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


Legs take crowns to ordered places

To taste the grounds of its worship

Hearts engine dreams

To feel the pulse of success in the end

Tongues channel foods to intestines

To sip a taste from every bite

All the above with pinches of truth

Our elders did us in with some wise sayings

You lick the crown of your teeth no matter how bitter it tastes

Better a good thing at home

So many minds, like rehearsed fingers

Play the tune of mischief

The anthills and griffonia simplicifolia have no need to thank each other

A favourite proverb carved by sages in their peak of wisdom

But the anthills gain the same worth as the griffonia simplicifolias

Now modernity seems to present replays of uncanny comparisons

To anthills and their griffonia simplicifolias


Instead of maintaining moisture to aid their anthills 

In times of drought

They, like moths on living bodies, search for weak spots

To induce death

So they can eat once and for all

Forgetting they are the very essence of their living

Oh, maybe they know near bodies in wait for exploitation

Which winds weaved us into this wickedness?


What are lions who chew their tails in their bid to quench hunger?

What are beings who chew their fingers in their craving for meat?

What are eagles who cut their wings

In their bid to fly higher?

Amazing the brains defecated out of the bowels of greed!

When will wise wits win the war of wicked winning whores?

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 30, 2017

ASHAWO DIARIES (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 6

​“Some days

Some days come with their smiling suns

Some days come with their whipping suns

Some days come

Some days just come

Some days come with clouds in shrouds

Some days come with clouds besides

Some days come

Some days come”

I uncovered my love for poetry after reading from the likes of Shakespeare (though it took forever to understand few words of his work), Maya Angelou, Akosua Busia, and many others. The above was the first poem I wrote. Guru became my abled aide. He was my friend, protector and confidant. He got me the best teacher I could ever wish for. A petite but strong woman who was a teacher, a great teacher! She taught me everything, from the needed Maths to the loving Arts, I think her love for poetry greatly influenced me because of my motherly love towards her. Her name was Ms. Barwuah. It had been  a year in my independent struggle as a woman of the night. I worked at night, slept till noon, met my teacher from three to six every evening except weekends, rested for over four hours and hit the road again. I rested and dined with God on Sundays as usual.

The night existed humbly like a toddler crawling playfully around. I, on the other hand, sat on a table with my mild brandy in hand. Every sip reminding me of home and how my parents would disapprove. This particular night, I missed them for some uncanny reasons. I was fifteen, worked in half payment to my boss, slept with my friend and bodyguard for pleasure and protection and slept with unknown men for a fee. I knew my parents would kill themselves if they knew all these. I felt out of place and thought of going back to base without working.  “I would go back, back to Asuntreso when I was well to do” always ringing in my thoughts. “I would go back, back to Asuntreso with class, I would go back…”

“Hello Miss, care if I join you?”

Well, that jolted me back from my sad and determined thoughts. I looked and saw a white man standing and waiting for my permission. All thoughts of boycotting work that night vanished. I finally have the pleasure of doing a white man for crying out loud. I beckoned him to sit down. After our usual chat, he took me to his house. What seemed like a beautiful apartment in a very remote area. On reaching there, I felt something was not right. The illuminated lights and scary images of nude women, the chilly ambience and thick window curtains that seemed to be hiding some sort of monsters which promised to creep out at the next step, his shinning eyes that seemed so delighted like he has caught an easy prey and the fact that he took my bag, searched frantically through, took out my dummy phone and smashed it on the floor. I excused myself to his bathroom and called Guru (with the real phone which was fastened to my waist beads upon Guru’s suggestion after thief’s made away with my first phone) to give him directions to where I was. I left the phone on in one of his drawers and stepped back into the room after his loud call. 

When I re-entered the room, I was asked at gun point to lead into another room. Fear overwhelmed me. In the room were equipment I had never seen before. Metals hanging, a well laid bed with red and black sheets, red bulb, a huge and scary dog which would not stop barking on seeing us and pictures of women being molested. A particular picture caught my attention, a picture of a woman whose private part was being fucked with a knife by a white hand in a mess of blood. I turned to have a proper look at my client’s hand but he slapped and tied me up, stripped me naked and started whipping me brutally with a metal rod. I felt I had reached my end. Something told me I would not leave that room alive. Every pain harvested by his planting whip in me, a form of bitterness and rage. I killed him ten times over in my head while he whipped me senseless. 

After getting tired of whipping, he opened my legs to have access to my clitoris and bit into the two pleasure junction like a vampire. Then he sucked the blood that oozed to his satisfaction. He then took out a knife (which terrified me to no end) and gave me little cuts around my buttocks, cuts which let out cries of blood from my veins. I did not cry, I did not even whimper. I saw the faces of my parents through the pain and felt I had no right to shed a tear. I looked at him with hatred to his shock as he slapped and booted me, handcuffed and brutally fingered me into fisting. I could have sworn he stirred my intestines like banku at the juncture of porridge and pastehood with his huge fist powered by the stem of his hand. It was the first most brutal thing I had ever seen and felt. I realised  Mojo’s was a mere scratch. Then he untied my weak self after breaking my arms with a huge bat, tied my sore hands behind me and put me on the bed in a doggy style. He held my hair and pulled it like a non living rope needed to hold firm boxes of precious goods all the while slapping and hitting and taunting with horrible words, “Cry out bitch! Let me hear your pain! Wince you whore! Let me taste your tears!” Then he felt my eyelids, slap me hard to induce tears and licked it. He licked and bit my rear many times until I urinated on myself. I felt him drinking the urine and asking for more, something that terrified me the more. 

He raped me with his small stick, which I could barely feel after his fist while his dog barked loudly in protest of not being freed. I thought I had seen it all until he let the dog loose. The dog bit my thigh, scratched my face until it was placed in between my thighs and helped to penetrate. There, I broke down for even in my wildest dreams or nightmares, I had never heard of a dog sleeping with a human being. Watching myself in the big mirror being fucked by a dog reduced me to dust. I cried as the dog’s rod, which was bigger than its owner’s, shacked me in the longest and worst ways possible. The pain therein, lied in my shame and not the act. There I was, being degraded to a sex slave for a dog, a dog for crying out loud! All the while, Ken, as he told me he was called, kept hitting me, as he shivered, breathed heavily and orgasmed loudly in multiplications. I was devastated. I had great respect and love for white men. To me, they were flawless, all they possess were brains, money and power. I felt my ironical thoughts hitting me hard and repeatedly on my face. I saw a different aspect of my weak thoughts and remembered Shakespeare’s quote by Ms. Barwuah “There is no art to find the mind’s construction in the face”

There, I felt I had paid for every wrong I had done on earth. I was about to bite my tongue in suicide when I heard faint footsteps.  Amazing how only I heard it. I cried out louder than before because a voice in my head told me it was Guru and some of his gang members. 

“Yeah, cry louder baby! Cry louder bitch! Cry louder whore! You’re getting what you deserve baby! We have more time baby! That second hole needs a fucking baby! Mega! Fuck that thing harder!”

Ken repeatedly echoed in absolute pleasure. He was knocked from the back, the dog, Mega, was shot in the head, that was all I remember from that night. I woke up four days later in the worst state possible. Mimi was seated right next to me, her eyes a bulging red. Guru came immediately after being called. His face, a mask of worry and relief. He told me to snap out of the mood and heal because he had Ken tied, waiting for me to exact my revenge. I thought I had never heard anything so relieving. In two days, I was well, I was treated for tetanus, stitched up for the deep wounds and told I would require plastic surgery for some of the marks. I was not perturbed. 

I saw Ken tied to a pole in the junkyard beneath the cultist building. I thought to slap him at first but decided on a karma spree. I had no dog to deal with him but I sure had a knife. The shock on his face gave me every pleasure I needed. I thought to shove live fire in his anal hole, then thought it painless, I thought to cut his man thing into tiny pieces as the guys make him watch, but that too sounded too light. I stood there, as the cheeks of the sharp knife cuddle my palms, watched deeply into his eyes as they shivered in fear, his cheeks, a blushing mess, and started my game of revenge.

By: Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October, 2017

Photo Credit: Google pics

Continuation will be posted on 4th November, 2017.


I am from a land whose hair is gold

Chin is salt

Stomach is petroleum

And feet are rocks

I am from the heart of the strong


I am from a land boxed by colonialism

But with a strength which broke free

And stands in the wrestling ring with corruption

A country whose women have seen it all

Beauty for tags

Success for witchcraft

Barrenness for accursed

But still stand as the glue of families

Outshining their labels and harvesting reverence


I am from a home with wise breasts

So sucked respect from the nipples of customs

Sucked care from the breast milk of our conventions

Sucked hospitality from the mouth of nature

While holding the feet of our elders

Preparing for better succession


Here, elephants live in respect of beings

Lions live in care with us

Crocodiles watch from distances so do pythons 

As warthogs welcome us into meditation

When we reach the arms of Mole



We hail our ancestors in the protection of our nature

We kneel at the feet of the almighty to cry for worth, life and protection

As the created of our creator

Here, we laugh from the bottom of our souls

A land where loneliness is banished by brotherliness


And relations

I am from the sitting place of the sun

Where sun rays have been weaved into my crown

And moons lead in mischievous dark nights

I am from

I am proudly from

I am so proudly from

Ghana, nursed from the navel of the Gold Coast

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 29, 2017

Meet Oppong Benjamin Clifford, the Civil Engineer and Writer

Our Guest Post for today is Oppong Benjamin Clifford, an engineer and writer. You are welcome to amoafowaa.com.

CF: Thank you, dear. I’ve been following the good works you’ve been doing in the literary circles of Ghana. And I give it to you in strong terms of recommendation ever to continue as such.
AMOAFOWAA: Thank you. Please tell us about yourself from parents to what you do now. Briefly though

CF: Well, Oppong Clifford Benjamin was born with a twin sister to Mr. and Mrs. Oppong in a small town called Prestea in the Western Region. I had a normal upbringing like most Ghanaians. I’m now a Civil Engineer and Postgraduate Student at both the Moscow State University of Civil Engineering and University of Education, Kumasi campus.
AMOAFOWAA: So how and when did you start writing?

CF: When! How! Honestly, I don’t even know how it all started but I will try hard to put a when to it all. I should think in Junior Secondary School, we had an amazing English Language teacher called A. G. Osei (may his gentle soul rest in perfect peace) who insisted we wrote a lot of essays and poems each week. He extolled the best essayist or poet in the strongest of praising words at the time. And it was always pleasing and honouring for me whenever I came first. This practice yielded creative writers in our class. However, I never gave writing a serious look until much later in 2012 when I met Sir Kukogho Iruesiri Samson, the founder of WRR (the largest poetry sharing platform in Africa based in Nigeria) and multiple awards winning poet. He mentored, taught and coached me in poetry writing. In December 2013, the WRR awarded me the Ghana poet of the year in Nigeria during the annual WRR contemporary African poetry festival held at the University of Ibadan. And in December 2016, the WRR invited me again to the annual poetry festival, this time, to give the guest lecture on my academic paper Noetic Sciences: the power of our intentions as writers.  However, I have still not had the courage to call myself a writer. Maybe, we can say I am a student of creative writing.
AMOAFOWAA: The engineering you, does he practise or aims to?

CF: I practise engineering. I’m currently working with the Electricity Company of Ghana (ECG). What I’m rather aiming at is to be a lecturer of a civil engineering course in a technical university in the near future.
AMOAFOWAA: How many publications do you have now?

CF: Number of publications! *surprised face* Erhmm…… I’ve written a cute book which is a collection of short stories titled The Virgin Mother and Other Short Stories. It’s my debut book and it was published by Forte publishing house in Monrovia, Liberia. My poems have appeared in some anthologies across the continent, the very celebrated one is Portor Portor edited by the Liberian poet Forte Othniel, an educator based in Thailand. It brought together only twelve poets across the world, and I was humbled to have had the opportunity to be featured alongside seasoned poets like Prof. Althea Romeo-Mark, lecturer of creative writing at a university in Switzerland and Jack Kolkmeyer in the USA. Also, my poems have been published in the KWEE magazine. In case online publications do count then we are looking at quite a number. Notable among those are the ones published by WRR, Nigeria, Poetry bits, India, Brittle paper, Nigeria, My joy online, Ghana, The African Dream, USA, The UK poetry library, UK. Maybe I can also add that I have an upcoming poetry chapbook titled Poems From A Womanizer’s Wife, a completed manuscript of erotic series called The Making of Orgiastic Cyprian, a completed manuscript of a novel titled The Freemason and The Boy and also sitting on my laptop is another collection of short stories waiting to be edited.
AMOAFOWAA: Who do you read and which writers do you take inspiration from?

CF: I read novels mostly but write poetry often. Strange huh! Once awhile I read some few poetry books I have in my personal library which includes Poetry Excursion on an African Mind by your cute self. Cecilia, your book has really been resourceful in my poetry journey so far. Honestly, I’m glad you wrote those poems. Well, talking of writers who inspire my art, I will put Paulo Coelho first on a long list. That man’s The Alchemist had a great influence on me, it made me set off to write The Freemason and The Boy, and so are many other of his books which I have read. He’s my role model, actually. He will be followed by Dan Brown whose Da Vinci Code and The Lost Symbol shaped my narrative and descriptive writing in a way. Kukogho Iruesiri Samson’s I said these words and What Can Words do are both very intriguing poetry books that have influenced my style of poetry. Another poet I have fallen in love with recently is Romeo Oriogun, the Brunel International African Poetry Prize winner for 2017. His award-winning chapbook Burnt Men just blows my mind away. He is just a perfect poet for me. 

Cecilia, please, don’t let me continue, the list is endless in truth. Tell me to shut up, please.
AMOAFOWAA: Lol. What is the correlation between engineering and writing?

CF: You are about the hundredth person to ask me this question. And each time, I only smile and walk away. So forgive my manners, bye. Kill me!
AMOAFOWAA: Tempted to ask why but won’t. Are you a feminist? If yes why? If no why?

CF: The word is now disgusting to some of us. So I would rather say a bitter No! And watch the many young girls who have taken social media as a medium to besmirch the honourable cause of feminism. Allow me to drink my beer in peace joor. 

AMOAFOWAA: Single, married or attached?

CF: I’ve been waiting for this question like a pregnant woman. Please, I am single and happy. Not searching, not mingling. There’ve been times I contemplated on sologamy – marriage to oneself. So I even wrote a poem about it in my upcoming chapbook. 

AMOAFOWAA: Wow! Define a writer in a sentence.

CF: A writer is a creator of a universe.
AMOAFOWAA: Cool. What are your hobbies?

CF: Reading and having sex with myself. No! Not masturbation. It’s called sex. 
AMOAFOWAA: Interesting. If you are given the chance to be the Togo president, with the ongoing chaos, what would you have done?

CF: I would have accepted a reform of the constitution to allow fair democracy to prevail. Thus, if I were Faure Gnassingbe, I would be ashamed of myself and my family for redefining fair governance to be a dynasty and step down peacefully. I don’t know the thing with some African leaders and greed. Well, I don’t like talking politics too much in public. 
AMOAFOWAA: Choose between love and occupational success and justify your choice.

CF: “Who love epp?” Who has been helped by love? It is always an occupational success for me, dear. I don’t even need to justify my stance. I don’t care about love, period. Beer, please.
AMOAFOWAA: Religion is a trap of human extinction. Do you agree?

CF: I don’t want to answer this question. I hope you will forgive me, but for now, you’re right to frown at me. 
AMOAFOWAA: What makes you proud as a Ghanaian?

CF: Many things. I tell you what; Ghanaians have some intellectual image abroad, especially in other African countries because of names like Dr. Kwame Nkrumah, Kofi Annan and quite a number of others too. So I’m really proud of the respect foreigners have for me whenever I tell them I’m from Ghana. Another thing is our peaceful and hospital nature. Ghana has been an epitome of democracy for other African countries. 
AMOAFOWAA: Any challenges you face as a writer?

CF: Yes….yes. Too many challenges like procrastination, laziness, inability to write even a sentence after sitting behind my laptop for hours. Also, there are those difficulties with finding a value for your work, getting even a publisher and other personal challenges.
AMOAFOWAA: What are your innermost desires, list three.

CF: My holiest prayer to God has always been ‘Dear God, please keep me alive. Amen.’ Therefore my desirous desires are: to live long enough to own a countryside house in a forest, a house overlooking a calm river; to own a laptop in my sixties to write all the stories life has given me over the past sixty years; to own a small teapot with a white ceramic cup in my sixties and finally to have a lot of beer to keep me.  
AMOAFOWAA: May you live long! Your favourite song of all times.

CF: My favourite song is also my ringtone. Titanium by David Guetta feat Sia. 
AMOAFOWAA: What is your best line in Ghana’s National Anthem?

CF: And help us to resist oppressors’ rule

With all our will and might forever more.

AMOAFOWAA: Your advice to followers of amoafowaa.com

CF: This will mean I would have to advise myself and others. Hahahaa. Keep reading and patronizing the best of literature. Mum C as some of us like to call her is one great inspiration for many young Ghanaian writers and has been consistent in bringing the very best of Ghanaian literature. 
AMOAFOWAA: Well, flattered. Where can we get your books to buy?

CF: You can buy soft copies on Amazon. For print copies, you can contact me via mobile phone number +233243129401, I’m on facebook as Oppong Clifford Benjamin, Instagram as oppcliffben and twitter handle @glencliffben. Thank you.


There are many in this struggle

This struggle which many with death wishes juggle

But you consider every challenge wealth

Even if doors of hope are shut

You own the scissors which sulking cuts

One pushed from the cliff of good health

To start from the dungeons of death

Right back to the mountain of health

One whose words resonate in satiric sarcasms

With a heart conflicted in healing many afflicted

One whose mind is a need of most

Your ink sure will get noisy soles

And will surely walk on big stages

As years wear clothes of ages

Oh Oppong upon whose shoulders sit buckets of ink!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 30, 2017


The sky lies emotionless

Far from pates of the helpless

Who like dead wood, are visibly drowning in seas of sadness

I know your heart bleeds for all your seeds

Lord of the earth! Rain your favours!


The earth sits hard in a sky battle

Uprooting supporting trees

Breaking bones of all fallen

Whose skins weep at their red tears

As veins plead for their well being

So blood can freely flow

Like desperados, they pray at thy feet

Lord of healers! Rain your favours!


Many are confined in shackles of poverty

Losing loved ones as horrifying as their beheading

Their tears like a fountain

Flowing from spirit to soul

Soul to body in shameful repetitions

Oh Lord of hosts! Rain your favours!


I know some have been tied by ropes of lies

And taken into caves of den-like prisons

Watched keenly by judging ignoramuses

Their hearts, their only true testifiers

Yet with no legs to walk into interrogation boxes

To free their hosts

Lord of lords! Rain your favours!


Societal expectations are burning the wicks of many lives

Their non conformity, an enemy to their loved ones

Raining loneliness on them

Even in the midst of many

Lord of firsts! Rain your favours!


There are lost souls following greed bowls

Thinking they hold keys to their heaven

And like sheep, tied to poles of manipulations

Bleating only on orders of fake instructions

Lord of all! Rain your favours!


You see the winds of trouble in the lives of all

You know the standing tall and the hurt in fall

You know the caged and hopping eagles

You know hearts being baked in ovens of unfairness

You know the best paths of multiple paths at the junction of dilemmahood

You do know of owls whose eyes mark pitiful ants

In a treeless and soilless realm

Lord of mercy! Do rain your favours!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 29th October, 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics.


Business unusual (or demonic business) to praying mantises became my usual business. Sex for a fee continuously made me bolder with every section giving me the needed experience. For some queer reason, I met the best patronisers after my first bad experience for a while. Mostly no cuddling, no kissing, just lubrication and penetration or no lubrication but wicked penetration which is not surprising in this business. Where the latter is concerned, painkillers and boiled water helped a lot. Then some other local magical balms which worked wonders.

Mimi took me to our general meeting. I was really shocked to know prostitution too had an organised body. We had District Presidents, Regional Presidents and National Presidents. There were other positions: Secretaries, Financial Secretaries, etc.. and monthly dues. Apparently, being part of this body gave some form of protection. You could easily be traced in case you get into some form of trouble. You could be helped if you get into legal problems because they were well connected somehow and you would take part of their sexual workshops to upgrade yourself. They even trained members on how to defend themselves in case they needed it through fitness instructors.

I thought it was a good idea but the executives seemed to live better than most members. Their cars said it all. What was frightening too was the number of us in just one region. We were more than an incumbent party in an important rally. Mimi, after seeing my confusion told me to relax. She said we were not members yet, we were still in the application process. It took a lot to get into the group. Even within the group, there were classes. The high class who were refined and booked by important people in society (according to her, they enjoyed all the best treats), those kept under agencies, those associated to agencies, then the rest, which we were still struggling to be a part of. I was sad. Why I should struggle to be in the lowest rank when I had made up my mind to do something like this drained my enthusiasm. So I decided to be a trader instead of a prostitute. 

Mimi was livid but I cared less. With the little money I had, I bought cassava and plantain for sale. The first day was a disappointment, the second day was worse. I had not even finished selling for my capital let alone make some profit. And the freshness of my foodstuffs had waned making it unattractive to buyers. I hawked from morning to evening, only stopping to eat, drink or attend to nature’s call. 

Depression set in but I realized it was not because of the money nor my business, it was because I craved sex, wild sex. I craved the touches of Mimi and the strokes of unknown men of the night. Anytime my cravings started, I felt the wetness of my pleasure pot. As I hawked with my wares deep into the third evening of my new business, I realized I had lost my way back. Instead of calling Mimi who did not want to talk to me for direction, I went on asking for the way to the Central Capital. A young well built man decided to take me there. Before I realized what was happening, I was surrounded by three strong men in a blocked ghetto where no soul was seen besides the men. I did not have even a second to scream, they grabbed me and scattered my things, and stripped me naked. They spoke in tongues I did not understand so I knew they were not Akans. Left as naked as the day I was born, I remembered Mimi telling me to psych my mind for sex if I found myself in a rape situation so I don’t get too hurt. So I spoke out.

“You want my body? Sex? Don’t worry brothers, I would give you more than you deserve.”

They were a bit shaken but soon grabbed me once more. By now I was as wet as the first layer of mud under flood. I grabbed the manhood I could reach as the one at my back bended me over and stroked me the way I wanted, rough. I sucked it to his pleasure and jumped on it when the one from my back lost its spirit. All the while the other massaged my breast and slapped my buttocks. I controlled the tempo and massaged my clitoral gear, raining slimes to aid my speed. It was a different kind of pleasure and I exhuded a different kind of power. I finished them all in three rounds each. In the third round, each struggled to light their strength but I persisted until their sticks melted into porridge-like banku. It was as though I had this insatiable desire for sex. I was sexed in the air, held by two, sexed on one leg with the other in the air, I was sexed sideways with two cocks being swallowed at once by my hungry waist mouth and I was fingered in the right ways by my own direction. The huge men got tired. They begged for mercy and asked that we be friends. They gave me their numbers and asked that I call anytime I needed any form of help. They were Guru, Massai and Ntwanu. After they rested for a while, they helped me clean up, got me a dress and took me to base.

I forgot my selling pan because the guys gave me all they had. Two thousand one hundred cedis, more than my goods’ worth. When Mimi saw them with me, she was shaken. Apparently, they had had an encounter. The men were part of a known cult of robbers, the worst kind in the whole of Kumasi. I told her they were friends and she melted a bit from her frozen posture. After they left, I asked Mimi for forgiveness and told her I would continue the business. She was very happy and decided to give me a heads. She realized I was not so interested in it and realized I had had sex but said nothing but the looks of my little woman, which was still dripping cum. I reckoned the guys had been sex starved so had lots of porridge in their sacks. I felt the pain of some bruises down there but before I could admit, Mimi applied some balm on it and I had one peaceful sleep, even among the night clubbing of mosquitoes. She just knew the right medications for all problems with our little ladies. I was determined to make it to the top of the prostitution hierarchy if I could not get a rich husband. I resolved to invest in books and read myself to refinement. All the while a sentence kept recurring in my mind “tomorrow is another day” while I dreamt of a classy me in many luxurious treats.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 2017

Photo Credit: Google pics

Chapter 6 will be posted on 1st November, 2017.


If I knew I would bury my seed

And feel the rot which my happiness bought

And rock the cot which cries of cold

I wouldn’t have bothered in its plantation


If I knew the ways of death

And of its throat

Which swallowed more than pythons

In a realm where my eyes can’t reach

I wouldn’t have formed for it a pet

Which it would take from my Love’s nest


I know I have no power to make

I know I have no power to break

I know I have no power to take

But why does my heart so shake?


Call death to my pain’s court!

Call death to my sorrow’s fort!

Call death to my darkness ring

To show a face which hosts the mouth

To show the mouth which hosts the tongue

That took my seed without a note

So I can touch the soul of my soul

So I can touch the heel of my myth

To be an addition or an exchange deal

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 28, 2017


Worship is in a sea of destruction

Being torn apart by most of their sailors’ deceptions

Shot by sins which once sat

In front of their potent rifles

Their congregants scattering

For fear of lions of confusions

And bugs of distrust


It seems those days are cutting their rope ties

From the chariot of religion

Passions of sluggishness growing with every blast of greed

Temples are fast turning into market places

Many places of worship are now like brothels

Sacred places now act as chaotic as a gambling spot

There are temples of demeaning courts

Severing umbilical cords of the surrendered

From mythical existences

Who planted the moths in this living created?


Far eyes see a day

When Christ will turn myth unrecognised

When other prophets will turn stories in mock laughter

When science will take over heads and hearts and highs in every realm

I may be the sand under unknown feet

One thing is clear

These words, born on an easing pot

Will sound loudly in the echoes of my voice

In this worldly cave

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 27, 2017


(This poem was written in memory of all those who have lost their lives due to defilement, all those who are battling complications, battling stigmatization, battling injustices due to defilement, and rape. You have done nothing wrong, you are just unfortunate souls caught in the traps of the wicked. The wicked who one way or the other will pay for your hurt.)

Roses have thorns of protection

Fishes have fins

Tortoises have hard shells

So why did you create a pot with no protective fence?


You made us softer like moist clay

You made us fragile like cotton in the wind

With huge responsibilities of making the world

You made us houses with no wire fences

You made us vulnerable to pests and preys and parasites

What was your plan?


A youngster lies in her struggling bed

Her pride box broken into by one with your will

One with a talking conscience

One who knows the boarders of hurt and dishonour

One whose land lord umbrellas him from the rains of justice

Oh your architecture might have had an error!

Blasphemy, I know

But even you can’t tamper with a writer’s licence in freedom


Look and make us your experimentation

To build better us in future days

So claws can fence holes of pleasure

In our proper protection

Look and make them your experimentation

To give proper locks in future

So in their wake with horror intents

Their locks will hold them in

That will only be fair

That will surely be fair

That will certainly be fair

In this jungle of struggle

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 27, 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics


As I wait patiently for you

Counting the marks on this pleasureless ceiling

While lonely canes whip in these dark nights

Anytime sleep goes on its rebellious demonstrations

Are you thinking of me?


As I walk these days

Carrying thoughts of you in dilemmahood

As to your existence or nonexistence

Chased by flies of frustrations

Punished by bed bugs of needy thoughts

Are you thinking of me?


Anytime dawn cries in my mock deception

And early cocks cut through my little sleep

With machetes of crowing

Painting my eyes with sores of restlessness

Waking a parliament of thoughts in the court of my mind

Are you thinking of me?


It will be a shame for your banana 

To pleasure hungry and vulnerable mouths

In a shameless succession

As I wait in anticipation for our meeting

So I ask even in this apostrophecal madness

Are you thinking of me?

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 26, 2017

Photo Credit: Google pics


There are flies born on a sugar plantation

And like blessed tongues live entirely on the sweet

There are eagles born to hens

And like accursed birds, live taking instructions from their meals

Luck is the stamp of fate


When the wind blows rain water into the sea

It does it good

Can same be said of blowing it onto fecal matter?

Where were wits when winners won

When losers licked the feet of God for mercy?

Luck is the stamp of fate


Let not those born on anthills

See those below as their grounds

Severe winds can blow them down

For luck is a sentimental monster

Which shows no sympathy for its former gods

Yes, luck is the stamp of fate

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 26, 2017


They say every cloud has a silver linen and I say I am that silver which gets bothered by clouds which are always forced to fall and leave me visible. Maybe I made myself so. Could it also be that God wrote my fate so is to blame? Well, let’s talk business. This business is no easy business. A business filled with more risk than that of a driver, a business with clientele the world over but workers who are harassed with illegal tags, a business that the Bible, which I was made to believe in, tells me is the only crime against my own body but a business which was soon turning into what I am, defining my every movement.  Mimi and I started a bond that terrified and excited me. She would massage, caress and smooch me into orgasm in her bid to teach me the art of seduction, which I got to know is too vast to learn in a lifetime. She would bring in a male model to suck, fuck and touch as I watched, horny (when she touched and is touched back, sucked and is licked with breast sucking and wettingly mounts or is mounted in a ride) or terrified ( when she is punished with a huge man-thing and forced to suck into gagging) or disgusted (when she swallowed cum while sucking, spittle was spat into her mouth or she was urinated upon or urinates on them etc). Maybe more than I had bargained for, but I was adjusting.

Whether it is syncing of thoughts or same likes, Mimi and I did not see ourselves working on Sundays. Mine was purely psychological. That fact that God sits on his throne every Sunday (psyched to believe that) so my parents forced me into worship, was still with me. No, was more visible than it was when I was in Asuntreso. Sundays were the only days I tried my hardest to do no wrong. I went around looking for genuine beggars to give my widow’s mite to. I read few chapters of the Bible and asked God to forgive my sins in few worded prayers and long guilty silence. Sins I knew very well I would go back to the next day. For I was the pig with mud rolling tendencies.

Mimi never liked talking about herself. I however forced why she came to be a prostitute just like me out of her. Something I wish I had not done. She was from the Upper East Region of Ghana. Her mother had left her to her father and bolted to Kumasi when she was just two years old. According to her, she grew up to hear the story of her mother and very old father as the town anthem. Her mother was young, a deal was struck between her family and her father’s family in marriage. She gave birth to her, defied her father by breaking off the marriage and secretly bolted with another man. 

Many added their twists as she grew. That her mother, Abibata, had contracted some deadly sexually transmitted disease and died. Some claimed she had been used for rituals by a man who picked her up as a prostitute. Still, others claimed she was alive but suffering from many sexually transmited diseases and out of shame, could not return home. So the whole household chores were hers to do. Fetching water for a household of over 16 to use from a far away dam, doing dishes, washing clothes, sweeping, cooking (took it up at age 8 after her paternal grandmother, who was the only one who showed her some form of love and taught her to cook, died) and running errands. She was the perfect being of abuse by members of the only family she knew. Her own father cared less about her and hated her with passion. Many said he loved her mother so much and couldn’t stand it when she run off with a younger man. His family members were worse. She was made to eat little or nothing everyday, sleep outside the house at the mercy of visitors and was never made to see the floor of any classroom. 

Mimi was first raped when she was ten years old. Her own elder brother (step) had done it. When she told her elder step mother, she had gotten the beating of her life. She recounted serving meals without kneeling because she felt pain in her abdomen as a result of the rape. Her stepmothers had insulted and physically assaulted her for disrespecting them until she fainted. It was water they threw on her in order to revive her. She told me in tears how she had used nim leaves on her private part to stop the bleeding and had proceeded to use ginger which burned like hell, all the while sitting on hot water. So she kept quiet when it happened again and again and again and accepted it as a ritual. The ritual lasted for three years and others joined in. At a point, every male that came to the house took advantage of her until she became pregnant. It was then that her life took the worse turn. By then, her father was bedridden with age. At thirteen years old, her step mothers whose sons had defiled her, ganged up to beat her up. They assaulted her like a thief until they saw her blood and packed her few clothes into a small black polythene bag and asked her out of the house to go and look for her mother.

Mimi had walked for about thirty minutes and collapsed from exhaustion, hunger, pain, sorrow and thirst. She woke up on a hospital bed. A good Samaritan had found her and sent her there. She lost her womb. To her, she did not know the importance of a womb because she had no desire to give another being a life like the one she had. The man, Joseph, was kind and took her home in his bid to help her learn a trade. Because it was a small village, her three step mothers and their sons had come to Joseph’s house to threaten him. They had accused her of witchcraft and had asked that she be sent away. When they realised he would not send her away, they reported him to the village Chief. She heard stories of Joseph taking advantage of her, inciting her to rebel, using her to defame her family and many other nasty ones which were all false. Mimi said she felt sad that her benefactor and saviour was going through such an ordeal through no fault of his so she fled when he went to work and left for Kumasi with the little savings she had made from the chop money he was giving her. She stayed with him for seven months. It was Joseph Ndiego, who taught her how to read and write the few words she knew and according to her, he was the only man who had shown her pure love without requesting anything in return. He taught her that God hears all prayers. He taught her the importance of religion and because of him, she fell in love with Christ although she was brought up a Muslim.

Mimi came to Kumasi with determination to succeed. She worked as a chop bar attendant, pure water seller and many other odd jobs but could not make ends meet. Men still took advantage of her wherever she slept. First it was in the chop bar where some men waited till all were gone and pounced on her, then in front of stores, those places were worse although payment was made to acquire a spot. Thieves also searched and took away all she had each day. When she left her wages with people, they too disappointed her by telling her stories instead of giving it back when need be. She fortunately or unfortunately met Geti, her boss, the one who introduced her into the business. She was relieved that she would be paid for something many men had gotten freely from her; sex. As to where Geti was, she told me it was a story for another day. Her real name was Fatimata Akudugu Lariba. She cried after the story and I cried with her. As we slept on the student mattress in the midst of the songs of treacherous mosquitoes who had grown resistant to mosquito coils, I realised how blessed I was to have parents who cared and I regretted living my life as an embarrassment to them. I tapped Mimi gently and repeatedly on her back and lured her to sleep all the while telling her “tomorrow is another day, the past has severed its cord from your present navel” re-echoing my father’s best proverb as I thought of my sins of covetousness which brought me into prostitution and severed me from my family.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics

Chapter 5 will be posted on Monday, 30th October, 2017.


The two week stay at “base” helped tremendously. I was taught the inns and outs of the place, the art of seduction (I got to know passion is neutral where gender is concerned), and how to guard against potential “harmers”. I was most importantly taught the different trades around. How I was never supposed to interfere in robbery cases, trickster jobs, how to vanish with every hint and also, how to pay policemen who got hold of me. I knew my debt was increasing. Mimi made it clear to me. I realized why she deserved the part payment she demanded. I am no coward and had discarded disloyal traits after running away from my family. Most of all, my intelligence was well known in Asuntreso, the reason my parents’ heart broke seeing me live the way I did. Mimi, my twenty five year old boss, arranged our outing. It was a pleasant Saturday night. The farther we went from our base, the better the city looked. In no time at all, I became part of the Amakom Flowers. I learnt we did not have to scout for men in just one place, there were many places to choose from. We were able to get into the club without a problem. We didn’t have to do much, our targets were all around. This time, Mimi allowed me to choose from the lot and I did. I had not discarded my idea of getting a husband instead of a client so I chose a light skinned respectable looking man. Don’t judge me. Which local girl loves not a light skinned man? He was wearing a long sleeve shirt folded to his arms and a well fitted trousers. I looked in between his thighs to be sure there was no cobra, like Mojo’s, waiting to pounce on me. And so it was that we left the place before Mimi, who had given me a new phone. It was a “yam” (Nokia 3310) but I was glad to have it. She asked that I call her if any situation arose. 


“Bee Davids” I said, my voice quivering at the very lie my tongue refused to corroborate. I always thought about the advantage of our names after Mimi introduced me to the false names. Foreign names were given the “ashawo” tags and annoyingly, the black men loved it as they loved the white women, mulattos and ironically, bleached women.

Ben turned out to be a perfect gentleman. He took me to his home, a modest two bedroom apartment. I was eager to practise what I had been taught but he took his time in making me feel at home. A drink here and there, food and we were ready. I showered again to make him know how clean I was (was becoming a ritual) and was pleased to see him lying on the bed, wrapped in a white towel, waiting. I surveyed his body to find his spots by lightly using my fingers to take a tour on his body. I caught the cave of his neck and with moist fingers, worked on it. He was pleased and aroused almost immediately. Then I tickled him to his perfect stick. I used my hand to massage it a bit, then used few drops of oil from the bottle Mimi had given to tactfully massage the ring between the crown of the stick and itself. At that point, he started screaming and came almost immediately. I was pleased with myself. He was more pleased. 

I gave him a ten minutes rest and took him in my mouth. Mildly, I stroked and sucked and licked then gently took in his sack. Seconds might not have met many minutes, when his soldier stood hard in an attentive position. He was besides himself with pleasure. I took him in once more, bathing him with my spittle and embracing him deep inside my throat to a point of gagging.  He just didn’t know what to do. I felt signs of his cumming and withdrew with my hands still at post. He screamed and squirted, went stiff and came loudly. He then begged that I let him be for a while. The while lasted the whole night. Deep down, I hoped he would ask me to stay, ask me to be his girlfriend, but he didn’t even bring up the topic. I dressed up ready to leave before he woke up. I have always been one who fear embarrassment so I did things according to proper procedures. He was as gentle as ever when he woke up and saw me and apologized for oversleeping. It was almost 5am. He gave me his card, took my number and gave me 200 cedis. I was beside myself with happiness. I had never seen such a huge sum before. He also gave me a lift to town, where I called Mimi to come for me. 

Mimi was happy about my feat. She took her hundred cedis and told me to save some money for future occurrences. She complained bitterly about her client. To her, he was simply a cantankerous man. After having his way, he refused to pay the twenty cedi charge and gave her only ten cedis for the whole night. To her, he was just wicked because he had pounded her into a porridge-like fufu all night. More than eight rounds. From a sit up to doggy, bond girl with legs apart suspended in a small corridor to a one leg up, folded leg up to side push ups. I was shocked and angry at the same time at her plight and pitied my boss but I knew it was part of the down sides of the job. Mimi asked me to keep Ben’s card well for he was a keeping client.

When we reached our base, we saw so many people crying. There had been a raid. Policemen raided the place and arrested some newbies, took so many things including money of people, weeds of sellers, cocaine of addicts and broke down some structures. Few prostitutes caught were gang raped, or rather gangbanged because it was always consensual. A fake blind trickster asked why poor people struggling to survive are subjected to ridicule and harrassment while the biggest robbers sat free in high offices flanked by their prostitutes in fridge-like environment, imprisoned in killer prized suits. He bemoaned why the fallen always got kicked. “Because they are closer to the strongest feet” I muttered to myself. Luckily, our structure stood without a dent. Mimi bought Milo with bread and eggs for us to eat. I had another long bath and went to sleep knowing after sleep lies another working day. Might be heaven, might be hell, but it certainly would be an adventure.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©2017

Photo Credit: Google pics

Chapter 4 will be posted on Saturday, 28th October, 2017.


It was a weird ghetto. A ghetto where perfectly normal people lubricated their eyes and acted blind. A ghetto where abled bodied men and women perfected acts to make themselves dumb. A ghetto where intelligent brains worked to manipulate and dupe all for money. A ghetto where everyone learns to respect the sins of each other. It was easier to hear flying words; “Ei Ashawo! Keep it down whores!” and its counter attack “We hear you thief! Armed robbers! God is watching you!”, a chuckle comes with successor, “Ei! Listen to where the name of God is coming from! Are you sure you are not shameless?” It could go on for forever. 
The dresses that were forced on me were dresses I knew I was defiling, not raping. Thanks to my mother’s language, I knew the difference between defilement and rape. It was almost 10pm. Mimi told me I would have to give her part of every money I made so she could take care of me. I laughed within me. The Adwoa Attaa I was, knew it won’t take long for that deal to blow over. I nodded slightly and set off with her. 

I was surprised with what I saw on reaching the front of the biggest hotels I had ever seen. I realised Sokoo’s hotel was a hen coop. They called it Hotel De Pensky. It was magnificent! I saw hope where there was fear. To my surprise, Mimi told me to look at the line in front of the hotel. So many ladies dressed in like clothes stood there. Throwing themselves in the way of cars which zoomed in and out, calling themselves names. Bitches for witches, prostitutes for whores, “ashawo” for “anadwo yɛdɛ”. It was ridiculous how they insulted themselves for what they were.

“Why can’t we go in?” I impatiently asked.

Mimi laughed the sarcastic laughter which spelled out the fact that I was a novice and a village girl. “You can’t go in because it is the hotel’s policy. You need a man to take you in. In fact, even men bribe their ways to get some of us in there because they love proper dressing. That is why I have a spare. Many get us from here to other hotels or brothels if you like and we find our ways back after. Wait, let me speak to this customer”

With Mimi speaking to a nice looking silhouette in a nice car, I decided to look and listen around. 

“Ei! New Ashawo! Welcome o! Be sure not to follow that car to wherever o! That one be bad news o! Small girl who wan join big train”

I hoped they were not talking about me. Those idiots thought I would be like them, old enough to be mothers of ten, still standing in skimpy clothes trying to gain attention of men. I gave them a “think about yourself” look and looked away. Some clapped and laughed in their surprise at my behaviour, others just looked away. One lady nearly pounced on me but another restrained her. Mimi came back and pushed me into the car. I was sent to the front seat as she took the back. I realised another man was seated at the back. 

“More like it” I thought to myself. To be the owners own instead of the lifted. The introduction was short.

“This is Bee Davids, and Bee, that is Mojo. He will be your client for the night.” I had forgotten about the name change. Mimi had mentioned that even names contributed to the sex appeal. So telling everyone my name was Adwoa Attaa Anobeng would kill my career in the business before it began. I kept mute, knowing I would have to spill the beans after he asked for my hand in marriage. I had made up my mind to wait until I was almost eighteen to take him to see father. Four more years to go.

Unbeknownst to me, there was a bomb waiting to blast my stone quarry. The room was neat although the bathroom was a stinking mess. It was called Hotel Waawaa for a reason. People paid for the hours they spent there with their questionable companions. Mojo asked me to go and wash my garden and make it ready for plantation. I had washed before coming out but I complied. When I re-entered the room, I realized what a stout person he was. I was previously lost in my thoughts so I looked and I did not believe the timber that greeted my eyes. I nearly took to my heels but for the voice which reminded me of my need to succeed. I knew immediately that he would not be the best choice for a husband. Even in its harmattan season, his tree laid in the middle of his junction like a fallen timber blocking the biggest road in the world. If fear could heat a being, I would have turned burnt “chinchinga” on the stick of his fear then.

Mojo asked me to come and suck his little man. I didn’t know what to do. All the men I had known before never asked of this. Stories of women being used for rituals flooded my mind. I had to ask him why his huge manhood must enter my mouth. His cocky laughter made me cringe. “Ei! I know why I love the green horns. It is fun to teach them new things and deduct it from their wages.” He asked me to suck so he could wake to start on our deal. I didn’t know what to do. Before I could decide, he held my wig and shoved himself into my mouth, bringing me to the kneeling position. Even my mouth threatened to crack. When the monster started waking, I had to find ways of getting it out of my mouth. He then threw me on the bed, pinched my breast like a livid soldier ant and rammed his mountain into me. The shout that came out of me, surprised even me. And his hand which blocked my mouth could do nothing to stop its piercing. I had never known that much pain could exist. 

Stroke after stroke I cried but no one came to my rescue. “Let’s tone it down girl! You know you are not the only one in heaven or hell here” A voice called from beneath. After shouting and crying myself hoarse, I laid there as he continued. I had never once thought anyone could stroke for more than two hours. I must have passed out for a while, when I opened my eyes, I thought I heard a lion roar. Then I realized it was Mojo in orgasm. Even that terrified me. He had destroyed my goldmine. Who would ever feel loved working in it? Who would want to own something so destroyed? Who?

 He threw three cedis on the bed, dressed up and left. I made to move but could not bring myself to. I was paralysed from waist down. My tears might have drowned the mattress. An hour or so later, Mimi rushed into the room, saw me still nude with Mojo’s caked “porridge” on my whole body and pitied me. “That savage! I told him to go easy on you!” she cleaned me up, used a cloth she had to cover me and managed to put me on her back, all the while asking me to control myself. She gave me some painkillers and took me to our base in a hired taxi. There, she called Mojo to be sure to give the extra 17 cedis. To her, that was the minimal charge; 20 cedis where Mojo was concerned.

I could not walk for two weeks. Mimi was good to me during those times. She fed and tended to me and assured me that I could rebuild my goldmine with alum water and many other medications. All I had to do was wash it with it after sitting on hot water. She left for work at night and I battled with mosquitoes all alone. I regretted sincerely for not listening to my parents. The fear of Mojo was diminishing. I knew I would never do him again. I regretted not paying heed to what the women were saying. I resolved to make friends with them when I resumed work. Every night, I would tell myself “tomorrow is another day”.

By: Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia

Photo Credit: Google Pics

Chapter 3 will be posted on Thursday, 26/10/2017.


I should have listened to mama when she was so painstakingly advising me. Her advice that only schooling and hardwork could sweep a pauper from the land of poverty to the land of riches might have been true, especially unlucky paupers like me. I thought Nna Adwoa Mansah’s daughter; Akua Kyerebea’s fate could also be mine. She landed a man with a big Pajaro just when she turned eighteen. So I had started early in hope of landing a better husband than hers. 

My first man was an ugly albino who had a nice Benz. I could care less about his looks, all I needed was the luxury he could afford me. Just thirteen, I had lied that I was nineteen years old, aided and abetted by my over ripe body. He took me to Sokoo Nkasie’s hotel. There, he, like the very first foundation digger of a house, dug out my virginity. I thought I had trapped him. He gave me two cedis and I showed him my house. His first and only visit was an ugly one. Mother, known to be the machete mouth of her time, pounced on him like a wounded tigress.

“Shame on you! You stupid albino! Go and learn to watch the sun and stop defiling young girls. You are interested in a thirteen year old girl who has not even managed to complete primary 6? Hoooooo! Come to my house again and I will show you why an albino is never welcomed in Kwahu Abetifi!” Agya Anobeng, my father, advised my mother not to insult people with their deformities which generated into another bout of their daily squabbles. My father hated me. He hated me for not liking school and loved that Kofi Anobeng, my younger brother, did so well in school. 

Nna Adwoa Mansah, whose enmity with my mother, Eno Anobea, was a well known sport in the Asuntreso Village, laughed her heart out. The toothless chief of the village’s promise of making me a queen gave me nightmares. His constant calling for just half rounds of sex in exchange for one cedi and his clashes with my parents made matters worse. 
“Adwoa Attaa Anobeng! Adwoa Attaa Anobeng! Why? Are you a devil sent down from my scrotum to destroy me? I believe the best daughter among your pair died, leaving a Satan like you for me!” Papa will always say. It was the only sentence mama did not disagree with him on. Teacher Baah, the class five teacher was the most annoying person I had ever met. He would lure me to the teacher’s urinal when everyone was in class, ask me to take my pant off and bend down for his okro stick to scratch itself.  When we got to class, he would pretend he did not know me. He would look away when Miss Brefo, the class six teacher chastised me for even a little thing like looking outside when she taught her English that sounded like Greek. Her worn out heels and oversized suits and loud red lipstick made her look like a painted vulture. Miss Brefo was my pain in the school no matter how good the other teachers tried to be to me. Her only son was a known thief but she always had time to be on my case. I was so suffocated that I stopped schooling altogether. Her taunts and curses of me never amounting to anything in life, buried deep within my heart.

The village complaints about what I did wrong even when I am unaware and their castigating eyes, pointing fingers, haunting chuckles when I passed by made the place too small for me to fit into. Church was a cross too heavy to carry. The pastor’s Sunday rebukes which reflected in his teachings, made me puke into my stomach over and over again. My mother still forced me there although two out of the five elders were sleeping with me for fifty pesewas each. Those bunch of hypocrites! The house also became a prison for me. “Adwoa, go and fetch water because Kofi is going to school”, “ Adwoa, sweep and prepare food for your brother to take to school”, “ Adwoa at least be a good farmer if you have decided to fall from the tree of a school as an unschooled fruit” Mother and father took turns in making these statements. Statements that threatened to dig my heart out of its enclave if I did not flee the village. And so I did. I was fourteen years old.

I followed a lady who was brought to Sokoo Nkasie’s Hotel to Kumasi. I thought I had landed an angel who would take me to a land where rich men abound like flowers, so I could pluck the one I fancied.  That was not the case. Sadly. Upon reaching my destination, I realized my village and house was way better. People were living in gutters, eating food that our dog, ehia wo a enwu, will not eat. The kiosk that welcomed me was situated close to a stinking gutter. Many skimpy clothes filled the kiosk and two small student’s mattresses laid on its crying floor. Even stepping on it brought fear of falling to my petrified mind. “This is not what I signed for! This is not what I slept with every idiot in the village who had a coin to spare for!” I cried silently within. To make matters worse, we were to pay for places of convenience.

Mimi Ranks, the lady who took me to that hovel, told me to be grateful. She told me I had gotten a place to lay my head so I should sleep while I freely could. Mimi added that I would have to pay for the hovel from the next day. She asked me not to worry, she would introduce me to her business. We ate the food she had bought, for I hid the little money left on me in my tight pantie. So I slept amidst terrifying dreams of being swallowed by all the bad things I have done, especially, not listening to my parents. But tomorrow is another day, I told myself.

Photo Credit: Google Pics


My breaths are best in your flow

My heartbeats are best in your machinations

My steps are best in your architecture

My will is best in your seal

Oh Odomankomah! My redeemer!

You are the river of blood in my veins

You are the air of life in my daily keep

You are my pill of sleep and my pill of wakefulness!

The beginning of my breath and my resting place

You are the only soul food with no price tag

Oh Odomankomah! My provider!

As time marks days into months into years

The sun sees diversity in its bright sight

The moon sees variety in its gentle sight

But you who sees it all, never changeth!

Oh Odomankomah! My strongest fort!

Every part of me belongs to thee so my dedication is fruitless

Every pore in me is your wiring so my every feeling is touchless

Every smell is your channel of blessing 

So my appreciation is nonsensical

But I write your blessing in my heart

In my every step and sound

Odomankomah! My world!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©  October 22, 2017


There are many with flies from the past

Singing in their ears

In a chorus of success

Blocking out lyrics of routes

Driving off trains of talents

If only they can find smoke to ward off their flies


There are many being chased by bees of the past

Stinging dry their peace of mind

Planting sores on their bodies of progress

Making their prestigious veins honeycombs

And their bodies shadows in darkness

If only they can find some fires to ward off the bees


There are those being followed by lions of their past

Roaring senseless their serenity

Chewing off their hope

Hunting dead their help

And scratching off their eyes

Branding them blind 

And dragging them into the lairs of poverty

If only they can get spears and arrows and guns

To fight off their monsters!


In a world where day battles night

In the field of the sky

In a world where east looks into the face of the west

In vice-versahood

In a world where kingdoms vary in habitations

It will take skill for a fish to taste a land without waters

It will take skill for beings to taste the sky without ropes

It will take skill for a worm to share a tree with a hungry bird

Let all fight off chasing monsters

In this forest of conflict

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 18th October, 2017


On this dining table
Sits gluttonous greed

Whose hunger, all the food, in quench, unable

Connivance knows but stooges for crumbs

Forgetting the coming with roaring bellies

Whose eyes may never see the feast

Forgetting the frail

Whose bodies can go nowhere near the monstrous Greed

Forgetting the children whose growth

Depend on the nutrients of the present


Looting has now become tickets for everything

Yet pennies of paupers are forced from the hearts of their pockets

Into the stomachs of pockets of greed

Oh ye sleeping gods of the land!

Please wake!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 15th October, 2017


There is this air around mine
That many of yours claim is fine

But to get through most streets there is a whine

Of how many legs in us must dine

Our mouths are like toffees in thy eyes

Our cheeks look like handkerchiefs in thy sight

Our breaths sound like tickling airbags in thy mind

And when your eyes scroll down our natural chest

All you see are delicious milk jars

And it follows through to our “goldmines”

Mines which “enrich” your devilish greed

So cause your craze and faze your morality

Rubbishing our mind’s efforts

In a world where dresses must lose to muscled shirts

In order to pass through most streets of success

Where does fairness sit

In this healthy intellectual struggle?

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 16, 2017


As hands in drowning wave
Do, mouths whose garnished promises flee, call

To the destitute save

Lest we all fall


As needs outweigh our feeds

Do all, in patriotic shed blood, call

To drive the spirit which on our minds feeds

So our confidence will stand tall


As green spirits are being, from their bodies, ejected

Do, all alien priests call

To open the gates of heaven for all the rejected

In unsynced bodies in its hall


Eyeballs shaking like tsunamis on the dock

Senses tied in darkness and in lock

Bodies following enemies like a flock

Don’t you see your future’s shock?

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©15th October, 2017


Any comfortable visitor

Who fails to thank the landlord

Is worse than the worst of sneaking snakes


Ananafo mu Nana! Kokromoti a yensan wo ho mbɔ pɔ”

I serve my thanksgiving in the plate of my being


You built these bones as builders use stones

You laid these veins as plumbers lay pipes

You wired these pores as electricians wire their houses

Carved this being as carvers carve their best crafts

And connected your living magic to turn me on life

Like a magic television

With freedom in mobility and will


As I bridge storms and cross mountains

You hold on to my saving rope

To open the gates of another day with a flower of hope

Erasing my disgusting moping

Turning my past hurts into present jokes

How do I neglect your thanksgiving?


You are that one wall which never shakes

You are that one love that never breaks!

You are that one sky which always clears

You are the permanent tunnel which never clogs

You are the breath tree which never dies

Nor succumbs to any form of cutting

“Awura mu Owura!

Ahenfo mu Ɔhene!

Animdeɛfo mu Nimdeɛfo!”

I say thank you from the beginning of my thread of life

Through its lighting till its wick burns out!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 15th October, 2017


Sitting on the chair-like forget-me-not

You promised to keep our love hot

To the hearing of the inquisitive air

And all nature that is fair

I remember the clouds turn up

In their darkest colour

And sent their rains to record the promise

Many months saw not the veil of a year

But here I am being looked upon  by a tree whose name box out my sadness

Like a cursed fly in a cry

Suddenly, heat roasts the sweat out of these pores

Pores which are sore but all ignore

Those horrid clouds hide like they were never born

As the airs act strangers, shielding their elder siblings

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 14, 2017


Citizens are protected

Protected by the laws of the land

Laws which beat and lock and kill to fill voids

How is it that the nation of love has no laws?


When disappointment hovers around its appointments

Chaos hides behind its partitions of glitters

Pain waits in chambers of the capital of its royalties

And tears stand behind its deceptive happiness

How does the nation of love 

Maintain its supremacy without legislative rules?


From villages of serenity

To  cities of heartbreaks

Waters of fulfilment to droughts of shame

Satisfaction in completion to hunger of loneliness

How come no security stands guard on this dangerous ground?


Despite the punches of leftovership

And the assault of bond breakages

Where fears form clouds of tears and rain sleepless nights amidst monstrous jeers

How is it that no court exists for justice?

Is the nation of love like a phantom?

Or more like a catastrophe hidden in a fantastic parcel?

Is it like a sugar coated toffee

Hoarding sours which chews tongues and uproots teeth?

Bees of its publicity abounds 

First as butterflies

Oh ye nation whose memories cannot be erased!

A nation which favours the unfavoured 

With an allure none can resist!

I leave your fort in the now to show your bruises

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 13, 2017


Mobile breasts

Marching on breast cancer day

Pickaxes of manly tubers


Locomotive breasts 

On horses of varied chests

Beautifully nectared flowers on the go


Heads in weird rhythms

Sip from advocacy cups

Not sticks of naughty passions

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©October 13, 2017


​The stance of an eye

And its distance

Determines the visions thereof

Like plants in the different pores of the earth

We stand in view of a portion

So how can our mouths be in judgement seats

Audienced by other eyes and ears

In marking right from wrong?


God may appear in different beings things and souls

To different beings, things and souls

An eye may see God in a river

A river another deem his chamber pot

Another may see Him in another being

A being who may seem foolish to another

Another may see Him in the sky

The sky which some consider only in lightning and darkening plate

Some skin may feel Him in words

Words which act noise in the ears of others

There are those who see Him in animals

Animals which serve as delicacies to others

What about those who see Him in stones?

Stones which are naught but hindrance to some farmers

So who has the best eyes to judge?


Who has the best eyes to judge?

I believe it is none but an ignorant crown

Who sees and knows only what society plastered in his mind

Let thinking minds sit into digging

Digging best from the knowledge of what is

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 13, 2017


Stars have their spots

When the curtains of daylight fall

There, they shine brightest

There, they sync well in their work of lighting

This body, is like your sky of darkness

Take a tour and know the star spots


Your fingers are like combs for a reason

Planted hair needs its massaging fertility

To like a bee, make its honey of passion

So let them explore the hair plantation

And weed the stress which hide beneath


Your food gate is with air for a reason

Feed the skin with gentle blows and touches

To, like electricity

Light the bulb of passion

One that can lead you in your needed explorations


A fountain needs a clear tube for water to dazzlingly show

Like a good plumber

Match the tubes and lay well your pipes

Connect them to the river of the body

And let it flow

Before thinking of a pleasure swim


Swim with a gentle step after another

Jumping in like a big excited fish

Will sure splash waters on a perfect dock

Laying traps of slippery grounds

For unsuspecting issues


Be sure to swim from dock and back

Do not drown in the middle of your man made river

Many fishes will see your failure

And the river will curse your weakness


Do lock bodies like a secured padlock

To mark your happiness

And only open with the key of satisfaction

For then, all calm will be restored

And the seeds of love would be thoroughly watered

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©October 12, 2017

Photo Credit: Googlepics