I would have loved it then

When all were hidden deep in the mind

When a little pampering was all to bind

When cheating and unfairness were in a stygian gloom

When a smile could soften damsels and brand bastards suave and sophisticated.

I know I would have reveled in it then, as people enjoy

The sour taste in crѐme fraiche…

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.



Akua Mansah says I’ve stolen her man

Maame Konadu says I’ve stolen her son

Papa Owusu says I’ve stolen his fan

So they’ve placed on me, a ban


This mighty conflagration that forces Akwadaa Owusu into this obsession

Has nothing to do with me. He gets no attention

None at all, for all his coercion

But I turned out bad in their mansion


What could my crime be?

Could it be I paid not my fee

For facial growth to He

Whom the growth patterns oversee?


Not eating at all

And being branded as eating the un-grown maize without a call

Aims to send me sprawling into a fall

So I feel dull


If only I could go back and this face save

If only, I could come back changed after entering the grave

If only I could battle the unseen by being brave

Then, I wouldn’t the truth for all, crave

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.



The little Sun and the little Moon stand on my land

Competing for me to wear their bands, oh poor Sky!

But they look like dark small tools, so I cry.

How will I explain this to the little Stars when they land?

That these young lads were the only options in choosing in the dry?

Certainly not. I will rather fry

Than make the Moon take over day and the Sun take over night, interfering with a hi,

When the clouds want to lie.

I will, for neither, wear no band

This Sky will rather be vacant and mine, rather than go sorrowfully awry.

At least, these hands of mine will be free from a tie

As I lie.

Because no matter their pampering, their end may stink like a pig’s sty.

     Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©2014.



Whispers of the air

Please be fair

Light of the sun

Blindness of the dark

Ease some fear in front and at the back

Be gentle on man

Fury of the cloud

Don’t be too proud

Speed of the rain

Please be sane

Lightening of thunder

Don’t make us harshly wander

So everything will be normal

And every breath can be formal

To those who deserve formalities.

You go overboard and all become abnormal

You cast your fury and your subjects, like puppets gone nuts, rebel

You are the masters of the earth

Don’t abuse us

Charge to take when need be, and not for fun

Sometimes your antics are just for fun

Not cool, being the words in the book of human pun.

      Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©2014.



Ahoma na mede bἐ kyim obibini tirinhwi a abↄ nkyim yi

Ahoma a anoↄya na me de bἐ bↄ na mahim saa tirihwi futsἐfutsἐ yi a yἐbἐtumi de ashἐ ↄdↄ nsesaawa mu     de apam ↄdↄ sumyἐ a ἐbἐtumi ama wa so dae pa

ἐno a na mede bἐkyim

Ↄdumankuma tↄturↄbonsu hwἐἐ me nananom anim na ↄshἐἐda nwini tirihwi yi

Enti mennyἐ me ho sἐ obroni bio

“I have seen the light

I have seen the light of naturalism

I have seen the light of refraining from being a blue eyed doll with silky hair on a black body

This foamy beautiful hair, like ‘asaawa’ is what suits me best”

Me nfa ade kↄkↄↄ nka mano sἐἐ kↄↄ bio

Mano tuntum yi fata me paa

There will be no tainting, if I stick to this complexion of my mouth

Mennyi mani akyi da

Ↄbↄↄ ade hyἐἐ da na ↄde siesie manim

Sἐ mentumi nfa me nan nnam fam tesἐ kuborlor a

At least, I will wear my geographic apparels which fit to perfection

The tortoise that seeks to make the snail’s shell its home, wishes for a short life

Enti me ntumi nkↄwe nnwura na m’ankↄtu mensuno

Banku ne nkurumah

Fufuo ne ab3nkwan, 3na me tekr3ma 3ne me yam nim

This is me being me

That must be you taking a cue

Be you

Let her be her

Let him be him

In our lanes are faces of uniqueness

Which binds us to the great Odomankoma

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.



It is hot

Why won’t it be bought?

It is very, very hot,

Why won’t spots be fought to be got?

No matter how insignificant the hot-cake,

The truth remains;

New things challenge the egos of the showy, proud, boastful, wealthy and even the frugal

So, “ampa” it is hot

So surely it will be sold without stress

But let it cool,

Just let it cool,

And we will know it will be a task of war for even the fool

To patronise under the dim moon.

Put the fool on the highest stool,

And his eyes will be clear as it is at noon.

So, now, sell as much as you can,

Before your customers’ hearts run

Mine too was hot

Until it cooled and had no buyers, no one sought it

Until it finally vanished and was forgotten.

 Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c)2014.











































































































































































































That time has passed,

That time when my innocence was taken by the old brood chosen by my earthly giver of life.

Hmmm! That time has passed,

When I had to go through that strife

Of humiliation, broken dreams and premature adulthood in a decade plus four

That time has passed.

Yes, that time has passed when I had to fly my heels out of marital slavery to the land of the unknown,

Yes, there was that time too,

When Slavery, abuse of all kinds forced that decision without fear of its implications

That too, has passed.

A homeless beggar seeking to carry the whole of the city just to feed, 

I made my task.

And my name immediately changed into that given to my kind.

The winds whispered brutalities at first, and loudly brought dust into my eyes,

Worsening my plight.

The rains whipped and flooded my tears but drowned not my sorrows 

The sun laughed and burned, but burned not my distress and frustrations,

Even the moderation of all these taunted my existence,

Putting fear in me as to when they will go to their extremes

My bedroom under the weepy evenings was and is still a huge polythene bag

In front of this small ghostly market

Where my farm was forcefully planted on amidst brutalities by God-only-knows-whom.

Nine moons of suffering with an internal un-invited visitor passed gratefully

But then, double visitors showed up externally to stay and be my burden.

I, who could not even this mouth on this body feed,

It has passed, that time has also passed.

There were also the nightly clashes of poor menly warriors clashing and ‘sticking’

When we had to take cover or risk sending ourselves or precious beings like our eyes into our coffins,

And the insults hurled all around me by unknown masters and mistresses

That time has also passed.

Now this body has told on me

I have no external family to run to

The streets have taken one of my visitors

And the other, has taken over from me in this horrible reality

As I sit here,

I ask you, faces of this existence, did I or do I deserve all that and these?

Hear me ears of the wind!

Send my plea to beyond the clouds,

And tell who ever our coordinator is, that enough is enough!

I can no longer continue this horrible journey carrying this burden of self sustenance.

Let whoever is there end this,

Then it will be fair,

Only fair, that the one who journeyed this far with this heavy burden rests.

   Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014.

Picture taken from the Vibe Africa site.






It’s a pity

It’s a pity that you see me as a woman

It is a grave pity that you see me as a woman

And see yourself as a woman

I wish that you could think of me as a man

In your womanly mind

I wish you can change your mind and see me rightly as a woman

In the mind of a man

And not see me as a woman sees a woman

I wish we were in the 12th century

Where people knew no attraction of sameness

Where what is on you attracted you not on others

I lament in vain

I cry in vain

Because some societies back you

Though I respect your decision

I loathe your trait that attracts me 

Let us part here

Your way being right and my way being right

Let’s bury this wound cowardly

By seeing the last of eachother from today.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014.




Let me be the first to call

My nature has made it thus.

Yes, I am the atumpan!

Let me, allow me to call,

Then you, agyegyedo will respond,

Then mpintin will follow

Then ansaba will add her intense voice

By the abled help of “nsa a emu ἐ’dene”

There is an urgent need to call

“Kon kon kon kon kon!”

Fellow Sikamanians

Wake up!

Dress up!

And meet us.

Meet us by the mouth of the hungry Sikaman River

We need to save our Sika.

Who or what will we be without our Sika?

But our Sika is drowning in the great turned disrespectful Sikaman River

Our Sika is drowning in our Sikaman River

Our Sika is drowning in the Sikaman River

We cannot rely on the gods of Sikaman

I heard they have lost their touch

We cannot rely on the fetishes of Sikaman

I hear they are witch hunting, bickering and fighting over the impotent male childre of Sika

While Sika and her beautiful daughters drown

We need to hurry

“Mmrantewaa aa mogya munu nam mo mu

Ne mmabaawa abrane”

We need to hurry to save this woman without whom our doomed fate is sealed

We need to hurry to get there before things get out of hands

Our strength will be enough

We do not need the weakly made umbrellas that fall apart when there are slight storms

We do not need the elephants to come from the bush in orderfor us  to embark on this operation

We do not need the cockerel which wakes us up only to end up as meat in some random soup

We do not need the coconut which loses its essence after its water is drained and its belly is scraped

We do not need  the fallen red sun that shines to blind

Neither do not need the eagle that loses its battlet with even the weak chickens

All we need is ourselves.

We only need our minds in a productive marriage

To produce beautiful and skillful giant baby thoughts

Who will help save the beautiful Sika and her daughters

We are the Ghana Asafo

We do not dance for fun

We dance in trials by taking bold steps

Falling into the right frenzy to right the wrongs

And to save precious lives

Run to the Sikwman River now

And let’s see the he or she man or woman who will stop us

We are The “Mogyamonu Anyansafo” of Sikaman

We are the “ἐnἐ and daakye of Sika-man”

Our flamed eyes must be used to drain part of the disrespectful river

To serve as a deterrent to naughty “nsuwa nsuwa

We are Sikaman, Yes,

We are The Oman of Sika

And The Sika of  Oman is us!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.





Children are children no matter their structure, beauty, handsomeness, ugliness, disability, naughtiness and what have you. In this vein, they have the rights to be specially protected and cared for. They have the rights to be fed, clothed, health insured and to associate with parents and humans in general. They also have the right to be sent to school. All these are clearly stated in constitutions of many states. And all these are devoid of gender, race, ethnicity, nationality, religion or colour. In fact, a child must be physically, mentally and emotionally well catered for. There must be no forced labour where these children are concerned because they do not ask us to bring them into this life.

In this regard people always want to know who a child is. Many states define juveniles as children under the ages of 18. That leads me to my problem with the maltreatment of children especially those who are disabled.

I have been to many places in Ghana. Whenever I walk around cities and villages and I see children under the ages of four (mostly twins) or children who are disabled sitting by the road side, sometimes under the scorching sun, other times in the drizzling rain, my heart bleeds. That to me, is the hardest labour a child can be made to go through. How can a child who knows nothing be subjected to such cruelty? Do we know what these children can become in the future? Is the fact that a child is disabled the reason to deprive that child of his or her right to education and subject him or her to this mockery and labour?

Parents sometimes forget that what they do for their children today is what they become in future. Yes they are what we grow them to be. SO WHEN YOU MAKE YOUR CHILD AN OBJECT OF RIDICULE THAT MUST BE AT THE MERCY OF HUMANS NOW, HE OR SHE CAN BE NOTHING ELSE IN FUTURE BUT AN OBJECT AT THE MERCY OF OTHERS. We see very handsome and fine young men and women who are autistic and roaming the streets doing nothing. These young adults who were child-beggars happen to lose their ‘adorability’ and their traits of sympathy, so they get nothing from the public and become nuisance to the society. You can say that most of them end up being societal deviants.

In the northern region of Ghana, they attribute it to a belief system where spiritualists tell mothers of sick children that their children’s hearts want them to beg or they (the children) will die. So the children are paraded around in sympathetic clothes to attract sympathizers. I still find it difficult twisting my mind around this problem. So people must degrade themselves to beg in order to keep their children alive? And they are willing to beg and keep the ‘futureless’ children with them until they become dependent adults?

Now let me go right through to the disabled who can reason better than people without disabilities. Why will such children be made beggars when they can go through the educational system and become independent and responsible adults? What wrong have they committed that they have to go through the humiliation of societal dependency throughout their lives on earth? We do not plant seeds knowing the fruits they will bear but whatever it is the plants give us, our sorting will help us get something to feed on at the end of harvesting. What I am saying is that, humans are humans and every child devoid of disability can be a great person in future, so we must cherish what we have now and think of ways of shaping their lives so we can be proud of them in future. A child may be a little autistic today, but a little patience, love and care can make that child important in the near future.

Those who hide behind the clothes of poverty to deprive their children of education in modern Ghana should be ashamed of themselves because we have the Free Compulsory Universal Basic Education (FCUBE) which takes care of finances from childhood to Junior High School (JHS). Although there are a few things that must be purchased, a very determined parent will make sure to provide those needs no matter what. Why don’t you make that child an object of sympathy after he or she attains very good grades at the JHS level? I know some Good Samaritans will help them climb the educational lather and all will be worth it.

Children know nothing, children do not understand poverty, children do not know what disability is about, children just learn of being shunned with time in this universe. Please help children be children, help children go through their initial stages of life happy, comfortable and disciplined in order to be responsible adults in future.

 Thank you.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.



He was shamed for me

He was beaten for me

He was humiliated for me

He was killed for me

What can I do for him?


The ultimate thing is life

For someone who gave me his life

What can I offer him when I really want to live?

I was told I could win souls for him

What will he do with the souls?

Is it that he needs more fans?

I am told even non living things can give him praises

So He doesn’t need praises

So what can I do for Him?

The most interesting one is their assertion that

My righteousness is like a filthy rag in His presence

What kind of pressure is this?

What can I do at all to impress Him?

If I cannot impress Him

Then can I shamefully say I didn’t ask Him any favour?

Will I be an ingrate?

Pressure, pressure, pressure

How can I believe something I have not seen?

Maybe I must bring my mind home from wandering.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014.



The heart is a very unfathomable machine I must say. Falling in love requires no permission even from the other organs of the body. The heart gets addicted and the mind plays tricks by offering sanity and endorsement. The love that broke my heart recently was the love I felt and still feels for a girl. No, do not get me wrong, I am not a lesbian. I am just a teacher who loves seeing her students do well, especially, her female students. It is a fact that many villages in the North have people who have funny mentalities; that the girl is someone else’s future property. Ultimately ‘why would they waste precious money on such beings’ become their questions so they ignore their female children.  The few who are a bit educated and send their female wards to school lose hope when those children become pregnant.

Many people do not respect the teaching profession. But it is a very noble profession which requires a person to be humane, patient, observant, approachable, loving and caring and most importantly have the ability to listen. When you are a teacher and you give your all to your profession, you do not only get to love your job, but you fall in love with your students. A kind of motherly love that makes you want to protect them against all the hurdles they may encounter if possible. If you have ever had a child, then the love I am talking about is not new to you. That kind of motherly or fatherly love. That is why you get a severe broken heart when a child has to drop out of school because she got pregnant in a developing world like ours. You think about the future of the child and the hurdles she would have to bridge.

As a house mistress, you feel worse! As though everyone has seen that you did not do your work of protecting the child who was left under your care. I experienced it recently and it was not a good experience. It is that horrible feeling that you have to experience before knowing its intensity.

There has been a lot of publicity for years on end about the need to send the girl child to school, but what are we doing to keep them in schools? What are we doing to make sure that mortality rate among teens who fall victim to abortions due to fear of their parents and societal castigations cease? What are we doing to help these girls complete their education without pregnancy drama? Is getting them into the classroom all it will take for them to be responsible adults? To tell you the truth, I stayed in bed for three days after sending off one of my girls because she got herself pregnant. Yes, I stayed in bed, feeling lost, dejected and horrible. I knew broken heart not through being jilted by a man, but by the thought that I was not able to protect someone who was left under my care.

Now some suggestions are coming up as to how it should be dealt with, I hear the male students who get their peers pregnant will be shown the exit with them. But what about those who get pregnant by men and not students? How do we stop our girls from being lured into sexual intimacies with little things like fried rice and chicken or soft drinks? What can we do when the students’ population cannot be managed by inadequate staff? What can we do to stop the imagination of our girls from running wild in this technological age?

I feel like year in and year out, we have more stubborn children coming through the school system. They get more difficult to handle by the year. What are we going to do about the headache of deteriorating discipline and hard work among the younger youth? It saddens my heart to know that much attention is not given to tending to the girls from all backgrounds to sail through the educational system smoothly after getting them there.

If you had the time to read this, take a moment to ponder over this issue and stop a girl from a senior or junior high school whenever you meet her, and give her some words of advice and encouragement or think about how you can make her world of education a better place. Thank you.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.Image


Initial picture taken from Age Africa.



They say He was a man

They say he died for me

They say He made me free

By buying my sins.

They say He gave me new breath

They say He is there at all times

They parade His pitiable self, to win my sympathy

They say the the gods my ancestors worshipped are lesser gods

But the one who was sent is not a lesser god

He, they say, is a messenger of his father

Whatever it is, if it is true, I’d follow

But can I get the evidence please?



















Ama Krobea sits in her comfortable sofa, looks around her and thinks how perfect life will be if she has a man to call her own. What will she want that man to do for her? This self-questioning which always leads her into fathom fantasy and anticipation must stop, she thinks, then again, what fun there will be in life if she bars this sweet visions from her life? Now back to her question, she would be very happy if that man will sweep as she cooks, if that man empties the bin while she does the dishes, if that man gives her a foot massage when she comes back from work tired, if that man hugs her tight and says sweet nothings in her ears when she is cold and feels needy. It will be nice if that man kisses her when she is so angry for nothing and starts spewing her nonsense.  Where could this man be?

She just lifts her phone and goes through her social networks. Who is this guy who is sending her flirty messages? She goes through his timeline and views his photographs. He has such manly features according to his pictures and he looks so good. Ama decides to play along. She responds to his flirty messages and gets excited with time.

Who is knocking on her door when she is deep into her conversation with her internet lover? She ignores the bell and goes on with her conversation online. “This person will not go away, let me see what this person wants” she blurted out loud. She opens the door and disappointingly exclaims “Oh, it is you Opoku” Opoku forces himself in and asks her if she was expecting anyone? She asks him to leave because she was busy. He tells her to call him when she is less busy because he has something to discuss with her. Ama could not help but blurt out:

“What can you tell me that you’ve never told me before? That you love me and you want us to be a couple. I’ve already told you that I do not want to have

anything to do with you. You’re simply not my type, just a friend, which is all you are, so leave me in peace once and for all”

“But Ama, what more do you want? I am handsome, tall, I love you to bits and will do everything you want, what more do you want?” Opoku said exasperatedly.

“You did not mention the fact that you have that “alatsa” vehicle. Just leave”

She pushes him out and locks her door.  “Look at this man oh, just because I play with him, he thinks he is my co-equal. I should go out with a man who gives out cheap flowers and takes me cheap restaurants with his tightly tucked in shirt.” She thought and goes back to her chatting.

Another knock on her door and she gets ready to slap the hell out of Opoku only to come face to face with Martha.

“Why? Did you sleep on the wrong side of the bed? Why are you ready to murder me?” Martha gasped.

“I am sorry, I thought it was Opoku”

Martha makes herself comfortable and says her peace on the Opoku issue. She tells Ama to be very calm and think about the advantages of dating and eventually marrying Opoku. She tell her he is very handsome but Ama does not allow her to land and cuts her advice short by saying that he looks weak, does whatever she says and so lacks dominance which means he  cannot be in charge when the need arises. He allows me to dump the refuse and wash the dishes at the same time while he watches television in my house. Why will I go out with someone whom I do not like?

Martha asks her if she is really sure she will want to be in the shoes of her dream man?

“How will you feel as a man when your peers see you emptying the trash can or washing dishes? What will you do when your peers chose to make you the object of cowardice? Just try and be calm, and think about it well, relationships is about ego trimming. Men are known for their egos but women too have egos. When trimming of the ego happens, we have what we call compromise. And a good relationship must have parties who know this” Martha added.

Ama, asks Martha to go and tell the bush fowls to come back home and live with fowls at home as they are their brothers if you know how to give critical advise. With that, Martha shuts up.

Four weeks later, Desmond asks for her home address in order to visit her. She gladly gives it and waits for the visit. She cleans her house, prepares assorted foods and makes sure everything is in order. Desmond calls with a condition. He has a surprise for her so she should close her eyes before opening the door and never close her eyes until he tells her to. She anticipates  what it is that Desmond wants to give her; could it be a car? Could it be and expensive watch? What could it be?

The car stops in front of her house and she opens her door with her eyes closed. Desmond encircles her in an embrace.

When she opens her eyes, she experiences an intense ache in her head. Her head was so heavy and she looks around only to see what looks like the structure of her room only in a very empty form. She forgets about her pain and looks around only to see her house empty, not even a needle can be found, even the shower cap is gone. All her clothing, furniture, everything is gone. She looks at what she is wearing and realises that she has even been raped. She gets out and calls on her neighbour and tells her she has been robbed. Her neighbour told her she saw the car there but thought she consented because she saw her hugging the guy. She borrows her phone and tries to call Desmond’s number but she wasn’t sure of the number. She logs on her neighbours internet network and tries to get in touch with him on the internet and his account had been closed. She starts crying. But what am I to do? She asks herself. When the police interview her, she loses the ability to put words together as to what really happened.

She cries silently in her room until a thought occurs to her to call Opoku. Opoku’s number tells her he is out of coverage area. And she hears from Martha that Opoku married someone from her area and travelled with her abroad. She tells herself, had I known, is always at last.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014.





I am not neglecting you

Not at all

My mind happens to contain features,

Features of those days.

Yes, my body happens to be a feature among the many in days long gone,

Days before my habitation.

In my mind’s eye

I see those days

When minds were very pure

As to allow the female body to receive the cool breeze by covering only the chest and the waist, and no eyes lure

And minds were in check to all fleeting pleasures endure.

I see those those days

When nature fed us with the purest of her undiluted best

Water, fruits and foods which helped us rest

And happiness sat untouched without being a quest.

I see those days,

When there was equality in Zion

Even among humans and animals like lions,

When lions feared humans and humans feared lions.

I see those days,

when the gods were revered

And criminal heads were severed

To ward potential barbaric minds off the unheard.

I see those days,

When each looked out for the other without a motive

And our legs served as the engine for locomotive

Movement, while words pleased the ears without bringing out horrific emotives.

I see those days,

When the world was big enough to live par

With those whose stance threaten to our minds mar

Without our imaginations streaming far.

Reminiscing those days,

Those days which never passed my way,

Those days I lived through my grandmother’s mind,

Those days I long to have lived,

And I think to myself,

Those humans must have lived in heaven

Heaven that may have turned into its opposite in my time.

  Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014.

Picture taken from the Billy Graham centre Archives.





This is great

This feeling

This is so so great, this feeling of anticipation

This feeling of heart wrenching waiting

This feeling of living your welcome in my fantasy

This feeling of practising poses upon poses 

This feeling of practising smiles unashamedly in front of the mocking  mirror

This feeling of exaggerated happiness and raised hormones

This feeling

This feeling that promises to murder in overjoyed heartlessness

This feeling, this feeling

Is what I owe you. 

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014.





An open book

Without a hook

My pride he took

That crook


Why did he me shook?

When I was a good cook

And I was to him that good?

I think he, me a fool mistook.


He really got of the hook

But his deed will find him by hook or by crook

And bring him to book

That crook

   Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014.

Picture taken from http://madamenoire.com/







I was born a less human

So my mother says

So my father says

So the society says

Because I have no legs

Why do I feel complete?

Why do I reason like them?

Why do I have these thoughts?

Why do I have the urge to learn?

Why do I understand everything they tell me?

Why is society doing this to me?

I want to go to school

And become a lawyer

But “you must look pitiable and beg”

My father tells me

I really feel less than human

When I am at post

On my knees, with one hand in the other

I can look not into any eye

When I am at the post, begging for coins.

Who made me less human?

What made me less human?

How do I become human?

Please tell me mama,

Please tell me papa

Please tell me society

And I will gladly seek that route

Out of this hellish hole of degradation.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014.




My grandmother took me there,

There, to my roots.

I was appalled seeing the greens

I was happy eating directly from nature

I was satisfied drinking from the Okuwafomu well.

But then evening came

And the mosquitoes dealt me blows.

My lovely grandmother took me there

But then after passing the night

I was told farm was inevitable.

That farm locked all my joints

And introduced me to a variety of thirsty for blood insects

Who were no hypocrites in getting what they wanted.

Strapped on the back of a youthful man

My tired and locked body came through the unsympathising rain

Like dead firewood, I was placed on a mat,

Welcomed again by the happy mosquitoes

Who led me into a shivering sleep.

Yes, my grandmother took me there

That place where my placenta lie

And though it was thrilling

Those first moments made me wish, I came from somewhere else.

  Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.




It is a colander

A mere colander

That sieves whatever it is given

And keeps what it cannot pass out

It is  mere colander

That queer treasure you’re parading around

Like a peacock

Make no bones about it

Love it, but make no one a victim of no confidence

Structure and moulding may not be equal

But it is no fault of anyone to have a colander that people deem achaic

And unattractive

A colander that tall breaks down easily

A colander, short has a lasting advantage

So make no noise about your youthful assets

Looking down on others without a care

For a colander is a colander

What matters most is its ability to sieve.

    Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.


I sit

Shivering with anxiety

Cowed by thoughts of failure

And sweating hot blood from lack of preparation


I sit

Turned into a stretching peeping giraffe

Stretching and peeping in trial of my luck

To see if there is an angelic paper with all the inscriptions I need


I sit

Perspiration turned into desperation

Desperation forming tears in my eyes

Threatening to let all see that my brain is blank


I sit

Now dreading the travels of the time

Wishing something could intercept it on its way

But no, it goes with such majesty that my thoughts are shamed


I sit

Clutching my pen

Clutching my paper

Hoping and praying in vain until the elite security shouts “STOP WORK”

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.



There they moan

In honour of their Joan

Who on her left slept

To make sure their dignities are kept

The coffin must be a cozy place

For Joan to give her all to many idiots replace

Idiots who hide their faces while taking the nations’ belongings

Idiots who shed hypocritical tears for people like her

While laughing within in self- satisfaction

Idiots who reign on lies and propaganda

Scary idiots who will never learn to be humane

Poor Joan or rather clueless Joan

May you never rest without revenge

Rest in a restless stance, until you avenge yourself.

       Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.


He wants someone to ascend the throne

She prefers someone else

None have anything to gain

A few others watching have everything to gain

But they fight, blood for blood

Shed their blood which they have no idea how it is made

In order to see to the prosperity of someone

God is our helper

God is our keeper

The God we are yet to see is our creator

But the wombs of our mothers shed bloody tears

Thin before acting is my caution.

    Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014.



The world is evolving

Champions are those known for whatever;

Good or bad

Abena, where do I stand?

Wherever I am standing is doing me no good

Because I am neither here nor there.

Do I stray so bad that my name will turn into a household name for the bad?

Or do I dupe into goodness throwing dust into every eyes and gaining that stature?

Life is political.

Yes, political,

And politics has become a dirty game

Where money talks in hidden pockets instead of being for the good of all

Here in my jurisdiction,

No, not my jurisdiction, my birth land,,

It is either you are under the umbrella or the elephant

Be in the company of the cockerel and you will find yourself in some alien’s boiling soup

Be in the company of the coconut and you will be drained of every water you hold

And scraped of every fruit you are made of

Be in the company of the others and you are the foot-mats for even animals

Be in the elephant zone and the metal of the umbrella may choke you to death when it is furious

Be in the company of the umbrella without grounding and you might be stepped on by the elephants.

Abena, where do I go to?

Where do I stand?

This gentle soul has no safe place to stand

Should I flee?

Lord knows I belong not anywhere

Let me walk to where my feet can take me

Looking when need be, running when need be, until I am caught in whatever

Better still, I could look through my window and enjoy the beautiful natural habitat.

    Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014.


Elephant in the Savannah

And yes, I attest to the fact that goats bleat like humans in the Savannah. Great write up by Kofi Larbi.

Chronicles of a Savannah Boy

Dear Nii Kpakpo,

It’s almost 3am as I write this letter and I’m standing outside in the cool predawn breeze and the half moon shining in the sky and serenaded by Atlantis Radio.

This is bliss you might think. But the reason why I’m outside is because I have no lights at home. The phase went off again and this time the young man who fixes it changed his line onto the other phase so now it’s inevitable that every time it happens we will sleep in the dark till those workmen in their air-conditioned car from the electricity company find it fit to come fix it.

But Kpakpo I found some shop front with a socket barely 50m from my house so I’ve brought out the tablet and plugged in sharing the night with the coughing goats (did you know savanna goats cough like humans?) and the mosquitoes.


View original post 679 more words



It is that time again, that time of old

When teeth are being whipped to move because of cold

It is that time of storms, lightening, winds and cloudy darkness with promises of doom that cannot be told

When this strong heart fails to be bold.

It is that time of old,

When pride, for a pesewa can be sold

As emotions roll and refuses the scold

That fumes and threatens with anger untold.

These lightening fails to scare this shivers which enfold

In torrential anger, pushing to be, in arms enrolled

But with a pushy intent, this cold graduates into two, no, three folds

Trust me, a touch, right now, could earn more than gold

But where is that touch of gold?

Where can I these hands of gold mould?

If only these whippy shivers could be controlled

Then I could these thoughts withhold 

No! No! No! These thoughts, I must, I must, I must hold.

   Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014.



The calling for unionization is not yours to make

The calling for unionization sleeps deep within

You are not the one tasked to wake

Age advances twisting the skin into wrinkly ugliness

I know all that

But this is still not your call to make


When we meet, the ‘waker’ will know

And trust me, more importantly, I’ll know

He will know, and not think, that I am the one

Let me threaten to cut his throat

And he will not take a step away from me

So let the singleton lie without disturbance


The one to fret is not you

The one to fret is the body that endures the lonely nights

The one to fret is the mind that fantasizes only to wake to a reality of nothing

The one to fret is the heart divided into many folds of doubts

As to whether the ‘waker’ would be found

The one to fret is the one that thinks of the possibility of peace after the ‘waker’ is found


So be in your corner

And cry for yourself

The uncertainties life holds for you as it does for me

Let each her problems carry

Life is life, first for the mind’s holder

Before thoughts for others come in

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.




I can live abroad in peace

Even as I see species of white everywhere

I can live abroad without fear

Even as my vision is blurred with white beings

What I fear is a white on my land in darkness

 Our super-institutions say seeing whites in your dream is witchcraft

So why will I want to see that which I fear in the dark?


I can live abroad in peace

Even as I see species of white everywhere

Because that is not my motherland

I have to be invisible when I have to

Because I know I will be a temporal encroacher

So here, on my motherland, I have to live large

And without the fear of seeing white ghosts in the serene darkness


I can live abroad in peace

Even as I see species of white everywhere

Because they live in their homes

And can do no harm to my land

We all know of their superiority complex

That seeks to kill our spirit even in the present

After breaking our grandparents pride and making them donkeys in the past


I can live abroad in peace

Even as I see species of white everywhere

Because my Maame Asabea is there

My nana is also there

My Sewaa Yaa lives there and so does my Wↄfa Kofi

So seeing that which I fear will not scare me

Because I will have protectors everywhere


I can live abroad in peace

Even as I see species of white everywhere

This is because life sent my family there

And I must live in their presence

So leave me enjoy my blackness

Be obscure

Scary white encroachers tainting my serene darkness

 Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014 for Nana Kwame, the boy who fears whites on his land.




Once upon a time, there lived a very humble girl called Antobam. She lived with her step mother and father. Antobam’s mother died while giving birth to her earning her the name Antobam transliterating not meeting parent or parents. Her stepmother despised her and made her do all the house chores. She slept in the dusty kitchen with the ants, cockroaches, mice and rats. Because she was a good girl, the cockroaches, ants, mice and rats protected her instead of harming her. Her father could not protect her because he feared his wife Okom.

Her stepmother gave birth to four boys after her and in addition to the one boy she brought to the house as Antobam’s step brother. One day, she was sleeping in the kitchen in the night when Bediako, her step brother came in and raped her. She told her father about it in the morning but he was not able to do anything about it. In the Village of Tanoso, any girl who got pregnant before marriage was banished.

Three months after the incident, the whole village of Tanoso realized Antobam was pregnant. The chief of the village called Mr. Abronoma and his daughter to face the court of the village. She was found guilty of breaching the laws of the land and was immediately banished. Bediako denied raping her and was spared because of lack of evidence.

Antobam’s father gave her a gourd of water, some food and sent her on her journey with tears streaming down his face shamelessly.

 Antobam feared her shadows in the evil forest. She feared the sounds of the village and the deep darkness. She prayed to the gods of her fathers and dead mother to provide her with light and rid her of fear. After some time, the moon came smiling down at her, paving the way for her eyes to lead her through.

She was filled with happiness and contentment. But a roar from the bush sent her sprawling down a mountain of rocks. She fainted only to wake up in a huge bed. There were three people sitting by her bedside. She was startled, pinching herself to wake up from her perceived dream only to feel the pains of her nails.  She asked where she was and was told that she had a miscarriage. She cried, and asked how she came to be there. She was told she was found in the forest by the prince who went hunting in the deepest forest.

She was baffled to see the handsome prince who sat on her bed with worry written all over his face. He later arranged for her to be tutored after hearing her story. She became the princes’ wife and later became the wisest queen of Apemso.

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months and months turned into years when hunger and his wife thirst visited all villages except Apemso. Many people from far and near came to Apemso for food and water. She went to the place where they were selling the food and saw her father and four brothers battling to be in the cue. They were very happy to see her. She asked about her stepmother, Okom, and was told she had become a sickler. She was also told Bediako was eaten by a lion who just surfaced in their house the day she left the village.

Antobam, who was now called Ohemaa Serwaa Ampaafo asked some of her men to bring her wicked stepmother to Ampemso to be fed and well taken care of. When her brothers asked why she was doing that, she told them forgiveness the most divine thing on earth. She advised them to take a cue from her story and learn to forgive easily as forgiveness does not only free the mind but also makes the soul grow. She lived with her biological family and her new family happily ever after.

    Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©2014.Image



I want everything

Everything that can mean everything

Everything that is something

Everything that can make me forget every sadness


I need an eternal tableImage

An eternal table that holds a veritable cornucopia of every meal

An eternal table where hunger fears to step foot

An eternal table that feeds the open stomachs and creates smiles


Give me everything that means something

Yes everything that means everything for this omnivore

Then I will stop the grumbling

And live happily without aging.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.




Lighter of light

Darker of darkness

Sorrower of sorrow

Borrower of the lender

Haunter of the haunted

You win most of the times


You soar while others sink

You laugh while others weep

You fly as others fall

You grow as others shrink

You eat as others hung

You win most of the times


You, who are invisible when need be

You who are our shadows but suffer not our plights

You who gets lost with the shadows

You who are the point of envy

And walk in our stead

Shadow of shadows

You really win most of the times.

  Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.




My father was the very best friend of the chief of our village and so wielded so much power. Our household was one of the most important in the village and many people would die to marry someone from my home. But no one wanted to marry me. They thought I was either too short or too ugly. I did everything I could to be beautiful enough to attract suitors to no avail. My only consolation was that I was good academically.

I had two sisters and three brothers. I was the fourth of six children from the same parents although my father had three wives. My first crush was a farmer; slim and tall who loved holding his gun in his left hand and his machete in his right hand while clothed in dirty long sleeved shirt and trousers. He was a very dark man, strong with a sparkly white neatly arranged set of teeth. But ours was not to be as he picked one of my elder sisters as his bride. I was devastated, I cried and feigned sickness for over three months. I did not take part in their marriage ceremony and developed an unfair hatred for my brother in law who knew nothing of my feelings for him. He always tried to be nice to me but I shunned his company. I was happy when Brother Abdulai’s mother requested he migrated with his new bride to her village to oversee her farms because she was growing old. Maybe the words “out of sight, out of mind” may have some truth to it, because with time, I found myself having no thoughts of Brother Abdulai, neither did I have that dreadful heartache whenever my sister Larki’s name was mentioned.

The chief, Sagbonwura Naa Kampaya was a very kind man. He was always nice to me. So nice that I found myself drifting to the land of daydreams whenever his thoughts crossed my mind. Once, I was walking around my father’s house in just a piece of cloth. I turned around coyly and met Naa’s intense gaze. He just looked at me and smiled and beckoned me into his arms. He embraced me and asked, why have I not seen this beautiful you? You are so pretty, so much so that I will have to marry you and treat you better than all my wives. I thought that was the most romantic scene ever and wanted that to happen in reality. But too bad, it was all in my fantasy. It was a funny feeling, because the chief was older than my father. He was about sixty five years old while I was twenty four. When I could no longer bear it, I told Naa about it but he candidly but kindly told me not to have those fantasies about him. He told me that he was so flattered but loved me too much to waste my life that way. He assured me that I would get a husband who will love me and care for me in the near future and advised that I desist from thinking of marrying someone whose life is almost over. I felt broken hearted once more but it was not as painful as the first one. The way Naa said it made me hopeful.

I know you may think I was not that old, but for a woman to be 24 years without any prospective suitor during that time in Sagbon meant the woman was too cantankerous or ugly. And I would have preferred to be the former than the latter. By the time I turned 25 years, I had completed training college with the help of a government scholarship and the encouragement of my father. My mother died when I was 15 but my father’s wives replaced her. My father had over twenty children who were either interested in farming or fishing. Only one of my elder brothers and myself were interested in education. My sisters never took any interest in education. My father encouraged me despite the fact that most men thought educating a girl was preposterous. This was because he thought I at least needed to be able to take care of myself in the future if it so happens that I end up with no husband. Not that he told me in plain words, he was talking to one of his kinsmen but my eavesdropping made my ears the sad hearer of his view.

I was posted to Nsawie Basic School for my national service. I went there expecting my fate to change where marriage was concerned. And yes, I got a fine man who said he was interested in me. I sent money home often but I still had money because I was not extravagant. This man only visited when he wanted money. Sometimes he would come there three times and then ask for money on the fourth day. I gave him everything he wanted because I knew I had nothing where beauty was concerned. He promised to marry me but that was not to be as he finally wedded a very beautiful woman from Nsawie. That day, I felt like killing myself. I was so sad that I could drink poison without a thought. Then I met a dedicated Islamic woman who exuded peace.

Mma Meimunatu was that woman whose smile could calm every storm in every life. She assured me that everything will be okay and that I will find a good Muslim who will marry and cherish me. Mma advised me to think of myself as beautiful and to have the confidence because I was beautiful. She even said that being tall is not a good feature in women and that very tall men loved very short women. I nearly believed her but for the mirror in my room that told me to look at reality.


My very eldest brother died when I was 27 years old, the next one died the following year and my father followed that same year. I was devastated. My eldest sister; Harina, came from her husband’s village and so did Larki. Our only brother who had married a Nigerian to the detriment of my family also came. The funeral was a sad one. No one died in Sagbon without a superstition hovering around him or her. I heard that, the spirit that made me short was killing the good men in my family. How could such an intelligent lady be that short and ugly. I also heard that, the women in the family were witches and were killing them one after the other so that we could become the men of the house. An old lady, Mma Amina, who was over hundred years old was also purported to have been killing the young ones in order to stay alive.

My sisters and I were not happy so we consulted an oracle who told us that one of our father’s brothers was killing the men who may be a hindrance in his quest to be the sole heir of our grandfather’s properties which included two compound houses and many plantations of cocoa. My only brother who migrated to Accra with his wife failed to return home after that for fear of being driven to his early grave. I transferred to Sagbon Secondary School as a Catering teacher. The grown students made fun of me with some calling me “kakapuipui” and others just making fun of me, but I endured.

One sunny day, a man who was 15 years my senior met me and proposed instantly. I did not know what to say. I had given up on marriage a long time ago. At first, I thought he was making fun of me, then I realized he was serious when he asked me to send him to my family for the marriage rites. Before I realized what was happening, I was married to this gentleman. He had a wife and four children who despised me. I stayed in their family house for three years while constructing my own and bore all the maltreatment they could mete out. Unfortunately for me, I was told that I would not be able to give birth because of my height. My husband was not disturbed, I reckoned it was because he already had children. I was very sad because I was being called all sorts of names: Childless Shorty, Ugly Doo and many others. I resolved to move into my house and my husband decided to move in with me.

But problems started as my sisters started fighting because of their children. I was not interested in their problems so called our only brother to help resolve the issue. He did not mind me and his tone gave signals of not wanting to be disturbed. I sent a delegation to his house hoping he would heed to the call of his roots, but his Nigerian wife sacked them. Those who went claimed he had been bewitched by his wife. They even brought a message from his wife that I should never send the food items I send occasionally to her house again because she believed I had evil intentions towards her husband. It dawned on me, the possibility of my brother’s Nigerian wife thinking his Ghanaian Husband’s sisters were witches.

I resolved never to bother him again and to be the man of my family. I had money and prestige, I even had a husband so my voice was heard. But there is a saying that “the cock may dance with flair in the midst of hawks but they will never see it as anything other than food” my luck changed when many men came to my house one afternoon wielding machetes and sticks. I climbed into one of my small pans and came out when all was calm to see my poor husband in his pool of blood. I came out shouting only to be caught, shaved and brought to this witch camp. My sisters looked on, shaking their heads in awe and hooting at me, I heard nothing, I only saw their faces and decided to close my ears. There was nothing to live for. My husband was dead and my sisters did not need me, they thought the worst of me. My husband was not young, he may have married me for the security of his old age, but he loved me, loved me enough to have stood up and died rather than telling the people where I was.

And so brethren, there is the story of my life. The story about my life and the love of my life.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014.

Picture by Andre Stephano.




They are extra nice

With faces that are as welcoming as that of the angels from heaven

But their intent only show

When others’ backs are turned


They are fuming

They are fuming with rage

And laying a bait with their intent

Consumed with rage their faces give them away


They are battling

Battling among themselves

With weapons as scary as to cause grave loss

But they seem not to care



I observe and stay in my cycle

Oh no, even my silence begets enemies

And they start strolling toward me

Everything pointing to the fact that they are here to get me


I raise my hands and say: I am for peace.

I have always been for peace,

I will always be for peace,

So I hide no claws


Come not with murderous intents

Look not with killy eyes

Clench not your fist

For you have no opponent.

   Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2014.


She looks at me

And says no words

Asks no questions

And holds me in her arms.


She looks in the air around me

And smells my mood

Without any words from my mouth

And tags along 


She cries tears of blood 

When I am crying

And eats not 

When I have no appetite


I don’t have to say a thing

Not a thing around her

Yet, I am secured

And I feel secured


People go and people come

Walking into and fro my life

But she stays

Through the raging storms and the mad rain


She is and will be

The only angelic human

Ever to have come to my world

Thank you

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014.