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

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

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

Shedding troubles

Shedding squabbles

Shedding old victories

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


For all that is fair
All that we share
All that life makes us bear
I hope for you strength to dare
Even when storms of life glare
Hoping for you speed of the hare
To go through and success pair
This New Year and beyond
Happy New Year to all followers of amoafowaa.com.
Thank you for your continuous support. Blessings.


I cry for you
You whose time was set before birth
Shaped by fixed days
Rounded by a set of months

As your seconds tick into your minutes
I know your heart sinks
As you fall into the arms of history
But do take these
These flawed claws
Which have arrested our fingernails
And are causing such sores to our souls

Burn with the clothes of troubles
And help us walk into the clothes made
By your new born

Maybe those clothes may have thrills
Which will fill our quill
To rewrite our scripts
Or make us porcupines to battle
To keep well our field

Vanish with your garnish of tarnishing
Die with your sighs and cries
Round up your lions and lionesses
Shredding pride and egos of the righteous
And burn together

Clothes of shame
Headgears of corruption
Un-needed gloves of destruction
Crippling boots of greed
Burn with all to have us freed

We did all to walk you safely to your grave
We have noted every second you did breathe
So burn with all that is unfair
And shine us clean to rise above our clouds
As suns do through the fall of dawn
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 31, 2016


They imagine Christmas in snow
When our feet greet the dust of harmattan
As morning cold bites into skin

They imagine a pot-bellied-red-apparelled-man-myth
With goodies for children
In this drop of cold and heat
Blackmailing children into submission for a short while
Preparing them for rebellion after years of disappointments

They imagine a tree with gifts
When the birthday boy was said to have been begotten
In a stable
Gold, myrrh and incense
Turning into expensive worldly material wishes
Failure, breaking bonds, families and friends

They imagine kissing under a mistletoe
Did the young Canadian Bieber slap our thoughts
Through a simple song?
Or is it simply the blind holding the cane of a trickster?

Indeed Christ’s mask
Replace Christmas
Black men living in white delusions
Worshiping the gods of white living
Instead of words of faith
From the chimney to the snow
White Christmas charms most
You are idol worshippers
Your symbol: anything done by a human in white skin
You whose faith are cheperoned by movies and tales
And experiences of different cultures
You need rewiring
You incurable copycats
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 2016

The Making Of Orgiastic Cyprian by Oppong Clifford Benjamin


Episode III

The Making Of Orgiastic Cyprian is an episodic fiction by Oppong Clifford Benjamin which focuses on educating its readers on the sacredness of sex and how the pleasurable act can be a divine form of prayer between a creature and his creator. The story centres on a mysterious sect of young women between the ages of seventeen and thirty called The Ancient Aphrodisiac Cult (The ACC). The cult is strictly invented out of the creativity of the writer. However, some settings in the story are real.

We hope you enjoy this episode as well as the others to come.

Despite its vastness, the temple of Ishtar was widely known for its detailed designs of the interiors and the ancient sexually inclined activities that occurred therein. Faulckman Johan, a celebrated historian, in his popular documentary on Ancient Sex among early Babylonians that earned him a world-wide recognition described the temple as ‘a dainty piece of architecture, starting from earth and thrusting the eyes of God in the heavens.’ He, however, had a lot more to say about the two columns which were placed at the entrance; ‘most substantial pillars holding in highest esteem the glory of the temple.’ According to the history of the ACC as recorded in the early chapters of Longman’s Blue Ritual of the Sex Cult, the left pillar was named after Hamamat in the 1400s. The honour was done Her after she had served as a medium through which many Egyptian kings of the time were elevated from men to gods. Put differently, the powers in the ancient mysteries were conferred on them. And that on the right was after Baba Binlawa, Hamamat’s husband, who was never seen because he always visited his wife at odd hours and also because he was not in any physical form. Rumours. Some books said he was the mysterious smoke that rose from the hollow inside of the right pillar to the high skies whenever Hamamat danced and others of a more informed guess said he was the heavy air that had the exclusive seductive power to make Hamamat reach orgasm.
Faulckman used ten minutes of the thirty five minutes video documentary to talk about the sexual discovery of Baba Binlawa. In a morning’s winter, Faulckman narrated, Hamamat stood naked at the porchway, around the right pillar and moved her hips slowly in circles, her hands thrown in the sky like a helpless prostitute, her tender breasts scored the giant pillar, she stroke her tongue about the white clay surface of the pillar. It was as if she was dancing to an erotic silent music. Linda Longman wrote that a heavy cold wind circulated Hamamat. The howl of the wind could be heard from a far, it sounded like a huge man groaning under intense pleasure.

And calmly, she would lie in the open, on the bleak concrete floor beneath the pillar, her long black legs widely spread towards the right pillar and her head towards the left, and she tucked the middle finger of her left hand in her moist vagina while the right was employed to engage her breasts in a hot self romance. In between short time intervals, she carefully removed the finger and licked it. She deliberately allowed the saliva to leak about the finger onto her flat tummy and down to her navel. She would gently restore the finger to its previous position in the vagina. And when she was at the climax of orgasm, she moaned a strange name, ‘Baba Binlawa’ Faulckman’s said in his documentary.

“Use the mat,you may be able to sleep.” Hamamat stretched his left hand to reach for the mat which stood folded in the corner over her head. She rolled it on the bare floor but sleep was not on the floor too. She just couldn’t close her eyes. She knew those scenes in her dreams,  they have been living with her since the beginning of dark that day.

Scene 1. the tattooed middle finger of  Miss Juan’s right hand floating in the warm air.

Scene 2. A tiny sleek voice luring Hamamat to lick the finger starting from the proximal to the distal.

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

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

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


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

There are infant tears

Which like handkerchiefs, will wipe our fears

A holy mother, a higher angel bears

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


There are shepherds who heard

Because the father really cared

And there is a king who heard

Because the father really dared


Oh darkness always gets swallowed by light

God is in this state of warrior flight

Knowing beings can’t face the fight

Of pursuers, in whose race evils delight


So raise your handkerchiefs all in white

God has brought us all to his site

Hoping only for hallelujahs  to praise and bite

The kings of demons whose craze are tight


Take your handkerchiefs and sing:

Behold the heaven bells ring

Good tidings the son of God brings

No matter the mud Satan slings

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 25, 2016

Photo Credit: Google Pics


A story told millions of zillions of times
An occasion whose infectious smile
Blesses the lips of all celebrants
One baby cried for the jubilations of the heavens
And the knowing on earth years and years back
Still, Herod hated his herald of high hierarchy in heaven
Hunting him in his zone

A celebration of deaths amidst that of a supreme life
Boys upon boys upon boys
Had no pleasure of draining their milk
From breasts of their mothers
For Herod heard his honour
And hunted him like the only game in the worst famine

Whirlwinds carry dust
Who knows of a wicked little stone there?
Dancing in its circling is calling for blindness
Dancing far off is looking before leaping
Is that not the best way to learn?
Eyes which join fingers to fetch peppery food to mouth
End up changing their colour and size
Know the Herods who await all follies
And laugh to the happy cries of the newborn
Whose tidings tell tales of redemption
Know the Herods
Herod of deception
Herod of over-celebrations
Herod of fornication
Herod of adultery
Herod of stealing
Herod of over speeding
Herod of trickery
Herod of drunkenness
Herod of seduction
Herod of rape
Herod of disrespecting the holiness known
As the newborn sleeps in his manger of cradle
To honour the newborn called Christ
In your Christian attires
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 23, 2016


There are walls around a nation
A nation fought for with priceless blood
A nation whose beauty, like mud fish in muddy water,
Hides in walls too high in ugliness
Walls of corruption
Walls of deception
Walls of greed
Walls of power-drunkenness
Walls of ridiculous stunts
Walls of begging
Walls of tribalism
Walls of labeling
Culminating in walls of poverty pictures
Plastered from social media to foreign watch boxes
Yet many live in eyeless villages
With no ears
Not that they care
Living peacefully in walls of ignorance
Through a greater wall of illiteracy
Their pair of glasses too busy in high class comfortable cinemas

It is funny how birds cry for this nation
It is funny how the sky frowns through the sun
In the mirror of their eyes
It is funny how hills and rivers wait patiently for a climb
To show them the passions their sweats have bought
It is even funnier how the fields grow
Under the matchetes of hands uncountable
Few flowers weep for their land
While the weeds murder ones with loud cries
Four annual steps
Mostly turning into eight in laying more bricks on
Has been a painful fate
Who will break his feet by breaking these walls?
Who will break her fake nails
In breaking these walls?
I fear for the curses of tears from ghosts with closed eyes
Ghosts who lost their souls in the nation’s purchase
Time travels
And so does this nation
My nation
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 21, 2016


Image result for pictures of mouths speaking

Like water
They seep through rocks of hearts
Engraving themselves as reference sources
Marking themselves beside their makers

So powerful that elders analogise
Their retraction to spittle thrown into gutters
Which have seen no cleaning for decades
Branding royals servants of poor tongues
Pushing crowns from heads cemented by fate

Ordinary but can break down personalities painfully built
In seconds shared between desperate beings
Plain but can create vengeance
Whose fires have no figured-out fighters
Possess no armoury
But can cause wars
Destroying the world in a split blink

Use them well
And you can cut through deserts of thorns
Into a den within dens of evil
To find consciences well hidden in cages of ruthlessness
Use them not and risk seeing no growth of greatness
Use them carelessly and be the rag of failure
One used to wipe vomit of sick dogs
None sees time and honour
When words work within whims

In its vile exchange stay safe
If attempts to mute mouths at play fail
Love thy thoughts as elites love their pens
But work on them as goldsmiths work to refine gold
Before they see the light of your pages
Words fuel when lighted
Knows no water nor fire fighters
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 20, 2016

Photo Credit: Google Pics



The Making Of Orgiastic Cyprian is an episodic fiction by Oppong Clifford Benjamin which focuses on educating its readers on the sacredness of sex and how the pleasurable act can be a divine form of prayer between a creature and his creator. The story centres on a mysterious sect of young women between the ages of seventeen and thirty called The Ancient Aphrodisiac Cult (The ACC). The cult is strictly invented out of the creativity of the writer. However, some settings in the story are real.

We hope you enjoy this episode as well as the others to come.

Episode II

Hymn No. 69

Who Will Plough My Vulva by the goddess Inanna.

My vulva, the horn
The Boat of Heaven,
Is full of eagerness like the young moon.
My untilled land lies fallow.

As for me, Inanna,
Who will plow my vulva?
Who will plow my high field?
Who will plow my wet ground?’

Stop it!
In the name of The Mother, stop!”

Miss Juan yelled. She felt the absence of the soul of the hymn. She pushed her gaze into the yellow morning sun which pussyfoot its grandeur through the concrete windows ahead of her. She quickly remembered how this particular hymn made men use their tongues to search for divinity in the vulva of glorified prostitutes in the temple and how the men blurt out feeling purified, holy and relieved of their sins in the early days. She had read about the Atonement of Sins through the art of licking the vulva too as a chapter in Linda Londart Longman’s book ‘Blue Ritual of the Sex Cult’, and wanted to return traditions and ancient usages to their rightful places in the ACC during her sovereignty as Most Perfect Chiliad.

“Our purpose here would be fruitless as it has been in the past two or so decades if we continue this languorous approach towards our sacred art.” Miss Juan cried out loud, her voice shook terribly when it hit the four walls of the sexy temple. She descended the ancient pedestal which since time immemorial stood in the east of the large hall. She directed the attention of the qadeshes assembled to certain characters impressed into the front surface of the pedestal, SIVDSPHIV.

“It’s an abbreviation. Who knows the meaning?”

Still pointing to the letters, Miss Juan asked the qadeshes while she scanned her wild eyes through the assemblage for an answer.

There were whisperings among the naked ladies, their bare breast stood horizontally upright and succulent as a result of the oil of Ishtar which they had daubed into their skins. It was a tradition among the ACC members to insert the middle finger into a lithic vagina full of oil and smear over the body concentrating on the breast’s pap before entry into the temple for any ceremony. In the old days, cow milk was used instead of the oil. The milk was a symbol of fertility. But this and many other traditions of the ACC had been relaxed either to the generational gap or the laziness of the qadeshes as Miss Juan would like to think.

After few minutes of speaking softly without the vibration of vocal cord, Louiselle knelt on her left knee, erected the right in the form a square and gave a court bow – a submissive request for permission to speak to the Most Perfect Chiliad. Louiselle was barely six months old in the cult but had shown intellectual penetration into the mysteries and secret arts of sex. She was Miss Juan’s best friend in the sisterhood. Sometimes she asked too many odd questions that narks Miss Juan; Three months after Louiselle’s initiation, she was set for her sanctification ceremony whereby the rituals required her to seduce ten men and engage five in a divine sexual intercourse. On that day, Louiselle almost lost her life after the fourth man among the five selected for sex was done with her, but the ceremony thus far would have been considered invalid if she gave up. Miss Juan was the Most Wise Lady as at the time, and the ritual allowed the Most Wise to aid a candidate in a ceremony.

Miss Juan, on that day, moved in calculated erotic steps to the centre of the circle of fire where the fifth man stood over Louiselle’s body ready to insert his rod. Miss Juan positioned her head against the black and hairy chest of the Nigerian man. The man was from a rich royal Yoruba family. It was a popular rumour among the qadeshes that Yoruba men especially their Princes had the biggest of penises and stayed in sex much longer than any man on earth. Miss Juan picked a fibril of hair on the man’s chest with her teeth; she pulled it slowly till it extirpated. She whispered softly into the man’s ears “pains begat pleasure” and knelt down before him, still fixed her gaze deep into the man’s eyes and she swallowed the 13 inches long dick in her mouth and gently held the head in between her teeth, delightfully hurting the man. “Slap me” she instructed Louiselle. “Why?” Angrily Miss Juan retorted “just slap me, I am not here for your stupid questions. Slap me very hard on the face and butts”. And when Louiselle did, Miss Juan finished the Yoruba man in five minutes in an aggressive doggie style, while Louiselle caressed Miss Juan’s G-spot with her tongue. The heavy black man groaned like a lost ghost behind the butts of Miss Juan. He carefully withdrew his dick from her juicy vagina and sprayed his semen all over the butts of Miss Juan who was passionately transferred the thermal energy of her body to Louiselle in a titillating tongue-to-tongue kiss.

“Si Invenerit Vir Dei Secreta Pubentes Herbae In Vaginam”

“And what is its English translation?” Miss Juan asked Louiselle, climbed the footstall again and sat majestically in the east from whence she presided over all meetings of the cult. On her wooden pedestal was a book which contained sacred writings, a stony miniature of an opened vagina receiving penetration from an erected penis (logo of the ACC) and an ancient gold plated metallic staff which was presented as a gift to Hamamat (the first Most Perfect Chiliad) by an Egyptian King after his apotheosis. It was well known among mystics that most men with solomonic lineage visited the temple of Ishtar to be transformed into gods the better to enable them rule their people with a degree of supernatural superiority.

Louiselle drew back her lips and revealed her teeth in a totally innocent grimace. She had a faint idea about what the Latin words meant in English, but she knew they had something to do with the paragon of men to gods.

“errm! I pray you to forgive my ignorance, Most Perfect Chiliad,”

“Si Invenerit Vir Dei Secreta Pubentes Herbae In Vaginam

Man shall be God if he found the secrets in a juicy vagina” Miss Juan said aloud, her voice sounded harsh like an insult to the ignorance of the qadeshes.

“Yes, I knew it had something to do with apotheosis”

“Will you shut it?” Louiselle reflexively covered her mouth with her palm and felt sheepish. But she was not too much affected emotionally because it was not the first time Miss Juan had been abrasive with her.

Miss Juan explicated further “The vagina possesses the natural ability to create man in the image of God via sex” She paused and swallowed saliva to lubricate his dry throat and continued “It necessarily follows that we, women, are makers of gods. Thus superior to a God by virtue of the vagina we possess. We are complex heavenly entities descended on earth to multiply gods to cover the face of earth like the sands of the shores” There was cute silence in the hall. Miss Juan raised the gold plated staff, the symbol of her authority, in the air and slammed it against the flat surface of her pedestal three sequential times to forcibly attract the attention of the gathering.

“Louiselle has proposed a special candidate for initiation into our sacred cult. The girl carries the name of the Great Mother, Hamamat and strangely, she hails from the same town our Mother derived her birth and infant nature-Bolgatanga in a west African country called Ghana” she addressed the qadeshes and later warned them “It could be the Great Mother reincarnated so I want her ceremonies of invitation and initiation perfectly conducted in spirit. And to achieve this, every one of you must start seeing herself as a superior entity to a god. Tonight is the invitation ceremony.”


When Christ was born
Riches were myrrh,  incense and gold
Kings and farmers owned them most
Poverty was hunger
With no discrimination for food
Times have traveled
Elevating riches to much of infinity
Upgrading poverty to little from none
Let the scribes note

When Christ was born
None sought gifts but him
Fists owned the sole rights to boxing
Days had no hand in their affairs
Now boxing shares space with day
Placed in a birthday celebrated in the stables
Presided by materialism
Cheered on by greed
Little Christos hunt for a master who needs not
Times have really traveled

When Christ was born
I am sure hymns ruled the heavens
And not the earth
But solemnity has been booted by papping
Those who walk in opposite paths to christ
Celebrating more in clubs than churches
Claiming belongingness and shouting in daylight at Satans
Times have traveled

Paths turned roads drink from glasses of souls in accidents
Thieves so skilled bless their fingers
In the midst of eyes so visionless
I know time has traveled
Turning straw into needed stars
Killing Herold in his own reign
And replacing him with deceit
What upgraded definitions!
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 18, 2016


We remember the claws of yesterday
After feeling the smooching of palms today
A new dawn easily sheds its night
And falls into nothingness
If it records no history
And acts like a boring copycat
Yes, believe it or not
History has teeth which bite through memories

Whichever crown graces your head
On the ticket of teeth with graceful smiles
Know the mind can easily alterate mouth
To hide smiles under cloths of bitterness
So remember to tread cautiously
Holding dear hands which pushed your rear
Regarding bards who now sing your fair
And blessing fools who clean your smear
Forgetting not hands which fan your heat
Happiness needs no bureaucratic ticket
To a miserable future

We are who we are
Flowing minds into muddy legs
Into thrown rocks
Into immovable mountains
With corners and caves hiding fears untold
You disregard your ladder through comfortability
At your own peril
Especially in these times when royalty is a shadow in ceremonial cloths
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 17th Dec. 2016.


Dem say sukuu be all
Woman no be kitchen maid
Woman be queen wey need worship
I see say I be stupid for dis world

I get respect
I cook for my big man to chop
He no tink say I go poison am
Im dey trust im life for my hands
If dat no be respect
Wey tin be respect?

I know some tink say I be bush woman
No be bush all medicines dey?
No be bush person turn cities?
No be bush all animals dey hide?
I know say bush be life ankasa ankasa

How city queens dey live?
Demma finger nails be like animal claws
Some say dem dey use glue to stick dem
Wetin person fit do with animal claws?
I see why dem hate cooking so

I no understand why dem wear shoes
Wey im back be like sharp bones
Dem say hill dem be
If person climb demma hill and walk in demma hill
How she fit tink like person
When im mind be pain pain pain?

Wetin kill me be dem removing skin
Saying dem dey turn abrofo
Wey fashion be peeling skin like snakes?
Abena, I see all
Dem mouth, different different paint every day
Dem dress, small small rags
Catching buttocks, holding breasts
Dem too go fit born babies to grow?
Wey cloth dem go use strap babies for dem back?

I know say I be bush woman
My private things be private
I no see shame for der
I know say I be bush woman
But I wear slippers and feel no pain
I know say I be bush woman
I no challenge men when dem no want challenge me for my kitchen
I be bush woman
I be bush woman
I be bush woman but I no be counterfeit
Looking like fake paint for morning
And ugly old woman for night
All dat ponce dey destroy skin
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 15, 2016


I sit in comfort on my bed
With head carrying fires of hell
What could I possibly be to you?
A fling in a sling on a swing?

I think with my heart
Which beats like bass in a loose speaker
I hurt like a bird with broken wings
I can fly to no tree
I fear to walk,
Lest a hungry hunter of loneliness swallows
All this while a voice keeps asking within
What am I to you?
A fling on a sling in a swing?

Fragile hearts need no hard enclaves
Fragile souls, need no shadows
Which connive with darkness of commitment
To leave them stranded
When monsters of uncertainties chase
I am a lost child in a lonely old body
My tantrums being my walls
Walls you have broken
But what am I to you?
A fling in a sling on a swing?

Love me some
Or leave me crudely
Living in the middle is living like a goat
Strapped to a tree on a great occasion
Whatever my fate, sinks my soul in seconds
What at all am I to you?
A fling in a sling on a swing?
Poor little me!
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Nov. 29, 2016

BLESS ME WITH SEED (For those in need of blessings of the womb)

There is a farm hidden in me
Although sunlight feels not its land
And air pumps through thin tubes
As rain never get to muddy its ground
It is fertile enough to grow

Bless my land with a perfect seed
Help it blend in rot to live
Help it grow as seed to show in its pot of a flower
Help it mature to be harvested into itself
A land this well faces many problems
Without the blessing of a good seed
Please gift me one

Close all ridiculing mouths with awe
Let all pointing fingers shiver to show
Let all eyes pop open to be whipped by air into tears
For I am a farm ready to feed the earth
More food never threaten famine
Look at me too

A farm to grow a seed to grow into a farm
Or to grow into a seed
The earth thrives on this
Farmer of unseen farms
Look down on me
Poor me, strapped on societal public pole
With shame ropes and incompetent clothes
And tend to mine
For I am but a wreck in wait
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec.14, 2016



Dawn is opening morning’s doors

Freeing beings like birds to fly

Look keenly and see the lie

As some with feathers tower above legs


Birds are known to fly to seek

Food they peck with oh their beaks

Crippling birds do seem so weak

With their dangers so in chase

But what of the blind and lonely bird?


As we prepare to step out

With mythical loads of problems so weighing down

Cover our sadness with great smiles

With our weaknesses polished down

No head is carried with no need

Do ensure that we all do feed

And like a grateful nightingale

Our thanks will surely bless in tunes

Our Maker

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) December 14, 2016

(Photo Credit: Google pics)

The Making Of Orgiastic Cyprian by Oppong Clifford Benjamin

The Making Of Orgiastic Cyprian is an episodic fiction by Oppong Clifford Benjamin which
focuses on educating its readers on the sacredness of sex and how the pleasurable act can be a
divine form of prayer between a creature and his creator. The story centres on a mysterious sect
of young women between the ages of seventeen and thirty called The Ancient Aphrodisiac Cult
(The ACC). The cult is strictly invented out of the creativity of the writer. However, some settings
in the story are real.
We hope you enjoy this episode as much as the episodes to come. The Making Of Orgiastic Cyprian.
Episode I.
Remembering how timid she was on the first day she came into the temple of Ishtar for her
initiation, Miss Juan Onifat smiled and held the very tip of the giant penis which welcomed her
and every visitor to the extremely dangerous, yet ineluctably romantic designs of the interior. She
heaved a heavy relief, and it echoed in the somewhat sempiternal gallery of the temple of sex and
she looked down at her shadow which was telecasted on the walls by the sun, the sun was at its
meridian. She couldn’t believe she was the Grand Architect of the Qadeshes and by virtue of the
recent ceremony she was the sacred custodian of the recherché temple and all its traditions. It
had happened too fast, she thought. She was a little above three years in the Ancient Aphrodisiac Cult (The ACC), and just in the morning of that day, she had been installed the Most Perfect Chiliad, an enviable position which took other ladies, between the ages of seventeen and thirty, ten or more years of hard labour in sexual affairs with hundred strange men from all the seven selected corners of the world. “Congratulations, Most Perfect Chiliad, Grand Architect of the Qadeshes, The Sacred Custodian
  • of the temple of Ishtar and all its traditions” a half dressed blond lady went down on her left
    knee and perfectly erected her right leg to form a square with the left, and gave a court bow in
    salutation to Miss Juan. In response to the cordial felicitation, Miss Juan smiled and carefully
    lifted her right hand off the statue of penis and placed it on her well shaved vagina, she in-fixed
    the middle finger into her organ for a short while and removed it, and placed the hand on the left
    shoulder of the lady who upon rising to her full length, took a short pace with her left foot
    towards her superior, bringing the right heel to the hollow of the left to form a square, she then
    lapped the wet middle finger of Miss Juan. The blond lady licked the finger like it was the best
    thing that had ever entered her mouth; a sacred licking with saliva leaking off the lips, very
    The Qadeshes (members of the cult) have a religious belief in amorously passing their tongue
    about the always wet organ of their Most Perfect Chiliad and sucking the sweet scented liquid off
    her middle finger. It was a hallowed mean of communication between them and God. And She
    who did it passionately saw the face of God, or so it was bruited.
    Stories were told of a sexy black qadesh who once visited the Heavens and had an idyllic sexual
    encounter with a celestial body believed by the qadeshes to be God. The rumours had it that the
    black lady, Hamamat, when she was only a girl of twelve years, was visited in her dream on a
    certain mid-night while she slept on a small mat, in a muddy hut at a cute arenaceous village of
    Bolgatanga, Ghana. She saw in her dream a middle finger of a white lady. Hamamat could not
    appreciate the face of her guest but she clearly recounted the sacred element; a 7.44 inches long
    middle finger which had the image of an opened vagina receiving penetration from a perfectly
    erected penis tattooed across the length of the finger, starting from the proximal to the distal
    phalanxes. It was recorded in the chapter 16 of the book Blue Rituals of The Sex Cult by Linda
    Londart Longman, a Most Perfect Chiliad of the order who reigned from 1656 to 1701 that, the
    white lady rudely ordered Hamamat to lick her tattooed middle finger like how a sexually hungry
    woman suck the hell out of a lustful penis, which Hamamat did after what seemed to be a
    struggle in the dream. And when she did, Linda Longman in her book described the process as
    nonesuch, which in modern theological philosophy is synonymous with apotheosis- the process
    of transforming a man into a god. Linda said in the Blue Rituals of the Sex Cult that, Hamamat
    after many hours of massaging the finger with her tongue, the mysterious entity who appeared in
    her dream vanished into nothingness for out of nothingness she had appeared, but Hamamat
    woke up the next day in the ancient city of Cyprus, precisely in the temple of Ishtar with no

The Making Of Orgiastic Cyprian.
Oppong Clifford Benjamin.
cloths to shield her nakedness from the full sight of hundred men who had their hard members
aimed at her sorry self. Such, Longman wrote in her book, was the orphic means by which we
(qadeshes) are all invited to a participation of the ancient mysteries and sacred secrets of sex.
Cyprian Louiselle, may God strengthen thy waist to fuck your way to eternal glory
So Mote It Be” the blond lady whispered into air. It was the sect’s peculiar response to a prayer.
Miss Juan blessed the blond lady, Louiselle. Louiselle made for the south side gate of the temple
and just at the threshold of the exit, Miss Juan called her name aloud, prompting her to keep the
traditional form of exiting; sitting on an erected penis carved out of batholiths rock and
positioned at each of the four exits of the temple.
Ah Huh! Before you leave, please remind me of the name of the African girl you mentioned to
me this morning
Hamamat, Most Perfect Chiliad
Hamamat!” Miss Juan exclaimed out of surprise. She read the Blue Ritual when she was the
Most Wise Lady of the cult. The Blue Ritual was only accessible by the Most Wise Lady. The
duty of the Most Wise Lady in the ACC was to write the proceedings of the Ancient Aphrodisiac
Cult in a chronological records so the history of the cult doesn’t get lost in antiquity like many
sects of the then known world. During her office as Most Wise Lady, Miss Juan seized the
opportunity to read extensively on their ancient art, the mysteries and history of having sex with
strange men in the temple and the one that caught her interest the most was the mysterious

The Making Of Orgiastic Cyprian.
Oppong Clifford Benjamin.
Where precisely is she from?” Her eyes were widely opened and staring at Louiselle at the far
end of the gallery.
West Africa, Ghana. In a small sandy city called Bolgatanga.
There was earsplitting silence for quite a while in the space between them.
Are you okay, Most Perfect Chiliad?”
“Get me her picture, I will prepare for her invitation”
To be continued…



After angst and jubilation have gone to roost

In an opposing clash which selections boost

What is there but a sea with no boat

Calling all eyes; with hurt and gloat

To look past emotions and rise to a challenge


All in laughter show their teeth

All in outcries show their teeth

What is the difference between these?

Countenance for happiness and that of defeat

It is one land with many varying a seat


Some will stand

Some will on their buttocks comfort land

Some will walk

Some will stalk

Wouldn’t the importance be on space?


Work like a bull

Reason like an ant

All great buttocks can sit to cool

Devoid of hatred, being no procrastinator

Reason to work, work to gain

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 11, 2016

(Photo credit: Google pics)


Same winds can blow north, south, east and west

As the food
Coveted by many embark on a journey to build us all
Through your able self
Build with the protein of togetherness
Fill with the carbohydrate of wisdom
Heal with the vitamin C of hard work
Through the watchful eyes of vitamin A
Never forgetting vitamin D
For too much shade in the dark
Surely will cause illnesses
Remember how hard you fought to pluck the fruit of succession

Never play with the woven webs
By your very hands in the corners of mind rooms
For in each lies your home of throne
Its fragile nature makes even a broom dangerous
One sweep and you are out

Respect all thumbs and uproot corruptible weeds
Which grow in the midst of this general farm
We are heads with mouths which talk non-stop
But with thumbs which act fiercely once in months leading to yearly fours
Sift the best and massage the rest
Acting deaf to tongues which call
For your naked dancing in the middle of well patronised stages

Many a man have fallen through self overfeeding
Many a man have fallen through neglect
Many a man have fallen through insensitivity
Many a man have fallen through pride
Many a man have fallen into gutters of history
Through incompetence in this field of leadership
But men like Nelson Mandela still sit on stools revered
Even with their gaseous souls

Eyes will be watching
By all means beg to help us stand
But don’t grovel
Ask to let us build but no stooging
These same hands can reject in place of this embrace
We love comforting warmth
But not when it generates into uncomfortable heat

We love our light so find a way
We love to sing so find great tunes
We love to dance so hit on the drums of perfect change
One hurting flaw is your marital breakdown from hearts
Too much sugar and wealth for yours
And all pens write your jail of failure
Too much pampering and elevations for favourites
And ears store notes from eyes
Notes worthy to cut down your tree of terms
We love to eat evenly
Or at least well if the best can’t be reached
Your head swells at your own peril
“W’aba a tena ase”
Start clearing the land to build
We all have our parts
But navigate this ship to swerve all tsunamis
We are who we are
The children of our mother
Mother for all
A mother called Ghana
Your eloquence will only attract through proof of progress
Nothing more
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 9, 2016

(Photo Credit: Google pics)

Ghana Elections 2016: Patience; a Virtue


For a country whose hallmark is peace, it is sickening to see the manner in which the two major political parties are conducting themselves barely a day after elections. The impatience, the “taunts in call” which receives immediate response, the declaration of “leads” and “winnings”, the pain of watching as supporters’ temperament rise in tension puts the country in a bad frame.

I believe it is high time the New Patriotic Party (NPP) matures into a party which waits to act after declarations instead of stirring tempers. I also believe the National Democratic Congress (NDC) needs to be more civil in their responses to some of the press conferences by the opposition parties. Patience is a virtue in every outcome we have no control over or any outcome which demands the power of others. The law says the Electoral Commission of Ghana should be the team that organises and announces results. Why is that too difficult for parties to comply? Have we no faith at all in our system? Are we now too suspicious of our own souls to learn to trust in others for even a little while?

I watched with utter admiration, the press conference by the head of the Electoral Commission of Ghana, Charlotte Osei, and her calm appearance, her composure, her even tone, her reassurance spoke volumes of her competency and told the world she was on top of things. So what warranted the chaos that followed?

Supporters of both NPP and NDC must be careful in their jubilation. I believe the attitude of supporters are influencing their parties to act the way they do. No matter what happens, Ghana is the ultimate source of protection. If we break that, what will we have left? Are we ready to run through bushes to seek cover? Are we ready to be face violence, butchering, suffering and watch as our country tears apart? Are we ready to lose our credibility as one of the firm upholders of democracy? Who must die for who to lead in this era when our forefather’s blood still weep for development ad growth from their aggrieved graves? What will you say to them when you force yourself to die for a cause called chaos?

We need to learn from all the countries which held elections this year; from the United States of America’s famous elections to that of the Gambians. Reasoning is what makes us humans above all creatures. If Dr. Kwame Nkrumah declared for us freedom, we should learn to retain it by showing through our actions and inactions that we deserve it.

Please let us all be calm. Patience is a virtue. Whether NDC or NPP, we are all a nation with a body called Ghana. We are brothers and sisters in our motherland. We are one people with minds capable of talking through our differences and winning in the face of difficulties. Please let us pledge peace and maintain it. A win for one should be a win for all.


Heads vary in many competitive phases
But are same in unknown endings
Like fire, their hearts heat to shrink
Like ice, their heads freeze to explode
Little noise makes them jump
Ah! Obi ne stomach!
Wim wim wim!

Who will climb the golden stool?
Who will fall at the feet of defeat?
Who will receive the hails of reverence
And its associated curses of jealousy?
And who will be buried
And showered with pity?
The cheers!
The jeers!
The indifferent weirds!
Obi ne stomach!
Wim wim wim!

Will the umbrella break
By the winds of the elephant?
Or the elephant be pushed into the bush
By the flood of the umbrella?
Oh could the cockrel surprise to rise?
Obi ne stomach!
Wim wim wim!

Be on standby
Life-saving ambulances
For the many hearts to cake and break
Be on reserve
Waters of life
For the many breaths to cease and wake
Be on the alert
Life saving police
For the many necks
Which would want to hang
Let all lifeguards guard their waters
In watch of the many who seek to drown
Pharmacist and herbalist
Guard your medicines!
Obi ne stomach! !
Wim wim wim wim!!!
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Dec. 7, 2016


Who but the ink
Bleeds to cleanse?
Who but the pencil fearlessly scribbles to right?
Who but the pen honours the befitting?
What feat have you achieved?

Fie on all inks
Who write to praise the unright
Fie on all pencils who lick boots like stooges
Fie on all pens who worship societal demons
Sending to hell angelic hearts needed
To climb the ladder of development
Fie! Fie! Shame on stooging pens!

Many vocations lie in our inks
To enlighten
Encourage and inspire
Who will tell pathfinders
That their paths are crooked?
Clown crowns fit our oddities
Who cares when our whips land on the appropriate?

Think with your ink
Cuddle not monsters for grace
Be the voice of the voiceless
The eyes of the blind
The ears of the deaf
The legs of the cripple
And the heart of cowards
Birthing education for illiterate- impotents
For that is thy cross to carry
And you must be in a hurry
When the bell calls for you
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2016


Image result for images of women voting in Ghana

Humans are known to be political animals. The saying did not exclude women from this saying but in Africa, reality speaks volumes of backing the notion that “men are the real political animals”, talking about men, not the Biblical ‘men’ where women are included, just the men in the gender state. It is sad to strike a percentage of women to men in the political system in Africa. Liberia’s Johnson is a rare find in what seems to be the ‘gravels to hold the mud’; the gravels- few educated women, mud; the many semi-literate and uneducated women. Felicitations to Uganda efforts in this matter but is it enough? For a continent whose women suffer in all aspects than men, it is a big shame.

Men have many choices which women do not have. The less said about derogatory utterances by some prominent people of the land, the better. Need I mention Nigeria’s leading man’s famous statement of his wife’s foremost responsibilities being to take care of all his rooms with the exception of a board room? A man can have as many wives as he wants, thanks to polygamy. When men take on more wives, they are at liberty to shed their responsibilities; they could care less about what the children will eat, their school fees, shelter, to mention but a few. It would be up to the woman to fend for the children. For such beings who everything affect, from educational policies to inflation to increment in utility bills to legislative laws, it does not make sense that only few are involved in governance. Now let me narrow down to my country Ghana.

It is on record that, of the 275 parliamentarians, only 29 are women, that is, 21.8% representation of women, who constitute 49.1% of the country’s population according to http://countrymeters.info/en/Ghana, as of the time of this writing. Remember, women might be more considering many are born without proper documentation and censuses always have their flaws. As of January 2016, http://www.ghananewsagency.org/features/election-2016-is-ghana-missing-the-gender-equity-boat–99943 reported that out of the 18,938 slots for the District Assembly seats, 17, 783 men contested as against 1,155 and less than half of the 1,155 women were elected.

What are the problems hindering the participation of women in the political system? Surely it is not a matter of competence. I believe the first factor is lack of confidence. Many women are bred on the proverb that “if a woman buys a gun, it lies on the chest of a man” and “no matter how high a woman rises, her place is in the kitchen of man”. Most women grow to accept these proverbs and live by them, making sure they kill their ambitions before they acquire the necessary qualifications to aspire higher. I will say, if a woman buys a gun which automatically becomes the property of a man, there are so many interpretations to it, the man can either be a guard to protect her from harm as she lives to bless him with prestige or the man can use it to kill her ambitions. It is sad to know that most men choose the latter on this African Continent. For the second proverb, I admire the bravery of men, men who know those who hold their stomachs and still enslave them! Can’t food be medicine and at the same time poison? Will it not be better, if better informed heads and hands grace your kitchen to prepare you the best foods there are? Why do men always seek the difficult ways out?

There is also the matter of ego in political parties and electorate. Most political parties believe women are only good for the position of “Women’s Organisers”. How sad! A woman cannot dare to compete with men even through the primaries, let alone get through to stand to be elected. I believe affirmative action helped women to get to the 21.8% mark but is it not embarrassing? When there are competent women who can go against men, matching them in debates and all that are needed to call for votes of electorate? Funny enough, Hillary Clinton’s loss might even destroy the little hope we have of women getting equal representation in politics in Ghana. The many tongues wagging “if even the United States of America failed to vote for Hillary, knowing fully well that she was a better option, partly based on the fact that she is female, why will a Ghanaian man, who is a man, vote for a woman?” What is more painful is the addition “stop deceiving yourselves, women can never and will never be at par with men where politics and for that matter, important decisions of the world is concerned”. Personally, I have heard so many of these statements from my peers, educated as they are, that I feel it is fast becoming a “men anthem”

Can corruption be left out? It is a fact that women, when given the chance to govern, do so with little or no corruption, but politics even at the grass root needs a corrupt person. A person who has political ambition needs to win the trust of foot soldiers, chiefs, party members and finally the electorate. All these people need favours ranging from financial (paying upfront) to contractual (future payment mostly through MOUs), rumours have it. So only the rich can afford to venture into politics, and let us face facts, how many women in Ghana have the wealth to challenge? Let us not forget that for most, the fact that your husband is rich does not make you rich, he might choose to buy anything you need to make you the trophy he needs as a decoration but will not help you grow higher than he is (chance mostly taught of as grounds for disrespect). What is a woman to do?

Is the media helping? Little mistakes by women in power are made ‘gargantuan’ for lack of a better word, working further to destroy the little thoughts which support women in power. Statements like “leave them, you know how women are, they become unbearable immediately they are pushed into high positions” also do not help. Six months ago, I had the opportunity of joining a friend in a gathering in one of the small villages in the Upper West. They called it a community meeting. Apart from three facilitators, including myself, who were ladies, all the people who were supposedly the representation of the village were men. The complaints of their failing educational system were blamed mostly on women who they claimed “left their positions because of pregnancies and births, are lazy and could not teach properly and are gossips so leave their jobs for the activity during classes hours” I specifically asked them if only women were the teacher of the village school and they were able to tell me less than 20% of the teachers were women. Asked to whether they have tried cautioning and querying them, silence was the answer. I could see most of the eyes of the men moving round and round as I spoke without fear and intimidation. My advice was clear, stop blaming women for the problems of this community, childbirth is natural and there are measures for them in the Ghana Education Service. If community leaders do not give women the vote of confidence and go on to always pour their negative thoughts on them, which woman will have the confidence to aspire for political power?

Believe it or not, there are women in Ghana who believe women are not fit to be in power, talk less of they aspiring. Some women do not know their rights let alone fight for them. As a woman who was told by some men in my current station (Northern Region) when I first came here to teach six years ago, that “a woman’s voice must not be heard by men except her husband” and was advised to transfer to a girl’s school so as to “stop causing some big boys in some classes to sin”, I believe I need not say more. If these men have women, and yes they do, of course, will they not have the same opinion or be made to believe it considering the fact that a quotation from a holy book backed the claim?

I could go on and on and on, the bottom line is, I call on the world to see women as the powerful beings they are, that is not to say that men are powerless. I call on women to learn to support their fellow women; “single brooms break easily”. I call on fellow educated women to educate their uneducated peers on their rights and low representation of women in key positions and its effects, I call on Ghanaians to vote for their competent women candidates. A journey of a billion miles, even a ‘zillion’ miles, still starts with a step.

(Photo Credit: Zaa Radio 99.3 FM)

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Says it straight and makes no bends!

Espiritu en Fuego/A Fiery Spirit

This is a direct response to a nasty comment made on one of my previous posts. I am not a nice person when somebody says or writes the wrong things so things are about to get ugly. Real Ugly!!  You May STOP Reading Now.

As Creator and Moderator of this blog I reserve the right to call out any stupid, racist, sexist, dumb ass or ageist comments.  I recently ReBlogged a post about an All Black Cowgirls Team. Anyone who has an ounce of good sense and a knowledge of racist American History should know why Black people in this country need and must have All Black Teams, Events, Organizations, Groups etc….. There has rarely been and given the upcoming administration will be any societies, organizations, groups, etc… where Blacks are or will be seen as equals. We’ve been having this battle for 400 years and even through the eight…

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There is no baby born with a mark of religion
There is no baby born in religious colours
Man made religion
So sought and still seeks routes to God
Many paths can lead to a farm
Where they meet, there is no ownership
Why do we seek superiority in the face of tolerance?

What will go wrong if a Christian acknowledges the existence of Islam and vice versa?
What will go wrong if Muslims left
Blasphemy for Allah to battle
Working to help him by explaining and teaching the directions in the Qur’an?
What will happen if the idol worshipper is given his due of respect
As he bows to nature which feeds, nurtures and shelters all?

We need the obedience of donkeys to serve our hearts
And need the hard work of ants to propagate our beliefs
We need the ears of elephants
To listen and discern
We need the togetherness of bees to protect our lives like they do their honey
Making smoke to weaken our bond
Forcing us to fall prey to our enemies
Is just becoming Frankenstein Monsters
Who but the spider
Fixes its web torn into by intruders?
Wise words marry good ears
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Nov. 26, 2016


Words are on the field of deliberations
From high heads dripping with opinions from perspectives dynamic
The question which is like the ball on the field?
Was Castro a dictator?

Castro was a dictator!
Obama is a hypocrite!
Trump is the ish when it comes to the bible’s wish
Trump is truthful
His eyes aiding his apt speech
Mr. Dzome couldn’t be more passionate

Castro was a hero!
One who drove a city on wheels of prostitution
Drugs, illiteracy and colonialism
Into freedom
Enlightening many
Opening the doors of knowledge
Into the doom of illnesses
Shaping blackness to be at par with white in Cuba land
Shaming and executing racism
As Ga’s shame hunger during Homowo
Femi simply poured his bit
Leaving the floor a spectator

Oh hypocrites of beings!
Who will dare hail an autocrat
Who ruled for sixty years without a challenge?
Who is hailing one who slaughtered
His opponents like fowls to maintain his gun made throne?
Who will choose Cuba over America, given the chance?
Let he who wants to see a dictator rule his country
For sixty times twelve moons
Come forward now!
An angry voice echoed through words

I would rather vote for the change I see
Than vote for the naught that be
Democracy is but the playfield of colonial masters
Who pull strings unseen
To destroy most good to be
Removing the best to enstool scarecrows
Hands of healing blessed many states
Saving lives, thanks to Fidel’s Cuba
Dictator or not
He cleared the rot
Nana Apenteng wrote with vim

Concurrency and a few boos trickled
But the battle is yet to end
Who knows the many tongues which will battle fingers
To continue this play to a win?
These fingers hide in writing
Knowing more about the dictator
Who was a blessing to most
And a curse to few
That dictator
Who boldly walked into death
After living over ten times ten lives
That dictator who only lost to a sore
After tending to many state sores
That dictator who seeks to be absolved by history into the hall of heroism
That dictator!
The dictator who flies to the shores of death
With his name on many lips
That dictator. ..
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Nov. 27, 2016
(With inspiration from Friends of GAW)


Who thought the chased tadpole
Would grow to be a toad
And outwit all snakes and predators
To walk with own legs to the city of death?

Who thought a struggling soul
Would be a David to topple a millitary Goliath
And open the gate of enlightenment
For many whose swords were metal to turn pens?
Fidel, you are a hero!

Power is a powerful alcohol
Attacking sanity of most to live presents even in future
Power is a destructive drug
It bugs the mind into high-hood
Making thoughts hazy and self superior to all
But you tried your best and made your mark

No matter the purity of a corn harvest
When it lasts long in its sack
Weevils will break its defenses
And destroy most of it
If not all
But its presence shames famine
Giving security to stomachs which tasted the whips of hunger
Fidel, you were an iconic conundrum for most weevils
And decorative corn for hungry stomachs
Still,  your mark is made!

As you walk into the unseen city
Sit with many of your peers in political entrenchment
With an enlightenment from Nelson Mandela
To change what must be changed
Calling on Mugabe to host a revolution of power discipline
To bring sanity to the developing world

I know you were a hunted mouse for many cats
One who outwitted them all like a god of game
And drew their foolish faces on rants and disgruntled public hearts
Death has absolved you
But look back on life in analysis
And help promote your mirroring good
Eliminating your murdering faults

You did your best like all
Fighting imperialism
Shaming colonialism
I am sure you wished all had your passion
To make Cuba a state of positive revolution
But can one with eyes lead blind men to a war unseen?
You will be missed by all
For good or bad
You will be hailed by many
In good governance and bad
You have your space in history
A space none can erase
You are what you posed
Your flaws
Your perfection
All making you the Fidel of our Century!
You know struggling states’ dead do not have rest permits
But find time and rest anyway
Rest and rest in peace you found not
In this worldly realm
Long live your mark!
Long live Cuba!
Long live the world of beings!
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Nov. 26, 2016

THE BIG FALL (For Ohemaa Afia Serwaa Kobi Ampem)

As many leaves fall to pave way for new
So do humans fall for space for new
Many leaves have fallen in this harmattan
Which winds uprooted the strong root
Of a great palm
Shaking the grounds of the unshakeable Ashanti Kingdom?

Hunger has no bluetooth
But the elders say
Only a mother feels the hunger of her children
Why did you drop your loving and protective umbrella
From the head of Nana Osei Tutu II
In this pelting stones and arbitration adding rains of sadness?
Nana Hemaa, where is thy face
When mansions seek to be blessed with your vision?

Kind heart in regal bones!
Fine art in perfect body!
Perfect model of rightness of culture!
Ohemaa’s feet in ahenema!
Ohemaa’s body in sika ntama!
Ohema’s shiny smooth black skin!
Tuntum brane!
Ohemaa’s tongue stirring the proper Akan language with anwinsem made from the chambers of wisdom!
You truly will be missed!
Nana Hemaa!
One whose womb begets kings even suns bow to look
Matriarch turned legend!
Although time’s cutlass ruthlessly cuts lives
It dared not until the gods made your path!
You did live to command death!
Even so, we mourn
For who can smile when their honeypot breaks?

We cry rivers for our loss
Mourn ourselves for our heartbreak
But celebrate your life and blessed journey
You were born to stand first in all
Even your death marking first in a triple
Age of blessedness
Nana Ampem!
First daughter of Asante Kingdom!
Loving daughter of Yaa Asantewaa’s lineage!
Firm, strong, brave
Fearful to all enemies!
Angel to all friends!
Nana nanti yie o!
Rest not until you have told all our hardships to the ruling ancestors
Sit only to watch Asanteman and Ghana prosper
Sleep only when your people know the best of peace
You sacrificial soul
Talking peace even in death!

Nana Serwaa!
Serwaa Brakatu!
Kotoko Hemaa nnimpong!
One who porcuppines will kill themselves to protect if death had abducted!
Lucky death! Its gates stood in bow for your entrance
Nana Kobi Ampem eeei!
Damirifa due!!
Due due ne amanehunu!!!
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Nov. 24, 2016


I wish, I wish, I wish!
I wish I had a day
To travel to the mind of man
I would want to explore all his caves
To know the wires that touch
To electrocute some senses
Into forming actions gargantuans
To horrify my sisters and I

I’d first love to be a tourist
In the cave of nudity
Knowing their genesis of need for pornography
Its positive and negative wires into sockethood
Sockets which drive their urges
I would then move to seeking the hormones
Which make most brothers “agya apapu”
Following even sticks in female apparel

I would also explore the cave of ego
Investigating to know the old engines
Which spark too loudly
When their keys of annoyance turn
And hope their healing keys
Hang in a corner

I would also love to know what motivates their need to own
Owning and owning but hating to share in rivalry
Some holes deemed favourites
Sparking cutlasses of jealousy
Which poisons reason

I wish
Wishing wishes horses
To fly me into what blocks their stored emotions
And help most multi-task in lies
Hunting conquests in forests ruled by thorns of infections

What will I not give to know the vein
Which pumps need-blood for beauties to showcase,
Intellectuals to demonstrate
And the easily bullied or order in servantship

Which fat boils the need for power?
Which water fountains to fan the need for thanksgiving
For little efforts rendered?
Which, symphonizes the music of success
To make them dancing puppets on stages of unthinkables
I wish, I wish, I wish!

I wish to find the ray wires of their eyes
To see from their points of view
To know if they own lasers which see through feminine clothes
Fanning their desires even in attires
I wish
I wish
I wish
If only their heads were parks to explore
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Nov. 22, 2016


I am a product of a nation
Which was stung by the bee of slavery
That I am
But that is centuries ago
I was never a slave
I acknowledge the pains of my caught brothers and sisters of my ancestors
That should not drag me
Into caves of self sympathy
Wallowing in the dirt of self pity

When a match stick strikes the cheek of its box
And kisses the stove to light
It has finished its work
It behoves the flames to heat the saucepan
To help it boil its content
So why will the stove cry to put out its flame
For the matchstick which fought so hard
To strike the cheeks of its box
To see it glow?

I am no slave
I am a fortunate soul fiercely fought for
I look forward to the highest of successes
And have no time to be the dirt to be stepped on
I am a liberated soul
And have no time to complain about a shame that needs burial
Why don’t my people see?

I am what I was made
Glowing with sun and moon
My mood has no time to roost on pains of yester years
Let black shine with me
To heat enlightenment
To feed glory to our generations
Traveling through our proceeds to the future
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Nov. 20, 2016


I pour this libation
From my free but poor calabash
Which knows hunger as a happy sport
And not an opposing wrestler
To let dreams fall into sleep of all
To see fierce and hunting war
In chase of ones whose preferences
Became their bait of horrid fate

I pour this libation from my fearful calabash
Which loves to retain every drop it hosts
To wet the lips of mouths of thirsty gods
To help them consult oracles of miracles
To invoke the slap of reality
To wake us from slumber of sluggishness
Exporting us to the heaven gates of hard work

We pour our all on peace preaching
When others seek to inject the sun
To see its veins
I pour
Nananom nsa!

Nananom nsa!
To chase hard in hells of war
All “tintintinintis” who plan to be all the war
In loses they abhor

Nananom ei nsa!
To let money hunters in national-cake- chase
Lose interest, race or lives
To rid our world of failures unborn

Any “takrawogyamu”must be burnt by hell’s hell fires
Fuelled by Odomankoma’s “faango”
All brown snakes in dust must be poisoned by the heat
Which hides their dubious frames!
All water snakes acting like water lilies
Must be chopped on boards of “we thought before you”
Nananom nsa for safety!
Nsa for discernment!
Nsa for all right choices!
Nsa to entrench our lasting peace!
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Nov. 20, 2016


When the sound of the trumpet
Is rejected in echo
Like a ball thrown to a wall
And it finds not the hole and the mouth
Which gave it life for the errand
It falls into vanishment
Like little dust in overflowing gutters
Let ears hear the sound of tolerance

When the cock sings at dawn to wake all
It feels important
But the lullabic voice of a nightingale in the evening
Shakes its grounds in jealousy
Until it falls under the spell of sleep
Knowing masters have masters
There is nothing wrong with bosses of different times

You rise to the dawn of change
Or the morning of continuance
Heads are similar modules
Minds form to repel even itself
Engaging in internal war
Many times in a day
Causing battles unseen
Is it a wonder when two separate heads crash?

There is the fool
And there is the coward
There are those who push the sails backward
There is the wise
There is the brave
There are muscles which force us forward
Wherever your tongue stir
Ridden by thoughts
Remember you are no sky to suspend
You need the grounds to walk
The sages will drink from this weave of wisdom
And fan the sweat of boiling tempers to cool
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Nov. 18, 2016


I have a voice
But no matter the loudness of the noise
I vote Ghana!

I have a choice
But no matter the decision
I will rejoice
And vote Ghana!

Never will my blood boil
To break the pot
That hosts my waters of life
I vote
I vote Ghana

Never will I pierce the saucepan
That cooks my meals
What will taste the fires and burn
To keep me, mine and ours
Overflowing with generations?
I vote
I vote Ghana

Only one with a disturbed pillow
Seeks to wallow in the fires of insomnia
To hit the drums of disaster
Forgetting his soul in a circle
I vote Ghana
Above all earthly else
A temporary tenant can’t make me break down my house
In exchange for solidarity
Turning me into a rejected vulture
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2016



Ghana is almost sixty years old and any human being at sixty is almost close to his grave. All expectations and achievements have been realised. Only (excuse my language) a fool will bank all his hopes on lottery at sixty. If life is important, our country Ghana is more important because it is the property of generations and generations yet to come. No parent with many children will want to see them maiming and killing each other just for superiority or to a selfish end. Will it not be a cliche if I quote the “single broom and many strapped brooms” proverb? Ghana is one country, citizens are all children of the land. We are obviously far from the goals and aspirations of the late Dr. Kwame Nkrumah and fall back on Lee Kwan Yew’s tactics to help us see the light of development. We are almost at our wit’s end where electricity is concerned, people are crying “poverty”. Corruption is pushing us to the edge of doom but politicians who are supposed to be the servants of the nation are building mansions, sharing monies meant for development and acquiring properties gargantuan for themselves and as gifts. There are still farming areas in Ghana with unmotorable roads, who has time for power struggle?

It saddens me to see supporters of both the National Democratic Congress (NDC) and the New Patriotic Party (NPP) fighting among themselves like enemies on a deadly battlefield. Ghana is not a battlefield and neither NDC nor NPP are soldiers at war.

What is most difficult to watch is the fact that dirty tactics are used for campaigning. Would it not be fair for a candidate to use fair language, visions through their manifestos; believable and workable, to win the trust and mandate of the electorate?

To the NDC, why use infrastructural developments as campaign tools when the monies used did not came from tax payers and loans payable with huge interests? Adverts that show NPP as a poor party is below the belt. Where is the source of your campaign funds? If your manifesto for 2012 is reviewed, will we see all the promises fulfilled? Claims of being witch hunted by the judiciary is not good enough where the Woyome case is concerned. Innocent people do not cry foul when criminals are being searched for. In any case, you did no wrong when the Anas case came out. It was an act of corruption revealed to help rid the nation of “murderous traits”. I do not see why rumours must fly around that you were to blame for it.

To the NPP, why not concentrate on winning the hearts of the electorate through your visions? Only one who has nothing better to offer uses faults of others to get ahead. The complains can be substituted by efforts laudable. Revelling in the possible scandals of the NDC is not the ticket to give you the mandate to rule.

Clashes of the two political parties are being reported by many media outlets, painting pictures of ignoramuses and idiocy to the world. Some laugh as others curse, but for certain, none sympathises. We call Donald Trump names when he ridicules us with the obvious and taunts our brothers and sisters in the diaspora. When will we see that one Ghana is all we have, and work to make it better, ‘livable’, lovable, encouraging each other to bring out the best in us in order to achieve our development goals?

If all you want is to make Ghana a better place, why fight when you can join forces to? Why should the winner matter? Why incite others to kill each other in our bid to select? Ghana is bigger than any political party. Ghana is no property for the violent! Ghana’s bedrock is peace. No matter how hateful Donald Trump proved, the US elections were free and fair and the drama was less as compared to ours.

I leave you two with this, do Ghana a favour by sitting in thinking “Will I be able to face my ancestors with a clear conscience when I join them? Will I represent my people without malice, discrimination and harm? Will my conscience stay intact after my struggle to be in power? Is this position to serve or to rule? Will I be able to build the ladder of development to pave way for my children and their children to build on? What will I gain if I make my home an international laughing stock?”

A word to the wise…

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 17th November, 2016.

(Photo: Google pics)


There is a cloud forming on clouds

The sky of red, gold, black star and green

Has arms wide opened to mean

It can take all the dance on court floor, even the mean

And awaits personalities who will fall into shrouds


Amidu holds the reins

And just got Woyome as the horse

Hoping to ride him into remorse

Entrenching himself as discipline’s boss

Giving hope where hopelessness reigns


What is to be expected?

Ghana will bake and shake

The world will seek and rake

Stories will build and wake

Accepted will flog the unaccepted


Will this rain

Fall to muddy the ground

Where corruptions hound?

Will sanity in Ghana be found?

I pray for all to be sane

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) November 16, 2016


In Ghana, the sun always sets

Now elephants, coconut trees

The cockerel, the sun

All battle to topple the umbrella


Some call it the leaking umbrella

Which has been bribed by nature’s delicacies

To cancel its safety obligation

Some call it the weak emblem

Blown in shame by winds of corruption

Some call it a standing failure

Doped in troubles, shielding only the best of vitamin D

And clean and needed water in drought

What is what?

Ghana stands like a helpless cow

Waiting for a painful slaughter


If only all audience had perfect eyes

Eyes which see no ethnicity

Eyes which see no affiliations

Eyes which see no connections

Eyes which see nothing but growth for all

We could have it all

And triumph over our fall

Mother Ghana! Your breasts suffer

From the teeth of the vampires you breed

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) November 15, 2016


When the gods speak into mouthpieces

Let the people get their earpieces

If the street listens to beats

Legs get massaged by the rhythms

Who are legs to complain?


Generations die for generations to live

A kiss in the dark in some archaic moments

Sex on the street in contemporary times

Leafs of innocence fall in time

Normalising abnormalities

Slapping primitive heads into swallowing sillies


Let all wake to learn

To box well heads in hands

Seeking to take advantage where disadvantages lie

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Nov. 14, 2016 


On this ground of uncertainty

Look my way

Hold my hand like a crawling toddler

Heal my feet

And hold me up


I am but soul on clay

I am nought but your weave

I am nought but your grateful robot

Help me step to you


Where the world flaws

Give me holding claws

Where fingers point to tarnish

Let your grace garnish

Where hope is caught by deceit

Like a chicken caught by a hawk

Be the safe wings of protection

Lead my steps

One at a time

Safely to you

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Nov. 13, 2016


When you feel him drifting
Heart races in sad palpitations
Fears roll in high doses
Pain slices deep in soul
But what is a woman to do
When his heart drifts?

Pain is the reluctance to chat
Harm is the secret of neglect
Murder is the hidden other
Hiding, and cheating
Tactfully dismissing
Skillfully leaving
What is a woman to do
When his heart drifts?

Weakness of love
Is its guns shot when forever shortens into goodbye
Weakness of trust is the ray cast on a secret rendezvous
Even in tiny bits
Love spills like water
Seeping through the harmattan pores of madness
What is a man to do when her heart drifts?

Winners are they who experience rejection
Are kicked by shame of its suppression
And rise like Davids
To conquer the Goliaths of absolute control
And finish-hoods
Life holds swords and chests
A cut
A hug
A balance is fair
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Nov. 12, 2016


How did this happen?
A bull dog winning a battle with a lioness?
How did this happen?
Trash beats motherly breasts to become a tap of filth?
Who will filter this?
A demon has penetrated through the gates of peace
Will the peace cease?

A massacre of thoughts
Marrying chaos like disaster
Emphasising pain till the end
Receiving gifts of disdain
Inviting wars from stray bullets
Cancelling friendship hardly won
Attacked by its nomination like a Frankenstein Monster
This is a seer’s vision

When a drama king sits on the house of Lords
Many great lords are made comedians
Their right opinions flushed into his gutter of bastardazation
What is a radically blind realm to do?
The crooked path has been made
How many will end in its thorny forest?
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Nov. 9, 2016



A lioness battles a bull dog

In a scary, dark and thick fog

All name calling like betrayer and a hog

Will be flogged and caught in an end clog


A gentle soul begs for thumbs in whole

Competing with a monster from a hole

Whose drift would be smeared in coal

And who would become a success foal?


Would history be made

In a dirty blunt hurt spade?

Or history be made

With a first breast for shade?


Supremacists stand side by side

With mean looks on black ‘hide’

Controversies stir pots of dignity

Who gains capture as against immunity?

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Nov. 8, 2016

Photo Credit: Google pics


The beginning of love
Is like the beginning of creation
I am sure God’s heart raced
As he created it all
His joy sat in a celebratory palanquin
Developed wings and danced like an all powerful ruler
Hailed by satisfaction as a look upon jubilant
When all was done

My ears can imagine his symphony in orchestration
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Pa na na naaaa
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Na na na na na na
Pa pa na na na na
Pa na na na aa
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Na pa na na na na’

I am sure he thought he found a friend
So pampered Adam like a baby
Cuddled,  held hands
Laughed and felt his smile even without him
Such fire of purity can only make one hear

Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Pa na na naaaa
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Na na na na na na
Pa pa na na na na
Pa na na na aa
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Na pa na na na na’

The thoughtfulness of curbing loneliness
Must have forced God to make another
A more powerful breed
Who unfortunately was a channel of deceit
Breaking the heart of God
Like a shattered fresh egg
I can hear the sorrow in his groan

Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Pa na na naaaa
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Na na na na na na
Pa pa na na na na
Pa na na na aa
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Na pa na na na na’

That might have forced the curses
That might have caused the pain
That might have deepened the animosity
And man turned into the labourer
Could man be Africa, God be God and Eve be the intruders?
Wait, let me guess this sad tune
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Pa na na naaaa
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Na na na na na na
Pa pa na na na na
Pa na na na aa
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Na pa na na na na’

Our flutters are over
Our loving friction so over
If animosity now reigns
As God in anger flees
What is our prayer to fix the broken?
Can we see hands held high to reach out?
Can we see hearts cry out to reach out?
Can we see minds working bodies to mend?
Sorrowful tunes cased for a once happy tune sucks
It goes like the steps of a game of death
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Pa na na naaaa
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Na na na na na na
Pa pa na na na na
Pa na na na aa
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Pa na na na na
Na pa na na na na’
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) November 1, 2016


Serious basket sent to the stream of ambitions
To fetch heads which sync with hands
In hardwork to weave the nation
Suddenly developed comedic holes
Posing pictures of ridicule
In a nation whose teeth can’t afford a smile
Talk less of laughter

Fishes flawed and thrown out
Have majestically managed to catwalk
Into the basket eyed by all
Did the basket fall?
Did its call for flaws flaw?
Is it about to topple
To break the hard earned weave of many hands?

I had a vision
The feminine flag fell at the feet of its poll
Shot by many mouths with stones of her over criticism
In her catapult of ‘frenchimness’
Lo and behold, signs like a pen
Sign evidence in days in her prideful fingers
What is man to think of it all?

Serious comedy!
Comic parody!
Haunting ridicule!
Daunting spectacle!
When will serious matters fly high
On eye boxes as against the follies?
Oh Ghana my motherland!
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) Nov. 4, 2016.


It is only in the house of politics
We find blinding smoke without fire
Its finances, like confusing qualitative thesis, lacks mathematics
Its words flying with no hands to tame to collate

Tongues of tongues are begged in hire
Hands with corrupt cash magnets
Get to be called sires
Brains with guttered tricks
Get to lead the need
While best bids sit catching flies

The few who venture turn spoilt food of ridicule
On the political market
Is it universal or Continental?
Is it our curse or our nature?
What is a tired climbing woman to do
When her children sell her out
Like cheap tomatoes on enemy markets?

Who can fingers of blame point to?
Great eyes which see and force mouths to mute?
Capable hands who fold in fear of hurts
Pushing weak and troubled hands to the fore?
Or ears who hear but act deaf?
This woman is in troubled waters
This poor Ghana!
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 17th October, 2016


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

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

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

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

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


Image result for images of  bold on bing.com


The infra dig man-cue

For flowers of honour

Is not part of the deities I worship



Bombastic preachers

Robed in cover of their leeched skin

Can’t make me sleep

No matter the soothing of their evoking lullabies



Mouths which work in the dark

And mute in light

Can never move a muscle in my body

Why must hidden teeth  robot my being?



Heavy duty machines of worry

Will never drag me into a failure lorry

Will I be the first and last to be sorry?

Definitely not

Life is no fixed time with a forever whip


If I am misunderstood

I would rather I am ‘overstood’

I did not bring me here

And will not take me from here

Life that brought me must give me death

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) November 2, 2016

Photo Credit: Bing.com


  • The Ghana Poetry Festival is set to take place from the 10th – 12th November, 2016. The festival whose first and second editions have nurtured young poets into successes will take place once again; bringing together poets from all regions of Ghana and its suburbs unto one stage. ‘Values for Life’ and the W.E.B. Dubois Memorial Center for Pan-Africanism presents the 3rd Edition of the Ghana Poetry Festival. The local organizing team promises to host a well-structured, educational and entertaining festival like no other in the history of literary festivals in Ghana. With the theme of “Discovering the Value of Poetry: The Role of Stakeholders”, Ghana Poetry Festival promises a series of exciting literary arts, creative arts and entertaining events among many others over a span of three days at the W.E.B. Dubois Memorial Center for Pan-Africanism, Cantonments; in Accra, Ghana. With the awesome Hon. Abla Dzifa Gomashie –deputy Minister of Tourism, Culture and Creative Arts – as patron, Ghana Poetry Festival will also serve as an avenue to promote African culture and arts, through its series of round table discussions and workshops.
    The festival will feature several local and international guests and artists like Hon. Abla Dzifa Gomashie, Prof. Lade Wosornu, Prof. Ama Ataa Aidoo, Prof. Anyidoho, Dr. Mawuli Adjei, Naki from the USA, Oswald Okaitei, Nana Asaase, Chief Moomen, Apiorkor, Ozion, Rhymesonny, Kofi Dzogbewu and Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia among several others. These guests and artists will perform and coordinate the various events and programs in the festival like the seminar and performances, masterclasses, roundtable discussions and video screening among several others.
    This year’s festival presents a special session where poetically versatile poets will have the opportunity to perform poems in their native tongues. Also watch out for the Inter-schools’ poetry competition, Open Mic sessions, exhibitions and paintings, Generational Poetry performances and the ‘Journey to Ourselves’ – a fusion of poetry, music, dance and drama conceptualized and directed by Oswald Okaitei.
    The climax of the festival will be the “All Stars and Legends Night” which will feature all poetic legends and stars in Ghana and other invited artists on one stage; doing what they do best. The amazing part of it all is that the festival is free and open to anybody at all. All roads lead to the W.E.B. Dubois Memorial Center for Pan Africanism, Cantonments, near the American Embassy from the 10th-12th November, 2016. The minds of directions; the eyes of criticisms; the tongues of peace will pick diverse themes to set the country and the world right through satire, creativity and raw forms. There will be lots to entertain, lots of humour, lots of moral lessons and an impact to last a lifetime.