Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 32 (18+)

NTWANU. Content takes precedence over branding but the branding which hosted my Ntwanu was scary. He had turned into a white man. Every part of his body clearly showed he was white. There was no trace of a black man on him, yet he spoke like my Ntwanu, held me like my Ntwanu, acted like my Ntwanu. There were so many questions running through my mind. Questions for which I knew might be difficult for him to answer. But as I calmed, I realized he wanted the mute me to ask those questions. “Not here” a voice in my head echoed.
“You look tired and even sick. And what is worse, your cartel will be looking for you even at the airport to take you out, so I will take you to a secret location and find a way to get you out of here.”
A part of me felt safe, the other part felt stupid. He mentioning I was in a cartel made me feel like a junkie. He gave me a pill to take to help with any pain, fed me water in his usually caring way and tucked me well in the seat to sleep. As the vehicle moved, so did I into a very deep and refreshing sleep.
I woke up on a queen size bed in a very cold room. The air-conditioning was a bit too much for me but some spots on my body burned to relegate the cold I felt to the background. I opened my eyes to see Ntwanu scratching the parts of my skin that had the rashes and smearing some ointment on them. There was an injection kit there so I realized he had injected me but I still did not utter a word. I just looked at him, maybe with a flinch here and there.
“Sorry I woke you. Just tending to your rashes. Looks serious. Wouldn’t want that flawless skin to be destroyed by these demons. Well, you will need to do your morning rituals and eat. You’ve not had anything to eat for almost three days now”.
The look on my face might have told him I did not believe him. But the clock on the wall told me he was telling the truth. I had slept for almost three days. I felt weak but definitely refreshed. He showed me to a fancy bathroom, gave me a toothbrush with toothpaste on its soft brittles and massaged my legs as I brushed. It did feel so good. I felt like I was in heaven but didn’t feel like talking with the angel. Bathing was hellish. Every part of my skin which was scratched burned like fire. But distance had brought shyness between Ntwanu and I so I kept my cool. In any way, that pain was the least I had felt. I even knew the taste of a bullet. Food was refreshing. From the orange juice to the toast, the cocoa drink to the omelette, everything tasted superb.
He switched on the television to see my picture fully on screen, wanted for murder. I was startled but he was not. Ntwanu chuckled and was about to change the channel when I told him to stop, my first word to him. He did leave it there, came back to sit with me, held me, planted a kiss on my forehead and told me he expected them to do that. According to him, they were just trying to fish me out because I knew too much. Alejandro, according to him, might be in a torturous mode just to break him to get you. He quickly added that Alejandro could not be broken because he did not know him and did not know where we were. We were somewhere eight hours from my station. Everything scared me. I felt horrible thinking I had brought harm to Alejandro. He was a bastard but definitely one of my best buddies who made me sane.
“How do I get out of this place then?” I asked almost in a whisper.
“Easy. Just trust me. I will go to town and get some few things done. I will be back before you know it. I will get you out of here in a week.”
The tone of that scarred me. Sounded more like a dangerous orgy. Watching television bored me to death, especially when my wanted advert paraded my pictures on several channels, so I switched off the television and went ahead to explore the place. It was a beautiful place. An ultra modern kitchen, a very large hall, several decorated rooms and added bathrooms, a classy gymnasium but there was no window and no door leading out. There was absolutely no one there but myself. I felt imprisoned. Luckily, Ntwanu came early and I felt safe again.
“There seems to be no windows nor doors leading out.” He laughed for the first time and even his teeth were different but beautifully arranged.
“Do you realize this is the first real question you’ve asked me? I was beginning to wonder what had happened to my fierce girl. We are underground. This is the safest place for you to recuperate your strength. And don’t worry about leaving here, I will change you so much even your cartel members won’t know you.”
“I was not into drugs, you know?” I said getting angry for nothing. “I am not saying you were into drugs honey. I was almost always around you. I travelled with you here as one of your girls but got out my own way. I even served you before in that house. I know all that you did and know you had nothing to do with the drugs part. But that organization is a drug cartel, the biggest in Mexico.”
I started shivering, then my mind told me whatever I feared was not in the room at that particular point in time so I should definitely relax. Ntwanu climbed into the bed besides me after supper. Funny enough, I didn’t feel like doing anything with him and he didn’t try anything either. He just looked at me as I pretended to watch television. It was a new feeling. There were bubbles of flutters in my heart, in my stomach, maybe even in my soul but my head told me how dangerous he was and warned me to be careful with him.
Three days were all I needed to be fresh and new again. My skin healed so fast, my strength was back. The gym showed how great I had gotten. I had gotten used to he changing like a chameleon. Ntwanu took off all my clothes after my bathroom rituals and started putting something soft on my body. It felt sticky but cool. After he was done with whatever he was doing, I felt like a new person. Standing in that mirror, I looked like a US citizen with my hair and all. He transformed me like a pro and I was in awe. He took a picture and applied for my passport through someone. Within two hours, my passport was ready, together with all the cards I needed as a US citizen, including my green card. Then he took me out through a lift. The lift brought us into a two bedroom apartment which looked like one built in the sixties. Although neatly decorated, it did not have a fragment of the luxury that its underground had. He showed me to the place and I marvelled. Nothing showed it had an underground but every part of that building was like an escalator. All it took to work was its very complex language or sign codes.
We rode freely and went to the airport. We had nine hours to board so decided to tour the place. We went as far as my girls’ dormitory and none was able to identify me. I asked for one of the girls I knew had travelled and mentioned one of her lesbian friends. I was emboldened after that. I laughed heartily after we left there to the pleasure of Ntwanu who asked that I called him “Manor Karl”. My name had changed into Vivian Vevoda. The flight to the US was okay and I felt relieved that I was not detected hiding within myself. Winter welcomed us to my horror and caged us in Ntwanu’s room for days. No clothes could make me feel better. Even the lighted chimney felt like an ice place. So on the second day, I tiptoed from the bathroom and blindfolded him from behind. He raised his hands in mock surrender and slowly turned to face me leaving my hands around his neck, bended small so that he looked right into my face. He was him and I was me. I saw a thousand beautiful flowers and felt the best air, yet I was gasping. I was completely mesmerized and he knew it. I waited for a while to have him kiss me but he just kept on looking at me and so I gently pressed my lips onto his as he closed his eyes drawing me in. Anticipation was turning into reality as passions simmered in our love’s pot.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © April 2018

Photo Credit: Google Pics

SHEs IN TROUSERS

Culture is like a cloth
Washed for its stains only to develop other taints
Time has travelled to see it merged like “nsaasaawa”
Making living confusing in acceptables
Making flaws contorting in reprimands
Time has washed the myths of trousers
Now shes freely live therein

II
Days which picked females like banku
And dipped them into okro sauces of men
To be swallowed and defecated at want
Days which built shadows in men for shes to live in
Soundlessly
At best putting on clothes of unsung heroines
Have almost parked their vehicles

III
Since minds in fem-lands were explored
And platinums down to bronze were discovered
Since strength from soul stood on stages of hardship
From the spirit of motherhood
Since light and darkness confessed their fears in talents of lasses
Many have broken free
From tails of stale digging pleasure for leisure
Bragging rights to treasure
Gifting shame without measure
So who coughed “gyantraness” for all shes in this golden coast?

IV
Lucy Quist to Patience Akyianu
Maidie Arkutu to Wear Ghana’s Agyemang
From Justice Theodora Wood to Naana Opoku Agyemang
Dr. Ama Ata Aidoo to Dr. Mrs. Nana
Ama Pokua Arthur
And all the numerous women in the power trousers of forcefulness
Live in this realm where Obaa Yaa Asantewaa led men to war in colonial times
So who spat the gross spittle of prostitution in adultererhood
On all the fine brains with clothes of decency of this land?

V
Tell me not that patriarchy paved this thought of insult
For real decency was a thread
Don’t tell tales of the weakness of a society
For many a lass live on their pockets
Don’t tell me that an existence of an anomaly
Is right to call for shame for real vectors
Common sense speaks in the sentence “Choose your words carefully”
But what even happened to the moral of the proverb
“Wash not thy dirty linen in public”?
Do you know the fecal matter in that of mockers?

VI
It is a sad day
When a woman definitely feels the pain of childbirth
From the nonsense that walked through the mouth
Of a nine moon traveller schooled to go wrong
A thought stamped non entity without a pounding hole
Bagging all including her travelled womb
In a gutter sack of naughts
Selling us out in a print on minds of some ignoramuses
Whose brains will forever keep our tag
In annoying reminders
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © April 13, 2018

Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 31 (18+)

No matter your state, a shift will show you the importance of being grateful for any state you’re in. The first and last Mexican prison I tasted was hellish, no other word to describe it. I realized I was immediately sent to prison with no trial. After the metal gates were shut, a very repugnant stench rose from the corner to meet my nostrils in a not so friendly welcome. Over eighteen people shared a space definitely meant for, at most, three people. Every space was taken except the small part around the toilet filled hole which acted king of the room. Before I could balance myself in the heat, I was pushed into that fecal matter left-shoulder in. What was worse, there was no water to at least clean myself and no one to talk to. My broken Spanish could not get through the angry faces which obviously hated having a black monster in their presence.
I was in that hellish prison for a week, spat upon, booted, and sometimes defecated on for lack of space. Standing and sleeping mostly and thinking it not worth it to fight in the heat. It was a blessing any time I could find myself a better spot around the toilet area to sit and sleep. I contracted a skin infection, a day after being in that hell hole just as all the people there. Eating was annoyingly horrid as the food was nothing to write home about. I was fortunate to get under a shower only twice in the entire week. Funny, with time, the stench of the faeces became familiar and not as repulsive as it first was; talking about familiarity breeding acceptance. The only thing I could not get used to was sexual abuse under the shower. Those rash infested ladies were always brutal in their “pounce on and finger”. I feared the hidden traces of sicknesses in their bloodstreams anytime it happened to me but tried to act within reasoning to avoid unnecessary attention. I felt a commotion in the place on the night I turned a week in the hole, opened my eyes to see a hand pulling my dehydrated and lean-struck self from behind out. The curses that followed me needed no translator to be understood.
Alejandro looked at me with a sad face and I could see he was struggling not to make me feel like the garbage in my intolerant perfume. All the prison wardens used their handkerchiefs to cover their nostrils but he stood there looking at me. After a while, he gave them some money and took me home. Not a word was said to me on the drive back. I stayed in my bathroom for over three hours, soaking and scrubbing, wiping and drying only to start all over again. When I finally went back to my room, Alejandro was standing and looking through the window with his back to me. It was the first time I realized there was a window in my room. Of course, one with metal nets that none could pass through. He ordered me to go and eat but I declined and jumped into bed. He went out and brought me food on a tray and practically forced me to eat.
“You can’t stay here any longer, I am afraid Miss Davids. Your life will be in danger if the bosses get to hear what happened.” He paused for a while and continued. “You shouldn’t have taken that girl to the hospital. She made it and cleared your name but no one cared enough to release you from that prison. We had to eliminate her because she would have posed a threat to us. They found out she was a prostitute. In fact, the man who hired her had to be taken out too. He chewed her, you know what I mean?”
I didn’t hear anything after he said that. Naki was chewed by a man like a dog? What was his deal? Chewing for pleasure? I was glad he was dead but feared the number of people out there with his traits. “Would prostitutes ever be safe?”, “Is God right to have given us vaginas?”, “How relative is pleasure to have men seek it in the most annoyingly shocking and diverse ways?”, “What is the thin line between pleasure and pain to have it fall into hurting almost all the time?”, “Will the surviving ever survive in this cruel business?” These thoughts run through my mind until Alejandro snapped his fingers to get my attention. “You will be sent to America before those up there get a wind of this. I am sure they’ll know soon. I am doing this because I care about you. Your flight leaves in four hours and I have your security intact until then. Catch some sleep. I will stay here with you.”
He climbed in beside me and I felt safe and slept. Something woke me up only to see a masked figure holding a gun and getting ready to shoot me. I held Alejandro and pulled him to the floor. He waking and pulling his gun was instant and instinctive. He shot three times and killed the two sent to “liquidate” me. He then helped me up, held my hands and pulled me straight out into another car which pulled outside the house. He asked that I left and told me he sure would come to the US to see me but needed to clear something before. He left me in the hands of a familiarly unfamiliar person. One whom I felt I knew but couldn’t remember where or how I knew him. One I had known had been around me for a long time but had no evidence. One who was to protect me until I reached my destination.
The man kept looking at me from the mirror inside the car and I felt uncomfortable. He must have sensed my discomfort even after riding for over an hour and changing cars twice. “Baby girl you don’t need to look so scared. You know I’ll never hurt you? I will always protect you.” I definitely knew that voice and I wasn’t crazy. It was real, I wasn’t dreaming, God! I thought of how possible it was to have experienced that. I looked at him and started weeping uncontrollably. He stopped the car, hopped in beside me and took me into his arms. “You know what your tears do to me. Baby please stop it”. It was as if those two sentences asked me to intensify my weeping. And so I wept in his arms, arms I perfectly fitted into, arms of…

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © April 10, 2018

Photo Credit: Google Pics

WHEN THE OKRO ACTS CUCUMBER

A pen never acts manly on an oily sheet
And true, both okro and cucumber may share a knife
But should never see themselves as equals
For the slime in the former makes it a cook and eat
And the plainness of the latter makes it an instant chop
Well, an “anyhow you want it” chop
If you have an okro, know your hole
Hide not in waist-coverers to brag like a cucumber

II
Four walls never aid in shutting mouths of holes
A whisper today travels into the future
And spreads instantly like the “foosh” of a stomach
Whose eggs and milk and beans and others
Team up for a battle of the rots
And sneaks out in public places

III
Know your okro and seal your bragging tool
A hunter’s game in slaughter is normal
A game slaughtering a hunter is juicy news of fun and laughter
Be not the latter if your gun can only fire like a toothpick
Know your okro and play its game
Act no cucumber to land a timber hole
He who has ears…
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © April 5, 2018

Photo Credit: Google Pics

DEAR GOSSIP OF MY LIFE

I write this letter in mock reverence of your time
You whose mountains of problems hang thorns and stumps
On the trees of your dreams
Making the closure of your eyes nightmarish
And the mattress of your bed hellish
Yet find time to look keenly at my strides
With eagle eyes when your hawk eyes fail
In reportage like an international reporter with no known portfolio
If only you knew freelancing gossips receive no pay checks!!!

II
I hold my earthenware just as you do
If the phantom legs you find dining in mine irks you so
Try looking for royal hands to dine in yours
Odomankomah is not a partial being
That is why you have yours and I have mine
Be no ostrich in a giraffe wannabe
For I am no course with a rewarding certificate

Make me not your sky

For my brightness might you blind

And my fertile rains might you drown

III
If the junction of my waist
Is the catalyst for my climb
By all means do plant a station near yours
To get busy to at least see you in your eyes instead of my reflection by the unstable sun
For my behind’s attraction can make you a hopeless addict
My work’s impact may make you a bitter tool
Which would end up working up fools to you destroy
You are too expensive to employ yourself as my reader

III
None will serve you songs of thanksgiving
For serving me on palatable plates to mouths through ears
You know even kola nuts of reference
Put in guns of “who told you?”
And directed at you may even cause you to dodge
Like an unskilled goalkeeper being threatened by a knife-wielding ball
Do I deserve such an honour of stardom on the stage of your priceless time?

IV
I am no seed to be planted into your harvest
No savings to yield for you huge dividends
No business to get you huge profits
No skill to get you fame
No food to feed your hunger
No water to quench your thirst
No doll for your fulfilling entertainment
And certainly no visa to get you a green card
Into hearts of others
I am simply a you in trying lifedom
So please take a cue
For this little time I used to look back at you
May definitely be all that I can spare
After feeling the unharming fires of your rumours
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © April 3, 2018

FOR AUTISM AWARENESS

Blessed are the pure in spirit

They are like the cleanest water in a tormenting desert

They surely will be there for all

Discriminate against none

And hate not on any

It is a day to wire bells of empathy for a lifetime

II

He who said broken seeds feed not

Has never known hunger

He who said different seeds need no space

Is like a heavy wall caging development in archaism

For difference is the creator’s art of specialization

It is a day to tattoo reasoning on working minds

III

Let’s let our hearts see in feeling

Let’s let our minds mind in mending

Let’s let our hands handle in helping

For a different seed today may be the biggest tree tomorrow

And in autism lies special talents begging to be harnessed

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © April 2, 2018

THE TURNING CROSS

Days have travelled to a weary feet

And now pulls its shocking seat

Of time with all its surprises

Of change so strange in range

II

The cross’ significance sit in revered history

Of the old and few committed

But serve as archaic artifact for many

Whose pleasures outweigh biblical interest

III

Drunkenness in coital worship

Replace prayers in thankful worship

Shaking the grounds of celebrations in old accoutrements

Of soul harvesting as the young dance to tunes of their hearts

IV

The cross is now turning in loss

The boss of meditation now gross

On relegation

Oh how humid the winds of change!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia @ April 1, 2018

Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 30 (18+)

He gave him our price and he paid like a natural mutual understanding between them. Alejandro pushed me out and into the waiting vehicle. We headed off obviously to my house and I was baffled at his calm demeanour. I wanted the corpse to be properly buried in the least to lay the poor girl to rest somehow but he said it wasn’t necessary. I could not hold back my tears as I thought of her family back home. She was my responsibility and should not be dead, not through that horrible means. I thought of the pain she must have suffered before her untimely death seeing as a snake was forced into her vagina. It couldn’t have been funny in the least. I would have had a cardiac arrest too and probably felt the lowest point in the word “useless”. Alejandro couldn’t stop laughing. He believed the way I punched the Minister was funny to my chagrin. I saw a man who cared not about the death of another human being and queried him but he simply shrugged: “Death is now a normal thing to me, especially if it is a worker. They die everyday and sometimes you must kill them to stay safe. Death is for everybody so why bother?” His Spaniard tone had an air of truth that not only baffled but also annoyed me.
I felt a whirl of anger rise from the bottom of my stomach, take hold of my head, forcing me to attack him. We nearly landed in an accident. He forced the vehicle to a stop, blocked his face as I punched any part my fists fell until my mind showed me the video of the cruel murder of a white man. One who died by my hands, skin peeled, knife pierced uncountable times, words taunted and haunted for hours and eventually butchered. Ken; the brutish man who degraded me to a sex mate for a dog! I stopped abruptly and cried louder. A voice told me I had a good reason to kill that bastard and I was in no way as corny and ritualistic as that Mexican Minister. But another reminded me that death was death after all. Alejandro sensed my confusion and multiplied hurts and held my calmed and miserable self. It dawned on me that we as humans are quick to judge but conscience is sometimes slow to remind, and when it reminds, we feel the sweat of dirt, unwholesomeness, silliness pouring down the souls of our bodies thereby angering us into self blame. The pain did not subside for me, the fact that it happened made me wish for a place to bury the ordeal after all, many deeds of humans to fellow humans can be deemed murderous too. It just was a matter of relativity.
I sulked at home for three days, woke up and looked for my phone to check porn sites for humans who sleep with reptiles, something I had never done, and I was frighteningly surprised. Some women actually feel pleasure in sleeping with snakes. Your shock is as valid as mine was. I stared at my computer screen for hours and told myself “I truly have seen it all this time”. As I was still contemplating the doability of the act with fearsome goosebumps all over my skin, a call came through my emergency line.
I rushed to one of the girls’ dormitories only to find Nako, one of my girls, dumped naked with her breasts and vagina each partly chewed. I was terrified. I asked for a blanket, gathered her in it and rushed her to the hospital without thinking. She was rushed to the theatre as soon as we entered. Nako had tried to tell me something before collapsing on our way to the hospital but failed to make even a whisper audible. I wondered what could have happened to her; animal bites? Some canker? A curse? An infection? I run out of guesses.
I felt a tap on my shoulders as I impatiently waited after eleven hours to hear some news from the doctors, turned and saw six policemen breathing down at me. They told me I was under arrest but I didn’t know what it was for and before I could say anything, or ask anything, I was pinned to the ground like a destructive mad person or a hardened criminal. The dragging on the bare ground into their terribly hardened-prison-like vehicle was not as frustrating and painful as the Spanish they spoke which made no sense to me. I felt like a Mexican garbage left for days with spoilt slimy foods therein. I wanted to scream after asking them to tell me in English what my crime was to no avail but restrained myself and got shut into the van with no windows. It was a very roasting long drive to the station.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © March, 2018.

Photo Credit: Google Pics

BE LET TO GROW (AGAINST CHILD MARRIAGES)

There are many fruits which fail to mature
On their mother trees
Mama, I don’t want to be one of such fruit
I need to be sheltered when storms break
Need to be covered when the rains come in
Need to be pampered when good air visits
And to feel the matured company
When the sun sets in
Oh papa, I want to be ripe before the pluck

II
For poverty sake
Mama, give me not out like a token for a feed
For I can mature and be the pot whose water never dries out
For debts sake papa give me not out as your once peace of mind
For I can be that wealth
The future prepares for you
For societal tongues sake
Uncle give me not out as a clearance of gossip
For I can be the star of this home
When my future is left for my studies

III
I am in no rush for a crash
I am the flower who wishes to bloom into beauty
My future is in my hands and not in the hands of any boy or man
Until a job finds me in a good salary
Marriage is the vehicle I wish not to enter
So help me mama
Help me papa
Help me uncle
Help me auntie
For I am a child
And marriage is a cloth meant for adults
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © March 27, 2018

JERKS OF HEARTBREAK

There are clawed fingers
Which scratches the core of the heart of loving souls
Plucking out happiness and planting sadness
Leaving the future bleak and eyes red

II
They come in their horrid varieties
Slow or aggressive
And take over the senses in helpless lenses
Take over muscles in fearful pulls
Take over shame with spittle so lame
Forcing teeth to bite their bosom friend; tongue
Contorting bodies until their arrests end
To the shame of the innocent model

III
Not contagious they say
But burns out friendships like fires in dry hay
Able to be handled
But squeezes out young brains like water in a towel
Not a spirit
But harms hearts like the harmattan’s touch on fertile trees
Those blessed not to have witnessed might comfortably chuckle but
Dear epilepsy, you are one of death’s most vile agent
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © March 26, 2018

EBONY GOES HOME

Daring was her nature

Beautiful was her stature

Much talent was hosted in her bubbly frame

The head of youth popping out of her character at every juncture

Defying norms and soothing ears

Representing her in the past tense makes me tense

Yet a greater hand has beckoned

Who is this mouth to ask why?

II

Her clock stopped before her birthday station

And her loss halted a whole nation

Half of whose mouths whipped in critical damnation

A beautiful bloom broken into our doom

Ebony, the blackest star which centered the musical red, gold and green

III

Home is where all our ends rest

As you go, come back rejuvenated

To change many more status quos

To touch more lives

To show the world how to live in fitting individual skins

To smile brightest and laugh loudest

In the black apparel nature gave which many blessed souls want changed

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © March 24, 2018

Photo Credit: Google Pics

THIS FACE WE BOOK

This Face we book

Has many pages to flip

Beautiful pictures to look

Opened relationships to zip

Different recipes to cook

Vulnerable seams of souls to rip

Many addictions to hook

Many tears to in sympathy drip

II

In its town, many a secret sit naked

Many a bomb lie unclothed

Many a lonely heart roam veiled

Seen by bright eyes with no sight

Yet, many a stars are born on these streets

Many a thief, duly caught

Many a heart cruelly broken

Many a voice, rudely shut

Should mention be made of the much shame

Sprinkled on self portraited flowers and beaks?

III

This Face we book

The Twit we ter

This Insta we gram

This Link we in

And their brothers and sisters we display

Are theoretic worlds of us

Living in our arts

Making us gods in our own rights

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © March 24, 2018

THE STOREY OF YOU (FOR WORLD POETRY DAY)

I came to you straight from life’s hellish oven

With a soul brutalised and so very grief shaken

I came to you like a tired lamb

With my neck in offering

On feet so rebellious because of needs and pain’s whips

You held me, soothed me, and magically mended my callouses

Like a gentle ice on a burning wound

II

I sat in you with a shattered heart

A clubbing head with a vengeful hat

But days drained it all in your powerful words

Every ink cleansing my bleeding soul

Every hugging word exorcising my anger

Every line planting sanity in the dessert of my brain

Every stanza planting humanity in the pores of my skin

III

I lived in you like a fool turned tool

Yet you used me not as your stupid bull

But as a blessed head linked to a flowing hand

Mending my name from the dents of shame

Strengthening my muscles for battling rings of life

Shaving furry out of my hurry

Oh you mystical angel in an art!

IV

Purity in you is my loving find

Love of you is carved in my grateful mind

You are the piece of peace life has given

On my famished chaotic plate

That cool rain in my days of drought

So I will forever worship your existence:

P-O-E-T-R-Y, goddess of my artistic musedom!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © March 21, 2018

WOMEN ARISE (For International Women’s Day)

There is a reason beauty was given to most flowers
Along with their fragile nature and protective thorns
There is a reason they are nectared to feed many beaks and winged livers
Amidst the storms, rains and suns
And through their bruises, beheading and rots
I wish the creator spells it out

II
There sure is a reason love’s ironed ends
Reside in soft, warm, malleable femininity
With its sweat of tears
Surely, the creator is a skilled artist
Who knows the recipe of life’s nature and nurture
And which craft best fits caretaking
Even though we live behind the hidden reason
Let’s take the nature challenge

III
We need to rise
To be the world’s best sunrises
Shining off societal ills that handcuff our progress
We need to shine our love
On the darkness of yesteryears
To clear blinded eyes to see our best covered by society’s prisons
We need to lead with empathy on our sleeves
Even through tough times
To be lotuses in this murky mud called earth
We need to break the yokes of self doubt
Forgetting what arrested and forging through what enlightens

IV
No blame ever harvested fruits to feed a soul
No shame ever dressed a being with gold
No tears ever bathed a heart to be hurt free
No bitterness ever dusted hatred in harmed beings
No attack ever resurrected deaths of prides
None can tell our own stories like us
So arise in your awesomeness
Lead in your rights in gowns of perfections through respect and care
For you are flawless creations
Only flawlessly flawed by love and its deflections
To take on challenges like lozenges in our cold world
To share the covered smiles to flutter hearts
In evenness
To make life’s ride a pleasure for all
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © March 8, 2018

STAKES (FOR GHANA’S 2018 INDEPENDENCE CELEBRATION)

There has been a crawling baton
Since Nkrumah’s power run
In leading change
Still, we live through the smiles of moderation
In the ills of corrupt adorations
Gunning for greed in place of fertile seeds
Hating on whistleblowers in place of their hailing
Accepting crumbs for much sums
Never calculating the future’s profits in kind
And always thinking in the now
Yet we flow with sunrises thanking God
For trees which beg to be made into furniture
Suns which beg to live in the dark
Foods which tell tales of serving in cans
Seeds whose end products could give us much

II
From the rich cocoa lands
To the rich mineral lands
The fertile grounds to the strong beings
Right to theories left without practicalities
Fingers finger holes of darkness around the light
Yet hope glares
From its tiny corner
Hoping its pupils will be caught in the rays of ambition
To give excelling opportunities
To this royal dressed like “Korean Candy” and
Placed right in shrouds of development

III
We will figure it out
This chemistry of harmonisation and time consciousness
We will figure it out
This physics of nation building and work consciousness
We will figure it out
This art of syncing to the tune of success through hardwork
We will figure it out
This mathematics of development
Through the Woyomic confusions
To the Gyeeda embarrassment
Through the uncountable judgement debts
To the carnivorous roads
Through our shaking lights
To our here and there waters
Clothed in our love for culture and ourselves
We will figure it all out
The mass wealth with no formula for end products
For we are combinations of the best colours there are
Blood, minerals and green vegetations
Whose middle hosts the brightest blackness
With a general shine
For we are miracles by birth
So shackles are not unbreakable
We are the Gold Coasters turned Ghanaians
And proudly so
Long live Ghanaians
Long live Ghana
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © March 6, 2018

Photo Credit: Google Pics

The Peppering Reality


They claim if a woman buys a gun, it is kept in the room of a man. Nonsensical nonsense! I feel the men who lived in those times and still exist in the now need refurbishment of brains in order to see where their “waatonkyene” vehicle is now parked to gift them a clear vision of the polished Limousines and V8s parading the streets of the now. These ears have heard them all; a woman’s place is in the kitchen (when men have feet to carry them there and two hands and a brain to cook), a woman is man’s property (as if men are born with additional months other than nine), a woman needs a man to be complete (as if completion is measured by their penises), a woman without a man is a prostitute (as if a woman prostitutes by herself), a woman with a mind and a mouth is bitter ( at this point I know only those who feel real bitterness are able to point out the bitter.)
Why will I fight so hard for three degrees, work so hard for a place in the society, build my personality well for respect only to play second fiddle to a man? Why? Do they have special powers to know my death date from my birth? “Abufuwsem akwaakwa”. 

Just look at Ama, fine lady she was in her twenties. A classmate, now with even grey hair at thirty one. After four children, her body is like that of an aged cow. She cleans, cooks, washes and pampers that cheating husband of hers who makes her feel less than an uncared for dog. Imagine me with my manicured fingernails and polished face, cleaning and cooking like a slave. Why? What are maidservants for? And why the hell will I pamper a cheating husband when HIV/AIDS is living in bodies with no seen tags? 

To me, a cheating husband must leave the house the very instant he is caught. A man must also take up his roles in the house. If I cook today, he must clean and do the dishes, if I bath the children, he must take them to school, if I wash our clothes, he must definitely dry them, if I take them off the drying lines, he surely must iron and fold them into the wardrobe. Why? Because we all earn income and are forming an equal home. Even the Bible says a woman should HELP the man not take over all the work in his house. What is submission without reciprocity? Did my mother gave birth to me to be enslaved by someone or stay in the shadow of some man? If the shadow is a good place to be, why the hell are they running their mouths in insults at even the thought that they could take the place of women in the kitchen? It is the uncouth men who shout the loudest! Empty barrels they say…! The annoying thing is that most are educated illiterates with no travelling experience. Yes, no travelling experience. They will surely argue and rain insults when they hear this but ask them where they have been to on earth, and you will hear “I travelled from Ho to Hohoe, Nkawkaw to Obo, Sagnerigu to Kumbungu, Tech Junction to Ejisu” and other laughable submissions. 

Nothing irks me like the travelled ones who act like domestic dogs abroad only to come back to their roots to act like kings of their home-made-jungles! Look at Lamisi’s husband who cooked and invited my boyfriend and I in Connecticut. When I visited them in their home in Accra, he sat in a sofa with legs crossed, throwing instructions around like a farmer ordering his hen. “Lamisi, did you only serve water? There is a champagne in the cellar. Hurry and serve them. Also prepare something delicious for them”. A second later, when the children were heard fighting over a ball, he opened his gutter to utter the most annoying insult I have ever heard “Lamisi, in the Name of Allah, control your children!” As if the children were not his, but when the conversation settled on the kids’ performance in school; “Oh they are really great! Whose children are they after all? Mine of course!”  I felt like blowing his mind up with a hammer of words but Rob, my boyfriend held and pleaded with me with his eyes as I painfully watched Lamisi sweep, wipe tables, do dishes while being sent on errands intermittently by the man who just sat gratifying himself with unnecessary talks about the cold snow and difficult life abroad. Ha! And I am sure he would jump on her like a pig at night without mercy! Such a filthy parody of man!

That evening, as I sat to think of all the unfair treatments meted out to women, I could not help but cry at the injustice our supposed illiterate ancestors committed against our poor mothers and decided to make them see reality. Kofi Nkwantannan’s proposal came in handy when my boyfriend asked me for a break. After sleeping over, I woke him up to lay the bed, sweep the room and prepare some breakfast for me. His eyes opened like an owl, his mouth like a made-belief dragon, the only missing point being the fires they are rumoured to spit. So, I pulled him from my bed naked, pushed him outside and threw his clothes on him all the while telling him “Who can marry a man who sleeps like a log in his woman’s house? Good luck finding a highly brought up lady like me!” I banged the door on him and warned him to clean up his drool on my doorsteps before leaving. 

And there was Habib. Guy just wanted me to meet his family, but I suggested he met mine first. Then he came to my house dressed in a jeans trousers and a T. Shirt. The arrogance of a growing monkey! I sacked the nigga from my house and made sure he never stepped foot in my house again with my well chronicled vocabulary which brought tears in his eyes. Imagine a lady dressed like that to meet potential in-laws in a lass domestication home!

Asona had the nerve to tell a close pal of mine that he slept with me. In his presence, I told that close pal and all those present about his thick and short penis which couldn’t even function properly. The nigga got really peeved and took out his penis for all to see. Tried as he did to make it wake for all to see, it slept like a dead log all through, shaming him the more. I felt good and in control then. Who codified a law that states only a woman can be shamed for her sexuality?

I wore my cool mini skirt and sleeveless top with high heels to church only for an elder to tell me to go home and change so as not to attract the men with the aura of my sinful accoutrements. I only gathered my friends, went to the church dressed to kill and sat how we liked in the front row as pastors stuttered, elders tried to swallow all the waterings of their mouths, choirmaster fought to hide his sheepish excitement only for the women’s leader to come with  pieces of cloths for us to cover ourselves up! I gave it to her from left to right, centre to back and front. In fact, I dressed her very well in a covering kaba and slit with a headgear, did her makeup to suit her and added the 70’s old shoes and ear rings to match. Don’t be too excited, they were all fashioned with my insult fabrics. 

Imagine a dunce of a woman telling me I am no wife material. I asked her how many yards she was and she was there yapping like an unschooled idiot! Should I be a patriarchal princess to be treated like a trash doll? Looked at only when pleasure bells call? God forbid! 

Amandzi is a real idiot! I just had a one night stand with him and he came back crying like a naive girl. What annoys me is that lady who took over someone’s husband and was jilted like a milk tin. She too had the mouth to say I am not a proper lady and that I am a shame to womanhood. An unmarked slave like that! Is it her concern if I decide to abort a pregnancy? In fact, whose concern is it? Is it not my own body? Why must anyone decide for me? I doubt she is getting some from any area boy. She surely is cranky because of all the Mary and Jesus’ cross that some riffraff gives gives her in a blue moon. I hear those princesses can hardly take control in their bedrooms. Such idiots! They “yes please” themselves even to be ridden like animals sedated to be killed in abattoir-like rooms.

I decided to jilt Koo Kumi after dating him for a month. Guy was cool and did everything I wanted but he was just too boring for my liking. I needed an excuse and told him that I am breaking up with him because he was not a virgin when we first slept together. Guy’s face mirrored a horror movie. Why do men find these things normal when it involves women but think they should not apply to them? Those who annoy me are the pastors and malllams who use their books to subdue women and make them feel less of themselves. I have created my own God and I pray to him to deal with them. The Bible and Quran was surely written by ego bloated men who needed chains to cage their women. Let anyone come to me with those scriptures and I will show them bullets and bombs can be found in some voices.

Atta, the village crook now tells people I serve the devil because I asked him to go down on me. It is amazing how horses of the past now try to make planes look alien in the present. He is one of those “gafara” men who “enter” their women like jerks, without foreplay. How do some women cope with some of these men?

I am now a topic among rumour mongers because I insisted my friend got a divorce from her husband of eight years after he slapped her. Why? Should I have left her there? The annoying thing is that that ungrateful Sherry is now blaming me for being single. Such a piece of shit! She would rather be married and unhappy than single and free. What is wrong with everybody and where at all is everyone, dear diary?

Abena Jemremedua © Feb. 2018 inspired by Kofi Gbedemah.

Photo Credit: Google Pics

Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 20

Honey digs out unknown palates from the land, air and sometimes water. Some river fishes are only seen when baits are casted. I was shocked at the number of people lined up at the office which was recruiting people for odd jobs abroad. I heard from other people there that some people came to sleep there overnight. Many were smartly dressed depicting their high social classes. I wondered what was fuelling the needs of people to leave our precious nation but it dawned on me that I was the last person to think of that. I, Adwoa Attaa Anobeng, who have almost forgotten my name, the filthy me who left my village in search of greener pastures in the city and was jumping at the first opportunity to travel out of the country. The need to survive, the need to make it, the need to be the talk of your own after succeeding, the need to earn the bragging rights of a been to, the need to have much dollars and pounds were all part of the factors. 

There were security guards who were making sure all of us were in line and they were all rude. Shouting on top of their voices and going as far as slapping people they thought were out of line and caning sellers who just wanted to make a decent living. I sat there the whole day but it was obvious I would not make it to the interview that day. So I left, hoping to return the next day after asking someone to keep my place and number for me. I was number 3,476 and there were more people after than before me. I left when number 16 was being interviewed at around 2pm.

I had an appointment booked for 2:30 at the Royal Hotel. Mimi had told me it was a very important person so I had to handle him with class. I wore a pretty deep blue short sleeved dress that went down to my knees, put on a sexy see through white brazier with matching panties and chose a Far Away perfume over 212 glam to impress. I had used Scion Fem Wash after using alum water to wash there; my there. I painted my nails red and chose a red lip stick with the best facial powder I had then. I looked and felt good in a blue black stiletto heels with a black handbag.

The Royal Hotel stood like a magnificent dream at the outskirt of Ejisu. Painted sea blue and white with great paintings depicting culture and class with its name carved in a golden metal, its security man was in his security room regulating the main gate. I zoomed in and parked appropriately and made my way to the presidential suit with the help of the receptionist who could not help looking at me. I was shocked to see the Minister of Health seated in one of the finest sofas I had ever seen, drinking Scotch on the rocks.

“Turn around”

I paused for three seconds, looked at the mannerless man and regained my sense of duty. After all, he owed me nothing but orders. Orders I needed to obey, so I turned around, heard him whistle, come closer, smacked me on my buttocks, threw an attire on me and asked me to go in there and change without even a second of rest. I changed into a deep green short skirt and top with a little hat which needed to be pinned into a small part of my big weave. 

“There is my air hostess!” His exclamation told me just what would happen. Role play sex. I was shocked at the furniture and decoration of the room. To say it was beautiful is an understatement. The bedroom had one of the queen size beds with such beautiful sheets and sophisticated shape that took my breath away. He pointed to a cart with food and asked that I served him like an air hostess on a plane? I was taken aback. I had never boarded a plane before and didn’t know how they served. He might have read it on my face but still expected me to make a mess of myself. I pushed the cart with food to him on the bed and asked him what he’d want. He told me coffee and I served it to him. After drinking, he threw the cup away and grabbed me onto the bed. It took me by surprise but I leaned in to his rough kiss. Then he shouted on top of his voice “You wench! Struggle with me! Try not to give in to me! I want you to fight me you wench!” I complied, putting up a fight because at that point, I realized he was not worth it. Seriously, I wanted him to stop so I could leave. I didn’t want to be treated badly by a national thief. 

I put up a fight but it was obviously not enough. He was stronger and had me at a vantage point. He slapped me many times, bit my breast, kicked me in the knees and threw me onto the woolen carpeted floor. I might have twisted my wrist but he did not care. He threw punches that targeted my joints, then tore my clothes off. Still wearing a t-shirt with a jeans shorts, he removed his little man from its hidden supporter and penetrated me while I cried. 

“Cry louder you wench! Cry louder bitch!” I didn’t know the meaning of “wench” then but the sound of it offended me more and enhanced my aching joints. He was a big man. His rude thrusts felt like insults on my injured pride. Pride, a thing needed to be discarded like rubbish in my chosen profession but a thing I couldn’t come to terms with throwing out. The first round ended with pains all over my body, bites around my neck and mouth and a bruised vagina but the brute was not finished with me. He lifted me like garbage and threw me on the merciful bed. He held my knees together and placed me in a doggy position with a heavy dog chain which I failed to see when I entered the room around my neck, penetrated into my painful golden hole with thrusts as painful as the digging of a pickaxe on a live body. It was a very horrible moment with the man rumoured to condone expired drugs importation for huge profits. A man rumoured to care less about the plight of patients in hospitals let alone the feelings of workers under his care. A man chosen into the Health Ministry solely based on his ill wealth and great connections. A man I thought had some conscience and so wanted to believe was a victim of rumour. Too bad that clearly had some truth.  He shattered my soul and body. When he was done with me, he spat on me, unlocked his dog chain and hid it in his bag, then called for someone, leaving me helpless on the bed. I tried to get up many times but could not. 

When the man, a 47 year old looking man, came in, Hon. Shaibu Attugubu ordered that he cleared the bed. It seemed he was used to doing what was asked him so he looked for my clothes in the bathroom after doing away with my ruined panties and brazier and put my deep blue dress on me. He sent me to the sofa in the huge hall, went back to probably finish cleaning and called a doctor or whoever he was, to attend to me. My wounds were attended to in the room close to the presidential suit, I was given some massage and an injection and slept off. When I woke up, I felt a bit better and could move. I called for water and was handed a glass full by the man who cleaned me up. He apologized to me and told me to never mention it to anyone as the minister was going through a tough time with many scandals and problems. Of course I knew it was a cover up but I didn’t want to be threatened now that I had no one to take my side when the law catches up with me. He gave me a sum which blew my mind away, a very huge sum of money and ordered someone to fill my tank and drive me back to wherever I wanted. I knew it was a way to check up on me so I asked the guy to drive me to Hotel Akom at Tech Junction and booked a room to sleep there over the night. 

My cell phone rang and I realized it was Inspector Amamoo. He told me he wanted to collect his gratitude. I was all sore and wanted to reschedule but he insisted. As a rule, I did one man per night and per day, unless on rare occasions. But I just had to invite him over. I put up a face and gave him “some” ride as his lazy bones laid there like a log, moaning like an uncouth housewife in a jealousy taunt sex close to the room of her rival. What was worse, I had to cope with his loud snoring the whole night till dawn. Something which compounded my growing headache. Still, I thought about ending prostitution by going abroad and leaving all the bad memories behind. I would go for my interview even if I am confined in a doomed prison, I thought to myself. 

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Dec. 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics

​ROYAL SALY

The ocean blankets your very warmth

The trees serves the gentle air on plates of satisfaction

The flowers wave in beautification

Giving smiles like that of a gentle sun

Even the thatch whistles your modesty in luxurious melodies

In a realm where breathing in and out is a Messiah’s gift

Who dares to breastfeed sadness on your royal laps?

Oh Royal Saly!


II

Ashoka picked you for a reason

To make the dawn of enlightenment in your season

To show present grasses how huge they’ll grow into trees

In just few years

To urge them to strive no matter their fears

Even if rains of hurdles drain their sanes

As harmattan of confusion clouds their skies

In such arms of comfort

Where nature bows to humanity

Who dare to nurse chaos?

None but a phantom!

Oh Royal Saly!


III

Where your sea ships sit in call

Our fallen love is called

Where your sea sands wait with blessed fingers

We go in happy massage of our feet

Where your pool mirrors our wonders

Our souls look to see the face of God

You are where colour fades in supremacy

A place where humanity blends

Into a beautiful and peaceful earth

Why will a frown visit faces in your bosom?

Even half a reason exists not!

Oh Royal Saly!


IV

A dream of mother earth!

A star location of Africa, a bragging fort of Dakar!

A cola on tongues of visitors!

A fortunate bride’s gift!

A fulfilled soul’s dream!

You are all these and more

Oh Royal Saly!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 30, 2017

Photo Credit: Ashoka Crew

Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 16

​Juicy mangoes peeled in its attractive fibres will never fail to attract flies. Curiosity, we know, is mostly a trap but which cat can suppress it? The Basic Examination Certificate Examination (BECE) was a day away. Ntwanu had registered me with Jalatu Junior High School. I attended few of their classes but never felt comfortable in their midst. Early Sunday morning leading to the Monday when the exams were to start, I had a call from Teacher Mante. He was a tall, lanky ebony black man with small eyes, long face and a huge nose. One who would get lost at the least appearance of darkness. He wanted me to meet him with some few candidates for a discussion. 

“I know a friend who has the English and Pre-Vocational Skills questions. He says they are right under his roof. He is a very connected and trusted man.”

At the mention of this, all of the other candidates smiled. I sat there expressionless. A part of me wanted to get those questions, a part of me kept pricking my conscience on how wrong it was. I mean, I had and still have my limits where sins are concerned and to engage in examination malpractices was not one of them. A part of me thought I could pass with ease while a part didn’t want to take any chances. I was lost in thought when a loud murmuring brought me back into reality.

“All you need to do is to pay 5 cedis each for the first two papers. You know they print a day to the exams right? So he will get the others.”

Some students thought it expensive but it died down and everyone agreed to pay.

“Also, you will need to contribute 2 cedis each to be given to the invigilators so they will relax and help you pass”

The “ei” chorus came and passed as though it never was, few seconds of silence and they all agreed. I sat there, knowing I never agreed but never disagreed. My silence concurring their acceptance and making me guilty like them. 

“And what will you do for me?”

The eyes which looked hidden in a forest of lids were set on me. Dressed in trousers and a fitting top which was one of my decent pieces, I felt stupid seeing the lust in his eyes. After he dismissed us, he asked that I see him privately. 

“You know you’re a very pretty girl? All you need to pass is you.” He then started advancing towards me like a skilled chameleon. I stood there looking at him, knowing what he was doing and feeling his foolishness. It is very annoying when a man decides to manipulate a girl for sexual favours when the said girl knows his intentions. So I asked him what he wanted and asked that he be as candid as possible.

“Sex. I want to sleep with you, I can do anything for you you know”

“Anything?” The word caught my attention and I saw a man ready to give his respect just for sex, a man skilled at destroying young girls, a man dangerous to the future of most girls’ chastity, so I agreed and followed him to his house.

His single room reeked of alcohol, cigarettes and some form of rot I couldn’t place my hands on. My countenance made him know what I thought about his place. After trying so hard to put the place in order, he opted for a cheap hotel which I consented to. 

I pushed him into the bathroom and ordered him to take a very thorough bath. He was first shocked at the commanding tone of my voice, then subdued with intrigue. I saw his manhood which was something so ordinary, so average even as his lust showed its fingerprints in its wake.

After he came to the room from the bathroom, I inspected his body, used a piece of toilet paper to wipe the cave between his rear and buttocks and sent him back again to get clean.  Satisfied that he was clean, I pushed him down and massaged the small him with my fingers. I was never going to go down on that pig. Concentrating on his sensitive part, he came over and over again. Judging by his cum, I could see he was getting a lot from many places. Little drops per cum. That 34 year old dangerous bastard!

I sat on him and started riding, he felt pleasured for the first few minutes and went off totally. I got off and looked for his sparking points, I caught his neck, soles of his feet and his midribs. So I rode  him again and again. On the fifth round, while panting, he begged for mercy but I didn’t listen. I was bent on teaching him a lesson and was not about to stop for anything. I spiked his drink with a booster and made sure he was trapped in ecstasy.

It was the first time seeing someone’s inner rejection battling with his physical pleasure needs. His eyes were screens of plea and need and I sat on, riding in his punishment all the little girls whose virginity he had stolen, all the little girls he had manipulated for his sexual greed, hoping this lesson will save some green horns from his lustful clutches.

Time must have travelled without prompting me, when I realized what was happening, his “jack” was still standing but he had collapsed. I cleaned up, dressed and stood, torn between leaving him to his fate and calling help. Finally, I settled on leaving. I met a waitress at the main exit and told him to send a note to the one in room 306 as I could not reach him although we had an appointment. I told her I had to leave and will call later because I had another appointment and left.

The examinations were good. Invigilators were lenient, obviously due to the bribe and some students had “apɔ”. I decided to go the good way, writing with my mind and studies and I felt great doing so. I didn’t see Teacher Mante all through, word had it, he was critically ill and had been transferred to the Komfo Anokye Teaching Hospital. According to Miss Dua who visited him, he said he had a heart attack due to stress. Well, I was grateful he did not lose his life due to my lesson and so left the school, hoping to return for a result which would help me further my education. At sixteen and a half, I felt I had achieved something real in life and I was grateful to God. I decided to go and give alms to the poor not in Kejetia Market where fake people abound, but in a church using hearsay and personal judgement.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © December 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics

​FOR LOVE AND COUNTRY

No grass-cutter will ever use

Its own hands to light a fire

In a grass hole which houses its muse

Or its own loving empire

So why abuse your living space?


II

We are all sailing to leave to here gift

Like leaves on a running river

To those who we sift

Into this world with a shiver

So why corrupt this divine space?


III

Be the river that cleans the dirt

And not one that erodes the sand

Be the broom that sweeps the filth

And not one that sweeps gold dust

For we are in a transit, at a blessed place where our scents live on

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © December 5, 2017

​DISABILITY: A DIFERENT FORM OF ABILITY

None knows how seeds form

None knows how they’ll turn up

Only Onyankopong Otwereduampong knows

So let your tongue be with no meanness

Let your eyes marry your mind in learning

That disability is a different form of ability


II

Every womb loves its proceeds

None is special than the other

It transcends boundaries

Class

Wealth

Fame

Intelligence

A mother is a mother

A father is a father

So let your voice be with no malice

Teach your mind to know that disability is a different form of ability


III

In a world where big and wholesome trees 

Are at the mercy of some winds

Ailing seeds need shades of protection

Shades of love

Shades of mentoring

For the fact is like a stomach

Every body owns one

So teach your ears to listen in correction

That disability is a different form of ability


IV

Open your arms to the armless

Let your sight lead the blind

Help walk the legless

Lend your voice to the voiceless

Be the mind of the lacking

Lighting colour of embrace to the unloved skin

Be the spine of the spineless

Be the ears of the deaf

Winds of ailment roam the earth

With no pointers as to who they’ll embrace

So know in all your days

That disability is a different form of ability

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © December 3, 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics

​MY FAVOURITE PARTS ON YOU (ADULT POETRY)


I know you are a perfect piece

Parts carefully fitted into a whole

Just as the sun completes daylight, 

You, in this time complete me

Love is a vehicle, ridden through the test of time

With prompts and bumps and tips and dips

Bringing me to my favourite parts of you


II

Your hands which weed my shreds

And till my land

Digging stumps and planting goosebumps

In these pores

In preparation for a great planting


III

Your mouth which sings my praises

And its red towel which feeds my toffees 

And drinks from the twin pots well filled by nature

And oh, the careful working

In the hidden bowl into lickhood

Calling in the moisture of heat

Which moaning beats in drumming

And when it gently takes the hearing cup

The heavens open to throw in needed pleasure

Gifting us a coupling leisure


IV

Your eyes

Which travel into knowing

And softens into taking cues

Seeking approval after careful permissions

Showing the most adorable pictures of me

Like a world class channel


V

Your pestle

From the best tree with great nutrients

Shaped into standing tall

Carved into my falling call

The sweetest taste of a never finishing lollipop

Never thought I could give any pestle much rain to passions drain

When it, like the angelic congregational knight

Enters my beautiful temple in loving prayers

And when it sings to the rhythm of nature

I can do naught but be the best backing vocalist

Until we climb to the peak of passion’s mountain

And blend into orgasmic submissiveness



VI

Your chest

The best place for my pampered head

Never thought my best pillows could host a better rival

In my explorations into meditation

That space in time fits my dreamlike cocoon

You sure are my best me

My best parts on you fitting into the fantasy you are

Blessed me in my dreamy you!

A joint conquerers in singular charm!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 7, 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics

MAYWEATHER

I see the money weather

Even after the taunting shower

That led to the punching rains

Which bloated your opponent’s treasured eye land

I must confess you tower

More like the Everest of fists

In this generation
II

Left fist like a power volcano

Right fist like a bomb slap

Speed in punches like a terror tsunami

You are the power behind all rings

In your mighty realm

Undefeated, you were made for the tops

Clearly so strong

You are like the fiercest of lions

None can compare to you in these times
III

A legend is he who listens to wise clowns

In all glories

Many lorries are packed with rolling eyes

Clearly seeing needless boasting in place of your thoughts of showmanship

Money is no being on a stretcher

The holes of wombs have brought many a men down

Booty shakers are no hungry children

Neither are they destitute who bring honour

To their saving angels

There is a reason chambers come after halls

You are a legend

A legend who must act legendary

Gloating is a goat’s coating
IV

You are worthy

You are wealthy

You are who you are 

But be the honourable you

As that is the clothes that suits legendary bodies

Many a black children run on hunger

Many a homeless being cry tears of desperation

Many ill bodies roll on stretchers in pain

Hoping to an angel gain

Salt praises not itself

Tongues sing its praises

A word to a wise head needs no repetitive ladder

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © August 29, 2017

HOW GHANA GAINED INDEPENDENCE BY NANA APAU

UGCC born August 4, 1947 – died February 8, 1951 –  the day that music died.
The so-called Danquah-Busia-Dombo (NLM/UP/PP/NPP) – DBD Tradition and its spokespeople like Paul Adom Otchere fail to take into account the mass factor in the nationalist movement in the history of Modern Ghana. The adherents of this DBD Tradition tend to present the rise of nationalism in Modern Ghana as the product of the machinations of the educated urban elite (ARPS, WANC, UGCC). 
A careful examination of the history of Modern Ghana from the colonial days reveals the single most important factor in the history of the growth and success of Ghanaian nationalism was the mass factor. It was only when the mass of the people moved that the colonial government became seriously concerned and willing to make concessions.
UGCC was formed on August 4, 1947. UGCC leadership invited Nkrumah to return from Britain to organize the UGCC as its secretary. The UGCC leadership were honorable businessmen and lawyers. They needed the youthful Nkrumah (monkey) to work for the UGCC leaders (the baboons) to chop.
Danquah was the legal adviser for the Ex-Servicemen Union. Both Nkrumah and Danquah addressed a rally of the Ex-Servicemen on February 20, 1948. When the Ex-Servicemen’s Union called a march to Christiansborg Castle, on February 28, 1948, both Danquah and Nkrumah were addressing a political meeting outside of Accra at Saltpond. 
About 2,000 marchers turned up, but police would not let them proceed. In the confusion, stones were thrown and the police opened fire, killing one ex-serviceman outright and wounding others (two later died). The distraught marchers ran to another section of Accra where people had gathered to conclude a month-long boycott of foreign merchants organized by Nii Kwabena Bonne III, a prominent merchant and UGCC leader. With emotions running high, the crowd turned to violence, looting and burning shops. Police opened fire. A crowd battered down the gate to Ussher Fort Prison in order to let prisoners escape. 
As the news spread, rioting broke out in Kumasi where it continued for two weeks. According to British figures, 29 people died and 237 were injured within a month. Nkrumah and Danquah seized the moment, issuing telegrams that argued the riots showed Britain could no longer effectively rule the country and proposed that the UGCC form an interim government to restore order. Several days later, trying to calm the crowds and channel their outrage into more productive political goals, the UGCC leaders addressed a 9,000-strong rally where Nkrumah urged that “people should fight with unity, not guns for independence.” Partly through the guidance of Nkrumah and other leaders, and partly through deeply held values, the future people’s movement for independence for the most part was able to avoid violence. 
However, on March 11, 1948, the governor ordered the arrest of six UGCC leaders, including Danquah, Nkrumah, and Nii Kwabena Bonne III. This quickly backfired, raising the popularity of the “Big Six” to national heights.

After being imprisoned with other leaders of the UGCC for supposedly inciting unrest among veterans, workers and farmers in the colony after February 28, 1948 massacre of peaceful petitioners, Nkrumah gained widespread popularity among the people, who responded enthusiastically to his militant and fiery approach to the burgeoning anti-imperialist movement. 
After forming the Committee on Youth Organization, which became the best organized segment of the UGCC, Nkrumah was later isolated from the top leadership of the Convention, who objected to his demands for immediate political independence for the Gold Coast. They were prepared to launch a mass struggle for the abolition of British colonial rule over the Gold Coast.
On June 12, 1949, Nkrumah and the CYO formed the Convention People’s Party (CPP) in Accra, Ghana, at a mass gathering of tens of thousands of people. Nkrumah mobilized the mass factor through the Committee on Youth Organization (CYO) to be the youth wing of the UGCC, but the UGCC leadership did not want to have anything to do with the youth (otherwise known as nkwankwaa, mberantee, asafo, verandah boys). 
The CPP called for a Positive Action Campaign in January 1950, leading to massive strikes and rebellion throughout the colony. The strikes quickly led to violence, and Nkrumah and other CPP leaders were arrested on 22 January, 1950, and the Evening News was banned. Nkrumah was sentenced to a total of three years in prison for sedition, and he was incarcerated with common criminals in Accra’s Fort James.
In the February 1951 legislative election, the first general election to be held under universal franchise in colonial Africa, the CPP was elected in a landslide. The CPP secured 34 of the 38 seats contested on a party basis (with Nkrumah gaining 22,780 of the 23,122 votes in Accra Central constituency). 
The UGCC won three seats (so much for the so-called “founding fathers”), and one was taken by an independent. That was the death knell of the UGCC. UGCC metamorphosed into the Ghana Congress Party for the 1954 national elections and fared no better. That was the day the UGCC music died – February 8, 1951. The UGCC died from REJECTION BY THE PEOPLE.

LIFE IN ISEYIN WITH ROYALTY

Arriving at Iseyin  in Oyo State for the Ebedi International Writers Residency was pure bliss. The house was located in a very convenient place. It had a quiet ambience with trees blooming with abundant fruits.

Although power supply was nothing that could be compared to my home country, the administration provided a good standby generator for our use. The most intriguing aspect being the attention we received from the king of Iseyin: Oba Dr. Abdul Ganiyu Adekunle Salaudeen, made us feel like royalty. His cool lifestyle, beautiful wives and the reverence he receives from his subjects made us feel the importance of royalty to the people of Iseyin. Gloria from Kenya was particularly surprised at the whole royalty existence because it was not something practicable in her country. Of course we wrote to our heart’s satisfaction and Alhaji Bello, who happens to be the confidante and friend of the Aseyin of Iseyin |(also a university lecturer), as the king was called, took us around to ward of boredom.

On my last day at Iseyin (had to leave earlier because of some issues at work), while visiting the Oba to bid him farewell, I couldn’t help but ask about how he is able to make all his wives (rumours had it they were seven, he told us they were five) feel loved. He then told us a story of a man who had many wives. According to him, the wives fought because they were competing for who was the king’s favourite. They all called their husband to answer the question by choosing his favourite. The man asked for some time. While bidding time, the wives visited him one after the other in their bid to impress him. He assured them of his love and gave each of the ten thousand naira, imploring them not to mention it to their rivals. All the women agreed. When the time came for his answer, he called all of them together and said his favourite is the one he gave the ten thousand naira to. So the matter died down.

I must say I enjoyed my short stay at Iseyin, meeting most of the important people in a dinner organised by the residency’s administration, from Kofi, the manager, to Bode and the man in charge of it all, Dr. Okediran. My only problem was the fact that I could not get used to their palm oil. I realised Ghanaian palm oil, zomi, was not sold there, theirs had a distinct scent that I could not get used to and so got teased all the time. But it was worth it. Below are some of the pictures.

 

IN HONOUR OF MAJOR MAHAMA

Image result for pictures of major mahama maxwell

We cry your liquidated soul

Which has been forcefully fried

From your solidly mobile form

We hail your gallant nurture

Which prevented your strong nature

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

We pray for your hovering soul

Which stands on the invisible soles

Of all that you hold dear

We pray for your fruitful walk into eternal rest

Even as your wronged soul

Deserves a fair revenge

The law stands and haunts

The law whips and taunts

The law whose neglect saw to your fall

Calls and stalks to fetch and prosecute culprits

You are a warrior of heroism

Caught in a silly sport of cruel tragedy

Death bemoans your shining presence

Just as your wife feels the absence of your presence

And your children’s growth miss their oblivious presence

We pray for your forgiveness

For cutting a tree which yearned

To stretch in the sky way above the ground

Depriving its roots from its warm and cool shade

Walk like the soldier you are

Model like the gentleman you are

Take strides knowing we have fantasized your future

The future you envisaged

Your Major dreams have been achieved

Major Mahama Due ooo!

Damirifa Due!

Major Mahama! Damirifa Due!

Due Due ne Amanehunu!\

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) June 9, 2017

Photo Credit: Google pics

PITY OUR LAND

Image result for images of beautiful ghana

Pity our land

A land arrested and tamed

Into a free wild horse on its very habitat

Sat on and dragged with so many heavy things

Fed crumbs from our own pots

Oh cry! Cry for our land!

II

Pity our land

A land with so much yet thinks so little

And was confined by the mere sight of a gun

A land which fought their greatest enemy’s soldiers

Into a slight wake

A wake that stuck at freedom of body

And not of mind

Oh pity! Slap this land into Wakefulness!

III

Pity our land

Cry for this land of loam

Whose knees love the taste of sea sands

Oh Pity! Pity this land!

A land whose thoughts love to steal from itself

Digging its seeds before they germinate

Soiling its rivers before they join their seas

Oh pity! Pity our land!

IV

Pity our land

Pity our land so full yet so empty

A land so beautiful but stuffed with self-hatred

A land so wealthy with brainwashing of poverty

A land ridden by shadows

Shadows which blend with our darkness

Darkness with no distinction

Oh pity! Pity our land

V

Pity our land

The land which knows no greatness unless its sunset

And knows no morning unless neighboring cock crows are heard

No matter how hard theirs drum in crowing

A land whose day lovers suck its blood at night

And pretend to water and till in the day

A land bedeviled by its own thoughts

Haunted by fake nightmares

And flogged by manipulations

Oh pity! Pity my land!

VI

Pity our land

 Pity the land bleaching away its melanin

In hopes of seeing protected blood

Thinking vulnerability is ability

When its suns spew wrinkles and wilting

Pity o pity!

The land which lives in begging dreams

Begging which begs for its own destruction!

A land of scribes filled with filth 

Pity! Oh pity my land!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 7th June 2017

Photo Credit: Google pics

IN HIS MAJESTY’S QUARTERS

Image result for pictures of a african king and queens

In His Majesty’s quarters

Women are flowers to be gathered

Into an unharmonious bouquet

From colours black to white

II

In His Majesty’s quarters

A step calls for stooges in circled clichés

Ones who see God when his shadow

Draws in closer drawings

III

In His Majesty’s quarters

The devil’s shed stands for evil check

Spraying calamity in hunger

Trapping murder in anger

IV

In His Majesty’s quarters

A rude act calls for nakedness

He who loves his head

Checks his weirds in His Majesty’s quarters

V

Bring hunger for murder

Bring problems for slaughter

Work like a great servant for titles

Gift in gratefulness for mentions

In His Majesty’s quarters

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

PHOTO CREDIT: GOOGLE PICS

A FLYING BIRD

 

A flying bird in troubled nest

Can never have a needed rest

A flying bird in a troubled nest

Clearly may have no request

 

II

I flew from heaven to here

Thinking I could find beauty in the road to steer

But found a rope around my leg as the ground did cheer

Poor me and a pain so dear!

 

III

Thinking me tied

A fly I tried

But my wings’ strength were immediately dried

By stones a mischief did so fried

 

IV

Now my love for nature has turned to pain

Although an angel did all insane

To have me freed from my ropy chain

And nursed my wings to its strength gain

 

 

V

Exploration turned exhaustion

Reverence in clear abortion

Now I do have an apt notion

After drinking from the experience potion

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (April 2017)

 

MY MAMA MY LOVE

Mfoni mbuayɛ ɛma PAINTINGS OF MOTHERS AND THEIR CHILDREN

Maame

Mama

Maa

Ima

The first pillar of contact

The first room with the warmest of bedding

The first breath shared like a sweet meal

The first wall in a kick

Maame

Mama

Maa

Ima

One who accepts madness for what she terms the blessing of motherhood

And feels the pangs of her child’s suffering

Like a super bluetooth which gets signals

Whenever, wherever

The one who sang the best lullabies

No matter how difficult

To chant out sleep to soothe her young

“Oba yi

Hen aba ni

Maame Yaa ban i

Wonfa no nkoshe abe ase

Abe ase wo nsoyensoy

Wonfa no nko si onyina ase

Onyina bebu abo me ba

Abo me ba

Abo me ba ei ei!”

Oh all the playful songs of assurance

Of trust

Of love

Of fun!

Maame

Mama

Maa

Oma

Your palm hits are like massages of comfort

One who chastises to pamper

Beings who develop wings like angels

In protection of their kind

He who sang this song did sing from truth

“Sweet mother

I no go forget o

For this suffer wey you suffer for me ei

Sweet mother

I no go forget oh

For this suffer wey you suffer for me ei

When I no chop

My mother no go chop

When I no sleep

My mother no go sleep

She no de tire aa

Sweet mother

I no go forget this suffer wey you suffer for me ei ei

Stop stop

Stop stop

Stop stop make you no suffer again o”

Yes he did sing it right

But his last point was like a rubber bullet on a thick metal

The beak of a hen knows no fears

When its chicks are in danger

And no matter the warning crows from cocks

The safety of her wards reigns supreme

Mother

Mama

Ima

Slender like a doll

Strong like an eagle

Where in your bodies lie your strength bank?

You are fierce like lionesses when woes chase your young

Mama

Mother

Maa

Ima

Just as dawn paves way for the morning

You are our dawn

A dawn that is never curtained by daylight

A dawn that battles furious suns and storms to bring warmth to her offspring

A dawn that shadows to love wholeheartedly

And will willingly submit to the fingers of death

If that will bring safety to her young

Mother

Mama

Ima

It is sad to know you are our mistake punch bags

It is sad to know your knees are never shy to kneel when our flaws stand out like Afadzato

Why do you accept our blames when you are in no wrong?

What kind of love flows like the rarest of spring water

Even in drought?

All the pinches of our hearts

Are calmed with just your touch

All the clashing sounds in our heads

Harmonize at the sound of your voice

Mama

You deserve this song of praise

“For my Mama an honour

For my Mama this praise

For my mama all thanks

Oh mama my love

You deserve it all

The showering of love

You deserve it all

The attention in all

You deserve it all

Our pampering

You deserve it all

Our faith

You deserve it all

The celebrations

You deserve it all

Our all

Flowers and buildings and money can’t show

Hurdles and mountains and shame oh can’t blow

Mama o mama my love

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 2017

Photo Credit: Google pics

THE FOURTH ARM

 

It is amazing how the fourth arm

Works with its arms

From acting like robbers with arms

To being eyes without qualms

II

These are the times

Growth with accountability rhymes

These are the times corruption bells must chime

To wake sleepers who throw in their dimes

To get fingers acting in mime to get to all needed dimes

III

So if whipping pens

Turn their powerful dens

Into coop where they turn hens

Then there is no lens

For our motherland and fake men

Will turn power upside down

IV

Those climbing the truth tree

Which is being shaken to free

If you fear your downfall and go on a running spree

Then truth  losses to its opponent

In your hands as your land weeps

V

It is the time for shoot

That time to praise

Shoot for the wrong

Praise for the right

You are the power hands

The right arm for the right path

So power up to lead the change

 

MY FAVOURITE COLOUR

Artistic, Bright, Color, Colored, Colorful, Colors

Some questions echo and bounce

Pinch and scratch

Confuse and drain all morsels of words

In the earthenware of my mouth

One such is what is your favourite colour?

II

Red is the colour of my blood

And is like the bridge from chaos to my peace

It is the symbol of life’s fluid

A hidden river which defines humanity

The color of fire which drives cold

The colour of courage and visibility

Its connotation of danger and mourning

Does nothing to take away from its beauty

And reminder of its continuity through life’s baton

III

White is the colour of victory

Of perfection

Of innocence and purity

The colour of clarity

The colour of truth

No stain can hide in any part of its world

White is the colour which defines cleanliness

Even sacred beings are seen in white by all minds’ eyes

What is there not to like about it?

IV

Black is the colour of power and of sympathy

Like the safest room in a chaotic house

It shields the weary

Comforting for tears to flow until eyes dry out

It is the cocoon every eyelid needs for rest

A colour of elegance and formality

It has its flaw of aiding and abetting creepers of criminalities

And has its portion of grief

But life without black is life impossible

V

Green is the colour of fertility

The colour of growth

The colour of vegetation

Without the colour green many plants will lose themselves

Green wakes for famine to flee

The colour with much healing prowess

Oh colour of wealth!

Even its lack of experience association

Cannot dim its enduring trait

Every heart that loves not green

Backstabs itself when it feeds to live

Oh colour of hope for the future!

What is there not to love about green?

VI

Grey is the colour of wisdom

Black turns grey on every head land

To tell of days bodies have travelled through time

The colour of maturity!

The colour which is the bridge between youth and elderly

A phase normalcy grants all lucky in living

Is it not a colour of blessing?

VII

Gold is the colour of refinement

A colour with the best advice through its processes

Going from earth to dug

Dug to fires

Fires to moulding

Moulding to refinement

It shines to reflect in stardom

After its beautiful end

Ordinary in nature

Star through fires

A colour everyone loves to own in something!

What is there not to like about gold?

VIII

Blue is the colour of strength

The colour of the best part of the sky

The colour of independence

Of intelligence

Of trust

Of tranquility

Of sincerity

The masculine colour of stability

The colour which serves the best seas to eyes

What is there not to like?

IX

Pink is the feminine colour

A colour which flutters hearts of teens

And glitters hearts of females

The colour of romance

The colour of love

The colour of friendship

A colour which gives possibilities of daydreaming

A colour which makes femininity a beautiful possibility

What is there not to like about pink?

X

Yellow is the colour of the sun

The colour of sunrise and sunset

Of ins and outs

An associate professorial colour to pink in feminism

The colour of beginnings and serene endings

Beautiful and cool

XI

Brown is the colour of satisfaction

The colour which reminds all of the goodbyes of love

Such sadness and melancholy

With obvious message of living to the end

Brown is the colour of the earth

The mother of all living

The colour which makes the tree of life sane

Springing into elimination

Brown is that colour not many bodies get the chance to be

Let alone to willingly fall

Still, it is a colour to die for

XII

From purple to indigo

Violet to wine

No colour lives without a charm

So why should I choose one?

Why would I choose just one among the lot?

 

 

Photo credit: Google pics

FLY

Try not to cry but fly

You broken bird on a land so dry

Try not to cry but fly

The only right thing to get you by

II

Try not to cry but fly

Manna falls not at the sound of a sigh

Try not to cry but fly

Like antelopes knowing danger is nigh

III

Try not to cry but fly

Pain, when worked right, takes you high

Try not to cry but fly

Instead of only asking why

IV

Try not to cry but fly

It is in what you vie

And what you try that kisses your fails goodbye

Try not to cry just fly, fly, fly until you reach your high

TELL ME ODIKRO

With the arms of the mountains in protection

Tell me the brooms that sweep nightmares into heads

Show me the airs that aid their heads into homes

Is it the calls of horny beads of widows for what fate has snatched from their sides?

Or the rumbling stomachs of widowers for their gone lovers?

Tell me Odikro, protector of peace

II

There should be many things that little head heard

To drive it into flights of fright

When darkness yoked the earth

And day strolled outside earth

Tell me Odikro, all seeing

What you saw from her inverted pupils in sleep

III

Could it be because the ancestors

Have been replaced by prophets and saints?

Could it be because the gods have been booted from heaven doors

That we shout in vain to reach the heavens?

Could it because seers have been mistaken for devils

With plucked eyes and defeated souls?

Tell me Odikro, this itchy ears need it

IV

If the shrines call for fowls in tones undecipherable

And the trees feel the disturbances in sways unreadable

Write us a letter in our sleep

Not nightmares which stretches goose bumps of fear to our skin

We are your children after all

No matter our colours, no matter our greed

We are the results of your lovemaking with thoughts

 

WEARY FEET

Image result for pictures of new year
It sheds its skin of years
 When time travels from J to D
 Like the proverbial snake who sheds, marks
 And never looks back
 Each spot remains on the shed
 As the new skin makes its history into shedding
 I am like the year which acts like the snake

II
 He who builds mud on destroyed skin
 Has lost a wiring in the upper house
 He who peels the skin
 With no thought to pain,  further invites famished flies
 Who eat into scarring
 Like the year, I wait for nature's shedding
 And a crown of faith
 Knowing a fall is nothing permanent

III
 Old leaves fall for new leaves to rise
 Trees lose no hope when their leaves and fruits
 Are shed through wind's cruelty
 Life pinches to soothe
 So I live like the year which lives like the snake
 Shedding pain

Shedding troubles

Shedding squabbles

Shedding old victories

Into the arms of history, for new
 Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Jan. 1, 2017
Photo Credit: Google pics

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

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

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

WHITE HANDKERCHIEFS REJOICE

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

There are infant tears

Which like handkerchiefs, will wipe our fears

A holy mother, a higher angel bears

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

II

There are shepherds who heard

Because the father really cared

And there is a king who heard

Because the father really dared

III

Oh darkness always gets swallowed by light

God is in this state of warrior flight

Knowing beings can’t face the fight

Of pursuers, in whose race evils delight

IV

So raise your handkerchiefs all in white

God has brought us all to his site

Hoping only for hallelujahs  to praise and bite

The kings of demons whose craze are tight

V

Take your handkerchiefs and sing:

Behold the heaven bells ring

Good tidings the son of God brings

No matter the mud Satan slings

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 25, 2016

Photo Credit: Google Pics

DUST IN OUR EYES

We are our illnesses
We, golden children
Conceived painfully and graciously
By Asaase Yaa, the goddess of nature
How can we heal?

II
Our legs flirt with fine dust of deceit
Enthroning it to build mansions
In our priced noses
Distributing coughs of fear
Digging pain of panic
Blinding us and
Developing weaknesses which deepen our sores
Helping flies to travel to feast fat
On our blessed bodies
Who is our saviour
If we are our own devils?

III
Yesi yesi
Has a palace with shrines
Worshipped by many
Including skilled minds
Anything dished on plates of our minds
Are consumed gratefully
Without a thought to its ingredients
What kind of minds eat
But do not weed let alone grow to process?

IV
Vanishing genitals
Human hunters
Defaming saints
Promoting angels of Satan
Which action fiction scripts can’t we write
With our mouths and thoughts?

V
Gift of discernment
Heaps of choices
Apt analysis
N ever ending options
Appropriate conclusions
Can we not be refined through this order?
Rhetorics are best left hanging
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) November 2, October, 2016

Ghanaian Pilgrims to Mecca; Idol Transitionists or Holy Worshippers?

Image result for images for hajj

Hajj is one dream all Muslims have in common; at least,  so Ghanaians have been made believe. A person who goes to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia for hajj, washes away all sins and if that person dies thereafter, after notable rituals (worship), he or she is said to go straight to heaven.

The puzzle of this journey,  for me, lies in the ritual of titles, the fact that Ghanaian Hajj returnees, especially in northern Ghana stay in their various houses like gods and goddesses receiving greetings from loved ones and friends, some for a month and over!

When quizzed about this, a Muslim friend, Abdul Zaapayim Doo said it is believed that those returnees are now holy and exude holiness so all who have not been able to travel for hajj and even those who have travelled but could not go in a particular year seek to tap from their holy spirit.
The returnees must also cook for visitors to enjoy,  some asking for gifts.
To my understanding,  one must sweat to gain finances in order to go to hajj. It’s a pillar of Islam that can be optional because you would need enough resources for your household, your air ticket to and fro and for your upkeep there! Well, so I thought. With many rumoured to be sponsored especially by politicians and people of high standing, I sought the counsel of Sheik Alhaji Illiasu of Sagnerigu, Tamale.
In an interview with Sheik Alhaji Illiasu Imoro of Tamale, he explained that, people can be sponsored according to the holy Quaran to go to Mecca. He also educated that Mecca is a religious requirement in Islam. As to why people from Mecca stay indoors to receive greetings like gods and goddesses in worship, Sheikh Alhaji Imoro said it is not necessary. He further went on to explain that those who stay indoors do so so they can bless their neighbours who couldn’t go. He said the holy Quaran teaches that those who go to Hajj are cleansed from all their sins. So at most,  one week of rest to bless is essential but the women exaggerate and stay at home for sometimes as long as 40 days, cheered on by their friends.

I guess there are extremists in every religion. Hajj will continuously breed self satisfied and feeling-all-important idols. So be on the look out for the next Hajia or Alhaji ( I hear it is a title which means stranger), For who knows, a strange might show you an idol style or might just bless you in holiness.

(Photo Credit: Google pics)

TONGUE

Tongue
When you taste the sweet
Savour the taste
And dance to its beat
Like a queen who has conquered in war

II
Tongue
When you taste the sweet
With bitter pinches
Hold your reins
Like a great warrior at war
And follow the trot-rhythms
Of your cherished horse

III
Tongue
When you taste the bitter
With sour swords
Which cut into the roots
Of your teeth’s canal
Like a strong Atongo
On his farming ground
Hold your pride
And send back the tears
With visions of sweetness
In the future of sourness
Even when sores plague your ground
For you are a conqueror
A great great warrior
Who holds her head
Even in defeat

IV
You are just like fresh meat
I know
But have conquered many heat-like foes
Even those who leave scars
Have been battled and battered
Tongue
You are not on an ordinary
But on the great Jemremedua
Hold high your head
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2nd July,  2016

Purchase my New Book “Secondary Rhythms” on Amazon

image

My second publication is finally on Amazon. Thanks to all followers and well wishers.

High school is a level by itself. It is the stage where teens grow into adulthood and elites seek to better themselves into tertiary. Secondary Rhythms tells the story of a girl who goes through it all; poverty, bullying, jealousy, challenges to pass through senior high school. Please help share and buy. Remember 30 percent of all purchases go to support the Autism Help Foundation. Help purchase it from here:

https://www.amazon.com/Secondary-Rhythms-Cecilia-Amoafowaa-Sefa/dp/1534805702/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1468934770&sr=8-2&keywords=amoafowaa

OUR PATH

In the beginning of creation
Sicknesses were the greedy hunters of death
They poxed
Boxed
Layed their coughs
They shivered
Angered
Boiled and ached
Then taboos added to the list
Until death added a new recruit
War

II
War was planted from our greed
The land which owned
We sought to own
The will for each
We sought to breech
So war was crowned
Hunter of hunters
For centuries
Until death added another
Luxury

III
Luxury and comfort
Like lost and ambitious gods
Reigned and still reign
Smoking into lungs
Poison and lasers
Hunting and hunting
On the hierarchy at its peak
Roots are always important
So we travel back
And dig our own
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2016

POETRY

Times have travelled
Travelled far
But what the seers see
In closed eyes
Even the tallest man alive
Will never see with million eyes wide opened
So they speak not in plains

II
Poetry is not naked words
For thoughtless prostitutes
Neither is it naked wires
To shock into reality fools with no eye thoughts
It is words fetched from pots of wisdom
Ones sages seek to open
And open to pick
And pick to unwrap
And unwrap to digest
Tasting every bit of its ingredients
To get all its tastes

III
Conversations desire no riddles
Words flow and walk anyhow without modelling
Poetry is like wines of riddles
Which model on stages of the learned
Their frame so beautiful
Their clothings so dense
Their strikes burdens to thinking heads

IV
If poetry were a sky
It would be a moonless sky
With clouds
Which need time and patience
As minds battle through dawn
To light the sun of understanding
To fetch its clear colours

V
If poetry were water
It would be clouds
It takes so much to get down
To bless the earth
In understanding and fertility

VI
Every hand which learns can write
Every mouth with sound can speak
But true poets, like spiders, weave their words in clothes of wisdom
Hiding intriques
Fun
Morals
In high corners of thoughts’ skies
Begging to be chased
Caught
And used

VII
Poetry is no child’s play
It plys no roads of loose mouths
And thoughtless tongues
It is reserved
Reserved only for the dignified
Branding non-thinkers weak
As they lose their ways to their entrance
Never finding their routes

VIII
Poems are gems
Hidden in cages of words
Legs of veins
Chase through darks
Hands of blood
Tear through webs
Skulls so strong crack to reach
It sure is medicine for elitist minds
Scribes of the future
Paintings of reflections
Which when unravelled
Remedy to bless
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2016

BARCAMP TAMALE, JULY 30, 2016

image

#Barcamp #Tamale is networking the best of Tamale on #July30.
#Bctamale is a day of learning, sharing, networking and mentoring.

What to expect?
Mentoring by professionals or entrepreneurs.
Networking with likeminded individuals – you could find your business or project partner
Celebrating some of the best of Tamale and beyond
Breakout sessions that you can also lead

Register via https://t.co/7L2Bmmg7PF

Credit: The Barcamp team

BM’s Poet Of the Week – Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia

Wow! I just saw this. Thanks very much.

amoa.jpg

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia is a Ghanaian poet, novelist and an occasional dabbler in article writing. Its evident from her blog here that she has been a passionate writer all her life. She is eclectic in her writings – from the beauty of the sun to special tributes to fathers to birthdays; nothing escapes her, only feeling complete when her works evokes the right emotions in people’s hearts like its been doing for sometime now. She has been on the literary scene for a LOOOONG time but is currently an English Teacher at Tamale Secondary High School according to her Twitter bio@Maame_c.

I was always curious when @dancingpalmtree beat me to reading her stuff be it short stories or her poems. But I must confess that her blog is a staple for me (more like a dose of medicine needed to feel alright). Her words reach out into your soul and…

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Dates: The thumb-sized powerhouses

Worth reblogging. Cool post.

The Hidden Prestige

Dates

Don’t you love Ramadan?

The month of fasting, prayer, charity, and dates?

Edible ones, of course. 😉

This blessed month, when the small, sweet fruit seems to be everywhere, let’s take a moment to see how something so small can be so beneficial.

Breaking the fast with dates is a well-known Sunnah of the Prophet صلى الله عليه وسلم  :

عَنْ أَنَسِ بْنِ مَالِكٍ، قَالَ ‏ “‏ كَانَ النَّبِيُّ صلى الله عليه وسلم يُفْطِرُ قَبْلَ أَنْ يُصَلِّيَ عَلَى رُطَبَاتٍ فَإِنْ لَمْ تَكُنْ رُطَبَاتٌ فَتُمَيْرَاتٍ فَإِنْ لَمْ تَكُنْ تُمَيْرَاتٌ حَسَا حَسَوَاتٍ مِنْ مَاءٍ ‏”‏ ‏.

‏Anas bin Malik narrated:

“The Messenger of Allah صلى الله عليه وسلم would break the fast with fresh dates before performing Salat. If there were no fresh dates then (he would break the fast) with dried dates, and if there were no dried dates then he would take a few sips of water.”

(Graded Hasan, Jami`…

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My Vision Duet

From another perspective. Love or life.

Aubrey's Arch

Hypnotic and erotic
Your soul psyche is exotic
Universal dine and goddess
To taste your Magic is my florist
Depth and duty do you flourish
You’re the beauty that I nourish
Unending power that we current
Could your love reveal my soul
Can you make my heart whole
Is this home you must own
Erotic and heroic
Is the Throne

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