befitting treatment for the gentle me, 
While many looked on obviously pleasuring in my crisis. 
Yes, many looked on, crushing every bit of self worth left. 
Happening over and over again I left the end of the rope 
And with a little living hope came to be subdued. 
But you have gone too far, 
Sucking the little life with the look in your eyes, 
With the language of your body, 
And with the words from your mouth. 
This hardened body is also made of blood. 
This hardened body, is also made with skin. 
This hardened body has also a heart 
That yearns to be respected, 
That yearns to be recognized, 
And yearns to have a day’s rest. 
Now take your broom 
For I will leave your room 
And in my head, all my life zoom 
Like recapitulations in a film, 
I will mourn myself, 
And rest this body forever. 
This, I finally deserve. 
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2013. 


Hunger shouts on her and she shivers

Wherever she looks she only sees rivers 

That disagree to take a trip through her very dried throat

Her wobbly legs carry her as though she is on an air float

If only there could be some givers

Who will give her a boat

To cross this river of distress and stop the quiver

Then she could her role in this life deliver


A child of sorrow
I wish I could give her an arrow
To pierce her object of sorrow
And make it bow
In front of her eyes to make her feel less shallow
So she can see the brighter tomorrow
But my wish has a big question, how?

Just seeing her gait 

Makes my body engine breaks

I could my life stake

If I could all her likes’ scare take

And for them happiness make

So they don’t see their lives as fake 

Since I can’t, let me this cake bake

       Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2013.



What will I do conscience free?

I am the strange omnivore that is always on a hunting spree

No wonder some claim that my very existence sin decrees

I seize air, strangle and suck him, only to throw the invalid on the grateful plants

I bribe water to let me live by blindfolding her through places she’d rather not be

I force some earthly neighbours through my stomach and turn them into things everyone hates to see

I force some earth sprouts through horrible processes to finally my cover up be

Not satisfied, I peel some skin off my neighbours to serve as more cover ups to keep this facade going

I maim or murder some trees to help me grow back some lost parts

I forcefully catch and murder in cold blood variety of my animal folds and chew them in parts

I forcefully puncture different parts of the body of the earth to create a cave to myself save

I drench some life out of the core of the earth to seriously bluff and show off to more stealing pave


Now I tremble at the thought of turning all the years

Of tormenting my neighbours in forging forward into fears

Of living under them and eventually becoming like them; a tool

Only to eventually die a fool

Like the Frankenstein’s monster I really am

The creator of this place must be having a feisty laugh

Creating tormentors of tormentors, all his entertainment to have

       Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2013.


She walks barefooted
With no clothes but is deep rooted
Her dark complexion shinning even without sunlight, never having freckles
Her breasts have fallen from the many that have suckled
She has no cash
But has wealth that she is not ready to spend in a rush
She has suffered through hunger, deprivation, sicknesses and death
But her many men who are strong are in good health
Many are those who coveted her children
To an extent that they traveled far and wide to steal these brethren
Yet she survived
And always learns from her mistakes and is showing the world that she has arrived
At a thought to thrive and survive
Her thought of her children in distant lands Doing things that do not befit her royal borns
Hurt her deeply but she buries it in the sand
Then she started nursing her children
To learn from the brethren
Who evaded her royal land
And desecrated it without a clash
Eventually, they became brighter than their opponents.
They stood and reclaimed what rightfully belonged to them
God’s Hands Are Not At-rest
When it comes to her children
She thinks about her children
And the children of her husband
A Franchise Realm In Cold Array
But now, her problem lies in her children harmonizing
To make her land flourish
They steal what must benefit all
Deceive their own kind
They bicker and witch-hunt
They kill each other when they are of one flesh
For power over the other which is same
They render her sleepless every night
Her only relief is that apart from fractions butchering themselves
The greater part use their brains
But she struggles to stay calm and hope
That the blood of the forefathers,
The gold that makes the land rich
The green pastures of the land that feeds her people
And the star of hope that is forever a reminder
Will eventually send the message of her pained thoughts across
And gain stability in her land
She cries and fries because she can’t talk
And her children can’t seem to get her signal
She hopes, meditates and prays
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia.


I don’t want a beautiful artificial nose.

After expiration, the underneathers will make it a hose

For transporting their goods amidst blows,

And eventually turn it into food for those

Who can only live underneath and not close.



I don’t want alluring fake breasts.

After expiration, the underneathers will rudely massage and on it feast

Like the beast that they are after we lose the expired breath; pests,

To give them the sapped ones is my quest



I don’t want big fake buttocks that is a mountain and many find alluring.

Though it may make me feel like soaring

When the praises are pouring,

After expiration, it will give the underneathers more feasting and storing.



I don’t want to feast on juicy body building foods and fatly grow.

I cannot afford the thought of being served on a plate for days

To the underneathers after expiration while they enjoy in free flow

On their many ways.



I love to live in moderation,

Never seeking permission,

Being happy in my missions

Yet not giving the underneathers the pleasure of having the body they envision.

Call it whatever you want to call it, selfishness or greed, I call it choosing my fruition

To deprive the feaster a bouncy meal, because he or she or it will give me no commission.


              Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia, ©Nov. 15, 2013.



In the animal kingdom

There are the smaller versions of the bigger

Defying the rule of equality.

In the land of the alphabets

There are the upper cases

And the lower cases

Defying the norm of respect for all.

In the earth’s hydrosphere there are the oceans;

Pacific, Atlantic, Indian, Southern, Artic Oceans

In their respected descending classes

Then the seas, lakes, rivers, streams and brooks

Pay homage to their kings by their flowing contributions.

Can there be equality to the tether?

When mountains glare at us

Showing their masculinity or femininity

And giving us proof of their variances?

Do we really want equality when we stand to lose the little help?

Are we really capable of fending for our emotions in torrential downpour of attacks?

Can we lift the heavies and turn around for the tiredness?

Remember, carrying isn’t all

There’s the sleeplessness, the whining, the feeding and the many chores.

Will we really be free if we become equal with societal mini-gods?

What will we gain if we are the mini gods instead of the mini goddesses?

Maybe respect must be sought

Equal remunerations for equal efforts must be achieved

But do we need to be bosses with our intermittent childlike hearts?

I may be in the land of wonder

Being swept and caressed by the handsomeness of doubt

And being frightened by the possibility of the winner takes it all

If that is it, let the seduction of doubt take its course and faze

And fright of the unknown turn to blindness

And help me see through the darkness

   Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.


I am in my prime

That is not a crime

The notion that is so slime

As to mime

And at the same time chime

About my preferences without being given a dime

And wasting your time

You must wipe clean as the smell of the armpit is done with lime


I can immerse myself in dope

So much so that not even the prayers of the pope

Can help me elope

And I can mope

Drink and walk in all kinds of slope

And refuse to with everybody cope

Always drenched with the hope

That I will be able to escape the rope

Yet can get into the bathing tub with lots of soap


In memory I can have my plot

Build fanciful buildings on the lot

And places of comfort jot

While many a fresh people do me sought

Nothing in this world will be too much to be bought

And many for me might have fought

Without my attention and ended up in court

There’s no baby in the cot

And my clothes are clean without a dot

Yes, all my misgivings will never be caught


After all I am in my prime, very beautiful

And very colorful

With all things sorrowful

Passing as fast as possible though I’m a handful


Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia, Nov. 7, 2013.



Bright engines taken to the field

Of perpetual doom,

Workable engines being stilled

With fiery dangerous gloomy

Sticks of aimy-kill,

How can a master be so negligent

As to send his better half to a field

Of perpetual doom

With his hard earned money mill?

How can a bright engine mill

Be left in a polluting murder gas

That only killy parts amass?


Only if he knew how his engines cry:

        “Tsukutsaka tsukutsaka” blurry air

         Let me do my duty well and fair

         Hypocritical smoke of sin

         You have the power but let me be

         “Tsukutsaka tsukutsaka tsukuukuu”


Angelic faces of danger

Hiding in whitish inhalant and sneaking through the esophagus

Stealing poisonous peaks with his head

In places the master hasn’t led

Master’s ignorance of sacking cold,

Mighty ignorance of nursing a lion,

That will tear him limb by limb when he reaches Zion

His unfathomable ignorance in fold

That he his passengers lifting high,

Works little by little, butchering in fie

The poor passengers in a ghastly smashy hold

While all he sees are insignificant ashes in fold


Only if he knew how his engines cry:

          “Tsukutsaka tsukutsaka” blurry air

           Let me do my duty well and fair

           Hypocritical smoke of sin

           You have the power but let me be

          “Tsukutsaka tsukutsaka tsukuukuu”


Oh! Ignorant master of naught!

Take a moment to look deeper

And you’ll realize that your expensive companion of smoke

Is maiming your better parts

Have some sympathy on them and on you

And do away with the companion that is making you a fool

Listen to your people working and crying:


           “Tsukutsaka tsukutsaka” blurry air

             Let me do my duty well and fair

             Hypocritical smoke of sin

             You have the power but let me be

            “Tsukutsaka tsukutsaka tsukuukuu”

   Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2013.



I seriously do not have a clue as to what grooms buy when they are getting married. Do they pay for washer women or cooks? I have thought about this for a long time and I’ve come to the conclusion that marriages in Africa can never give voices to women. If I am to pay in order to marry you, even if I were the man, I’d want you to do my bidding or worse, be my slave. After all, we buy goats to breed and slaughter any time we feel like it, why do I pay for a bride then? Is it for her to serve as an incubator? If that is the case then it is a very complex issue. Or do they pay for taking away children who are supposed to be the doers of house chores? I am still trying to understand. 

Most men claim that they deserve respect because they paid for bride price and not the women. Ok, I respect that opinion and they are right. If what is paid is supposed to be for the woman’s education, then that simply means that whatever money the woman makes must go to the man, yes, because he paid for a working company. If that price is paid because a beautiful artifact has been taken from the family, then that woman is supposed to be a decoration tool forever. People talk about tradition in an era where some women work and earn more than their men. Is it possible then to bend the rules to make the women pay groom-prices instead if they are richer, not in private, but in the full glare of both families?
Let’s get religious, because I know many people will crucify me for trying to take that respect bit from men. I am not saying women are not supposed to respect their men, far from that. The Bible says that men are the heads of the household, but the Bible did not say that women are to be disrespected in anyway. I am open for corrections but did the Bible say anything about women taking financial responsibilities of their wards? Times are changing and I think outmoded traditions that are being heightened because of greed must be revised with candid eyes. After all, if you take even ten cows from a man as a bride price and you sell them, the money will finish in a matter of months at most a year.
What will it benefit a family if they sell their ward for exorbitant prices all because of greed? Will it benefit them if their female children lose the respect of their in-laws even before they start their married lives? Someone like me is considered a child who must not tamper with issues like this, but I just aim for answers. I aim to understand the whole issue of paying to take a woman home because it looks like buying and selling from afar to me, that is all.


Frustration, hate, questions

Tears, reminiscence, loss, grief?


Because the beckoner of the beckoned,

The player of the played,

The flame of the fire,

The manipulator of breaths and

The raw eater of the flesh

Played, flamed, manipulated and ate

The sire of company and happiness?

The sender of the sender

Who sends breathless humans

To be fed to the hungry earth

Will have no pity, no matter the gravity of sorrow

So wake, smile, laugh, dress up and finish your tasks,

Before he sets his eyes on the you

Who has her eyes on his past feast.

We all are feasts of doom

So much so that even those who have the pleasure of staying long

Sometimes pleads to be sent to the human abattoir.

So make merry and stop wasting the different hands of time

Whether young or old, the leaf is bound to be manure

Shield the sumptuous fruits that are promising

So you have no regrets when called

     Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia, (c) 2014.


They were in a convention, 
All words were in a convention 
I stood and watched to see if I could some information fetch 
Then I realized they were in search, 
In search of a leader, a leader to rule 
All the words went bazaar 
Me insisted the leadership must be his title 
No shouted that he fits the mantle 
Yes claimed positivity exudes from his personality 
Can stood tall, chest out and spoke with certainty 
You made a commotion about not being regarded 
Will said it was his birthright, so should so be regarded 
Will’s twin brother Would claimed older-ship 
Then Fate stood up, put smiles on all faces and nodded to the aspiring leadership 
Ugly shouted at how unfair it will be, if everyone were to use their 
Gun made to stand up, but all the words forced him down 
Flibbertigibbet got up and shouted for all the little words to shut up 
Pry reminded him that his meaning will disappoint many so he should shut up 
Riches stood up, took money and his family for sharing 
Head Money slapped Riches, and asked all to realize he was the most powerful, mean and caring 
Almost all the words fell at his feet and hailed: 
His Excellency Money the Don! 
Baffled and angry, I made to shout, I took a walk into nothingness and got up; 
It was a dream. 
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014.


She pants and frets, 
Investigates his authenticity and gets 
Nervous, sees a little bad air hovering and runs like a scared little pet 
She settles in her cocoon of darkness, ignoring the many bets 
On her, then tries to forget 

But the scorned man calls her a man eater 
A man eater who is not a good beater 
A man eater who cannot roar 
And does not have strong paws, fangs nor obvious instinct for blood 
While she purrs like a scared little hungry lost cat in the dark 

All mouths connive to give her a beating 
All fingers meet and agree to point to one direction, hers, in a sitting 
Even her most treasured parts, give her a whipping 
Yet she has no ill thoughts but a yearning 
To be heard and parted on the back and told, it’s alright; everything 

But the scorned man calls her a man eater 
A man eater who is not a good beater 
A man eater who cannot roar 
And does not have strong paws, fangs nor obvious instinct for blood 
While she purrs like a scared little hungry lost cat in the dark 

Just look keener for a moment 
Before the comments form and pour in horrible torrents 
Not all lurking pain peeks through beautiful garments 
Sometimes, smooth assuring words are potent 
Than humans’ tongues of serpents 
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.


When there was the struggle 
And many stayed away from the trouble 
You stood and was thrown in the can 
For not being to injustice, a fan. 
Yes, in the can, 
From where many a-nothings run, 
You stood tall 
And took the fall 
Rising from beneath the dirt and heeding to the call 
Of change 
How strange! 
That you changed the nature of all the addictive vindictiveness, 
Eating that sweet-cally food just once in your attractiveness, 
And giving the rest to others that you so well surpassed. 
You are the man whose conscience tease 
The many who power please. 
You will rest in peace, 
For you have passed the mark of goodness, 
And you have reaped that goodness 
Even on this earth, so what is sorrow to do? 
All living and non-living stand aside for your passing. 
In the mind’s eye of many 
The trees provide the instrumentals while the birds sing, 
Even the vultures trumpet 
While the earth moth for the first time seeks a corpsy-pet. 
You’ve made your mark, 
That can never be concealed in the dark. 
There are the many bows 
That you so rightly deserve. 
Walk slowly, slowly and slowly to eternity. 
And when you reach eternity, 
Rest peacefully, peacefully and peacefully 
For that is all we will want for your many 
Gifts of great examples bestowed upon the human habitat. 
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia, (c) 2013.


Dark shadows!

Painy-moany soul!

Cracky heart of pain and sorrow

Fermented with thousands of years of dope.

Walking corpse!

Unyielding strife!

Honey and love are but a wish.


Cloudy doom!

Unbearable boom!

Bottled flower of never bloom!

Yielding bride without a groom.

Serpents tongues of goody sweepy broom,

Grovel on the moon


Cry not!

There will be a light.

Beg not!

There will be abundance with time

Look up!

And let the gateway to your heart sing.

Life itself is but a groom, doom, bliss and flash.

       Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014.



Have we ever wondered how the Ghanaian environment will be without the spirit of throwing dirt indiscriminately around? Have we ever wondered how beautiful our motherland will be without shameless mouths which spit at will? Have we ever thought of the good air we will breathe if we stopped defecating and choking gutters with polythene bags, cans and “un-lookable” dirt? Well, try to visualize Ghana with people who have the spirit to stay away from all the bad habits and “sin not” against our environment.Imagine Ghana without filth, with neither environmental nor air pollution. Please have a  thought, just a few minutes’ thought about this and stop littering around with polythene bags and its concubines. We know we are short of rubbish bins in some areas, but can we please keep our filth until we reach our destination to properly dispose of them? We have one Ghana, just one nation that is ours. We can tour many places, we can hate Ghana all we want, but that does not change the fact that we have only one mother nation that can house and protect us if need be.We have one nation that we can choose to make better and brag about, because no matter how beautiful someone else’s nation is, no matter how heavenly or alluring you find other countries, you can never call it or them your own. We have one Ghana, keep it clean, keep it safe in order to be able to boast about what is yours by birth.                                                Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia.


Let me

Let me breathe

No matter what aims to travel into me

Let me

Let me breathe

For this breathe is priceless but free

Let me

Let me breathe

‘Cos the era is straining

Even part of the nose of the earth is being sealed

Suffocating the poor carrier of existence

Who tolerates the jumpy, sleepy, ‘sitty’ and ‘standy’

Let me 

Let me be free to say it all

What my mind manages to form

Let me bask in my ignorance and flee

When my handiwork of ill chases

Let me take this road

And see for myself the nature of its blocking

Let me

Let me choose my company

And learn from the hurt

Let me

Allow me to just live

   Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014.



Fire of kismet

Mountable wall of no return

Icy hands that freeze to defrost unwanted

Barrier to the barriers of top

Beggar of many’s hate

Teeth like metals that do not tire chewing

Throat as hollow as the vastest ocean

Swallowing the worlds’ treasures without clemency

Happy man eater

Courageous breath burglar


Appear in front of my very eyes

I summon you to my court for grave questioning

As to what lives in your stomach

Why the unquenchable thirst for blood?

Why are you bent on giving food to your unyielding stomach of soil and stones?

Why pride in tears and wallow in mourning?

Why dance in many’s destitution?

What gives you such audacity to forcefully take what belongs to others?

Please show and sign a memo,

A memo of alert to your future victims

For we are tired of living in desperation

      Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.


I want to be nude,

I want to be stark raving naked with you.

I want our faces to show,

I want us to show our faces to the whole flora and fauna

Without expensive masks of discomfort.

I don’t want us to hide behind un-figurable countenance

While we scream to hide torturous voodoos of our stools.

I don’t want to calculate and form opinions that do not reflect us

So give me room, give you room to be naked.

I want our bodies to speak instead of speaking for them

I want us to show our beautiful faces coupled with their vicious intent when cornered

I want us to show our lovely stomachs in their contours with lively intestines struggling to be comfy

I want us to show every part of our being, in all their glory, filth and language of longings

Without having to hide behind grand spoken words of deceit

Nudity will speak

So give me room to be nude, show your nudity

Let us be nude, let’s be stark naked

In order to drop the sharp daggers we hold against each other in the dark

Then we will be sane

Then we will be men

              Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014 



Come together ye black velvets

Come together all ye brownies of saints

And stage a coup; 

A coup of freedom of thoughts and behaviours of hate

Equip yourselves with powerful guns;

Guns loaded with convincing word bullets

Learn to be perfect

Be perfect for the shooting ahead

Learn to fight, fight for the extinction of labeling and suspicions

Blow their brains with bullets of words

To bring them back to the reality of the comparable

No analogies must be tolerated.

Not only that, get malleable strong canes of conscience that can stroke to reality

Canes of solid evidence that can whip to knowledge

Those who see black as doom

Cane sternly, not out of vindictiveness, to erase every  trait of victimization

Get bombs of enlightenment destructive enough to blast the world in seconds

And blast the superiority complex off their brains without mercy

Get clubs and batons of love that hit to kill dreadful thoughts to your detriment

Also take your workable thoughts of reason

And put them on display during the operation as you throw the bombs of enlightenment

‘Cos you have suffered, you have suffered brutality of thoughts

And many blows from the ranting of stones from mouths of self-acclaimed superiors

You have every right to conduct this coup of reason

‘Cos you have been under the abyss of grave inferiority

It is time to rid them of their distress;

The grand-lings of tamers of ‘the perceived tamed brutes’ of yester-years

Who have been bitten by the bugs of dominance

And have stuffed their hearts with corroding thick layers of hate

Directed at your generation

Blackies and Brownies, rid yourselves of all fear and go all out

For this coup to pay them for their “granders’ taming”

Pay their inhuman enlightenment with delightful wordy illumination

To be able to free yourselves of the stares of oppression

That makes you want to lay baits of death second after second

Come, let us be done with this coup

And be free as soon as possible

Many honours are begging to be received

And many humanly steeplechases are in wait to be conquered

     By: Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia,©2014.



There is a gathering

A happy gathering of mockers

A happy gathering of the affluent

Under the bright moon with the soft flattering air.

In their midst is a borne fire

Covered with wires holding hands and embracing the heat.

On this struggling wire lies the meat praying to be free of pain.

The meat wails as it is being turned snaked on the rods of words

Words that walked out the mouths of the gods

The gods of its kind

The gods who are mere mortals

The gods made by its kind

The gods gathered, watching, laughing and waiting

To devour their prey in mock horror

In big clothes bought by deeds that deserve this fire

The meat bleeds of oil that increases the sharpness of its cook

The meat bleeds of years of hard work that drains into the pockets of the gathered

The meat bleeds of the sin- turned- righteous.

Maybe, just maybe, the meat wishes to have joined

In the barbarity which when covered in blood, power, honour and lordly handshakes

Puts one on the peak of affluence

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.


There are questions I really ask myself when I see and hear certain things about my continent. Things like horrible cultural practices, poor sanitation, lack of security, corrupt leaders, lackadaisical government workers, internet fraudsters but to mention a few. The questions are:

    Why are we not there yet? I mean at the top, why are we not developed yet? Why the penury in most parts of the continent when we are so endowed with things that when properly managed could get us there? Why do we have so much time on our hands aiding us to indulge in such frivolities at critical times? Why do we cry foul when we could work to show evidence of our worth?


Then I remember that the African is too righteous. Too righteous to care about things that can cost his or her life, too righteous to right the wrongs occurring in front of his or her very eyes. The African is too righteous to be affected by things that will kill him or her, so he or she chooses a better option, to look at the other person next to him or her and be his or her God. Let me put it in plain words: Africans think that living without gossips; which they think put people on their toes, is not living. So they decide to live their lives as the ‘correctioners’ of the choices of others instead of correcting what can cause havoc and death to their entire generation, hence President Goodluck Jonathan’s decision to cage people for their sexual preferences.


Imagine Nigeria, a country almost at the end of a cliff because of terrorist attacks, corruption etc… choosing to arrest and jail gay men. Incredible!

Imagine Ghanaian politicians staging drama at the expense of peoples’ livelihood by playing blame games. I don’t want to talk about Zimbabwe and the others. Imagine the future we will have at this rate. And we complain that white people see us as nothing. I guess all my protests are subdued. Why will I protest now? What grounds do I have to protest that we are less human when my own people are giving us out by laying bare their lack of good thinking?


What can I say? We should just continue to be righteous on nonsensical issues and leave the pressing ones in a huge corner, let’s pack them up in a huge corner, and like an angry tsunami filled with shit and filth, it will one day overtake all of us in our righteousness in the beautiful- horrible death we envisage, then we may probably end up in heaven.



Must we aim to please others but not ourselves?

Must we aim for the meat without hunting for games?

Must our skin reflect our thoughts?

Dark is doom, is that it?

Are the naturals we see turning our environment into a jungle?

Yes, imitation has landed some of ours in the back

But what happened to:

‘When the child defecates on the laps, they are not cut off but washed?’

What happened to tending to the sick and dying instead of the silly playful?

What happened to letting others live their lives,

Making their own mistakes and learning from them?

What happened to the individual will?

Stuck we are.

Hunger continues deteriorating

Thirst burns our hearts

Yet we chase naughty children down dangerous tunnels.

Let us beware,

Let us ourselves advise,

Let us pause to reflect,

‘Cos we might just fall, collapse and be no more.

    Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014.