​WHEN A YARD IS GIVEN

When a yard is given

Extending to a mile is a given

Then some come in needful farm

Regardless of the harm
II

When a gate widely opens

Even mosquitoes can turn royals

Dictating to owners when to sleep and what to keep

Of course the malaria virus becomes a necessary tag 
III

Draw a needle for your poor pest

And it will turn into an axe

Give a knife to your foe

And it will metamorphose into a machete

Make tears quench the thirst of a dying in drought

And he will be sure to drive on your pain 

For your eyes to always rain
IV

We have given more than necessary 

Now we forget the owners we are

In our love to serve

In the end

We are dancing clowns

On a stage set by blood so precious 

Blood of our ancestors 

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) June 24, 2017

Launch and Live Streaming of FaceOff With the International MP by Rodney Nkrumah-Boateng

This link is for the live streaming of today’s launch.

Foreword to FaceOff With the International ‘MP’

“It is often said that we take ourselves too seriously, and do not laugh enough. If this description fits or suits you, then please stay as far away as possible from Rodney and his writings [scratch that!]: read the book in hiding. I introduce to you a reverently irreverent writer who pulls no punches, wears no kids’ gloves, bars no holds and suffers no fools gladly. There is not a topic that Rodney is shy to address, and frontally and bluntly too. Rodney treats, [scratch that!] specialises in the topics that one might want to avoid; but by the time he is done, you absolutely relate to both the matter and his treatment of it. Or you hate him for it. His presentation is rich in language, imagery and humour. He is not shy to take digs at himself and so when he does that to others and the issues that he handles, it is just Rodney being Rodney.
I first ‘met’ this self-described “Honourable MP for Facebook” on (you guessed right) Facebook. Nobody elected him. He does not stand for re-election. He is self-anointed, self-appointed and self-titled. And to top it all off, he has chosen his own “Stool Wives” (three of them!), explaining that the position of an ‘African’ MP on Facebook must come with certain ‘fringe benefits.’ He has carried this make-believe ‘marriages’ so far that once when he had a public ‘tiff’ with one of the ‘Wives’, he received a genuine inbox message from a reader, reprimanding and excoriating him for quarrelling with his spouse in public!
We were students in the University of Ghana at the same time; or so he claims – I have absolutely no memory or recollection of him from those times. And I don’t remember whether he requested my ‘friendship’ on Facebook or I did his. I think that was the time he was about to relocate to Ghana from the UK. But somehow we got connected and hit it off like a house of fire. Once he settled in Ghana, he turned his fire and ire on the things that keep us back from moving forward as a people; and with his finely-honed wit, unrestrained humour and biting sarcasm, he has sought not to throw the fabric of who we are away, but to change some of the weak strands of the fabric, one frustrating strand at a time.
Rodney does not hide his obvious political bias, and freely admits that his political views are deeply influenced and coloured by that bias. Yet when you read him teasing, and ripping and tearing into his own side of the political divide, you are left wondering where that bias is…, until he returns to teasing and ripping and tearing into the opposite side of the divide. When he does that, he invites leading proponent-opponents to read his writing and answer back. He relishes in the exchanges and is full of witty comebacks. He wears his opponents out with sheer energy and vim.
Occasionally, he takes one on the chin. But I have seen him ride the punch and come back even stronger. He is your YING-YANG, at once your light and darkness, softness and hardness (Rodney, no naughty puns intended), in and out (Rodney, be careful!) and giver and receiver (Rodney!!!) This book marks his transition from the soft copies of electronic media to the hard copies of traditional paper books. But it doesn’t change who he is and what he does: an enigma and a riddle, confused and confusing at the same time.
You will find in Rodney, your well-hidden antithesis that is probably your real self, the self whose existence you deny to everyone and even convinced yourself does not exist. Thus in welcoming you to this book, I just welcome you to yourself. ”
— Ace Kojo Anan Ankomah. The 290-page book by Rodney Nkrumah-Boateng, his third book, is published by DAkpabli & Associates, Ghana, and will be launched on 23 June 2017 at the Christ the King Parish Hall, Accra. All are invited.

Kindly like and follow facebook.com/vividstreamlive when we are live, you will get notifcations.

(Courtesy: Nana Awere Damoah) 

IF YOU MARRY ME

If you marry me

You will be my sea

And I your fish

Preparing for you many a sumptuous dish

Giving life to many of your wishes


II

If you marry me

Your happiness, my wish will be

I will be your warmth in the cold

And your cooler in heat’s fold

Blanketing you from troubles which weather the skies of love


III

If you marry me 

My love will be your fee

You as the only he in all my she

In all I own, you’ll own the key


IV

If you marry me

Your returnings will be your fantasy 

As all that is royalty you will see

Chaos and pain will be our enemies’ fallacy

And our bed’s chronicles will rival the Songs of Solomon


IV

If you marry me

You’ll be my friend

And my healthy loving fiend

Wearing your love like a uniform for all to see

Even in a university of marriage institution 

Where diverse clothing are in store


V

If you marry me

I will complement you

Looking up to you even when  I stand taller

For you will be me and I you

As the buttocks of a legless man lick its very grounds


VI

No night will enjoy our separation in full

Our souls will be like Siamese twins

Stuck together by God’s perfected glue

No eye of a day will witness our fallouts

No ear of man will hear our differences 

No eye will see our cracks

For God will be our adjudicator

If you marry me


VI

I won’t need you but want you

I won’t hurt you but protect you

I won’t embarrass you

As that will dress me in a veil of shame

I know you will love me

And I you will reciprocate with more

I will be your cocoon

When you need a shed

And your stage when you need a page


VII

If you marry me

If only you marry me

I will make you see

That world where two should be

Being your fan even when all hate hail

As we on the stormy seas of this life sail

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) June 2017

​AS MY YEARS TRAVEL

(In celebration and reflection on my birthday) 

As my years travel the world

Questions act like soldier ants

Who have chanced upon a loot

In a land of famine


II

The biggest captain being achievements

Co-captained by failures

All curious as to the shrouded steps left

To the hungry hole of endings

III

The frightful words of holy books

Stand with their fiery canes ready as hell’s cooks

Who can beat the holiest trait which act rag before the ultimate judge? 

Definitely not a lightweight like me without gloves 

In Satan’s boxing ring

IV

Many experiences still hide deep 

As untapped minerals hidden in unexplored realms

Many delicacies hang on trees of cook books

Taunting this tongue whose hands are still short

Enough to reach 

Will it ever reach its mark

Before the body mates ice

At the cue of the mysterious one

Who shares the “odomankoma” title with God himself? 

V

What about toes which have scars 

Traced to my high heels? 

Those the sun of my day helped me visualize

And those fearfully hidden by my cruel shadows? 

How many surprises will jump to my slap

When I stand in the judgement box of oblivion?

VI

The celebration is icing on a rotting cake

Every day punching muscles into weakness 

Every month deepening circles around failing sights

Every year sipping colour from battling hairs

Will dancing fill the blanks of this truths? 

VII

As my years travel

Humility mask gratefulness

Which in turn mask sadness

In a heart which thinks realities

In a typhoon where fruits dance together with hidden stones

On mysterious trees 

Which unfairly set the run of blindfold

In their enjoyment of soul hunting

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 21st June,  2017.

​HELPERS LIKE EVE

Those days
When light only came from the sun rays

As fruits fed from their ripe stations

Have no living nations

II

Those days

When charms and pushing gays

With domestic care so rare

Were all a woman needed to be fair

Have gone under

As today, more need surrender


III

Eve was a blessing

Who hated her no dressing

We are interesting 

Even in our no resting

Our morn calls for care duties

Then the hunt to help

Noon calls for roaming 

Then the pain of thoughts

Evening calls for supper 

And preparations for a near future

Of course night has its unseen duties

Of marathons of turnings and pantings


IV

We are now like Frankenstein 

We have created a monster of freedom

Which has taken over our little rest

Making us workaholics with no visible acknowledgement

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c)  June 19, 2017.

AGYANOM

Happy Father’s Day to all fathers. Enjoy this piece:

Whoever said chicks follow hens

Wash your faces with treated water

And watch

It is that day

That day when some cocks act hens

As some hens model in cockdom 

This world!
II

It is this day

This day when the pains of motherhood

Root firmly in the sheltered sacks of fatherhood

This world
III

Not many hit to run

Not many seek the fun

Not many impose a ban

But many do as they can

Fathers
IV

So bring those flowers 

And shelve the towels

Build those houses 

And leave those sandals

Discard all bitterness 

And hail this plantation which blooms

Into a garden of fathering care

Exuding fragrance of love

In its rightful place 

Formerly loaded on tired femi-heads

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) June 18, 2017.

NIGERIA TRAVELOGUES

I was glad when two gentlemen I knew from the Ghana Association of Writers contacted me and asked me to apply for the Ebedi International Writers Residency. The thought of a cozy place to complete works I deemed difficult,  was very welcome. Then I thought of going through Togo through to Benin to Nigeria. Seeing parts of three countries (no matter how small) and I felt happy. So I shelved all ideas of going by air. In any case,  travelling by road was less expensive.  So after going through with the Autism Help Foundations “Lightasit”, with permission from my workstation, I left the following day, 14th April, 2017, tired but ready to explore. 

My godmother booked me on a Chisco Transport. One that promised air-condition, comfortability, safety and food. My bags were checked right up to my little feminine toiletry bag and tagged before it got a place in the bus’s cargo section.  Then the bus took off around 7am. 

My tired eyes could not close because hardly had the big bus taken off did I begin to sweat. Many people complained about the missing air conditioner and the fact that the bus had a huge gate that separated passengers from the driver, turning us into some upgraded form of cargo. I kept mute,  sitting there like a lost soul,  many eyes roaming what I later got to know as “my little classy frame”. We opened the windows,  risked being blessed or cursed by the rains which decided to bless the land that morning. 

We got down when we reached the Aflao boarder and walked with our passports or ID cards in check, then boarded again only to get down at every boarder for clarification. What thrilled me most was the firing of the Pidgin language and its funny punches in the vehicle.  I had wanted to record some but realised my phone was off. Accustomed to the situation, I dozed off a bit until I heard a lot of noise.  

We were in Lakoge, right in the heart of Benin. Just a peek from our window made us see the spectacle that we were. The driver had been ordered out and the passengers were locked in. But we could hear the scuffle and curses that trailed each other outside the bus. Our driver continually cursed “The person wey do dis tin, ino go be better for am o”. I was still at sea.  I had not uttered a word since I sat in the bus. I turned to the gentleman sitting beside me to ask what was happening and he replied “I think somebody kept Igbo in the car and so we have been arrested”. It was my turn to ask if people from Benin had something against Igbos. This generated a lot of laughter from those close. After that they explained “igbo” was actually  marijuana. I was confused and felt fear for the first time on the journey. 

I had spoken to the one who was to pick me up and he had asked that I found I place to stay for the night for pickup the next day. Since I did not know anywhere and I had not budgeted for it, I called a few people I knew in Nigeria but it was too soon to make those arrangements so I called the one person I knew would not disappoint: Femi Akomolafe. Of course he arranged with one of his friends who was an MD,  to book me a room at Sheraton Hotel. The man also asked his secretary to arrange for a pickup. When I told them I was coming by bus,  they were very afraid for my safety. So telling them it was not a big deal as Nana Awere suggested I got a place around Maza Maza,  the MD contacted Nana who also contacted me and told me he would send his driver to pick me up though he lived far from the station. But there I was, caught in a drug arrest. 

After about an hour of being locked in, the Benin police ordered the driver to bring us out. Over three hundred Beninois stood watching us. Every individual was asked to take his or her bag. After all was done,  three huge “Ghana Must Go” bags sat unclaimed. The driver and his mate begged the owner to own up but none did. Then we realised it had no tag. A woman passenger who loved to talk whispered to me that she saw the one who loaded the cargo taking lots of twenty Ghana cedis notes and afterwards pushing those bags into the vehicle. She added she could make the owners up but they were not in the bus. I pretended I had not heard fearing to be caught in an unqualified “witnesship” and got up from the water-logged gutter in which we were being scrutinized. 

I missed Ghana my motherland. The land which I loved but never appreciated as much as I should. I knew for a fact that no person arrested from another country would be interrogated in a sand filled gutter in an open space watched by all who wanted to watch. To top it up,  there were mosquitoes everywhere even though it was barely 5pm. We spent over four hours in the interrogating gutter before we were transported to a fenced but opened park where heavy duty trucks parked. That place too had potholes everywhere with stagnant water. A royal palace for mosquitoes. I had to find a way to charge my phone in order to contact Nana and the others. I had written some numbers on my ticket but I needed my phone as no one was willing to give out his or her phone. So I went to one of the security men there who asked why I came with Chisco. According to him,  Chisco had these drug troubles three times every week if he was not exaggerating. He added that we were the third to have been brought into the yard that week. He told me he would help but asked that I be careful as thieves came into the yard to steal. He recommended GUO the next time I wished to travel by road. I was grateful. 

One of the male passengers followed me and together, we charged our phones outside the only building in the yard. Again,  I was baffled as to how nationals from other countries could be left with inadequate protection in a dangerous zone after their driver and mate had been handcuffed and sent to their prison or wherever. I knew that Ghanaians would never do a thing like that. 

I decided I would not sleep. I spoke to Nana who at that point was worried and spoke to the administration of Ebedi who were equally worried but I assured them I would contact them the next day. At around 3am,  I could not keep my eyes open even through the chorus of mosquitoes. I decided then to nap for some minutes just beside the gentleman whose phone was also on charge. I woke up abruptly and reached out for my phone,  I think 15 minutes after my nap and my phone was gone. The other gentleman’s phone was also gone. My chips were on the floor. I thought it was a bad joke but it wasn’t. I looked at the gentleman and thought for a moment that he could be the culprit but decided to let him be since he also claimed his had been stolen. Of course I am sure he might have felt the same about me if his phone had really been stolen like mine. I went around asking those who were seated around but they all said the same thing “Be careful around Nigerians” Even the Nigerians said that proudly. I checked into my purse and realized the little money I had on me was also gone. Having left my ATM card at home and stranded penniless in an unfriendly land, I felt my end had come. Even getting to call home was a problem. 

Around 8am,  on the 15th of April, 2017 when there was no sign of another bus to take us to our destination, many passengers left on their own. A gentleman from the Volta Region volunteered to lend me 5000 naira. I used some to call home and the residency. I was told by those who recommended me to come back as they were afraid for my safety. They kept saying Nigeria was worse than Benin where crime is concerned. Of course even my fear could not force me to quit.  I am Amoafowaa after all. 

At around 2pm,  the replacement bus came. Out of the over forty passengers,  only about fifteen remained. The rest of the journey was longer than I thought. We stopped almost in every two minutes to go through one check point or the other in Nigeria,  most of whom wanted their palms to be greased. It was funny how they feared Boko Haram but could accept bribe from those without proper identifications and allowed them into their country. I watched as a woman came in to sell yellow cards for 2000 naira. Cards stamped with no requirement for vaccines or the like. Pathetic, I thought. Ernest,  my saviour bought a registered sim bearing whoever’s name and with that,  I was able to contact a few people. Nana Awere called after getting in touch with the administration of Ebedi,  obviously having had a restless day. We reached the Chisco Station around 1am. Thankfully,  there was a place to rest for a small fee,  and a good bathroom. I put my head on my laptop bag without sleep. I felt someone pulling my bag from beneath my head,  woke up and asked “oga, wetin be your problem?” To which he naturally strolled off.  That ended my lying down.  

Ernest and his friend volunteered to take me to the Ibadan Station in Lagos. Although I protested,   they told me I looked too refined with an aura of wealth so if they did not accompany me, swindlers might harm me thinking I had some valuables. I was lost,  I looked my humble self in a Kente designed simple dress and a comfortable wedge footwear. After getting to know that there was no Ibadan vehicle at the main station, they took me to a private station where they boarded the vehicle with me and sent me straight to Ibadan,  specifically to the Mr.  Biggs Fast Food Joint which was yet to be opened. That was 16th April 2017. There, I sat on a small fence and watched as huge men smoked “igbo” in the open space without a care in the world. At around 9am,  the ride to Iseyin arrived with Bode,  the administrator and Gloria, a resident from Kenya and the affable driver. I thankfully got on thankful for the comfortable ride and the friendly people who laughed their heads off at my dramatic journey from Ghana to Nigeria. 

IN HONOUR OF MAJOR MAHAMA

Image result for pictures of major mahama maxwell

We cry your liquidated soul

Which has been forcefully fried

From your solidly mobile form

We hail your gallant nurture

Which prevented your strong nature

To harm a hair of your enemies, oh you with good stature!

We pray for your hovering soul

Which stands on the invisible soles

Of all that you hold dear

We pray for your fruitful walk into eternal rest

Even as your wronged soul

Deserves a fair revenge

The law stands and haunts

The law whips and taunts

The law whose neglect saw to your fall

Calls and stalks to fetch and prosecute culprits

You are a warrior of heroism

Caught in a silly sport of cruel tragedy

Death bemoans your shining presence

Just as your wife feels the absence of your presence

And your children’s growth miss their oblivious presence

We pray for your forgiveness

For cutting a tree which yearned

To stretch in the sky way above the ground

Depriving its roots from its warm and cool shade

Walk like the soldier you are

Model like the gentleman you are

Take strides knowing we have fantasized your future

The future you envisaged

Your Major dreams have been achieved

Major Mahama Due ooo!

Damirifa Due!

Major Mahama! Damirifa Due!

Due Due ne Amanehunu!\

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) June 9, 2017

Photo Credit: Google pics

GIVEN TO TEACH

Image result for pictures of major mahama maxwell

The code of souls was breached

When I saw the gates of death

Being torn by many who morality preached

When their swords of advice wore their breath

In hidden and opened quarters of their sons

As they pushed me through by cruel runs

II

I felt the lighting slaps of hands

And bore the gruesome breaks of stones

I felt the painful hits of sticks

And the bruising peels of blocks

I felt the fleeing pins of dust

None showed a friendly sight

But I stood and was blinded by the pain of loss

Which mine would feel at the sight of my last days

III

I prayed the chaos would rise to slap

And not form a cane or a death slab

I prayed to be the end of the crap Continue reading “GIVEN TO TEACH”

PITY OUR LAND

Image result for images of beautiful ghana

Pity our land

A land arrested and tamed

Into a free wild horse on its very habitat

Sat on and dragged with so many heavy things

Fed crumbs from our own pots

Oh cry! Cry for our land!

II

Pity our land

A land with so much yet thinks so little

And was confined by the mere sight of a gun

A land which fought their greatest enemy’s soldiers

Into a slight wake

A wake that stuck at freedom of body

And not of mind

Oh pity! Slap this land into Wakefulness!

III

Pity our land

Cry for this land of loam

Whose knees love the taste of sea sands

Oh Pity! Pity this land!

A land whose thoughts love to steal from itself

Digging its seeds before they germinate

Soiling its rivers before they join their seas

Oh pity! Pity our land!

IV

Pity our land

Pity our land so full yet so empty

A land so beautiful but stuffed with self-hatred

A land so wealthy with brainwashing of poverty

A land ridden by shadows

Shadows which blend with our darkness

Darkness with no distinction

Oh pity! Pity our land

V

Pity our land

The land which knows no greatness unless its sunset

And knows no morning unless neighboring cock crows are heard

No matter how hard theirs drum in crowing

A land whose day lovers suck its blood at night

And pretend to water and till in the day

A land bedeviled by its own thoughts

Haunted by fake nightmares

And flogged by manipulations

Oh pity! Pity my land!

VI

Pity our land

 Pity the land bleaching away its melanin

In hopes of seeing protected blood

Thinking vulnerability is ability

When its suns spew wrinkles and wilting

Pity o pity!

The land which lives in begging dreams

Begging which begs for its own destruction!

A land of scribes filled with filth 

Pity! Oh pity my land!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 7th June 2017

Photo Credit: Google pics

THE MAJOR MAHAMA LYNCHING, NOT A DENKYIRA-OBUASI THING BUT A GHANAIAN THING

Captain Maxwell Mahama

It is sad to hear that Captain Maxwell Adam Mahama was mistaken for a thief and brutally lynched on May 29, 2017. But I am amazed at the fact that this is just getting the attention of the Ghanaian populace now. I will not say it is a Denkyira-Obuasi (Central Region) thing but it is a Ghanaian thing. I have not lived that long on earth but have witnessed more than four of these crucial murders and heard more than a dozen happen in Ghana. The question is, did it have to happen to someone well placed in society to gain the attention it deserved?

In 2009, while returning from school, I was horrified to see the burning frame of a human being at the Ayigbe Junction, Israel, in Accra. The taxi driver taking me to my destination then, seeing how shaken I was laughed and said:

“Ei! Small madam! This is normal! Any robber who gets you first will kill you so get over this. It is normal! Maybe you have not had your things stolen before or do not know how painful it is to lose someone to robbery.”

There was nothing I could say. When I reached home my mother briefed me, that he was a man of about twenty six and was spotted stealing from a wayside kiosk. As to what he stole, no one could tell, except the owner said he took a chair and left it, picked some of the things she was selling, put them down and continued picking and dumping until she blew the “ewi” alarm.

The next day, his parents came to the spot, obviously after the police had come for his burnt remains, and poured libation amidst curses. They explained that the said man, was on the autism spectrum and had lost his way. Those who witnessed the lynching then claimed he was shouting

“Mama, it is hurting me! Stop it! it is not good to hit people!”

All the time they were beating him. My question then was, couldn’t those brutal murderers know there was something amiss when the said thief was saying all those things? Although I did not witness the beating and eventual killing, eye witness accounts replayed in my mind up till date.

Mob justice has never been fair. It is shocking that we had to travel into 2017 and see the murder of Captain Mahama in order to be serious about it. I believe the Denkyira-Obuasi group are just serving as scapegoats. In a way, it seems to be unfair. What about all those who have murdered innocent souls in the past and gone scot free? Who gets justice for those who have lost their loved ones unfairly? I believe even some of those speaking loudest against it, may have history of mob killing.

No amount of money, no greater crowd of mourners, no words of sympathy, no state burial can fill the void left when innocent souls are squashed between horrid societal flaws and the quest for peace which the security agencies fail to give. The law enforcement agencies should also “up their game” so to speak, because no matter how brutal instant justice is, it is a symptom of loss of trust in the security agencies. Let the rumoured corruption be squashed

I pray that the politicisation of mob justice be quenched so it can be fought with conscience because many things can go wrong when a crime takes place. And a human being is not a toy to be broken and fixed. Amoafowaa writes this poem in honour of the fallen soldier.

BRUTES IN BEINGS

Many things walk the land like beings

Things with no souls on soles

Acting like they deserve what moves

Pretending to think in growth

But May on its 29th leg on 2017 stand has set their stage

II

A handsome father has been plucked

Plucked from the tree of life

One who promised on his honour

To protect his land even with his life

Many speak in opposites even with their sympathies

III

From slaps to slab hitting

Sticks to stone biting

Block breaking to naked strikking

Dragged in bragging like a dead goat

Killed in shaming 

With one in a womb lighting a match

On one like a king on his own soil

On an unfamiliar ground

IV

Hypocrites cry foul

Pretending to care

When all they want is their political share

It did take a gentle soul to knock the pity

How many lives have seen such fate?

Instant justice? I say a brutal pain!

V

Who will warm the bed of his half?

Who will cradle his sons to sleep?

Who will guide his little ones into growth?

Who can quench the pain of his loss?

I hope the noise will create a choice

A choice which will parade conscience in a proper palanquin

And stop the spectacle

Which publicises blackness in demonism

In spells irreversible after activation

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) May 29, 2017

Photo Credit: Google pics

IN HIS MAJESTY’S QUARTERS

Image result for pictures of a african king and queens

In His Majesty’s quarters

Women are flowers to be gathered

Into an unharmonious bouquet

From colours black to white

II

In His Majesty’s quarters

A step calls for stooges in circled clichés

Ones who see God when his shadow

Draws in closer drawings

III

In His Majesty’s quarters

The devil’s shed stands for evil check

Spraying calamity in hunger

Trapping murder in anger

IV

In His Majesty’s quarters

A rude act calls for nakedness

He who loves his head

Checks his weirds in His Majesty’s quarters

V

Bring hunger for murder

Bring problems for slaughter

Work like a great servant for titles

Gift in gratefulness for mentions

In His Majesty’s quarters

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 18th April 18, 2017 (After visiting the Aseyin of Iseyin

PHOTO CREDIT: GOOGLE PICS