Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 13

Every leaf is priceless to its tree until it falls. It is sad how some live to brown until breakage, how some fall in their greens, taste unbearable feet, or fire, or brooms or are blown to wherever fate’s pen writes in their existence. I happen to be in that unfortunate category but with a twist of causing my own misfortune. It is true that every spittle once lived in a living body but the ground is only respected by the dead and not the living who sees a path for his feet at every glance. I was Adwoa Attaa Anobeng,  transformed to be known as Bee Davids, one who saw herself as a queen in the realm of prostitution but as a spittle outside selling the proverbial smiles. Who could blame me? Which mouth could chastise without feeling responsible for my plight? Will human attitude stop being pythons to devour goodness in the dark and straws to pose as fans in daylight? Who can, even as of now, claim to have lived happily without a touch of sex? I will tell you this today, even priests and nuns think of coitus almost all the time. Whereas some get to cheat on God physically, all cheat on him thought wise but that is not my business, hypocrisy is a business on its own. A business whose currency are emotions and blackmail. Now to the story of the day.

Coming home as a fabric seller who used herself as payment of duty to her goods was not fun at all. I needed a stall but found out I needed to climb using a staircase of sex in order to get a booking. With what I had been through, I was not interested in taking that route, so I started asking around. It was 12:30 am when we heard gunshots. Luckily, Ntwanu was in my bed. He got out, came back with the police at the baited end of a gun point. Shai came out but Mimi was out. As to what was happening, we were told we were under investigation because there have been reports of our shady “goings and comings”. Apparently, our neighbours had reported that we were only seen at night and never during the day. We were asked what we did and I sent them straight to the fabrics which sat in the guest room. After they inspected to their satisfaction, scattered in many groups, Ntwanu leading one, Shai leading another and myself leading the leader, who looked stern and disciplined, they left without taking even water from the house.

Ntwanu and I were glad to have gotten rid of them until we remembered Shai was no where to be found. We followed through to the boys quarters and realized she was raped by the group of policemen whom she led. Only God knows what they were on, the poor girl was bleeding and she had bruises all over her body. I was angry to a point of sadness. To think that policemen were supposed to be the protection of citizens. To think they were supposed to be that umbrella of peace, to think they were supposed to be our trusted force, I just didn’t know what to think. We carried her to the main house and tended to her. 

Ntwanu started behaving funny after we had taken care of Shai. All of a sudden he wanted to leave in the middle of the night. I just didn’t understand him. Tried as I did, he left but I followed him, with the help of one of our security men, whom he employed to guard us. Dressed in black and sneakers, I followed the instructions of Tai through ceilings and crooked paths until we got to the military headquarters. After we got there, we realized we had lost him amidst a little confusion. We heard some noise behind us, turned instinctively and by the time we realized, Ntwanu was gone. Tai told me he suspected Ntwanu realized we were following him but I was confused. Tai was certain he didn’t know until we got to the military headquarters and was certain that was where he intended to go. As to why, I thought about it for a long time with no ready answers. 

The next day, Tai did not turn up for work, another person replaced him and introduced himself as the new addition. When I asked Ntwanu about it, he just kissed me and made insanely passionate love to me. I forgot about my fears in my thoughts about what he was, what he had gone there to do, what he was hiding from me, what made him look that powerful on the night we followed him and how I could get the truth from the tight lipped man who professed to love me with all his heart. But he left after cuddling and I was left with the endless charter of Mimi and her many rounds of sex with an old man whose penis power was tighter than most men she had ever met. I thought she was exaggerating but did not tell her so, all that was on my mind was Ntwanu and how to demystify his new robed mystery, especially after hearing five policemen were castrated the night before.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 2017.

Photo Credit: Google Pics


You have cut the ribbon of shyness

From our very eyes

All contours leading to remorse

Have been made comfortable

From the slippery slope it was


Because sins grow into norms with time

And you are the programmer of the dramatic brain

Which engines us


I wonder if you peep through the anus of discos and clubs

To see sins dance in varied sneakers and heels

I wonder if you see through the “drosses” and “trousers” of fornicators

To see pestles in pleasurable laughter

And mortars in needful beckoning

I so wonder, if your eyes reach

The joints of high points in smokinghood

To know how deep nostrils reach

To fetch the line of smoke from lungs

Oh! Do you follow their steps into darkness through to your temples?

Are you regretting our creation?


I know you know the machetes

Which cause some hands to sin

You do know the poisons which will cause some minds to scheme

You do know the words which will make some vocals turn villains

Yet, you sit and watch as many perish

On the eve of your worship

How delighted are you watching the path to your glorification?

Disrespectful me!

How dare I? How dare I taunt you on the grounds of my sins?

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 25, 2017

​WHEN DAYLIGHT SLEEPS (Adult Poetry, 18+)

When daylight sleeps

Prepare your foot to heed to the call of my beads

For surely

You must dance in my wet ground

Whose rains began at the first tear of dawn


Mow your lawn

And clean your gun

Load it to perfection

There sure must be a fat game of pleasure

At the end of the hunt

Yes, a dance in a hunt


Be sure to borrow the air of freshness

Around your red towel

Which will be on my plate as one toffee

Whose sweetness never fades

Of course I will add that to the lollipop

So be sure to prepare your all in pleasing scenting


Actions for passions

Reactions for hyping

Matching for matching

Hanging for hanging

The eyes of our darkness have a lot to expect

In our unholy confines

And so must yours

When daylight sleeps

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 24, 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics

Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 12

Fate has a way of telling us to try amidst all adversities to show justifications and or otherwise for our ways of life. I believed then that calling was nigh so I told Ms. Barwuah that I had some money to invest so needed some ideas. She introduced me to a fabric dealer in Cape Coast who always travelled to Togo for her fabrics and seemed to be quite comfortable. Her name was Aba Quaicoo. Ntwanu was happy and fully supportive of the idea. 
On our way to Togo, I saw so many beautiful places, some dry lands with poverty written all over them, some fertile lands begging to be touched and some developed places too. What caught my attention however was the policemen at the various barriers. They meticulously searched every person and his or her luggage and particulars. I thought they were supposed to prosecute offenders but they had fixed amounts these offenders without their “Yellow Cards” or passports paid to go scot free. I thought of how dangerous their acts was. Supposing some of those caught were armed robbers or terrorists, what would be the fate of this country? No one had the audacity to challenge them, lest, even passengers became word police to thrash them with words they never knew could hurt. I saw the way the officers eyed beautiful women among passengers. I just observed like an interested cat, trying to look uninterested. I was dressed like a decent Muslim, even my hair was covered so as not to attract attention.

When we finally reached our destination, I was shocked at the prices of fabrics. With just fifty cedis, I could buy cloth that could make me two hundred and fifty cedis worth of profit. I kept buying and buying until Aunt Aba told me to stop because there were duty charges on our way back. Duty charges? Well, I decided to follow her instructions and shut up. 

The vehicles that transported our goods were funny looking. They had so many hidden compartments that drivers unscrewed to hide some of our goods at a fee. I was told that was way cheaper than paying duty at the barriers on those extra. Though the officers knew every trick traders used to get their goods into Ghana for free, they chose to let go once they were bribed satisfactorily. Aunt Aba went on to tell me how some traders put on eight cloths, six jeans trousers and hide jewelleries in their private parts just to avoid paying duty charges for them. Some simply used bush roads to avoid payment completely. But the bush roads were filled with robbers who mercilessly raped, molested or killed traders, maimed or killed drivers, just to steal their goods. It was terrifying listening to all the hazards, so I just asked that we left.

The cars which carried several goods were parked in a cue waiting for inspection and payment before entry into Ghana. It was interesting how many men stood by pleading with officers who were unsympathetic toward their plight, at the same time, some women entered the officer’s office after inspection only to come back energetic with pleasure perspiration all over their bodies. Aunt Aba went before me. After thirty minutes in the officer’s office, she came back wiping her sweat and breathing faster than a hundred metre runner. I was disappointed because she wore two rings and never took them off. A part of me told me my mind was playing tricks on me, another maintained she used herself to avoid paying duty on her fabrics, but I was not in the place to judge so shut up.

“Do as you are told Adwoa so we can go early. I am waiting for you”

With that, she ushered me into the officer’s office before I had time to ask a question. There were over twenty men there. An elderly man of about 40 years of age called my name and asked me to follow him. Apparently, there were empty rooms individuals were sent to process their documents.

“I am in charge of your goods Miss, how would your mode of payment be? As it stands now, you are to pay 13, 000 cedis.”

I couldn’t hide my shock so I exclaimed:

“Ei! How much did I buy the fabrics? With transportation, it cost only around 3000 cedis.”

“You know you can pay in another way? All you need to do is to comply and I will make you pay only 500 cedis.”

Inspector Atsuvi gently stroked my cheeks, swiftly kissed my lips, made his fingers travel down my spine, down to touch my clothed clitoris. I shook with need. Somehow, I wanted to resist but didn’t have the money to pay. I just didn’t get why sex appeared as the perfect currency even in legitimate businesses. I didn’t do anything to provoke it, my dress could not attract anyone, well, that is what I thought. Before I could have time to think about it, my skirt was off, my blouse was travelling fast out through my head. I, like an obedient child lifted my hands for the smooth removal. My nipples stood at attention in my see through brazier, my veins told me I needed the man more than he needed me. 

“Part your legs”

I obeyed and put one leg on the table close by, it was then I realized I was without panties. Atsuvi went in between my thighs, sucked the dripping juices out of my vagina until I shook like an epileptic. He fingered me after, moaning with pleasure. He bended me over and entered without warning. Gosh! It was a big one judging by the way it kept swelling within me. I enjoyed it until I realized it was taking him too long to ejaculate. I had turned three times, doggied twice, sideways twice in close to an hour, yet he went on stroking and stroking. His penetrations becoming my pain. To think that even most of those who paid to have me as their prostitutes never used me as he did, filled me with anger. I pushed him off me, cleaned his dick with my panties, played with his tip in between my teeth, and put my middle finger into his anus. Just before I could count to ten, he shouted loudly and came all over the place and on me. Before we could recover, three officers entered the room, saw us and quickly, arrested Atsuvi. 

They were officers of higher rank than Atsuvi. Atsuvi, had apparently,  just returned from a three months suspension for sleeping with someone in exchange for a free pass. He kept pleading, saying I was skilled at sex so they should test me. True to his words, the three officers pushed me into a shower I had not known existed at the far right corner of the room, brought me out and started working on me. One sucked my breast, the other fingered my already sore vagina, the other planted kisses on my back. I tried to accommodate them but it wasn’t easy. One lied down and placed me on his manhood as the one on my breast went to stand behind me. The one who fingered me, held my breasts as I controlled the stroking on top of the annoying man who lay like a log with his short but huge stick hard and needy. What unnerved me was a sharp pain in my anus. I realized then that the one at my back had forcefully penetrated my anus. I cried out, made to get up but was held down by the one who was on my breast as the back stander pounded my rear without mercy. I felt sad and terrible all at once. With all my experience in prostitution, I had never had anal sex ever. To think that back virginity was broken because I was trying to do something good was beyond me. I cried and cried until many officers flooded the room. The hands that tried to close my mouth achieved nothing. The officers, obviously of lower ranks stood stupified, not knowing what to do or how to approach their supervisors. A shout sent all of them back. I collapsed from exhaustion. 

I woke up on a hospital bed at the Korlebu Hospital. I had stitches in my anus because I heard it was nearly destroyed by the anal sex. Aunt Aba apologised to me and asked that I made no case out of it. To her, my things were not charged at all and she had sent all of them to Kumasi. She had also sent for Ms. Barwuah to come and take care of me. I just asked for my phone, called Mimi and asked her politely to take her leave. After, I called Ms. Barwuah and asked her not to bother as Mimi was on her way. When Mimi arrived, she just cried at how lean I had become in just three days. I told her everything and she felt so sorry for me.

“You need to stick to our prostitution Bee. No matter where you go, men use sex to define every woman, they use sex to push us up or down, they use sex to determine our fate, they use sex to humiliate us, they define us with sex Bee, and claim sex is a man’s win. So why can’t we manipulate it to become their loss? It is good you are realizing that it is better to give it up for a fee than to give it up for free. You need to go through hell to sell those fabrics but you have paid dearly for it. Sorry darling”.

It dawned on me that she was right. I was born because of sex, I left home because of sex, I had felt immensely happy because of sex and all the pain I had felt were because of sex. I just wished there was an earth without sex, but then wondered what could be the force of conflict which would pivot the interest of living. 

I didn’t know what I felt towards Ntwanu. I knew he was not to blame for my plight but could not pick his calls for reasons I could not explain. I avoided him until he surfaced a week later at the hospital. I just told him I was molested by an officer without telling him details. He apologized and asked me to stay home, promising to take care of all my needs. I knew he had the capacity to, but just didn’t know if I would feel okay depending on a man whom I had not even thought of marrying.  I loved him but just felt odd thinking about his suggestions. I smiled at him and allowed him to hold my hands until the doctor discharged me that very day. Ntwanu had a way to make me melt. He just starred at me like I was the only thing worthy of note in the whole wide world. For a moment, I forgot all that I had been through on our way back. I just basked in his looks and enjoyed his adoration from Accra to Kumasi hoping the days ahead held better living for me.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics


When chains police beings

In hollow caves of innocence

At the audience of  culprits

Who like sheep giggle with eyes of a lionesses

Fate sits on a slate of unfairness!


Sounds of feet with rifles!

Sounds of breaths with struggles!

Sounds of deaths which plant fear

Watered by self mourning!

Sounds of freedom of the lucky

Fertilised by covetousness!

Fate, why sit on a slate of unfairness?


You are a king of your domain

You are the captain of your ship on a sea of life!

Why can’t you navigate truth from mouths of lies

Into ears of justice?

Why can’t you order conscience to sun bathe

In the full glare of the populace

To cut loose the shackles of victimization?

Why can’t you defend the poor defenceless

In your fearful court?

Why can’t you?

Why can’t you?

Why sit on a slate of unfairness planing the credibility of great personalities

And painting them with guilt

At the full glare of unforgettable eyes?

Ah! Why sit on an unfair slate? Oh fate!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 23, 2017 

Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 11

Trouble comes not without a panic hint. But humans have flappy ears in those times, chastising their minds for being drama dolls. After beating myself for what I did as a vocation, I resolved to embrace it permanently after coming to the conclusion that sex is the best currency of the world. There are some who owe it as duty to others, some who gift it in expectation of things, some who sell it for higher returns, some who use it in bidding, some who search endlessly for it and some who just live for it. “There is nothing wrong if I live to sell it and live for it at the same time” I thought.

The order came in to Mimi’s agency: The Cortar, which at face value was a pub and run our business at night. I was made a partner because I invested a lot of money in there. Three girls were needed to entertain three men in Hotel Penusky, a four star hotel, for a sum of 5000 cedis each for the night. The agency was paid ten thousand dollars just for the booking. Somehow, I wanted the money but felt weird about the whole thing. I told Mimi and Shai but they asked me to replace the pessimism with optimistic vibes. They would be damned to let that kind of money go into the pocket of the new recruits, most of whom I was not familiar with. So we set off with all our accoutrements. 

We were to stand at a coded location and be picked to Penusky. I didn’t know why because we could have gone in my car. A blue black limousine in fair shape picked us up but that is all we remember of the ride. We woke up tied with red bands on poles in a dark room as naked as the day we were born and as tired as punchbags of “wannabe boxers”.  Shai was the first to speak in the complete darkness, then Mimi murmured that she was also there. I chuckled and they both told me it would be better if the “I told you so” was aborted in the stomach of my mouth. I kept quiet and started thinking. 

For more than three hours, we were in that awkward position waiting for whatever monster hiding to come and devour us. Mimi kept telling us to be calm and that she was going to handle it. How? I did not know. The light came on immediately with no presence prior, blinding us. In came three strong men with pieces of cloths around their waist, beads with funny looking inscriptions on their arms, fresh leaves in between their lips, holding metal bowls with knives and humming some form of incantations. Thoughts of Ken flooded through my mind and drove me crazy. I was relieved there was no sign of a dog but was negatively curious as to the type of trouble that awaited.

Shai cried out and we saw all three men shivering as they looked at her. Blood was dripping from her to the cemented floor. We all realized she had premature menstration due to fear. The men rushed out and in few milliseconds, a tall looking man came for her and took her away amidst protests from all of us. I was horrified thinking about all the possibilities of cruelty that could befall her. After what seemed like a year in an hour, the same men came in again, this time, with a new girl who was as terrified as we were. They cut her forehead, chanted, pierced her ribs, placed one of the bowls beneath her so her blood could drip into, danced around her like a ritual movie gone bad and giggled in bass intermittently. After their sixth rounds, they bowed, chanted, got up and started cutting the poor girl into pieces right before our eyes. 

I was horrified but Mimi was signalling me to be calm although I thought there was nothing she could do. I thought of how Ntwanu would never know where I went, how he would never find my body, how my parents would never know how I died and the anguish that rose from my chest could blast the whole of China. The men paused after cutting the hands, legs, thighs and left breast of the poor young lady. I felt sad for the pretty girl who had been reduced to a piece of cow meat tied in self mourning. They shared her breast and started chewing in the raw. I was beside myself with grief. The girl was such a pretty girl. Fair, tall with dreamy eyes and full lips. A girl who could pass for an actress, a model or even a great consultant. This time, I saw no escape. They had taken the phone I hid on my body, and everything after we had woken up. So I know Guru would realised there was something wrong but won’t know where to look for me. Definitely, the place was far from Penusky. I didn’t know what to think. Black magic? Spiritual baths with human blood, rituals which called for blood of beautiful women? Powerful men in more power quest? I had not given those things a serious thought. I remember Mimi telling me once about it being one of the things to look out for in our field. She stressed on self protection after telling me about a girl whose vagina was severed along with her tongue and breasts after a contract like ours. The only thing her agency used in identifying her was her bracelet which fortunately was a unique one made by her boyfriend and a tattoo on her back.

They went straight to Mimi after the other lady was peeled to her bones. This time, they untied Mimi, the head of the trio inserted his fingers into her vagina, licked it, nodded, then the others held her down, propped her up and opened her woman hole for the head to penetrate. Hardly had the cloth made way for his manhood when surprisingly, Mimi started chanting and they started acting funny. Her voice kept rising and rising and they kept spinning and spinning. Then, they started shouting. Within some seconds, three strong tall men came into the room, were instructed to untie her and take her out but Mimi would not stop and the guards could not go near her. They too were spinning around like mad men. Then she suddenly stopped, ordered the only person who looked like he could stand to untie me, he did. As soon as my feet touched the floor, she started chanting again. Like a careful leopard, she advanced towards me, massaged the legs of the stupefied and horrified me in her chanting. She paused for a while and asked them where they had kept Shai, one got up and led the way spinning throughout and shouting. I followed like a sheep. I don’t know if it was out of fear or surprise.

I just couldn’t find the correlation between the power Mimi was exhibiting and her nature. Shai had been tied to a tree in the forest. We realised we were sent to a thick forest. The guy handed back to us our possessions, Mimi made him order the driver to take us back and we pushed him into the back seat to make sure it was safe. It wasn’t. He fell asleep almost immediately. So we all forced ourselves into the front as the driver, shockingly drove us back.

Apparently, we were somewhere in the Western Region. They had taken us farther than we thought. It took us six hours to reach Kumasi via the driver. I could not stop nagging through my painful tears. Shai kept chanting verses from the Qur’an and Mimi kept ordering the driver who surprisingly had a sweet temperament. We got down at the Suame Roundabout around 8pm. My legs failed to heed to my orders to stand so I sat there. Mimi called a taxi and scooped me in with the help of Shai. I did not know then if the fear I felt was due to the men and their activities or how Mimi handled them. 

When we reached home, Guru and Ntwanu were in the hall, making calls after calls. Guru’s face was so swollen like a loser of a boxer. Ntwanu embraced me and cried out:

“I thought I had lost you! I… I… I… thought I had lost you! Why didn’t you listen to me? Why did you break your promise of never going back into prostitution? Why? Why?”

He hugged me tightly and cried, most of the agency girls who were around teared up seeing the big and cruel looking man hug me tightly as he wept. I felt so bad but so relieved. We realized we had been gone for three days. When they asked us where we had been, Mimi casually said, lost in some bushes because of some chaos. I just nodded as Shai, like an agama lizard followed suit. I rushed under a hot shower after Ntwanu released me from his grips. As for Guru’s face, I heard it was a punishment from my man to him for condoning in connivance with me to lie to him. Never seen him violent, Ntwanu. Imagining him in a pain inflicting fight tired my brain, I was just glad he was there to silently rock me through the night, without needy touching, without unnecessary reprimands, without accusatory charges, in total silence while I kept thinking about the number of ladies who had died in that horrible place. My stomach churned all through the night in terror. Society, I felt, was the cruelest and unfathomable existence of mankind.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics


Let the hen dance in the midst of hawks
To the appeal of the vast sky

Its bones would never fail to lie naked

Before their beaks

So sometimes, it’s best to do nothing

Let the snail run as fast as the rabbit of its fantasy

In the angry survival of the hippopotamus

It sure would taste feet to its death

And lose itself in a mud coffin

If rains seek asylum from the sky

There and then

Sometimes, it’s best to do nothing

A mad hungry dog hears no excuse

Of a sick cock

Neither does a vulture know an impoverished corpse

Sometimes actions wake threats and hurts

So I dare say

It is sometimes best, to do nothing

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 20, 2017


Many a pain holds no stamp on bodies

Many a pain stems from sight and hearing

Many a pain give no pleasure gain

So place no insensitivity on this anger

This anger you feel towards you


Every pain in your being plants my insanity

Every stain on your life

My very frustration

Watching death drag and taunt

Dangling your being like a thing

In dreams of a grave

Is no pleasure trip

So pardon if my temperamental trips


No heart that loves feels no perplexity

At the hurt of a target

There is a reason the hen shields its chicks

At the sound of a hawk

Love binds in happiness and sorrow

So even at your low, do know

This hard looking me feels every fibre in your body

And its unpleasant vibes

Just like an electrocution burning the wires of its veins

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 20, 2017

ESCAPE FROM HARARE by Hon. Prof. Kwesi Yankah

Harare, Zimbabwe. Driving through any city is a joy, particularly if you are not the driver. That way you transfer unto the driver all your high blood pressure, and relax to observe in good detail the ridges and valleys, and the contours of all you survey: passers-by with mini bags tucked in armpits; neatly dressed men who forgot to comb their hair; rickety combis, the local version of trotro, abruptly stopping without warning; and teenage girls in ‘abbreviated’ blouses, virtually floating on foot.

But while in Southern Africa, watch out and make sure you don’t take over the driver’s seat, if you are not the driver. If you did, you would betray your West African origins; for not all countries joined Ghana in changing from right hand to left hand drive several years ago; and not all countries drive on the right side of the road as we do here.
In that sense, Zimbabwe is left-handed. Indeed you would instinctively feel there was something wrong with the country. Vehicles moving on the wrong side of the road; pedestrians looking at the wrong side before crossing; and the driver using the wrong hand to change gears? Life indeed looked odd.
But going to Harare I had also done something odd. I mistakenly took along several new Ghana cedi notes, which kept interfering anytime I reached for other currencies. But I later realized how useless these were, when I left a bundle in front of my dressing mirror at the Hotel, and returned in the evening to find it intact. Not stolen? I later realized my folly when I read from across the mirror, a message boldly inscribed on a card, and meant for careless clients like me: ‘And lead us not into temptations.’ But the room service boys were not tempted. They were either angels, or were simply uninterested in strange currencies. Their interest was probably in the Zimbabwean dollar.
The value of the Zim dollar paralyzed me when I was browsing through the room service menu card, looking for a familiar meal to gobble. I realized there was something wrong with the price list and nearly called the front desk to complain. Were the figures right, was this a typographical error? A small bread or drink was going to cost me 50,000 dollars? I looked again adjusting my glasses this time. But like any wise ‘Ghanaman’, I decided to visit my chop box that afternoon.
That evening, a colleague and I zoomed off to see Harare by night. Not much to see that evening since most parts of the city were in darkness. We went to a sprawling pub, which doubles as a cricket stadium, and walked out on realizing there was no seating space since a game just ended, and spectators were celebrating with booze. We shifted venue and sat for two hours at another location, chatting. It was there that the reality began dawning. I had taken a small local beer, while my two colleagues went for a bottle of wine. And what was the bill? I heard the bar tender whisper in my colleague’s ear, and in the next minute I saw my host counting a thick wad of notes to pay the bill.
“What did my beer cost,” I asked, anxious to know how much inconvenience I was inflicting. My host smiled, and reluctantly confessed how much he had spent on me. “Your beer was not that bad, it cost three hundred thousand dollars!” I jumped! “You don’t mean it,” I was incredulous.
“That’s normal; and the wine Yaw and I drank cost about two million dollars.” Wheeeew!!!
My head started aching from the breaking news.
“And by the way, what is the official exchange rate to the American dollar.” I quizzed.

“Nobody talks about that; it does not exist; but if you have one US dollar, you may get about two hundred and fifty thousand Zim dollars.”
Next day. We drove to a few shops to browse stuff on sale. Here and there, we were greeted with long queues without end and getting longer and longer. Looking at the front of the queue, it was hard to tell what was on sale, but the story later unfolded, and sounded like Ghana in Acheampong’s seventies, where it was advisable to join any queue forming before checking what it was about. Where Ghana would queue for milk and sugar courtesy Kutu Acheampong, Zimbabwe’s meandering queues I saw were for bread, a scarce commodity.
“Bread will come anytime from now, and some of them started the queue about three hours ago.” I was told.
But come with me to the supermarket, which had lost all its ‘superiority.’ If you need an after-shave in the poor man’s market, be ready with two hundred and twenty thousand dollars. If you need bran flakes get ready with seven hundred and seventy-seven thousand dollars. If you yearn for a box of honey flakes for breakfast, look for about one million five hundred thousand dollars! But please check your passion for Black Label Whisky if you are into sampling hard liquor. You need twelve million dollars at Bon Marche, the shop I visited in Borrowdale Brooke suburb.
But the situation with cash loads you needed to carry was better, I was told. Only last year, Zimbabwe did a redenomination exercise, knocking off three zeros from their currency, hoping the value would be the same! And at the time I visited four weeks ago, the Government had issued a fiat that prices of all commodities should be slashed by 50%; and notices had been displayed in stores: “Prices reduced in accordance with Government directives.” The outcome, which meant lesser money to carry, was what I witnessed.
And how busy were shelves in shops? The Bata shoe shop was virtually empty. Other super markets? Several yards of empty shelves; a cake of soap here and there; and about ten yards of void. In one store I visited at Borrowdale Brooke, I could have measured 30 yards of emptiness in one row, broken by two or three feet of cosmetics. It was as if an armed robber had visited the night before, and decided on selective looting, leaving a handful of items for charity.
Hardest hit among scarce items was meat. All private abattoirs had closed except one, I was told.
But shop owners are clever. They close two or three hours earlier than schedule, to avoid completely empty shelves, which could attract a charge of sabotage. Additionally, shops had complied with Government directives, and put up appropriate notices: “Not more than two per customer on all commodities.” Rationing is the word.
But where is the original Zimbabwean currency? The Zim dollar only exists in name. What are in normal circulation are bearer cheques, not the original Zim dollar which is extinct. If it existed, you would probably need a wheelbarrow to carry cash for shopping. The bearer cheques are in dollar denominations of 5,000; 10,000; 50,000; 100,000; and 200,000. On these cheques is an expiry date of 31st July 2007. But had they really expired? No, at the end of August when I visited, the bearer cheques still freely and legally circulated.
Well, after that stunning adventure we all agreed we had earned a good lunch meal. We sped on the Harare-Bulawayo stretch, but turned off and went to the city center, driving past the Rainbow Hotel, the Harare International Conference center, and Robert Mugabe’s ZANU PF party headquarters: a huge 13 floor sky scraper which puts to shame all party headquarters in Ghana. The ZANU PF, after Osagyefo’s CPP has the cock as its symbol.
It had indeed been a long, tiring day. I could tell from my aching limbs, and trembling intestines. We drove to a nearby restaurant and ate to our fill. It was a fairly cheap meal, according to my good friend.
The cost of three plates of a restaurant meal was reasonable: only two million Zimbabwe dollars!
I hurriedly brushed my teeth the next morning and rushed to the airport. Then wisely joined the nearest available plane, and escaped to Ghana!

First published in August 2007

Source: Hon. Prof. Kwesi Yankah


Chant me into dispossession

Ye who held my navel

And crossed to the shores of earth

As my voodoo watched your fragile steps

With no evil stone cast

Chant me into dispossession

Ye who fed through the clays of my pot

In the dirty dust you now so abhor

Deliver me from the spirit of my ancestors

And baptize into the ways of alienation

But remember this eraser might leave no trace

When your uniqueness calls tunes of your intrusion

Chant me into dispossession

Ye who was healed by the leaves of this land

When the heels of death chased your infancy like a hyena

Weed all the fetishes and cast out your blackness

Into a bleach of civilization

I am sorry to have been the curse which birthed your existence

Chant me into dispossession

For I see the me in you screaming at the lashes of your rejection

And the hurt of your hate eroding the very soil that did you plant

I am only sad that plants can’t do without their roots

Still, chant me into dispossession

Chant me into dispossession

I am a filthy animal with a crude tail

You are as white as the dark with a soul as black as snow

So chant me

Do chant me child!

Chant me!

Chant me into your suitable possession!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 18, 2017

Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 10


I have seen many a moon

Wrestling suns as I acted their baboon

I have craved for many a dark cocoon

But here I watch the sun and swoon

As it sings “didn’t I tell you it will be soon?”

Yes you did, and it is not even my life’s noon”
Ms. Barwuah was not only impressed after reading my poem, she was happy for me. Obviously love was written all over me. If anyone had told me I would find love in a wicked looking, tall and well muscled black as ebony man, I would have sworn on my life it would never happen. But there I was, with butterflies and bubbles playing tickles in my stomach just at the thought of Ntwanu. He called more than three times everyday. Saw me at least in every two days. I thought of marrying him, having multiple children and living happily ever after until Mimi asked me to wake from my fantasies.

Mimi had never liked my association with the trio who were cultists and armed robbers with the worst and most fearful gang in Kumasi, according to rumours.

“No matter how much you love him, know you have no future with that armed robber. The earlier you start working, the better for you. No matter how much you have in your account now, sitting at home and daydreaming about an advanced thief and cold blooded murderer will deplete your account. A word is enough for the wise”

As much as I hated Mimi for pointing out the obvious, as much as I failed to apologize for the slap I gave her for stating the only thing I did not want to acknowledge, I had to agree with her after thinking deeply about it. There is no great future for children between prostitutes and robbers. I knew I did not want that life for any child of mine. So I decided to go to work a week and two days after my lovely holidays with Ntwanu. I felt bad considering his pleas for me to stop prostitution. He even asked me to marry him but I politely declined and promised to think about it in future. I was sixteen and had seen too much to make any hasty decisions. What I felt for Ntwanu scared me but I was not ready to let go.

I called Guru to tell him about my plans and told him not to tell Ntwanu. We thrashed our differences. He was angry that I had exchanged him for Ntwanu but told me he begged him to let him come into my life. His problem was that I accepted. We settled on he still protecting me as we maintained a civil relationship. So I went to work.

My client for that evening was a depressed man. He looked like he wanted to cry. I sat opposite him in his huge hall and tried to cheer him up.

“I have been in serious problems for sometime now but the sky is clearing. I may not know what you are going through but do pull yourself together. Your friends contracted me to be with you for a reason”

“I don’t want anything. Just leave” was his only answer.

I did not leave. I went to his kitchen, boiled some water, poured it into a bucket and with my additional towel, called him authoritatively to the bed. He was taken by utter surprise. I massaged him roughly, then gently. After the water went cold, I used his shea butter to smear him from his bald pate to his soles and gently massaged him with my fingers. When I got to his crotch, I gave it a proper palm to skin massage, he came without intending to and felt very shy. I laughed it off, kissed his crotch and proceeded to sit on it when it woke up again. All the while, I continued to massage him as I rode him like a needy horse.

By the time I was through with him, he had warmed up to me.

“They all died in an accident. They all died!”

He broke down. This time, I listened without any form of interruptions.

“I was always busy with work acquiring all these things. My wife complained but I did not mind her. I did not do anything she wanted. All she wanted was time with me. Quality time. She also wanted me to enhance my penis a little but I did not mind her. I learnt my lesson when I met her with our neighbour’s twenty four year old son in bed. I felt small. I felt little. A powerful man like me felt like an ant. I left home for a while to think things through, came back four days later to find a letter on the centre table.”

He paused to cry for a while.

“The gateman told me they had left few minutes before I came in. The letter asked for a divorce and a fair child support for our three children. She was never a materialistic woman. Barely ten minutes had passed when I got a call that they had been involved in an accident. When I reached the scene, they had all died. Grinded into paste in a blood mess by an articulator truck on the Tema Highway. I don’t know how I have been living since then. It’s been two years! Two whole years young lady.”

I understood his pain then. How do you comfort a 54 year old man who had lost his entire family in a ghastly motor accident on the ticket of marital problems which stirred from wife neglect? I went to stand behind him and massaged him from shoulders down. All the while singing:

“When peace like a river

Attended my way

When sorrows like seas billows roll

Whatever my Lord

You have taught me to say

It is well, it is well, with my soul”

His tears subsided so I sat beside him. He coiled himself like a short millipede and laid his head on my laps. I left when he fell asleep because his friends had paid me beforehand.

The next morning, he called to thank me and invited me to lunch. He took me out and bought me a car. A brand new saloon Toyota Camry. I tried to decline but he would not take no for an answer. He said I gave him back his life. I gave him hope for tomorrow. I gave him the needed peace, I woke him from the sleep of living dead. That night I slept like a baby, feeling glad that I could, through prostitution touch a life in the positive. Of course, everyday is a unique day and comes with its varied surprises.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 2017.

Photo Credit: Google Pics


When the same breast nurses many mouths 
From stomachs of greed and or promises

Milk evaporates and calls for the blood of the mother

Showcasing paleness of her body

Awo Yaa!

May this portion of yours change for the better!


This building which has seen the palms of many masons

And still suffers from foundational weakness

Due to stolen cement

Unbought stones

Unpurchased water

Which are all buried in the belly of pockets

Housing blood of the land

Is to be pitied

Awo Yaa!

May this portion of yours change for the better!


This vehicle whose driver and mate

Dwell on the monies of passengers

But do no servicing

Even as it creaks in painful destruction by the day

Rebelling here in concerns

There in embarrassment

Needs a different story

Before it breaks what it protects

Awo Yaa!

May this portion of yours change for the better!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © November 16, 2017


Videos keep playing

Where you shyly, with roses

In sweat, called Holy Moses 

In proposing


How a perfect vehicle

Zoomed into a thorny bush

And saw itself in an empty desert

Has opened my sky of tears


The video of you playing horse

In the shore of peace

Me, playing sheep

In the shores of settlement

Begs to be born

But alas! Time’s driver refuses to reverse


From electrifying kisses

To enemy hisses

Touching Blisses

To sad misses

Painful disses

Which threw in the hard pisses

I wish it all did rhyme


Where the road is long

And pair needs to share

Do come back

I sure will be the smile

Which will go the mile

And the knot which will end the flow of chaos


These sheets have placed me

And the phantom you in a court of blame

It so does me shame

And I wish you could see

Do come back if lateness is not the arms of another

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © November 16, 2017

Photo Credit: Google pics

Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 9

We were like Siamese twins from then on. I couldn’t care less about Shai’s mild sexually transmitted disease which was scaring the boldness out of her. Neither did Mimi’s political sexing for power and recruitment for a prostitution powerhouse interest me. Ntwanu took me to many beautiful places. We went to the Koklobite Beach in Accra where we could barely keep our hands off each other. We went to the National Theatre to watch movies. Although he was a man of few words, I enjoyed his quiet presence. He held my hands and thanks to the good air condition, sweat was not a problem. He, every now and then turned to look at me, peck my forehead or cheek, and laughed with me when a scene was funny. We also shopped at the Cultural Centre and proceeded to Cape Coast, from the Walkway to the Elmina Castle. He chose to do everything for me. He fed me, bathed me, selected my clothes (such good taste), styled my hair, made me up and always dressed up like a king, my king. Even I liked my transformation in the mirror. He got a classy hotel in every city we visited and we made love; sweet passionate love, quickies which were sweet like timely snacks and when I wanted it rough, words are not enough to describe it. It was the first time I was fingered and loved it. Ntwanu’s well trimmed fingernails, his neat hands went down on me as his mouth occupied my breasts driving me into senselessness. I orgasmed without lifting a finger. It was as though his fingers opened a tap of my cum and left it on for a long time. I could have been mistaken for a epileptic judging by my long jerking, squirting and loud noise. I couldn’t believe I had lived to see me so beautiful and complete in the presence of another human being. I was even beautiful in the mirrors of his eyes.

I was very shocked that a soul as cool, classy, emphatic like that was into a cruel business like armed robbery. So I asked him. He was quiet for a while. That silence led me to tell him not to tell me if it was difficult for him to. But he shocked me by taking me into his arms, kissing me and putting my head on his chest to begin the story.

“Ever heard of the Honourable Armah Ocloo?” He asked

“Yes. Was he not the Minister of Justice eight years ago? I think I was familiar with him through the news. I think he was assassinated by some unknown men”

“He was my father” He blurted out.


I asked without intending to and apologized for it.

“Don’t apologize, just keep quiet and listen. I can’t tell you everything but I will tell you all I can. I was his only bastard son. He deceived my mother into believing he was single although he was married. My poor mother became pregnant only for him to give her money for an abortion. You know how scary abortion was at the time. So she kept the money for trade and gave birth to me. I grew up hearing nice things about my father from mum but the small village’s mouth was oozing such horrible things about him.

My mother always told me to desist from gossips and I did. When I was seven years old, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. The whole Monkorono Village started shunning our company. Even my teachers asked me not to come to school again. They sacked me. Their reason, my mother was sick because she had wronged the gods and any association could be deadly. The other children told me that. To them, such sicknesses could only be punishment from the gods. The painful part, my mother’s relatives were leading the cause.

While some claimed she was a witch, others claimed the woman whose husband she stole was responsible for her plight. Even market women refused to sell us their produce and none bought anything from my mum. So we relocated to Asaaba, where nobody knew us. I sold many things, became an errand boy just to feed us and tried to buy some of her medicines but nothing worked. So she held my hands and with her little energy left, sent me to the residence of my father.

I was shocked upon seeing where and how he lived as we languished in poverty. I don’t know if I felt anger or rage. What annoyed me was my father’s insistence that I would ruin his political chances so my mother should take money and send me to wherever she pleased. Maame Asaa Esiano did not say anything to him. I was only ten years old, she shouted for his wife and told her if they sent her with her son, she would go straight to the media. That got their attention. So without heeding to my pleas for her not to leave me behind, she left.

My stepmother did not treat me badly per se. She only avoided me. She bought clothes for me, gave me weekly allowances through my driver, fed me through the maids but never so much as uttered a word to me. My father too was never home. I was enrolled into one of the best schools in Accra but was very lonely. Only my driver seemed to cheer me up. Home was prison. I hated my mother for leaving me there but was so worried about her, that I begged Ibrahim, my driver, to take me to her one Saturday. He, being the ever lovable man he was, lied about taking me to a park and took me to Asaaba. 

Our neighbours wept on seeing me. They told me how my mum died for over four days before they detected. When they saw her, she was so bloated, the men in the area had to bury her that day. Since they did not know where I was, and did not know any of our relatives, they did what they could to send her off. Ibrahim was very angry as to why they told me about what had happened in plain terms. From what I was told, she died just after returning from my father’s place. I went into the room and found many letters addressed to me. Letters telling me to be a good boy and try to grow into a responsible adult for her. Letters telling me about her love for me. How I was the only good thing God blessed her with. 

I did not eat for days and as such fell ill. I was sent to the Achimota Hospital where I spent more than three months on admission. The doctors finally told my father I was suffering from some sort of emotional stress. That was the first time he showed me some form of love. He stopped all his engagements and came to be with me for three weeks. Because I did not tell him about my mother, he guessed I was being tormented by his wife. Mrs. Agatha Ocloo fought him for having time for only me when he cared less about her girls. My father packed me up and sent me to his younger sister. Aunt Abena Ohewaa was very good to me but my father sent me to the United States to school there. I threw such a fit that he flew Ibrahim and Aunt Ohenewaa there to be with me until I turned 18. Then he forced me into the military.”

I was very close to him while I worked as a soldier but somehow, I ended up leading boys to take care of all his political enemies. Threatening them, assaulting some, even eliminating some. For the eliminations, I never participated but got to know about it later. When I realized what a pawn I was, I decided to leave my father to himself. I was not lucky. He was killed that week. I blamed myself and still do. I did not have time to even grieve, my stepmother and her three girls fought me, sent thugs after my life because my father willed everything he owned to me. Only things he left for them were the house they lived in and a fixed bank account for each of them. 

My boys kept me alive. I don’t know how we got here, but I assure you, we do not kill unless it is completely necessary. And we only attack the greedy. Truth be told, Guru leads that, I kind of help with the planning.”

I felt pity for my man. Lots of love but pity. “So what happened to your work as a soldier?”

My question got an unusual answer. He kissed me so passionately that I forgot about it. But I pushed him onto the bed, undressed him and sucked him into tears. He begged me to stop but I didn’t. I sucked his manhood hoping to suck out every pain, every torture, every blame, everything whipping his conscience from his body. I realized I wasn’t disgusted by his sperms. I gulped them down as they came in. By the time I finished, he was weeping, I looked into his eyes, took his head onto my laps and told him “love, you did nothing wrong. You are an angel placed in a bad situation by fate. Please let everything go so we can be happy”.

We both ended up weeping in the arms of each other for over an hour, and slept in the pool of our tears, glad we found each other, hoping the moment would last.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © November 2017.

Photo Credit: Google pics


Dust for powdered pepper

Or powdered pepper for dust?

Which blows now with the air of Mugabe

In the Zim Nation?

I see chicken to hawk, hawk to eagle

In a devilish transition


Destruction sure needs some action

From any faction with an apt reaction

But the leg of time shortens celebration

And or “frownation”

For already made shoes of fame

No matter how tattered presents a choice of ease

Deleting zeal and placing seals on power

Sometimes in the worst forms

Oh careful!

You might be running from a worm to a cobra!


Political eyes are pious only in opposition

Greed stamps most signatures in the highest seats in all lands

Great tongues of sages are caged by enmity

We are in an act of jubilation

Probably from the land of the Pharisees 

Hoping to get to Israel without thoughts of hardships

Reckless risks rip ripe ribs

Throwing chances into hide and seek gutters

Let ears with wise holes sip the wisdom from this scribe

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©November 15, 2017


Since age knocked its understanding tag

In my infantile brain

I was given a telescope

Whose only visions were of the past

A telescope which killed the zeal of laughter

Planting in its stead a vile rage for revenge

Watered by society’s hails at my target

And its many chains of laws for my kind


Like a bull with a target

I charged at a decade and eight

Towards a fine breed of its demigods

Pouring all the gold of my ancestry at his feet

And disrespectfully asking that he worked his waist

Into my pleasure into my treasure

At my leisure


His teeth showed a blessed awakening

And like a goat, he held my coat of cloth

The dark little hut which stood in the compound of many

Promised me no privacy

The bed’s posture whispered a higher creaking

A pound and another and another and another

My resolution, no tears, no show of pain

Until he lost his all and started to call to be saved

I envisaged his shame!


An hour and a half

My energy grazed out

My field had turned muddy

My little opening had been manholed

His screams for my well being pushed the listeners in

What they saw brought in society’s law

Burying me in the shoes of my wronged ancestry

With the antonym of a gigolo

Planting trees always loses to waterers, I guess

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © November 14, 2017

Photo Credit: Google pics.


Day has broken from the clutches of darkness

Aiding eyes, like a pathfinder

To see all in clarity

If breath stands at post

And health is on wealth’s coast

I say “anyame mu Nyame”

Nhyira nka wo din!


I can see hens leading their chicks

And cocks looking for stocks

Through the warning of wings

The insults of crows

Through the biting of beaks

And the uprooting of feathers

Through a run and a chase

Life sure says a lot about onlookers

“Ɔsoro soro Nyame, nhyira nka wo din!”


Let minds in mine know the miracles of thinking

Let hands in mine know the blessing in working

Let tongues in mine know the worth of silence

Let legs in mine know the advantages of walking

And let all stomachs in mine

Know the importance of selectiveness

Life is life because strive is rife

“Omintinmirim Nyame, nhyira nka wo din”

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 13th Nov. 2017

(To all non speakers of Akan, the quoted versions mean “thanks be to God”)


Let mouths allow eyes to roll

Instead of calling sounds in heels

To defile lung’s peaceful siesta

What is “ayoo” today

Might have been “bue!” yesterday

But will be “ahaaa!” tomorrow

Harvesting ovations on all stages

New things raise brows

Coming with scares which snake into veins like poison

But when they simmer

Minds embrace their enticings

And mate their presence even into obsession

Abomination today, fascination tomorrow

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 9, 2017


There is a volcano of needs

Needs which fill not the belly of satisfaction

Instead dig bottomless needs 

Which gobble time needed to look

Look to love

Love to smile

Smile to laugh

Laugh to live

Live to write memories on our beloveds’ minds

Spank our senses

Lest we forget our paths

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 7th November, 2017



Carry burdens like abused porters

Forgetting the immobile end

Which for few moments trends

Only to turn garnish on memories of the past


Cloud our emotions to rain our eyes to drain

Forgetting life’s refrain is transiency

Gathering rubbish which may outlast our taunting gibberish


Sit with thoughts that over thinking bought

And never seek the peace to keep us at ease

Suffocating on the rope of worry

When immortality is a scary nightmare to our very thoughts


Are our own scare

We are our own scissors

Murdering our seams

Destroying our buttons

Eating our linen into the mouths of hungry graves

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © November 7, 2017


The gate of another day opens

With varied happenings written in the future slate of fate

Like a marathon, we run with enthusiasm

Hoping our baton would reach our target

But if we hurt ourselves

Or have our breaths arrested by tiredness

You who writes it all

Change the script to fit our emotions!

Our tasks stare at us 

Like owls whose eyes have caught an interest

Fixing rays of terror

Which surely feed on our uncertainties

If pores succumb to the dictates of fear

And legs, like that of broken donkeys kneel

Bow to the gods of failure

You who writes it all

Change the script to fit our emotions!

Monsters of the past are on our heels

In slippery then muddy then stony paths

Hoping for our souls as trophies

Our bodies on their plates

If we end up as their game

Poked by their guns and cutlasses of bragging

You who writes it all

Change the script to fit our emotions!

In a sphere of many talents

Where tortoises watch hens fly in jealousy

Forgetting their hard shell

Cocks feel the supremacy of hawks 

As hawks fear the very grounds of eagles

If we get to the abattoir of greed 

Whose sole hunger needs us to feed

You who writes it all

Change the script to fit our emotions!

There is no balm as soothing as your touch

There is no doctor as gifted as you

There sure is no seer better than you

So if we bend in hot coals of our chaos

Roasted by our fallible flaws

You who writes it all

Change the script to fit our emotions!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © November 6, 2017


I bless that day

When a whirlwind swept me from serenity into doom

Only to be rescued by your light

Like a Samaritan Knight from hell’s pot


I bless the day

When words meekly walked with shaking legs

Out from the private street of your tongue

To plead for a table in my heart’s spot

Under an adorable and humble sky


I bless the day

When my heart stretched its hands 

To hold the arms of your love

And saw your perfect smile

Dancing to the rhythm of your heartbeat


I bless the day

When we danced on the moon of flutters

In the land of onehood 

Where each being was neutralised into non existence

As stars of our hearts shone into blending

In a festival of happiness


I bless the day

That day when your tears touched my cheeks

At the wince of my skin

Seeing your suffering at my body’s lashes of illness

I bless

I do bless

Oh I do bless the day

When your path crossed mine

At the junction of love

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 4, 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics

Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 8

Hiding suns peak at the least chance they get. It was because of this wisdom I realized there was something wrong with Guru. After having therapy sessions for good six months, I called him home one night when Mimi and Shai were out. While we watched television, I mustered courage to initiate sex. Guru jumped as though I was a live electric wire or worst, a dreadful witch. This was the man who convinced me to have therapy so I could be free. I hated the thought of therapy because I knew Ghanaians all too well. When one sees you coming from a psychologist’s office, the whole town will hear of your madness even if you are a distant relative of the therapist. Obviously, he thought me unworthy to be touched by him. I was so hurt that I didn’t understand why. He, on the other hand, felt so sorry but did not know what to say.
“It’s best you leave” I managed to say through the hurt and tears. 

Guru did leave with tears trickling down his face. He kept repeating “Ɔdɔ please don’t read unnecessary meaning into this. I don’t know what has come over me”

But how could I not read meanings into it? How could I not analyse it? I didn’t know my mind could concoct such horrid dramas and make itself a stage and be cruel enough to make me carry that theatre without others knowing. I saw myself tied like a real bitch, as Ken’s dog brutally pushed its bastard penis right through me while Guru watched in horror. After watching, swearing never to touch me again. I saw Ntwanu and Massai busily laughing at Guru that he had actually acquired a real bitch. I saw Guru swearing to them he would steer clear of me. I saw myself naked and being slept with by a dog as its owner whipped me and my lover watched on national television. I felt naked, disgustingly naked to the world. That night, sleep was banished by my cruel thoughts, from my room, talk less of blessing my bed.

If I was broken after my ordeal, I became shattered. I refrained from coming out of my room, did not open my door to anyone and stayed in bed crying like a deserted baby. Mimi, would stand and cry in front of my door, call me to at least come for food, tell me she had left food in front of the door but I did not budge. Shai would cry and cry and cry and cry but I was not touched. They took turns to work at night so there could be someone around me at all times. I heard footsteps in front of my room at night but was not moved. They told me about their sexual escapades, about the stingy men, troubled men, cool  and distant men. All the stories depressed me the more.

 After a week, my tears might have run out. Ntwanu was the one who broke into my room, opened all the windows and the door, forced me into the shower, bathed me like his little baby, bullyingly but lovingly fed me and took me to his house after. I was simply like his pupil that day. 

“I can’t let you do this to yourself anymore Bee. I have watched you fall apart, bridge all the storms in that slum.  Where is the girl who took on three men who wanted to rape her? Where is the girl who stubbornly does what her heart tells her? Where is the optimistic girl who makes hearts flutter around her? Where is she Bee? I have loved you since our first encounter but left you for Guru because you preferred him. Please stop destroying yourself.”

“I can’t let you do this to yourself anymore Bee. I have watched you fall apart, bridge all the storms in that slum.  Where is the girl who took on three men who wanted to rape her? Where is the girl who stubbornly does what her heart tells her? Where is the optimistic girl who makes hearts flutter around her? Where is she Bee? I have loved you since our first encounter but left you for Guru because you preferred him. Please stop destroying yourself.”

I looked at the hard looking man I had never taken a proper look at ever, standing in front of me and run to him. He opened his arms and I run into it. I sobbed until our mouths met in a convention of passion. I did get to know how much I missed a man’s touch. He gently held my neck with one hand and tickled my back with another as he passionately kissed me. He broke free, kissed my forehead and planted kisses from my face to the soles of my feet, kisses which germinated goose bumps on my needy skin. How he got me out of the clothes he had put on me in my house, I do not know. I did not know the new feeling of being lovingly loved in sex. If sex is an art, Ntwanu was the perfect artist. I got to know later that sex differed from lovemaking, and that what we had that day was lovemaking and not sex. He carried me into his bed and licked me. Even my clitoris clapped for the tongue which blessed her. Every licking was like an angelic wash, an angelic bathing of my dirty soul. I felt needed, I felt loved, I felt I mattered and most importantly, I felt life flowing into my living corpse. He tickled my soles and I had orgasm after orgasm, a new feeling, an out of the world feeling! Then he came up, massaged my scalp, kissed me more, sucked my breast like the gentleman he was and gave my body more kisses than it deserved. I came over and over again. And when he finally penetrated me, my unladylike vagina turned a precious Lady with a sea of moisture and gave us a swinging dance of a lifetime. I felt praised, I felt worshipped, I felt complete and beautiful. It was a precious moment which fetched a new kind of tears from the depth of my soul, tears of happiness, tears of thankfulness, tears of a new kind of hope, tears he drank from my sore eyes.

When he came, I was completely satisfied. He didn’t rush off or just lay beside me like Guru used to, he took me into his arms for few minutes, got up and cleaned me with one of  his nicely scented handkerchiefs. Once that was done, he wiped himself, took me into his arms again and this time, hummed Kojo Antwi’s “Me ne wo beye” song. Little did I know it would turn up to be such a sweet lullaby which would bring me one of the most peaceful sleeps after months of psychological and emotional torture. I thought about why I never saw this gem, why I always spoke casually to him, why I did not care about his nervousness around me, why I only saw him now. Of course I thought of Guru, why he felt disgusted with me, but deep down, I knew it was a normal feeling, a feeling of a man whose prized pet has been defiled by an animal. Looking around, I realized how organised Ntwanu was. Everything in his room was neatly arranged. He had everything a man needed at that time. His clothes were neatly arranged in his wardrobe, his shoes in perfect places beneath.  I saw class in all his choices and I was very surprised. For the first time, my heart was beating fast, very fast for a man. A man I wanted to know more. Then the song started caressing me from within. This soothing song, this soothing song of a hopeful tomorrow. Tomorrow which will be a blessed day unlike yesterday. The sun would see my face when the curtains of darkness is lifted. Well, I was completely stolen by sleep.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics

Chapter 9 will be posted next Saturday, 18th November, 2017

Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 7

Ken stood tied like a marked cow for Salah Celebrations as I looked at the terror that danced on his dilated and almost popping out pupils. I felt ruthless and his fear made me furious. I hit him few times with the knife and cut him deeper in bits, his groans and pleas digging out satisfaction where fear dwelled. I asked Guru and Massai to beat him into a pulp and they did, Ntwanu, although tough looking, was always a softie so left the scene. I made them tie him upside down and started butchering him from his anus. His fecal matter, washed with beaten water, his shouting, lost in my furious rants. I peeled his penis ever so slowly and shoved the peels in his mouth. Removed his eyes and shoved them into his mouth, forcing him to chew. I don’t know how he died but by the time I was way into his stomach, his shrivels had stopped. Even his death gave me no satisfaction, I dug out his heart and stepped on it. Used the tip of the knife to angrily punch into what little was left of him and cut him down. With my hands and feet, I punched him until I was a mess of his blood. Guru lifted me from him pleading for my sanity. I cried hysterically through it all. 

After a while, it dawned on me that I had killed a person. A person I did not know. I could hear my mother reciting a quote from the ten commandments “Thou shall not kill” over and over again. I could see myself standing trial as hell’s mouth opened in wait for my swallow. I could see Jesus Christ crying for my loss, I could see me dying from guilt, I could see my horrible deed being replayed on giant screens at the gate of hell, I could feel rage battle guilt deep within my soul. I was just a mess, a mess of my guilt with a spice of the world’s cruelty. Instead of being happy, I was miserable! Guru took me in his arms and consoled me. He gave me a bath and rocked me like a fragile baby. He told me all would be alright but deep down, I knew something was dead inside of  me. I knew nothing is bound to come back to nomalcy. I knew, I just knew. It didn’t take long to know that that was the little innocence I had left. As I was being stolen by the whispers of sleep, I thought I heard a voice in familiar voice saying, tomorrow is another day. 

Paapa, Maame, I muttered on my way to a restless sleep in the assuring hands of Guru.

I am a human gutter
One whose mouth welcomes it all

From filthy slimes to horrid shit

Cold heating to hotty cold

Fire may burn me but my ashes slip within

Flood may overtake but my stench stays with me

From abused ears to pounding vaginas

I am, oh I am

I am a filthy human gutter”

I wrote such doomed poems for well over weeks. I hated myself, felt smaller than a chicken after seeing a dog chase one in front of our kiosk. I developed a phobia for dogs and couldn’t stand them. I wanted to go back home, to beg my parents and do their bidding but I reckoned none picks a used dress, shredded it into tatters only to return it to its owner. So I stayed. I remembered my conversation with Ntwanu after he came to visit me. He had taken a suitcase full of dollars from Ken’s place and some other valuables. They had decided to give it all to me so I could get out of the rat hole I lived in.  I became insanely angry with him. How could he ask me to get rich on the ticket of a man I had murdered? How could he suggest that to me? I was a prostitute not a murderer! I blamed Guru, I blamed Massai, I blamed Ntwanu, I blamed everyone. I even blamed Mimi for bringing me to Kumasi. Worst of all, I blamed myself. 

I blamed myself into self hatred. I couldn’t forgive me for not protecting me. I couldn’t forgive me for desecrating my very soul through my carelessness, my disrespectfulness, my defying my parents. I couldn’t forgive me for feeling like a chicken in the belly of a dog. But soon, the self pity turned into callousness and filled me with some greed scratching for a feed. I developed thick skin and decided I had done nothing wrong so would live on the cash of the man who degraded me to less than a chicken’s maimed chick. I called Ntwanu, Guru and Massai.

They were happy I was now myself. I couldn’t come to terms with being touched. I asked them to get me an apartment in a good area. I spoke to Mimi who was more than glad to move in with me. Somehow, there was another lady who had joined us. Her work name was Shai. She had been picked by Mimi after hearing her story in town. She was almost dead and left close to the train rails in Kumasi Central. Mimi picked her up and sent her to the hospital. There were many questions but she ended up well and we were able to bring her in. 

She was caught and forcefully married off to a 68 year old man to pay off the debt of her uncle. Orphaned at birth, her soldier father died before she was born, her mother died right after she was born. She became the slave to the whole household. She hated sleeping with the old man, at 17, she saw no reason to be in the hell so run away to Accra but they searched and found her, tied her up like cargo and placed her in the boot of a rickety commercial vehicle along with goods back to her husband. Shai was lucky the boot was not locked because of the many goods which left some air for her throughout the twelve hour journey to the north.  She was locked up and whipped by her uncle and branded a whore by her husband’s family on reaching “home”. They publicly bathed her with a broom to the delight of many male spectators, made sure they tested her for sexually transmitted diseases before he started sexually molesting her again. When they realized she had had enough, they made her the servant of the house once more. 

Something happened that forced her to plan to vanish from the village. The man went broke and his lazy wives looked upon her to feed the house. She was made to sell groundnuts through hawking to bring the money home. The soles of her feet cracked, she felt tired all the time and they abused her for not getting pregnant. According to them, she was preventing herself from getting pregnant. She could not tell them the man could barely make porridge in her vagina. She took off on one of the days when she went hawking. This time through another village’s vehicle travelling to Kumasi. She decided to sleep alongside the head potters outside the stores at night but was beaten, raped and physically assaulted until she collapsed. It was then that she was found by Mimi whilst many stood watching her like a new interesting movie. According to Mimi, some were cursing her that it was what she deserved, some opined she could have been a thief taught a lesson, some also were of the view that ritualists might have abused her, some were sympathetic but did not want to send her to the hospital for fear of police interrogations and all those judging her, most importantly, knew nothing about her. Ruka Abanga Suari was her original name.

Ruka’s story helped me from my pit of misery. We got an apartment in a very rich neighbourhood. I was shocked at the house Guru and his friends chose for me. A four bedroom apartment with three bath houses, a two bedroom boys quarters with a big library and an even bigger kitchen and hall. I took my learning seriously. I was improving with every single day of learning. Ms. Barwuah had grown to love me like the daughter she never had and I had grown fond of her. Through my poems, she read my mood and gave me the best of advice without judging or criticising. I sometimes felt she knew what I did for a living and disapproved but said nothing about it. The first day of staying in a proper house marked a new beginning. We ate expensive food from a restaurant and drank expensive brandy. Shai would not drink because she was a devout Muslim. I knew she would break that habit but wasn’t one to tell her. We danced to Daddy Lumba’s “Sɛ Wosee” and Kojo Antwi’s “Afrafranto” and slept on the woollen carpeted floor as I too gayly sang in no proper rhythm “Sign of Victory” by R. Kelly, perhaps for the first time in three months, looking forward to what tomorrow would bring.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics

Chapter 8 will be posted on Saturday, 11th Nov. 2017 


Tongues taste to determine

Hands touch to feel

Legs walk with destination marks

And so it is that life does rock


The painful part of mortality

Is losing one whose feet never touched life’s dock

The saddest part of motherhood

Is imagining memories that never hatched

The saddest part of parenting

Is wishing for an age which death did take

Even the no suffering bit

Takes naught from the pain


I give you this

You seeds which never germinated

I give you this

You plants which long for your lost seeds

I give this to you

You age winds for sweeping sadness

Into regretful moments

Bowing at the tombs which received thee fresh from wombs

Surely, you are heavenly spies

Called back on the eve of duty

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 3rd September, 2017


In the heart of truth lies an ocean of despair

Flanked by trees of fear

For the rejection of abnormal normalcy

In a sea of friendship

In the heart of truth stands a tent of loneliness

Where each greedy finger points like a gun

With intentions that can form spiritual bullets

To kill the best turned weird

In the heart of truth lies the court of most

Whose stomachs condone manipulations of hand and mouth

Shielding thunders of consciences

And pushing them onto the unique idiot

In the heart of truth

Everything is war, everything is pain

Everything is uncertainty

Everything can be anything

Yes, in the heart f truth

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © November 2, 2017