I cry for you
You whose time was set before birth
Shaped by fixed days
Rounded by a set of months

As your seconds tick into your minutes
I know your heart sinks
As you fall into the arms of history
But do take these
These flawed claws
Which have arrested our fingernails
And are causing such sores to our souls

Burn with the clothes of troubles
And help us walk into the clothes made
By your new born

Maybe those clothes may have thrills
Which will fill our quill
To rewrite our scripts
Or make us porcupines to battle
To keep well our field

Vanish with your garnish of tarnishing
Die with your sighs and cries
Round up your lions and lionesses
Shredding pride and egos of the righteous
And burn together

Clothes of shame
Headgears of corruption
Un-needed gloves of destruction
Crippling boots of greed
Burn with all to have us freed

We did all to walk you safely to your grave
We have noted every second you did breathe
So burn with all that is unfair
And shine us clean to rise above our clouds
As suns do through the fall of dawn
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 31, 2016


They imagine Christmas in snow
When our feet greet the dust of harmattan
As morning cold bites into skin

They imagine a pot-bellied-red-apparelled-man-myth
With goodies for children
In this drop of cold and heat
Blackmailing children into submission for a short while
Preparing them for rebellion after years of disappointments

They imagine a tree with gifts
When the birthday boy was said to have been begotten
In a stable
Gold, myrrh and incense
Turning into expensive worldly material wishes
Failure, breaking bonds, families and friends

They imagine kissing under a mistletoe
Did the young Canadian Bieber slap our thoughts
Through a simple song?
Or is it simply the blind holding the cane of a trickster?

Indeed Christ’s mask
Replace Christmas
Black men living in white delusions
Worshiping the gods of white living
Instead of words of faith
From the chimney to the snow
White Christmas charms most
You are idol worshippers
Your symbol: anything done by a human in white skin
You whose faith are cheperoned by movies and tales
And experiences of different cultures
You need rewiring
You incurable copycats
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 2016

The Making Of Orgiastic Cyprian by Oppong Clifford Benjamin


Episode III

The Making Of Orgiastic Cyprian is an episodic fiction by Oppong Clifford Benjamin which focuses on educating its readers on the sacredness of sex and how the pleasurable act can be a divine form of prayer between a creature and his creator. The story centres on a mysterious sect of young women between the ages of seventeen and thirty called The Ancient Aphrodisiac Cult (The ACC). The cult is strictly invented out of the creativity of the writer. However, some settings in the story are real.

We hope you enjoy this episode as well as the others to come.

Despite its vastness, the temple of Ishtar was widely known for its detailed designs of the interiors and the ancient sexually inclined activities that occurred therein. Faulckman Johan, a celebrated historian, in his popular documentary on Ancient Sex among early Babylonians that earned him a world-wide recognition described the temple as ‘a dainty piece of architecture, starting from earth and thrusting the eyes of God in the heavens.’ He, however, had a lot more to say about the two columns which were placed at the entrance; ‘most substantial pillars holding in highest esteem the glory of the temple.’ According to the history of the ACC as recorded in the early chapters of Longman’s Blue Ritual of the Sex Cult, the left pillar was named after Hamamat in the 1400s. The honour was done Her after she had served as a medium through which many Egyptian kings of the time were elevated from men to gods. Put differently, the powers in the ancient mysteries were conferred on them. And that on the right was after Baba Binlawa, Hamamat’s husband, who was never seen because he always visited his wife at odd hours and also because he was not in any physical form. Rumours. Some books said he was the mysterious smoke that rose from the hollow inside of the right pillar to the high skies whenever Hamamat danced and others of a more informed guess said he was the heavy air that had the exclusive seductive power to make Hamamat reach orgasm.
Faulckman used ten minutes of the thirty five minutes video documentary to talk about the sexual discovery of Baba Binlawa. In a morning’s winter, Faulckman narrated, Hamamat stood naked at the porchway, around the right pillar and moved her hips slowly in circles, her hands thrown in the sky like a helpless prostitute, her tender breasts scored the giant pillar, she stroke her tongue about the white clay surface of the pillar. It was as if she was dancing to an erotic silent music. Linda Longman wrote that a heavy cold wind circulated Hamamat. The howl of the wind could be heard from a far, it sounded like a huge man groaning under intense pleasure.

And calmly, she would lie in the open, on the bleak concrete floor beneath the pillar, her long black legs widely spread towards the right pillar and her head towards the left, and she tucked the middle finger of her left hand in her moist vagina while the right was employed to engage her breasts in a hot self romance. In between short time intervals, she carefully removed the finger and licked it. She deliberately allowed the saliva to leak about the finger onto her flat tummy and down to her navel. She would gently restore the finger to its previous position in the vagina. And when she was at the climax of orgasm, she moaned a strange name, ‘Baba Binlawa’ Faulckman’s said in his documentary.

“Use the mat,you may be able to sleep.” Hamamat stretched his left hand to reach for the mat which stood folded in the corner over her head. She rolled it on the bare floor but sleep was not on the floor too. She just couldn’t close her eyes. She knew those scenes in her dreams,  they have been living with her since the beginning of dark that day.

Scene 1. the tattooed middle finger of  Miss Juan’s right hand floating in the warm air.

Scene 2. A tiny sleek voice luring Hamamat to lick the finger starting from the proximal to the distal.

​Sebiticals Chapter 31: The Biegyanisation of Sikaman — Nana A Damoah

In the fourth year after the old Odekuro Asomdwehene Obenefo Yohani Atta Nikanika died, there arose three men from the land of Montie who came shouting in the wilderness: “Make way for the Son of Drahama, Odekuro Okasafo Yohani Mahani Nikaboka, he who has been anointed to rule in the affairs of the land with […]

via Sebiticals Chapter 31: The Biegyanisation of Sikaman — Nana A Damoah


(This post is to wish all Christian followers of amoafowaa.com a very Merry Christmas and a prosperous New Year. You have been there always, reading, following, encouraging, correcting, liking, commenting and sharing. May God continue to bless us all. Enjoy…)

There are infant tears

Which like handkerchiefs, will wipe our fears

A holy mother, a higher angel bears

Praise to Jehovah, hope, above sinful uglies, its head rears


There are shepherds who heard

Because the father really cared

And there is a king who heard

Because the father really dared


Oh darkness always gets swallowed by light

God is in this state of warrior flight

Knowing beings can’t face the fight

Of pursuers, in whose race evils delight


So raise your handkerchiefs all in white

God has brought us all to his site

Hoping only for hallelujahs  to praise and bite

The kings of demons whose craze are tight


Take your handkerchiefs and sing:

Behold the heaven bells ring

Good tidings the son of God brings

No matter the mud Satan slings

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 25, 2016

Photo Credit: Google Pics


A story told millions of zillions of times
An occasion whose infectious smile
Blesses the lips of all celebrants
One baby cried for the jubilations of the heavens
And the knowing on earth years and years back
Still, Herod hated his herald of high hierarchy in heaven
Hunting him in his zone

A celebration of deaths amidst that of a supreme life
Boys upon boys upon boys
Had no pleasure of draining their milk
From breasts of their mothers
For Herod heard his honour
And hunted him like the only game in the worst famine

Whirlwinds carry dust
Who knows of a wicked little stone there?
Dancing in its circling is calling for blindness
Dancing far off is looking before leaping
Is that not the best way to learn?
Eyes which join fingers to fetch peppery food to mouth
End up changing their colour and size
Know the Herods who await all follies
And laugh to the happy cries of the newborn
Whose tidings tell tales of redemption
Know the Herods
Herod of deception
Herod of over-celebrations
Herod of fornication
Herod of adultery
Herod of stealing
Herod of over speeding
Herod of trickery
Herod of drunkenness
Herod of seduction
Herod of rape
Herod of disrespecting the holiness known
As the newborn sleeps in his manger of cradle
To honour the newborn called Christ
In your Christian attires
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 23, 2016


There are walls around a nation
A nation fought for with priceless blood
A nation whose beauty, like mud fish in muddy water,
Hides in walls too high in ugliness
Walls of corruption
Walls of deception
Walls of greed
Walls of power-drunkenness
Walls of ridiculous stunts
Walls of begging
Walls of tribalism
Walls of labeling
Culminating in walls of poverty pictures
Plastered from social media to foreign watch boxes
Yet many live in eyeless villages
With no ears
Not that they care
Living peacefully in walls of ignorance
Through a greater wall of illiteracy
Their pair of glasses too busy in high class comfortable cinemas

It is funny how birds cry for this nation
It is funny how the sky frowns through the sun
In the mirror of their eyes
It is funny how hills and rivers wait patiently for a climb
To show them the passions their sweats have bought
It is even funnier how the fields grow
Under the matchetes of hands uncountable
Few flowers weep for their land
While the weeds murder ones with loud cries
Four annual steps
Mostly turning into eight in laying more bricks on
Has been a painful fate
Who will break his feet by breaking these walls?
Who will break her fake nails
In breaking these walls?
I fear for the curses of tears from ghosts with closed eyes
Ghosts who lost their souls in the nation’s purchase
Time travels
And so does this nation
My nation
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 21, 2016


Image result for pictures of mouths speaking

Like water
They seep through rocks of hearts
Engraving themselves as reference sources
Marking themselves beside their makers

So powerful that elders analogise
Their retraction to spittle thrown into gutters
Which have seen no cleaning for decades
Branding royals servants of poor tongues
Pushing crowns from heads cemented by fate

Ordinary but can break down personalities painfully built
In seconds shared between desperate beings
Plain but can create vengeance
Whose fires have no figured-out fighters
Possess no armoury
But can cause wars
Destroying the world in a split blink

Use them well
And you can cut through deserts of thorns
Into a den within dens of evil
To find consciences well hidden in cages of ruthlessness
Use them not and risk seeing no growth of greatness
Use them carelessly and be the rag of failure
One used to wipe vomit of sick dogs
None sees time and honour
When words work within whims

In its vile exchange stay safe
If attempts to mute mouths at play fail
Love thy thoughts as elites love their pens
But work on them as goldsmiths work to refine gold
Before they see the light of your pages
Words fuel when lighted
Knows no water nor fire fighters
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 20, 2016

Photo Credit: Google Pics



The Making Of Orgiastic Cyprian is an episodic fiction by Oppong Clifford Benjamin which focuses on educating its readers on the sacredness of sex and how the pleasurable act can be a divine form of prayer between a creature and his creator. The story centres on a mysterious sect of young women between the ages of seventeen and thirty called The Ancient Aphrodisiac Cult (The ACC). The cult is strictly invented out of the creativity of the writer. However, some settings in the story are real.

We hope you enjoy this episode as well as the others to come.

Episode II

Hymn No. 69

Who Will Plough My Vulva by the goddess Inanna.

My vulva, the horn
The Boat of Heaven,
Is full of eagerness like the young moon.
My untilled land lies fallow.

As for me, Inanna,
Who will plow my vulva?
Who will plow my high field?
Who will plow my wet ground?’

Stop it!
In the name of The Mother, stop!”

Miss Juan yelled. She felt the absence of the soul of the hymn. She pushed her gaze into the yellow morning sun which pussyfoot its grandeur through the concrete windows ahead of her. She quickly remembered how this particular hymn made men use their tongues to search for divinity in the vulva of glorified prostitutes in the temple and how the men blurt out feeling purified, holy and relieved of their sins in the early days. She had read about the Atonement of Sins through the art of licking the vulva too as a chapter in Linda Londart Longman’s book ‘Blue Ritual of the Sex Cult’, and wanted to return traditions and ancient usages to their rightful places in the ACC during her sovereignty as Most Perfect Chiliad.

“Our purpose here would be fruitless as it has been in the past two or so decades if we continue this languorous approach towards our sacred art.” Miss Juan cried out loud, her voice shook terribly when it hit the four walls of the sexy temple. She descended the ancient pedestal which since time immemorial stood in the east of the large hall. She directed the attention of the qadeshes assembled to certain characters impressed into the front surface of the pedestal, SIVDSPHIV.

“It’s an abbreviation. Who knows the meaning?”

Still pointing to the letters, Miss Juan asked the qadeshes while she scanned her wild eyes through the assemblage for an answer.

There were whisperings among the naked ladies, their bare breast stood horizontally upright and succulent as a result of the oil of Ishtar which they had daubed into their skins. It was a tradition among the ACC members to insert the middle finger into a lithic vagina full of oil and smear over the body concentrating on the breast’s pap before entry into the temple for any ceremony. In the old days, cow milk was used instead of the oil. The milk was a symbol of fertility. But this and many other traditions of the ACC had been relaxed either to the generational gap or the laziness of the qadeshes as Miss Juan would like to think.

After few minutes of speaking softly without the vibration of vocal cord, Louiselle knelt on her left knee, erected the right in the form a square and gave a court bow – a submissive request for permission to speak to the Most Perfect Chiliad. Louiselle was barely six months old in the cult but had shown intellectual penetration into the mysteries and secret arts of sex. She was Miss Juan’s best friend in the sisterhood. Sometimes she asked too many odd questions that narks Miss Juan; Three months after Louiselle’s initiation, she was set for her sanctification ceremony whereby the rituals required her to seduce ten men and engage five in a divine sexual intercourse. On that day, Louiselle almost lost her life after the fourth man among the five selected for sex was done with her, but the ceremony thus far would have been considered invalid if she gave up. Miss Juan was the Most Wise Lady as at the time, and the ritual allowed the Most Wise to aid a candidate in a ceremony.

Miss Juan, on that day, moved in calculated erotic steps to the centre of the circle of fire where the fifth man stood over Louiselle’s body ready to insert his rod. Miss Juan positioned her head against the black and hairy chest of the Nigerian man. The man was from a rich royal Yoruba family. It was a popular rumour among the qadeshes that Yoruba men especially their Princes had the biggest of penises and stayed in sex much longer than any man on earth. Miss Juan picked a fibril of hair on the man’s chest with her teeth; she pulled it slowly till it extirpated. She whispered softly into the man’s ears “pains begat pleasure” and knelt down before him, still fixed her gaze deep into the man’s eyes and she swallowed the 13 inches long dick in her mouth and gently held the head in between her teeth, delightfully hurting the man. “Slap me” she instructed Louiselle. “Why?” Angrily Miss Juan retorted “just slap me, I am not here for your stupid questions. Slap me very hard on the face and butts”. And when Louiselle did, Miss Juan finished the Yoruba man in five minutes in an aggressive doggie style, while Louiselle caressed Miss Juan’s G-spot with her tongue. The heavy black man groaned like a lost ghost behind the butts of Miss Juan. He carefully withdrew his dick from her juicy vagina and sprayed his semen all over the butts of Miss Juan who was passionately transferred the thermal energy of her body to Louiselle in a titillating tongue-to-tongue kiss.

“Si Invenerit Vir Dei Secreta Pubentes Herbae In Vaginam”

“And what is its English translation?” Miss Juan asked Louiselle, climbed the footstall again and sat majestically in the east from whence she presided over all meetings of the cult. On her wooden pedestal was a book which contained sacred writings, a stony miniature of an opened vagina receiving penetration from an erected penis (logo of the ACC) and an ancient gold plated metallic staff which was presented as a gift to Hamamat (the first Most Perfect Chiliad) by an Egyptian King after his apotheosis. It was well known among mystics that most men with solomonic lineage visited the temple of Ishtar to be transformed into gods the better to enable them rule their people with a degree of supernatural superiority.

Louiselle drew back her lips and revealed her teeth in a totally innocent grimace. She had a faint idea about what the Latin words meant in English, but she knew they had something to do with the paragon of men to gods.

“errm! I pray you to forgive my ignorance, Most Perfect Chiliad,”

“Si Invenerit Vir Dei Secreta Pubentes Herbae In Vaginam

Man shall be God if he found the secrets in a juicy vagina” Miss Juan said aloud, her voice sounded harsh like an insult to the ignorance of the qadeshes.

“Yes, I knew it had something to do with apotheosis”

“Will you shut it?” Louiselle reflexively covered her mouth with her palm and felt sheepish. But she was not too much affected emotionally because it was not the first time Miss Juan had been abrasive with her.

Miss Juan explicated further “The vagina possesses the natural ability to create man in the image of God via sex” She paused and swallowed saliva to lubricate his dry throat and continued “It necessarily follows that we, women, are makers of gods. Thus superior to a God by virtue of the vagina we possess. We are complex heavenly entities descended on earth to multiply gods to cover the face of earth like the sands of the shores” There was cute silence in the hall. Miss Juan raised the gold plated staff, the symbol of her authority, in the air and slammed it against the flat surface of her pedestal three sequential times to forcibly attract the attention of the gathering.

“Louiselle has proposed a special candidate for initiation into our sacred cult. The girl carries the name of the Great Mother, Hamamat and strangely, she hails from the same town our Mother derived her birth and infant nature-Bolgatanga in a west African country called Ghana” she addressed the qadeshes and later warned them “It could be the Great Mother reincarnated so I want her ceremonies of invitation and initiation perfectly conducted in spirit. And to achieve this, every one of you must start seeing herself as a superior entity to a god. Tonight is the invitation ceremony.”


When Christ was born
Riches were myrrh,  incense and gold
Kings and farmers owned them most
Poverty was hunger
With no discrimination for food
Times have traveled
Elevating riches to much of infinity
Upgrading poverty to little from none
Let the scribes note

When Christ was born
None sought gifts but him
Fists owned the sole rights to boxing
Days had no hand in their affairs
Now boxing shares space with day
Placed in a birthday celebrated in the stables
Presided by materialism
Cheered on by greed
Little Christos hunt for a master who needs not
Times have really traveled

When Christ was born
I am sure hymns ruled the heavens
And not the earth
But solemnity has been booted by papping
Those who walk in opposite paths to christ
Celebrating more in clubs than churches
Claiming belongingness and shouting in daylight at Satans
Times have traveled

Paths turned roads drink from glasses of souls in accidents
Thieves so skilled bless their fingers
In the midst of eyes so visionless
I know time has traveled
Turning straw into needed stars
Killing Herold in his own reign
And replacing him with deceit
What upgraded definitions!
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 18, 2016


We remember the claws of yesterday
After feeling the smooching of palms today
A new dawn easily sheds its night
And falls into nothingness
If it records no history
And acts like a boring copycat
Yes, believe it or not
History has teeth which bite through memories

Whichever crown graces your head
On the ticket of teeth with graceful smiles
Know the mind can easily alterate mouth
To hide smiles under cloths of bitterness
So remember to tread cautiously
Holding dear hands which pushed your rear
Regarding bards who now sing your fair
And blessing fools who clean your smear
Forgetting not hands which fan your heat
Happiness needs no bureaucratic ticket
To a miserable future

We are who we are
Flowing minds into muddy legs
Into thrown rocks
Into immovable mountains
With corners and caves hiding fears untold
You disregard your ladder through comfortability
At your own peril
Especially in these times when royalty is a shadow in ceremonial cloths
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 17th Dec. 2016.


Dem say sukuu be all
Woman no be kitchen maid
Woman be queen wey need worship
I see say I be stupid for dis world

I get respect
I cook for my big man to chop
He no tink say I go poison am
Im dey trust im life for my hands
If dat no be respect
Wey tin be respect?

I know some tink say I be bush woman
No be bush all medicines dey?
No be bush person turn cities?
No be bush all animals dey hide?
I know say bush be life ankasa ankasa

How city queens dey live?
Demma finger nails be like animal claws
Some say dem dey use glue to stick dem
Wetin person fit do with animal claws?
I see why dem hate cooking so

I no understand why dem wear shoes
Wey im back be like sharp bones
Dem say hill dem be
If person climb demma hill and walk in demma hill
How she fit tink like person
When im mind be pain pain pain?

Wetin kill me be dem removing skin
Saying dem dey turn abrofo
Wey fashion be peeling skin like snakes?
Abena, I see all
Dem mouth, different different paint every day
Dem dress, small small rags
Catching buttocks, holding breasts
Dem too go fit born babies to grow?
Wey cloth dem go use strap babies for dem back?

I know say I be bush woman
My private things be private
I no see shame for der
I know say I be bush woman
But I wear slippers and feel no pain
I know say I be bush woman
I no challenge men when dem no want challenge me for my kitchen
I be bush woman
I be bush woman
I be bush woman but I no be counterfeit
Looking like fake paint for morning
And ugly old woman for night
All dat ponce dey destroy skin
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 15, 2016


I sit in comfort on my bed
With head carrying fires of hell
What could I possibly be to you?
A fling in a sling on a swing?

I think with my heart
Which beats like bass in a loose speaker
I hurt like a bird with broken wings
I can fly to no tree
I fear to walk,
Lest a hungry hunter of loneliness swallows
All this while a voice keeps asking within
What am I to you?
A fling on a sling in a swing?

Fragile hearts need no hard enclaves
Fragile souls, need no shadows
Which connive with darkness of commitment
To leave them stranded
When monsters of uncertainties chase
I am a lost child in a lonely old body
My tantrums being my walls
Walls you have broken
But what am I to you?
A fling in a sling on a swing?

Love me some
Or leave me crudely
Living in the middle is living like a goat
Strapped to a tree on a great occasion
Whatever my fate, sinks my soul in seconds
What at all am I to you?
A fling in a sling on a swing?
Poor little me!
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Nov. 29, 2016

BLESS ME WITH SEED (For those in need of blessings of the womb)

There is a farm hidden in me
Although sunlight feels not its land
And air pumps through thin tubes
As rain never get to muddy its ground
It is fertile enough to grow

Bless my land with a perfect seed
Help it blend in rot to live
Help it grow as seed to show in its pot of a flower
Help it mature to be harvested into itself
A land this well faces many problems
Without the blessing of a good seed
Please gift me one

Close all ridiculing mouths with awe
Let all pointing fingers shiver to show
Let all eyes pop open to be whipped by air into tears
For I am a farm ready to feed the earth
More food never threaten famine
Look at me too

A farm to grow a seed to grow into a farm
Or to grow into a seed
The earth thrives on this
Farmer of unseen farms
Look down on me
Poor me, strapped on societal public pole
With shame ropes and incompetent clothes
And tend to mine
For I am but a wreck in wait
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec.14, 2016



Dawn is opening morning’s doors

Freeing beings like birds to fly

Look keenly and see the lie

As some with feathers tower above legs


Birds are known to fly to seek

Food they peck with oh their beaks

Crippling birds do seem so weak

With their dangers so in chase

But what of the blind and lonely bird?


As we prepare to step out

With mythical loads of problems so weighing down

Cover our sadness with great smiles

With our weaknesses polished down

No head is carried with no need

Do ensure that we all do feed

And like a grateful nightingale

Our thanks will surely bless in tunes

Our Maker

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) December 14, 2016

(Photo Credit: Google pics)

The Making Of Orgiastic Cyprian by Oppong Clifford Benjamin

The Making Of Orgiastic Cyprian is an episodic fiction by Oppong Clifford Benjamin which
focuses on educating its readers on the sacredness of sex and how the pleasurable act can be a
divine form of prayer between a creature and his creator. The story centres on a mysterious sect
of young women between the ages of seventeen and thirty called The Ancient Aphrodisiac Cult
(The ACC). The cult is strictly invented out of the creativity of the writer. However, some settings
in the story are real.
We hope you enjoy this episode as much as the episodes to come. The Making Of Orgiastic Cyprian.
Episode I.
Remembering how timid she was on the first day she came into the temple of Ishtar for her
initiation, Miss Juan Onifat smiled and held the very tip of the giant penis which welcomed her
and every visitor to the extremely dangerous, yet ineluctably romantic designs of the interior. She
heaved a heavy relief, and it echoed in the somewhat sempiternal gallery of the temple of sex and
she looked down at her shadow which was telecasted on the walls by the sun, the sun was at its
meridian. She couldn’t believe she was the Grand Architect of the Qadeshes and by virtue of the
recent ceremony she was the sacred custodian of the recherché temple and all its traditions. It
had happened too fast, she thought. She was a little above three years in the Ancient Aphrodisiac Cult (The ACC), and just in the morning of that day, she had been installed the Most Perfect Chiliad, an enviable position which took other ladies, between the ages of seventeen and thirty, ten or more years of hard labour in sexual affairs with hundred strange men from all the seven selected corners of the world. “Congratulations, Most Perfect Chiliad, Grand Architect of the Qadeshes, The Sacred Custodian
  • of the temple of Ishtar and all its traditions” a half dressed blond lady went down on her left
    knee and perfectly erected her right leg to form a square with the left, and gave a court bow in
    salutation to Miss Juan. In response to the cordial felicitation, Miss Juan smiled and carefully
    lifted her right hand off the statue of penis and placed it on her well shaved vagina, she in-fixed
    the middle finger into her organ for a short while and removed it, and placed the hand on the left
    shoulder of the lady who upon rising to her full length, took a short pace with her left foot
    towards her superior, bringing the right heel to the hollow of the left to form a square, she then
    lapped the wet middle finger of Miss Juan. The blond lady licked the finger like it was the best
    thing that had ever entered her mouth; a sacred licking with saliva leaking off the lips, very
    The Qadeshes (members of the cult) have a religious belief in amorously passing their tongue
    about the always wet organ of their Most Perfect Chiliad and sucking the sweet scented liquid off
    her middle finger. It was a hallowed mean of communication between them and God. And She
    who did it passionately saw the face of God, or so it was bruited.
    Stories were told of a sexy black qadesh who once visited the Heavens and had an idyllic sexual
    encounter with a celestial body believed by the qadeshes to be God. The rumours had it that the
    black lady, Hamamat, when she was only a girl of twelve years, was visited in her dream on a
    certain mid-night while she slept on a small mat, in a muddy hut at a cute arenaceous village of
    Bolgatanga, Ghana. She saw in her dream a middle finger of a white lady. Hamamat could not
    appreciate the face of her guest but she clearly recounted the sacred element; a 7.44 inches long
    middle finger which had the image of an opened vagina receiving penetration from a perfectly
    erected penis tattooed across the length of the finger, starting from the proximal to the distal
    phalanxes. It was recorded in the chapter 16 of the book Blue Rituals of The Sex Cult by Linda
    Londart Longman, a Most Perfect Chiliad of the order who reigned from 1656 to 1701 that, the
    white lady rudely ordered Hamamat to lick her tattooed middle finger like how a sexually hungry
    woman suck the hell out of a lustful penis, which Hamamat did after what seemed to be a
    struggle in the dream. And when she did, Linda Longman in her book described the process as
    nonesuch, which in modern theological philosophy is synonymous with apotheosis- the process
    of transforming a man into a god. Linda said in the Blue Rituals of the Sex Cult that, Hamamat
    after many hours of massaging the finger with her tongue, the mysterious entity who appeared in
    her dream vanished into nothingness for out of nothingness she had appeared, but Hamamat
    woke up the next day in the ancient city of Cyprus, precisely in the temple of Ishtar with no

The Making Of Orgiastic Cyprian.
Oppong Clifford Benjamin.
cloths to shield her nakedness from the full sight of hundred men who had their hard members
aimed at her sorry self. Such, Longman wrote in her book, was the orphic means by which we
(qadeshes) are all invited to a participation of the ancient mysteries and sacred secrets of sex.
Cyprian Louiselle, may God strengthen thy waist to fuck your way to eternal glory
So Mote It Be” the blond lady whispered into air. It was the sect’s peculiar response to a prayer.
Miss Juan blessed the blond lady, Louiselle. Louiselle made for the south side gate of the temple
and just at the threshold of the exit, Miss Juan called her name aloud, prompting her to keep the
traditional form of exiting; sitting on an erected penis carved out of batholiths rock and
positioned at each of the four exits of the temple.
Ah Huh! Before you leave, please remind me of the name of the African girl you mentioned to
me this morning
Hamamat, Most Perfect Chiliad
Hamamat!” Miss Juan exclaimed out of surprise. She read the Blue Ritual when she was the
Most Wise Lady of the cult. The Blue Ritual was only accessible by the Most Wise Lady. The
duty of the Most Wise Lady in the ACC was to write the proceedings of the Ancient Aphrodisiac
Cult in a chronological records so the history of the cult doesn’t get lost in antiquity like many
sects of the then known world. During her office as Most Wise Lady, Miss Juan seized the
opportunity to read extensively on their ancient art, the mysteries and history of having sex with
strange men in the temple and the one that caught her interest the most was the mysterious

The Making Of Orgiastic Cyprian.
Oppong Clifford Benjamin.
Where precisely is she from?” Her eyes were widely opened and staring at Louiselle at the far
end of the gallery.
West Africa, Ghana. In a small sandy city called Bolgatanga.
There was earsplitting silence for quite a while in the space between them.
Are you okay, Most Perfect Chiliad?”
“Get me her picture, I will prepare for her invitation”
To be continued…



After angst and jubilation have gone to roost

In an opposing clash which selections boost

What is there but a sea with no boat

Calling all eyes; with hurt and gloat

To look past emotions and rise to a challenge


All in laughter show their teeth

All in outcries show their teeth

What is the difference between these?

Countenance for happiness and that of defeat

It is one land with many varying a seat


Some will stand

Some will on their buttocks comfort land

Some will walk

Some will stalk

Wouldn’t the importance be on space?


Work like a bull

Reason like an ant

All great buttocks can sit to cool

Devoid of hatred, being no procrastinator

Reason to work, work to gain

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 11, 2016

(Photo credit: Google pics)


Same winds can blow north, south, east and west

As the food
Coveted by many embark on a journey to build us all
Through your able self
Build with the protein of togetherness
Fill with the carbohydrate of wisdom
Heal with the vitamin C of hard work
Through the watchful eyes of vitamin A
Never forgetting vitamin D
For too much shade in the dark
Surely will cause illnesses
Remember how hard you fought to pluck the fruit of succession

Never play with the woven webs
By your very hands in the corners of mind rooms
For in each lies your home of throne
Its fragile nature makes even a broom dangerous
One sweep and you are out

Respect all thumbs and uproot corruptible weeds
Which grow in the midst of this general farm
We are heads with mouths which talk non-stop
But with thumbs which act fiercely once in months leading to yearly fours
Sift the best and massage the rest
Acting deaf to tongues which call
For your naked dancing in the middle of well patronised stages

Many a man have fallen through self overfeeding
Many a man have fallen through neglect
Many a man have fallen through insensitivity
Many a man have fallen through pride
Many a man have fallen into gutters of history
Through incompetence in this field of leadership
But men like Nelson Mandela still sit on stools revered
Even with their gaseous souls

Eyes will be watching
By all means beg to help us stand
But don’t grovel
Ask to let us build but no stooging
These same hands can reject in place of this embrace
We love comforting warmth
But not when it generates into uncomfortable heat

We love our light so find a way
We love to sing so find great tunes
We love to dance so hit on the drums of perfect change
One hurting flaw is your marital breakdown from hearts
Too much sugar and wealth for yours
And all pens write your jail of failure
Too much pampering and elevations for favourites
And ears store notes from eyes
Notes worthy to cut down your tree of terms
We love to eat evenly
Or at least well if the best can’t be reached
Your head swells at your own peril
“W’aba a tena ase”
Start clearing the land to build
We all have our parts
But navigate this ship to swerve all tsunamis
We are who we are
The children of our mother
Mother for all
A mother called Ghana
Your eloquence will only attract through proof of progress
Nothing more
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 9, 2016

(Photo Credit: Google pics)

Ghana Elections 2016: Patience; a Virtue


For a country whose hallmark is peace, it is sickening to see the manner in which the two major political parties are conducting themselves barely a day after elections. The impatience, the “taunts in call” which receives immediate response, the declaration of “leads” and “winnings”, the pain of watching as supporters’ temperament rise in tension puts the country in a bad frame.

I believe it is high time the New Patriotic Party (NPP) matures into a party which waits to act after declarations instead of stirring tempers. I also believe the National Democratic Congress (NDC) needs to be more civil in their responses to some of the press conferences by the opposition parties. Patience is a virtue in every outcome we have no control over or any outcome which demands the power of others. The law says the Electoral Commission of Ghana should be the team that organises and announces results. Why is that too difficult for parties to comply? Have we no faith at all in our system? Are we now too suspicious of our own souls to learn to trust in others for even a little while?

I watched with utter admiration, the press conference by the head of the Electoral Commission of Ghana, Charlotte Osei, and her calm appearance, her composure, her even tone, her reassurance spoke volumes of her competency and told the world she was on top of things. So what warranted the chaos that followed?

Supporters of both NPP and NDC must be careful in their jubilation. I believe the attitude of supporters are influencing their parties to act the way they do. No matter what happens, Ghana is the ultimate source of protection. If we break that, what will we have left? Are we ready to run through bushes to seek cover? Are we ready to be face violence, butchering, suffering and watch as our country tears apart? Are we ready to lose our credibility as one of the firm upholders of democracy? Who must die for who to lead in this era when our forefather’s blood still weep for development ad growth from their aggrieved graves? What will you say to them when you force yourself to die for a cause called chaos?

We need to learn from all the countries which held elections this year; from the United States of America’s famous elections to that of the Gambians. Reasoning is what makes us humans above all creatures. If Dr. Kwame Nkrumah declared for us freedom, we should learn to retain it by showing through our actions and inactions that we deserve it.

Please let us all be calm. Patience is a virtue. Whether NDC or NPP, we are all a nation with a body called Ghana. We are brothers and sisters in our motherland. We are one people with minds capable of talking through our differences and winning in the face of difficulties. Please let us pledge peace and maintain it. A win for one should be a win for all.


Heads vary in many competitive phases
But are same in unknown endings
Like fire, their hearts heat to shrink
Like ice, their heads freeze to explode
Little noise makes them jump
Ah! Obi ne stomach!
Wim wim wim!

Who will climb the golden stool?
Who will fall at the feet of defeat?
Who will receive the hails of reverence
And its associated curses of jealousy?
And who will be buried
And showered with pity?
The cheers!
The jeers!
The indifferent weirds!
Obi ne stomach!
Wim wim wim!

Will the umbrella break
By the winds of the elephant?
Or the elephant be pushed into the bush
By the flood of the umbrella?
Oh could the cockrel surprise to rise?
Obi ne stomach!
Wim wim wim!

Be on standby
Life-saving ambulances
For the many hearts to cake and break
Be on reserve
Waters of life
For the many breaths to cease and wake
Be on the alert
Life saving police
For the many necks
Which would want to hang
Let all lifeguards guard their waters
In watch of the many who seek to drown
Pharmacist and herbalist
Guard your medicines!
Obi ne stomach! !
Wim wim wim wim!!!
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 7, 2016


Who but the ink
Bleeds to cleanse?
Who but the pencil fearlessly scribbles to right?
Who but the pen honours the befitting?
What feat have you achieved?

Fie on all inks
Who write to praise the unright
Fie on all pencils who lick boots like stooges
Fie on all pens who worship societal demons
Sending to hell angelic hearts needed
To climb the ladder of development
Fie! Fie! Shame on stooging pens!

Many vocations lie in our inks
To enlighten
Encourage and inspire
Who will tell pathfinders
That their paths are crooked?
Clown crowns fit our oddities
Who cares when our whips land on the appropriate?

Think with your ink
Cuddle not monsters for grace
Be the voice of the voiceless
The eyes of the blind
The ears of the deaf
The legs of the cripple
And the heart of cowards
Birthing education for illiterate- impotents
For that is thy cross to carry
And you must be in a hurry
When the bell calls for you
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2016