Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 17

Little things from the pocket of love open ways for bigger things. Ntwanu’s birthday fell on April 25, two days after the BECE examinations. I didn’t know how to surprise him. He had done so much for me that I wanted to show him how grateful I was. Forget about our differences, which relationships do not have them? Mimi suggested I threw him a party, I didn’t want the noise and knew my man appreciated his privacy. Shai was of the opinion that I cook him a meal at his residence and treat him to some romantic vibes. It sounded too simplistic for me so I settled on my ingenuity. I bought a flower, a book by his favourite writer; Chinua Achebe, a shirt brand he loved in a sea blue colour, a diary, boots I knew he loved, an expensive wristwatch, a big parcel bag and a doll (He had a thing for them). I knew he would go to the Mother of Hope Children’s Home to donate something to mark his birthday so took the lead there. 

I bribed the children to each hold one gift, with the bag leading. They hid in strategic places on the path leading to the home, (which was built in a forest) to handover to him and follow him to the place.  He took the bag right down to the doll and couldn’t hide his grin. He was happy and I was even happier seeing him smile so brightly. We sang the birthday song for him and he proceeded to give his donation amidst the merriment of abundant food and drinks which I provided for the home.

Two hours later, we made our way to his residence where we danced to Kojo Antwi’s “Me Ne Wo Bɛ Wo Akɔnɔ Ba”, holding each other so tightly. Then eyes looked into eyes like prized mirrors. I loved seeing myself in there, mouths brushed and hugged like perfected pieces of split kola nuts, hands merged in a match-like lighting, raining goose bumps from the sky of our passions. I was in heaven or some place lovelier. The clothes vanished under his expert hands, I held his hand and led him to sit on his bed then modelled for him in my nakedness. He was pleased. 

His prized stick stood, when I stood on a table and touched my parading meat in the bowl of my clitoris, man impatiently whisked me from there, placed me doggy-wise and with mouth full and warm, planted hot kisses on my bare back, glorifying my body in the space of the potent air conditioner. He then penetrated my already wet temple and stroked in style. It was seven minutes of pure bliss which ended in the cross position. After, we cuddled and did not pay attention to Ntwanu and my phone’s continuous ringing. 

We might have fallen asleep in our own fantasies. I opened my eyes to see so many men surrounding us. Thick and tall men all armed to the tee in mufti. My first thought was that the group’s deeds have been found out, but it looked like something more, something I couldn’t fathom. Completely unarmed, Ntwanu was asked to step down from the bed with arms raised or risk losing me. I got up and demanded they told us what they wanted. Ntwanu restrained me by holding me with both hands as if shielding me from harm. Between a split second we were in the roof being gunned down. Apparently, his roof was bullet proof. He picked a gun between some wires and made to fire but I shook my head. He looked at me for a second and got clothes from the roof for both of us. He, clothed in jeans and Lacoste, me in his shirt and leggings. 

We jumped into three compounds away but were met with another set of armed men, we were trapped. Before we could think, they aimed and shot at him. So many shots at once. He fought and put me behind him but I struggled free and stood only to be met with a bullet. Everything became dark, all I remembered was his shouting and anger as he opened fire on them. Fire for fire and all went dark.

I woke up on a hospital bed surrounded by armed police men. There were no familiar faces but I heard voices of so many reporters out there. The doctor closed the door after him and tended to my shoulder and thigh wounds. I asked where Ntwanu was and was told to be quiet and be attended to. I got very angry and started hitting the doctor in a moment of madness asking for Ntwanu. An injection was seen by my blurred vision and before I knew what was happening, I was out again. 

I woke up this time chained to my bed. I couldn’t lift a finger as I felt sore all over. All I wanted was to know how Ntwanu was but no one would speak to me. I prayed silently to God to save my man wherever he was being kept. I just couldn’t think of anything happening to him. I just couldn’t think of that possibility. The room was clean with green tiles, two police men were stationed by the door, an attending nurse sat close by, folders were neatly arranged on a table west of the bed, the ceiling was concrete layered and painted white. There were no windows, even the air-conditioning seemed to be against me. I was trapped in an unfamiliar grounds and the silence was deafening. A laughable paradox! This time, no one was coming for me. I felt it in my bones and couldn’t stop my tears.

I didn’t have the means to calculate time. I fell in and out of sleep and was forced to eat, sometimes, food infusions were forced into me until my wounds shrank into a bare scratch with occasional pain. I was transferred to an even more obscure room. There was nothing but a table and a chair and a bulb. This time, I was too frightened to even cry out. I sensed I was in deep trouble but all I could think of was Ntwanu and what might have happened to him. 

An officer came to visit me on that very day. 

“Hello Miss.” I looked at him with indifference, making his friendly advances look stupid but he pressed on.

“May I know your name?” I still looked at him with no intention to speak but remembered Ntwanu, Guru and Masai’s schooling about dealing with the law and Ms. Barwuah’s little law tutoring so I acted on it.

“May I know for what reason I am here?” I queried.

“Don’t be alarmed, you are here for an interrogation but first tell me your name”.

“Bee. Bee Davids”

“Nice name. Where are you from?” 

I couldn’t hold my patience anymore.

“That shouldn’t matter. Please tell me the reason I am here and being interrogated. If I am under arrest, then I need to see my lawyer now. If not, then let me out of here”.

The man played nice and told me about Lauran Brutes, Stenticon Chocks, Bryan Raymond, Darren Hyde, Ryan Dupri, Mascot Force and many other names and the fact that they were one and the same person. According to him, he is a spy for the United States of America. A CIA agent trained in marksmanship, a sniper skilled in disguise, one of the best hit men the world has ever seen. One who could negatively influence the public policies of the country. A treacherous person who had committed treason many times and deserved to be brought to book. I didn’t know what that meant but didn’t like the tone of it. 

“So what exactly do you want from me?”

“We need you to tell us all you know about him. How you met, for how long you’ve known him, any secrets you share, your name sounds American although your tone is very Ghanaian, are you also an agent?”

I laughed so hard that he had to join in the laughter. I told him I didn’t know anything. I knew him as Ntwanu and he was my one night stand. Somehow, I figured divulging anything that happened between us could give a clue or two about him, so decided to make it short. He left and another officer came in.

Stout, tall with a mean face and a brutal spirit. Holding pliers, he told me of how bad I can hurt myself if I hid information from the BNI.  When I told him same thing I told the first officer, he slapped me so hard I fell from my seat and soiled myself with urine. One thing was for sure, he wasn’t a gentleman. He said I couldn’t be delusional in my search for him if he were only my one night stand. I had to give it to him, he was intelligent but I had been trained to be on top of intelligent people. The first officer came and angrily asked him to leave, apologizing on his behalf but I knew then what they were doing with me, the good cop, bad cop routine but played along.

I was tortured for days. They used spiked batons, electric shocks and  ropes, hanging me leg up for hours. The pain that was inflicted on me was nothing like the pain I suffered in my heart. Why did he lie to me? To think clearly of it, he didn’t exactly lie to me, he only did not tell me about it. Then I thought maybe he was confused with someone, or he was a good CIA and the BNI just wanted him out. Whatever I thought about did not add up so I decided to stop thinking about it, deal with the matter at hand and be free.

After days of saying the same thing, I was sent to be tested through a lie detector. It was easy. Days of lying about Ntwanu being my one night stand saw me believing in it. So I passed and was left to go afterwards.

I reached home a wreck. An eye popping out in blood shot stains, lips sore and swollen, ankles bruised, skin almost in ruins with a low spirit. The taxi that took me home was a brand new one. The white man who was driving sounded familiar but the headache I felt then did not permit me to think about it. No money was taken from me, just a note that read “You’ll be keenly followed from here on. Be sure to live with no link to your trouble. Chew this paper after reading”. The taxi had left before I read the note. I chewed it as instructed and realized I had to stay away from anything to do with Ntwanu.

Mimi, Shai and many of the new girls took turns to take care of me. But I was a spirit shy from my body. I knew time would bring back the smile, but it sure would walk like a conceited bride in a high profiled wedding. Still, everyday will perform its plastic surgery on my hurts. That I was sure of.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Dec. 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics


These eyes still have their seals

Primitive living

Oblivious of a world on wheels

A cup for mouths and animals

Like Abels in a Jesus world

They live laughing in loving misery


I have seen anuses feeding their soil

At the full glare of many

As flies chorus the pushing

I have seen the flies following and dining with hands

Blessed with brains

I have seen a going and a coming 

With nothing to show

Tired muscles screaming through showing veins

At the injustice done them

There must be blessing in ignorance!


They give with no knowledge of benefits

They chant with no knowledge of duties

They thumb with no knowledge of implications

This must be the dream of politricks!


You beautiful hearts in an unfortunate place!

Arrested by need!

Punched by greed!

Entrenched in the past!

Intoxicated by ignorance!

How I wish modern literacy were a spell

Under my helpless grasp!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © December 12, 2017

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


Many a steps are forced by need

Many a man’s need suffereth from greed

One’s seen need is another’s goldmine

I am that hen

Looking for the feet of the mythical hawk

Stepping on the wellbeing of my chick


All many eyes see

Is the flower with different colours

Standing tall in the wind

Blown here and there

And still stands unshaken in the calm

But if pillows could talk

They will tell secret tales of hurdles

Which suck sleep from the honey bed

I am that hen

Who has escaped many a cruel machete

From the hands of greedy celebrants

Using the helplessness of my hen

In the abattoir of healers


I have danced naked on many a hopeful ground

Shown my weaknesses which grows with days

Paid have-nots with money of my blood

Fed on biles of failure and disappointment

And felt my intestines beg a tear closure

I am that hen

Whose soft end sits in its innocent chick

Imprisoned in the cage of a disorder

One that brings me silly orders


But I go on

Jumping from here to there

Hoping a good wind will send me THERE

THERE, where redemption sits in the mass of deceit

To free mine from the shells of life’s unfortunacy

I am that hen

Hopeful with every new day

No matter the deadly punches of their previous

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © December 10, 2017

Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 15

​It takes steady legs and a determined heart to climb the ladder of success. Since the world felt powerful associating with already made personalities, each day served me a plate of zeal to change my life for the better. Aunt Aba bought back my fabrics at a good price and I decided to work less to allow me space to learn for my basic exams. Two days to the first paper, I felt some fear pangs in my abdomen. Ntwanu visited when he could and brought me things he thought I would need.

Shai called me to come to the Glory of God Church and just ended the call around mid morning. I got worried about her frightened tone. Between my books and new family, I felt like I was walking on needles. I just put on a shirt and mini skirt and headed to the place in my car. Dido, my new bodyguard, followed in another car. Upon reaching the church, I saw Shai draped in some white calico (stained in blood) from head to toe and tied to a pole in the middle of the church. As members of the church closed their eyes in loud prayers and clapping, the man of God was pouring some kind of water on Shai. His disciples were hitting her with canes and she looked really beaten with marks and swelling on her face. 

I wanted to understand what was happening so asked out loud:

“What’s happening here? Why are you abusing someone’s daughter like this?”

The pastor took a bell and shook it and the whole church became quiet, then spoke:

“Let there be quiet! There is another sinner in our midst. Even her clothes show she is working as a devil of the night too. I told you getting one will bring another, didn’t I? The Lord never lies! Great Mazuka!”

“Mazuka is king!” thundered the church.

Before I could say “hey”, I was in the grips of his disciples with calico being used to cover my body. I was sent to another pole, tied and the ritual began. Whipping and torturing words:

“ Pray for the demons of lust to get out of this person. Shoot the devil of prostitution from them, be sure to throw the catapult of stones on the demons possessing these two and finally, shoot them with the Holy Spirit in prayers. Now start.”

I was shocked at the pain supposed men of God could inflict on their fellow beings but could not think straight because of the loud voices with the added claps and the strong scented water. One woman had the voice of a loud guinea fowl.

“Yehowa you are Yarweh! Show your mercy to these sinners and let them be free from demons of prostitution! As I clap, trap the evil spirits within them and make them flee. I throw the catapult of Mazuka on these demons, I bind them with the rope of the All Seeing, I shoot them with the gun of Almighty and I bomb them with the fire of the Holy Spirit. Yiri maputu! Yiri uzani, yiri nara, ibei adula.”

The woman, tall, huge, bleached and rewarded with the colours, orange, red and green kept clapping and repeating same words for over thirty minutes. I felt somewhat scared anytime she ended with the strange words. It was as if she was chanting. I didn’t know what was keeping Dido but it sure made me feel unsettled. Just when I was about to ask them what we could do to be free, the men barged into the church premises, Ntwanu leading. Those I knew and those I did not know. They numbered about 30 wielding bats and sticks with few holding guns. 

Ntwanu fired a warning shot and I was surprised to see the pastor kneeling and shivering like a leaf. The church scattered as all church members kept running helter skelter. Some calling on God, others calling on Great Mazuka! While some of Ntwanu’s men untied me, I watched as he dealt the pastor some slaps. I had never seen him so fierce and angry and in action. I saw a different side of him. One disciple urinated on himself after watching his leader slapped over and over again. The pastor was fat with a huge stomach, dressed in a red robe in a barefooted mode with eyes almost popping out.

After disciplining them for two minutes, I realized the others handcuffed the leader and his disciples. Ntwanu and Dido took us home. I didn’t say anything on our way home although I wanted to know what was going to happen to the handcuffed. Ntwanu was worried about my silence but I was concerned about the new Ntwanu I saw. Ruthless and cruel! When we reached home, the family doctor was waiting. He attended to our wounds and gave Shai some injections with some infusions. I sat by her bed and watched over her, my wounds barely visible and relevant to me. I had failed the girl I swore to protect and I felt so bad. Mimi had travelled with a client and Shai was in charge of our underground business. How she ended up tied and tortured by a supposed church was besides me. 

“Baby girl, aren’t you going to talk to me? I am dying of sadness seeing how you are trying to avoid me.”

Ntwanu’s voice took me by surprise. I thought he had left. 

“I am not avoiding you, I am just in shock. The ordeal was a bit shocking” I partially lied through my teeth. 

“I know there is something more. I hope you know I will never hurt you? I love you so much baby girl. I will give my life if need be, to make you happy”.

I hugged him at that point and saw him off with a French kiss that I did not put my heart into. 

Shai woke up a little after midnight and narrated her story.

“All the girls had been booked so when the order came in for 2000 cedis for an hour, I decided to go myself. Upon reaching there, I was ushered into the church. I thought it was the fantasy of the man to have sex in the church so I stripped and started making advances towards him. I kissed him and after enjoying for a while he started calling Great Mazuka. Some people came, caught and attacked me. It was in the morning they asked that i spoke to my mother to come and see my salvation”

I asked myself what a church was. Why it believed in casting our demons of sins. Why that particular one ordered a prostitution agency to send a representative only for them to pounce on her. I just didn’t understand the kind of salvation they as individuals wanted to give and the kind of thoughts they had been brainwashed to have. Questions about them kept running through my mind. How do they perceive God? How do they walk around without fearing their shadows. (Because clearly, sin is part of our daily struggles.) How do they live? Do they ever live with some form of happiness when they can’t stand their little sins? In a world where a sin today is the win tomorrow, how do they accept the change? I knew prostitution will always be bad but isn’t it part of our lives? Even men use their sexuality in exchange 

Well, I had examination just lurking around the corner so fed Shai, tucked her in, made sure she was sleeping and put her phone by her side, then went to my room to study. Life’s battles have stubbornness embedded in their hearts but they surely are the center of living. I swore never to lose out and to live fully, loving and protecting loved ones.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © December 2017.

Photo Credit: Google Pics


The fallen is like an egg

You kick with an intent of destruction

Variety in lacking, is perfection of His creation

So let your feet be kind


Consider the legless and help the hopping

Consider the struggling and help the ill

Consider the suffering and bless the helpless

Please let your feet be kind to look

So as not kick the fallen


Let your feet be kind

For there is no shaking grounds

Let your feet be kind

A down today can be an up tomorrow

Let your feet be kind

Tomorrow’s history is today’s mystery

Let your feet be kind 

On this slippery earth

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © December 6, 2017


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?


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?


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

Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 14

​When a metal is left in mid air, it falls wherever the holder left it. My frustrations became unbearable that I had to abandon the fabric business. There were bribes at every office for registration of business, too many things to read, too many people to please from the fabric queen to packers. It was pretty clear I was not going to survive it. So I took on an appointment with a married man. He wanted to meet at Hotel Kun’s, a three star hotel. I was okay with it because it was good and quick money after my ordeal. 

Upon getting to the room, he asked that I tied him to a chair in the room and whip him. I did as I needed someone to whip badly to release tension, using his own belt. After that, he asked that I urinated on him. I did as told, stuffed my pantie into his mouth, and pinched him to his satisfaction. He then asked that I touched myself to make him see me come still in his tied position. I took off all my clothes in a slow manner, touched my breasts and struggled to lick them, touched my clitoris and moaned pleasureably. His moaning and yearning was evident and he tried to reach me from his tied position, obviously turned on by his pain. Then he asked that I threw water on him and fucked him in his tied position. I went to fetch water from the bathroom and heard a ruckus in the room. I rushed back only to see him pointing at me and crying:

She is the witch who kidnapped me and did this to me. She whipped me mercilessly and…  and I don’t know what she wants to do to me. Please help me wifey! I think she wants to cut off my manhood! She wants to kill me! She wants to harm me! Help me please! Don’t let that wicked woman hurt me.”

I was shocked to the bone. I stood there receiving slaps while the man sat sobbing. Wifey and her three cronies tied me up, asked me to tell them who sent me and called the police. The police took his time to come and I prayed very hard to stay alive.

“Witch! Murderer! So you want to kill my husband? Who sent you? Better tell me now or I won’t spare you. You young girls who try so hard to get money and end up working for ritualists! My God will not spare you!”

I looked at the woman and felt pity for her. She was as huge as an elephant with eyes almost lost to facial fats. Her nose was like a scattered three story apartments with a broken bridge, her mouth was as huge as two basins and she had on a very horrible makeup, her jaw moving like a grazing Caterpillar. Violet eyebrow pencil, silver lipstick, clothes too tight to fit, she looked like a miserable person. Her appearance was like a sex starved woman neglected both physically and emotionally. I felt so sorry that she knew nothing about her husband, the fact that he craved for BDSM and being dominated in bed. The fact that he knew how to play with her emotions and the very fact that I was caught in their bad web. Why some women allow men to frustrate them beats my imagination.

The police finally arrived after most of the hotel staff stood to watch me like an interesting movie. Most parts of my weave-on was gone, pulled off by wifey and friends. They untied and sent me straight to the counter back. The interrogation was not successful because I was too immersed in my thoughts to answer any question no matter how hard I was hit or shouted at. I called Mimi in the morning and she came running. She made a few calls and I was released at about 10am. On my way out, I saw my client and he started begging me to forgive him.

“My wife is an ugly witch. She would have… would have taken everything from me if she knew what was about to happen. Please forgive me. I am so ashamed…”

Ashamed or not, my business does not lie there. You will have to pay for everything that happened. From the abuse to the emotional stress. Fifteen times the amount you promised” Mimi retorted. 

Man wanted to argue but obviously feared a scandal so took out his check and signed us a check.

You’re lucky you came. I would’ve made sure to send your order to your wife, you coward!

Mimi spat, annoyed at his very sight. I, on the other hand kept thinking about how difficult it is in the business. So many problems and too many surprises. It was so easy to be caught in another’s trap and it was too easy to hurt. Having connections was the best solution but I at least got the compensation due me. 

When we got home, I read my notes in preparation for the Basic Education Certificate Examinations that was to come on the week after. Ms. Barwuah had been teaching me so well and I on the other hand wanted so badly to please her. I had a long shower and slept hoping tomorrow will pose a better model among past days.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © December 4, 2017.

Photo Credit: Google Pics


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


Every womb loves its proceeds

None is special than the other

It transcends boundaries





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


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


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

Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 13

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

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

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

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

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

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 2017.

Photo Credit: Google Pics


You have cut the ribbon of shyness

From our very eyes

All contours leading to remorse

Have been made comfortable

From the slippery slope it was


Because sins grow into norms with time

And you are the programmer of the dramatic brain

Which engines us


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

To see sins dance in varied sneakers and heels

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

To see pestles in pleasurable laughter

And mortars in needful beckoning

I so wonder, if your eyes reach

The joints of high points in smokinghood

To know how deep nostrils reach

To fetch the line of smoke from lungs

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

Are you regretting our creation?


I know you know the machetes

Which cause some hands to sin

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

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

Yet, you sit and watch as many perish

On the eve of your worship

How delighted are you watching the path to your glorification?

Disrespectful me!

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

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 25, 2017

​WHEN DAYLIGHT SLEEPS (Adult Poetry, 18+)

When daylight sleeps

Prepare your foot to heed to the call of my beads

For surely

You must dance in my wet ground

Whose rains began at the first tear of dawn


Mow your lawn

And clean your gun

Load it to perfection

There sure must be a fat game of pleasure

At the end of the hunt

Yes, a dance in a hunt


Be sure to borrow the air of freshness

Around your red towel

Which will be on my plate as one toffee

Whose sweetness never fades

Of course I will add that to the lollipop

So be sure to prepare your all in pleasing scenting


Actions for passions

Reactions for hyping

Matching for matching

Hanging for hanging

The eyes of our darkness have a lot to expect

In our unholy confines

And so must yours

When daylight sleeps

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 24, 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics

Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I couldn’t hide my shock so I exclaimed:

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

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

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

“Part your legs”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics


When chains police beings

In hollow caves of innocence

At the audience of  culprits

Who like sheep giggle with eyes of a lionesses

Fate sits on a slate of unfairness!


Sounds of feet with rifles!

Sounds of breaths with struggles!

Sounds of deaths which plant fear

Watered by self mourning!

Sounds of freedom of the lucky

Fertilised by covetousness!

Fate, why sit on a slate of unfairness?


You are a king of your domain

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

Why can’t you navigate truth from mouths of lies

Into ears of justice?

Why can’t you order conscience to sun bathe

In the full glare of the populace

To cut loose the shackles of victimization?

Why can’t you defend the poor defenceless

In your fearful court?

Why can’t you?

Why can’t you?

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

And painting them with guilt

At the full glare of unforgettable eyes?

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

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 23, 2017 

Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics


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

Its bones would never fail to lie naked

Before their beaks

So sometimes, it’s best to do nothing

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

In the angry survival of the hippopotamus

It sure would taste feet to its death

And lose itself in a mud coffin

If rains seek asylum from the sky

There and then

Sometimes, it’s best to do nothing

A mad hungry dog hears no excuse

Of a sick cock

Neither does a vulture know an impoverished corpse

Sometimes actions wake threats and hurts

So I dare say

It is sometimes best, to do nothing

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 20, 2017


Many a pain holds no stamp on bodies

Many a pain stems from sight and hearing

Many a pain give no pleasure gain

So place no insensitivity on this anger

This anger you feel towards you


Every pain in your being plants my insanity

Every stain on your life

My very frustration

Watching death drag and taunt

Dangling your being like a thing

In dreams of a grave

Is no pleasure trip

So pardon if my temperamental trips


No heart that loves feels no perplexity

At the hurt of a target

There is a reason the hen shields its chicks

At the sound of a hawk

Love binds in happiness and sorrow

So even at your low, do know

This hard looking me feels every fibre in your body

And its unpleasant vibes

Just like an electrocution burning the wires of its veins

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 20, 2017

​ESCAPE FROM HARARE by Hon. Prof. Kwesi Yankah

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

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

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

First published in August 2007

Source: Hon. Prof. Kwesi Yankah



Chant me into dispossession

Ye who held my navel

And crossed to the shores of earth

As my voodoo watched your fragile steps

With no evil stone cast

Chant me into dispossession

Ye who fed through the clays of my pot

In the dirty dust you now so abhor

Deliver me from the spirit of my ancestors

And baptize into the ways of alienation

But remember this eraser might leave no trace

When your uniqueness calls tunes of your intrusion

Chant me into dispossession

Ye who was healed by the leaves of this land

When the heels of death chased your infancy like a hyena

Weed all the fetishes and cast out your blackness

Into a bleach of civilization

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

Chant me into dispossession

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

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

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

Still, chant me into dispossession

Chant me into dispossession

I am a filthy animal with a crude tail

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

So chant me

Do chant me child!

Chant me!

Chant me into your suitable possession!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 18, 2017

Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 10


I have seen many a moon

Wrestling suns as I acted their baboon

I have craved for many a dark cocoon

But here I watch the sun and swoon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused to cry for a while. 

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

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

“When peace like a river

Attended my way

When sorrows like seas billows roll

Whatever my Lord

You have taught me to say

It is well, it is well, with my soul”

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

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

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 2017.

Photo Credit: Google Pics


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

Milk evaporates and calls for the blood of the mother

Showcasing paleness of her body

Awo Yaa!

May this portion of yours change for the better!


This building which has seen the palms of many masons

And still suffers from foundational weakness

Due to stolen cement

Unbought stones

Unpurchased water

Which are all buried in the belly of pockets

Housing blood of the land

Is to be pitied

Awo Yaa!

May this portion of yours change for the better!


This vehicle whose driver and mate

Dwell on the monies of passengers

But do no servicing

Even as it creaks in painful destruction by the day

Rebelling here in concerns

There in embarrassment

Needs a different story

Before it breaks what it protects

Awo Yaa!

May this portion of yours change for the better!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © November 16, 2017


Videos keep playing

Where you shyly, with roses

In sweat, called Holy Moses 

In proposing


How a perfect vehicle

Zoomed into a thorny bush

And saw itself in an empty desert

Has opened my sky of tears


The video of you playing horse

In the shore of peace

Me, playing sheep

In the shores of settlement

Begs to be born

But alas! Time’s driver refuses to reverse


From electrifying kisses

To enemy hisses

Touching Blisses

To sad misses

Painful disses

Which threw in the hard pisses

I wish it all did rhyme


Where the road is long

And pair needs to share

Do come back

I sure will be the smile

Which will go the mile

And the knot which will end the flow of chaos


These sheets have placed me

And the phantom you in a court of blame

It so does me shame

And I wish you could see

Do come back if lateness is not the arms of another

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © November 16, 2017

Photo Credit: Google pics

Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 9

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

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

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

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

“He was my father” He blurted out.


I asked without intending to and apologized for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © November 2017.

Photo Credit: Google pics


Dust for powdered pepper

Or powdered pepper for dust?

Which blows now with the air of Mugabe

In the Zim Nation?

I see chicken to hawk, hawk to eagle

In a devilish transition


Destruction sure needs some action

From any faction with an apt reaction

But the leg of time shortens celebration

And or “frownation”

For already made shoes of fame

No matter how tattered presents a choice of ease

Deleting zeal and placing seals on power

Sometimes in the worst forms

Oh careful!

You might be running from a worm to a cobra!


Political eyes are pious only in opposition

Greed stamps most signatures in the highest seats in all lands

Great tongues of sages are caged by enmity

We are in an act of jubilation

Probably from the land of the Pharisees 

Hoping to get to Israel without thoughts of hardships

Reckless risks rip ripe ribs

Throwing chances into hide and seek gutters

Let ears with wise holes sip the wisdom from this scribe

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©November 15, 2017


Since age knocked its understanding tag

In my infantile brain

I was given a telescope

Whose only visions were of the past

A telescope which killed the zeal of laughter

Planting in its stead a vile rage for revenge

Watered by society’s hails at my target

And its many chains of laws for my kind


Like a bull with a target

I charged at a decade and eight

Towards a fine breed of its demigods

Pouring all the gold of my ancestry at his feet

And disrespectfully asking that he worked his waist

Into my pleasure into my treasure

At my leisure


His teeth showed a blessed awakening

And like a goat, he held my coat of cloth

The dark little hut which stood in the compound of many

Promised me no privacy

The bed’s posture whispered a higher creaking

A pound and another and another and another

My resolution, no tears, no show of pain

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

I envisaged his shame!


An hour and a half

My energy grazed out

My field had turned muddy

My little opening had been manholed

His screams for my well being pushed the listeners in

What they saw brought in society’s law

Burying me in the shoes of my wronged ancestry

With the antonym of a gigolo

Planting trees always loses to waterers, I guess

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © November 14, 2017

Photo Credit: Google pics.


Day has broken from the clutches of darkness

Aiding eyes, like a pathfinder

To see all in clarity

If breath stands at post

And health is on wealth’s coast

I say “anyame mu Nyame”

Nhyira nka wo din!


I can see hens leading their chicks

And cocks looking for stocks

Through the warning of wings

The insults of crows

Through the biting of beaks

And the uprooting of feathers

Through a run and a chase

Life sure says a lot about onlookers

“Ɔsoro soro Nyame, nhyira nka wo din!”


Let minds in mine know the miracles of thinking

Let hands in mine know the blessing in working

Let tongues in mine know the worth of silence

Let legs in mine know the advantages of walking

And let all stomachs in mine

Know the importance of selectiveness

Life is life because strive is rife

“Omintinmirim Nyame, nhyira nka wo din”

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 13th Nov. 2017

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


Let mouths allow eyes to roll

Instead of calling sounds in heels

To defile lung’s peaceful siesta

What is “ayoo” today

Might have been “bue!” yesterday

But will be “ahaaa!” tomorrow

Harvesting ovations on all stages

New things raise brows

Coming with scares which snake into veins like poison

But when they simmer

Minds embrace their enticings

And mate their presence even into obsession

Abomination today, fascination tomorrow

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 9, 2017


There is a volcano of needs

Needs which fill not the belly of satisfaction

Instead dig bottomless needs 

Which gobble time needed to look

Look to love

Love to smile

Smile to laugh

Laugh to live

Live to write memories on our beloveds’ minds

Spank our senses

Lest we forget our paths

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 7th November, 2017



Carry burdens like abused porters

Forgetting the immobile end

Which for few moments trends

Only to turn garnish on memories of the past


Cloud our emotions to rain our eyes to drain

Forgetting life’s refrain is transiency

Gathering rubbish which may outlast our taunting gibberish


Sit with thoughts that over thinking bought

And never seek the peace to keep us at ease

Suffocating on the rope of worry

When immortality is a scary nightmare to our very thoughts


Are our own scare

We are our own scissors

Murdering our seams

Destroying our buttons

Eating our linen into the mouths of hungry graves

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © November 7, 2017


The gate of another day opens

With varied happenings written in the future slate of fate

Like a marathon, we run with enthusiasm

Hoping our baton would reach our target

But if we hurt ourselves

Or have our breaths arrested by tiredness

You who writes it all

Change the script to fit our emotions!

Our tasks stare at us 

Like owls whose eyes have caught an interest

Fixing rays of terror

Which surely feed on our uncertainties

If pores succumb to the dictates of fear

And legs, like that of broken donkeys kneel

Bow to the gods of failure

You who writes it all

Change the script to fit our emotions!

Monsters of the past are on our heels

In slippery then muddy then stony paths

Hoping for our souls as trophies

Our bodies on their plates

If we end up as their game

Poked by their guns and cutlasses of bragging

You who writes it all

Change the script to fit our emotions!

In a sphere of many talents

Where tortoises watch hens fly in jealousy

Forgetting their hard shell

Cocks feel the supremacy of hawks 

As hawks fear the very grounds of eagles

If we get to the abattoir of greed 

Whose sole hunger needs us to feed

You who writes it all

Change the script to fit our emotions!

There is no balm as soothing as your touch

There is no doctor as gifted as you

There sure is no seer better than you

So if we bend in hot coals of our chaos

Roasted by our fallible flaws

You who writes it all

Change the script to fit our emotions!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © November 6, 2017


I bless that day

When a whirlwind swept me from serenity into doom

Only to be rescued by your light

Like a Samaritan Knight from hell’s pot


I bless the day

When words meekly walked with shaking legs

Out from the private street of your tongue

To plead for a table in my heart’s spot

Under an adorable and humble sky


I bless the day

When my heart stretched its hands 

To hold the arms of your love

And saw your perfect smile

Dancing to the rhythm of your heartbeat


I bless the day

When we danced on the moon of flutters

In the land of onehood 

Where each being was neutralised into non existence

As stars of our hearts shone into blending

In a festival of happiness


I bless the day

That day when your tears touched my cheeks

At the wince of my skin

Seeing your suffering at my body’s lashes of illness

I bless

I do bless

Oh I do bless the day

When your path crossed mine

At the junction of love

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © Nov. 4, 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics

Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics

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

Ashawo Diaries (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 7

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

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

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

I am a human gutter
One whose mouth welcomes it all

From filthy slimes to horrid shit

Cold heating to hotty cold

Fire may burn me but my ashes slip within

Flood may overtake but my stench stays with me

From abused ears to pounding vaginas

I am, oh I am

I am a filthy human gutter”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics

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


Tongues taste to determine

Hands touch to feel

Legs walk with destination marks

And so it is that life does rock


The painful part of mortality

Is losing one whose feet never touched life’s dock

The saddest part of motherhood

Is imagining memories that never hatched

The saddest part of parenting

Is wishing for an age which death did take

Even the no suffering bit

Takes naught from the pain


I give you this

You seeds which never germinated

I give you this

You plants which long for your lost seeds

I give this to you

You age winds for sweeping sadness

Into regretful moments

Bowing at the tombs which received thee fresh from wombs

Surely, you are heavenly spies

Called back on the eve of duty

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 3rd September, 2017


In the heart of truth lies an ocean of despair

Flanked by trees of fear

For the rejection of abnormal normalcy

In a sea of friendship

In the heart of truth stands a tent of loneliness

Where each greedy finger points like a gun

With intentions that can form spiritual bullets

To kill the best turned weird

In the heart of truth lies the court of most

Whose stomachs condone manipulations of hand and mouth

Shielding thunders of consciences

And pushing them onto the unique idiot

In the heart of truth

Everything is war, everything is pain

Everything is uncertainty

Everything can be anything

Yes, in the heart f truth

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © November 2, 2017


Legs take crowns to ordered places

To taste the grounds of its worship

Hearts engine dreams

To feel the pulse of success in the end

Tongues channel foods to intestines

To sip a taste from every bite

All the above with pinches of truth

Our elders did us in with some wise sayings

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

Better a good thing at home

So many minds, like rehearsed fingers

Play the tune of mischief

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

A favourite proverb carved by sages in their peak of wisdom

But the anthills gain the same worth as the griffonia simplicifolias

Now modernity seems to present replays of uncanny comparisons

To anthills and their griffonia simplicifolias


Instead of maintaining moisture to aid their anthills 

In times of drought

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

To induce death

So they can eat once and for all

Forgetting they are the very essence of their living

Oh, maybe they know near bodies in wait for exploitation

Which winds weaved us into this wickedness?


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

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

What are eagles who cut their wings

In their bid to fly higher?

Amazing the brains defecated out of the bowels of greed!

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

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 30, 2017

ASHAWO DIARIES (Tales of Adwoa Attaa) Chapter 6

​“Some days

Some days come with their smiling suns

Some days come with their whipping suns

Some days come

Some days just come

Some days come with clouds in shrouds

Some days come with clouds besides

Some days come

Some days come”

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

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

“Hello Miss, care if I join you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By: Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October, 2017

Photo Credit: Google pics

Continuation will be posted on 4th November, 2017.


I am from a land whose hair is gold

Chin is salt

Stomach is petroleum

And feet are rocks

I am from the heart of the strong


I am from a land boxed by colonialism

But with a strength which broke free

And stands in the wrestling ring with corruption

A country whose women have seen it all

Beauty for tags

Success for witchcraft

Barrenness for accursed

But still stand as the glue of families

Outshining their labels and harvesting reverence


I am from a home with wise breasts

So sucked respect from the nipples of customs

Sucked care from the breast milk of our conventions

Sucked hospitality from the mouth of nature

While holding the feet of our elders

Preparing for better succession


Here, elephants live in respect of beings

Lions live in care with us

Crocodiles watch from distances so do pythons 

As warthogs welcome us into meditation

When we reach the arms of Mole



We hail our ancestors in the protection of our nature

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

As the created of our creator

Here, we laugh from the bottom of our souls

A land where loneliness is banished by brotherliness


And relations

I am from the sitting place of the sun

Where sun rays have been weaved into my crown

And moons lead in mischievous dark nights

I am from

I am proudly from

I am so proudly from

Ghana, nursed from the navel of the Gold Coast

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 29, 2017

Meet Oppong Benjamin Clifford, the Civil Engineer and Writer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AMOAFOWAA: Single, married or attached?

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

AMOAFOWAA: Wow! Define a writer in a sentence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CF: And help us to resist oppressors’ rule

With all our will and might forever more.

AMOAFOWAA: Your advice to followers of

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

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


There are many in this struggle

This struggle which many with death wishes juggle

But you consider every challenge wealth

Even if doors of hope are shut

You own the scissors which sulking cuts

One pushed from the cliff of good health

To start from the dungeons of death

Right back to the mountain of health

One whose words resonate in satiric sarcasms

With a heart conflicted in healing many afflicted

One whose mind is a need of most

Your ink sure will get noisy soles

And will surely walk on big stages

As years wear clothes of ages

Oh Oppong upon whose shoulders sit buckets of ink!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 30, 2017


The sky lies emotionless

Far from pates of the helpless

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

I know your heart bleeds for all your seeds

Lord of the earth! Rain your favours!


The earth sits hard in a sky battle

Uprooting supporting trees

Breaking bones of all fallen

Whose skins weep at their red tears

As veins plead for their well being

So blood can freely flow

Like desperados, they pray at thy feet

Lord of healers! Rain your favours!


Many are confined in shackles of poverty

Losing loved ones as horrifying as their beheading

Their tears like a fountain

Flowing from spirit to soul

Soul to body in shameful repetitions

Oh Lord of hosts! Rain your favours!


I know some have been tied by ropes of lies

And taken into caves of den-like prisons

Watched keenly by judging ignoramuses

Their hearts, their only true testifiers

Yet with no legs to walk into interrogation boxes

To free their hosts

Lord of lords! Rain your favours!


Societal expectations are burning the wicks of many lives

Their non conformity, an enemy to their loved ones

Raining loneliness on them

Even in the midst of many

Lord of firsts! Rain your favours!


There are lost souls following greed bowls

Thinking they hold keys to their heaven

And like sheep, tied to poles of manipulations

Bleating only on orders of fake instructions

Lord of all! Rain your favours!


You see the winds of trouble in the lives of all

You know the standing tall and the hurt in fall

You know the caged and hopping eagles

You know hearts being baked in ovens of unfairness

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

You do know of owls whose eyes mark pitiful ants

In a treeless and soilless realm

Lord of mercy! Do rain your favours!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 29th October, 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 2017

Photo Credit: Google pics

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


If I knew I would bury my seed

And feel the rot which my happiness bought

And rock the cot which cries of cold

I wouldn’t have bothered in its plantation


If I knew the ways of death

And of its throat

Which swallowed more than pythons

In a realm where my eyes can’t reach

I wouldn’t have formed for it a pet

Which it would take from my Love’s nest


I know I have no power to make

I know I have no power to break

I know I have no power to take

But why does my heart so shake?


Call death to my pain’s court!

Call death to my sorrow’s fort!

Call death to my darkness ring

To show a face which hosts the mouth

To show the mouth which hosts the tongue

That took my seed without a note

So I can touch the soul of my soul

So I can touch the heel of my myth

To be an addition or an exchange deal

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 28, 2017


Worship is in a sea of destruction

Being torn apart by most of their sailors’ deceptions

Shot by sins which once sat

In front of their potent rifles

Their congregants scattering

For fear of lions of confusions

And bugs of distrust


It seems those days are cutting their rope ties

From the chariot of religion

Passions of sluggishness growing with every blast of greed

Temples are fast turning into market places

Many places of worship are now like brothels

Sacred places now act as chaotic as a gambling spot

There are temples of demeaning courts

Severing umbilical cords of the surrendered

From mythical existences

Who planted the moths in this living created?


Far eyes see a day

When Christ will turn myth unrecognised

When other prophets will turn stories in mock laughter

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

I may be the sand under unknown feet

One thing is clear

These words, born on an easing pot

Will sound loudly in the echoes of my voice

In this worldly cave

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 27, 2017


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

Roses have thorns of protection

Fishes have fins

Tortoises have hard shells

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


You made us softer like moist clay

You made us fragile like cotton in the wind

With huge responsibilities of making the world

You made us houses with no wire fences

You made us vulnerable to pests and preys and parasites

What was your plan?


A youngster lies in her struggling bed

Her pride box broken into by one with your will

One with a talking conscience

One who knows the boarders of hurt and dishonour

One whose land lord umbrellas him from the rains of justice

Oh your architecture might have had an error!

Blasphemy, I know

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


Look and make us your experimentation

To build better us in future days

So claws can fence holes of pleasure

In our proper protection

Look and make them your experimentation

To give proper locks in future

So in their wake with horror intents

Their locks will hold them in

That will only be fair

That will surely be fair

That will certainly be fair

In this jungle of struggle

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 27, 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics


As I wait patiently for you

Counting the marks on this pleasureless ceiling

While lonely canes whip in these dark nights

Anytime sleep goes on its rebellious demonstrations

Are you thinking of me?


As I walk these days

Carrying thoughts of you in dilemmahood

As to your existence or nonexistence

Chased by flies of frustrations

Punished by bed bugs of needy thoughts

Are you thinking of me?


Anytime dawn cries in my mock deception

And early cocks cut through my little sleep

With machetes of crowing

Painting my eyes with sores of restlessness

Waking a parliament of thoughts in the court of my mind

Are you thinking of me?


It will be a shame for your banana 

To pleasure hungry and vulnerable mouths

In a shameless succession

As I wait in anticipation for our meeting

So I ask even in this apostrophecal madness

Are you thinking of me?

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 26, 2017

Photo Credit: Google pics


There are flies born on a sugar plantation

And like blessed tongues live entirely on the sweet

There are eagles born to hens

And like accursed birds, live taking instructions from their meals

Luck is the stamp of fate


When the wind blows rain water into the sea

It does it good

Can same be said of blowing it onto fecal matter?

Where were wits when winners won

When losers licked the feet of God for mercy?

Luck is the stamp of fate


Let not those born on anthills

See those below as their grounds

Severe winds can blow them down

For luck is a sentimental monster

Which shows no sympathy for its former gods

Yes, luck is the stamp of fate

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 26, 2017


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics

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