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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©2017

Photo Credit: Google pics

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By: Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia

Photo Credit: Google Pics

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo Credit: Google Pics


My breaths are best in your flow

My heartbeats are best in your machinations

My steps are best in your architecture

My will is best in your seal

Oh Odomankomah! My redeemer!

You are the river of blood in my veins

You are the air of life in my daily keep

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

The beginning of my breath and my resting place

You are the only soul food with no price tag

Oh Odomankomah! My provider!

As time marks days into months into years

The sun sees diversity in its bright sight

The moon sees variety in its gentle sight

But you who sees it all, never changeth!

Oh Odomankomah! My strongest fort!

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

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

Every smell is your channel of blessing 

So my appreciation is nonsensical

But I write your blessing in my heart

In my every step and sound

Odomankomah! My world!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©  October 22, 2017


There are many with flies from the past

Singing in their ears

In a chorus of success

Blocking out lyrics of routes

Driving off trains of talents

If only they can find smoke to ward off their flies


There are many being chased by bees of the past

Stinging dry their peace of mind

Planting sores on their bodies of progress

Making their prestigious veins honeycombs

And their bodies shadows in darkness

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


There are those being followed by lions of their past

Roaring senseless their serenity

Chewing off their hope

Hunting dead their help

And scratching off their eyes

Branding them blind 

And dragging them into the lairs of poverty

If only they can get spears and arrows and guns

To fight off their monsters!


In a world where day battles night

In the field of the sky

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

In vice-versahood

In a world where kingdoms vary in habitations

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

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

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

Let all fight off chasing monsters

In this forest of conflict

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 18th October, 2017


On this dining table
Sits gluttonous greed

Whose hunger, all the food, in quench, unable

Connivance knows but stooges for crumbs

Forgetting the coming with roaring bellies

Whose eyes may never see the feast

Forgetting the frail

Whose bodies can go nowhere near the monstrous Greed

Forgetting the children whose growth

Depend on the nutrients of the present


Looting has now become tickets for everything

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

Into the stomachs of pockets of greed

Oh ye sleeping gods of the land!

Please wake!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 15th October, 2017


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

But to get through most streets there is a whine

Of how many legs in us must dine

Our mouths are like toffees in thy eyes

Our cheeks look like handkerchiefs in thy sight

Our breaths sound like tickling airbags in thy mind

And when your eyes scroll down our natural chest

All you see are delicious milk jars

And it follows through to our “goldmines”

Mines which “enrich” your devilish greed

So cause your craze and faze your morality

Rubbishing our mind’s efforts

In a world where dresses must lose to muscled shirts

In order to pass through most streets of success

Where does fairness sit

In this healthy intellectual struggle?

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 16, 2017


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

To the destitute save

Lest we all fall


As needs outweigh our feeds

Do all, in patriotic shed blood, call

To drive the spirit which on our minds feeds

So our confidence will stand tall


As green spirits are being, from their bodies, ejected

Do, all alien priests call

To open the gates of heaven for all the rejected

In unsynced bodies in its hall


Eyeballs shaking like tsunamis on the dock

Senses tied in darkness and in lock

Bodies following enemies like a flock

Don’t you see your future’s shock?

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©15th October, 2017


Any comfortable visitor

Who fails to thank the landlord

Is worse than the worst of sneaking snakes


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

I serve my thanksgiving in the plate of my being


You built these bones as builders use stones

You laid these veins as plumbers lay pipes

You wired these pores as electricians wire their houses

Carved this being as carvers carve their best crafts

And connected your living magic to turn me on life

Like a magic television

With freedom in mobility and will


As I bridge storms and cross mountains

You hold on to my saving rope

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

Erasing my disgusting moping

Turning my past hurts into present jokes

How do I neglect your thanksgiving?


You are that one wall which never shakes

You are that one love that never breaks!

You are that one sky which always clears

You are the permanent tunnel which never clogs

You are the breath tree which never dies

Nor succumbs to any form of cutting

“Awura mu Owura!

Ahenfo mu Ɔhene!

Animdeɛfo mu Nimdeɛfo!”

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

Through its lighting till its wick burns out!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 15th October, 2017


Sitting on the chair-like forget-me-not

You promised to keep our love hot

To the hearing of the inquisitive air

And all nature that is fair

I remember the clouds turn up

In their darkest colour

And sent their rains to record the promise

Many months saw not the veil of a year

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

Like a cursed fly in a cry

Suddenly, heat roasts the sweat out of these pores

Pores which are sore but all ignore

Those horrid clouds hide like they were never born

As the airs act strangers, shielding their elder siblings

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 14, 2017


Citizens are protected

Protected by the laws of the land

Laws which beat and lock and kill to fill voids

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


When disappointment hovers around its appointments

Chaos hides behind its partitions of glitters

Pain waits in chambers of the capital of its royalties

And tears stand behind its deceptive happiness

How does the nation of love 

Maintain its supremacy without legislative rules?


From villages of serenity

To  cities of heartbreaks

Waters of fulfilment to droughts of shame

Satisfaction in completion to hunger of loneliness

How come no security stands guard on this dangerous ground?


Despite the punches of leftovership

And the assault of bond breakages

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

How is it that no court exists for justice?

Is the nation of love like a phantom?

Or more like a catastrophe hidden in a fantastic parcel?

Is it like a sugar coated toffee

Hoarding sours which chews tongues and uproots teeth?

Bees of its publicity abounds 

First as butterflies

Oh ye nation whose memories cannot be erased!

A nation which favours the unfavoured 

With an allure none can resist!

I leave your fort in the now to show your bruises

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 13, 2017


Mobile breasts

Marching on breast cancer day

Pickaxes of manly tubers


Locomotive breasts 

On horses of varied chests

Beautifully nectared flowers on the go


Heads in weird rhythms

Sip from advocacy cups

Not sticks of naughty passions

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©October 13, 2017


​The stance of an eye

And its distance

Determines the visions thereof

Like plants in the different pores of the earth

We stand in view of a portion

So how can our mouths be in judgement seats

Audienced by other eyes and ears

In marking right from wrong?


God may appear in different beings things and souls

To different beings, things and souls

An eye may see God in a river

A river another deem his chamber pot

Another may see Him in another being

A being who may seem foolish to another

Another may see Him in the sky

The sky which some consider only in lightning and darkening plate

Some skin may feel Him in words

Words which act noise in the ears of others

There are those who see Him in animals

Animals which serve as delicacies to others

What about those who see Him in stones?

Stones which are naught but hindrance to some farmers

So who has the best eyes to judge?


Who has the best eyes to judge?

I believe it is none but an ignorant crown

Who sees and knows only what society plastered in his mind

Let thinking minds sit into digging

Digging best from the knowledge of what is

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 13, 2017


Stars have their spots

When the curtains of daylight fall

There, they shine brightest

There, they sync well in their work of lighting

This body, is like your sky of darkness

Take a tour and know the star spots


Your fingers are like combs for a reason

Planted hair needs its massaging fertility

To like a bee, make its honey of passion

So let them explore the hair plantation

And weed the stress which hide beneath


Your food gate is with air for a reason

Feed the skin with gentle blows and touches

To, like electricity

Light the bulb of passion

One that can lead you in your needed explorations


A fountain needs a clear tube for water to dazzlingly show

Like a good plumber

Match the tubes and lay well your pipes

Connect them to the river of the body

And let it flow

Before thinking of a pleasure swim


Swim with a gentle step after another

Jumping in like a big excited fish

Will sure splash waters on a perfect dock

Laying traps of slippery grounds

For unsuspecting issues


Be sure to swim from dock and back

Do not drown in the middle of your man made river

Many fishes will see your failure

And the river will curse your weakness


Do lock bodies like a secured padlock

To mark your happiness

And only open with the key of satisfaction

For then, all calm will be restored

And the seeds of love would be thoroughly watered

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©October 12, 2017

Photo Credit: Googlepics


How do I find my way?

In this jungle of life

Where fangs chase on this careless mother earth

As claws chase in the indifferent sky?


How do I find my way?

When hurtful thorns are ever ready to butcher my skin

And have them on their necks as conquerors?

Hisses with poisonous spittle

Drive vehicular air

Air which has promised breath until old age umbrellas!


Just how do I find my way?


Owl eyes hide in the dark to scare

Hungry lionesses hunt in a determined chase

Cunning alligators act chameleons to mislead

As my sunlight serves its lifetime in an imprisoned dark cloud

How? Just how do I find my way

In this jungle where everything hunts in ambition?

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © 12th October, 2017


The butterfly which sits on the tip of an uneatable leaf

In hope of a wind taking it to the flower with a nectar cup

Without lifting its healthy wings in direction

Is bound to blame its God 

For the sluggish crime of itself


The mosquito which sits on a pore for long,

Like a hungry glutton on its delicacy,

Hoping to fill its tank for a lifetime

Never lives to tell the tale of the elderly


Heads are carried for a reason

Skins are shed in its season for a reason

Thinking wires need no pickaxes

In digging meaning from words of sages

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©October 11, 2017


If historic eyes had seen this future

Where a kitten mounts a lion’s seat

They sure would have cemented their feet

And stopped the clock

Before seeing their shadows fall


How can a kitten paw fit into a lion’s?

How can a kitten rule over fierce tigers?

Golden fishes?

Huge elephants?

Fearsome crocodiles?

Mischievous monkeys?

Wise snakes?

Egoistic eagles?

Prying owls?

Huge cows?

Loud dogs?

Fiery dragons?

And all other characters in the golden jungle?


If only the kitten will mute the horrifying weak meows

Carried through the strong crown of a microphone

Onto the ear plates of the world

In ridicule of the golden jungle

If only its kitten plays

Would take place on an eyeless and earless stage!

If only it would allow baby lions to train its zero brain

If only, if only


Now far eyes like mine look in sympathy

At the golden stool which taunted many into fools

Then into working bulls 

To climb to their prestigious peak

Knowing the disaster being written in its deserving history

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 10, 2017


Our breaths have been marked

Marked for the roars of freshness

And the silence thereafter like that of toothless dogs


Our sad songs continue on world stages

But why do sympathies sit uninterested

Sipping their “serves you right” wines

Even as our hurtful passions sync with their instruments?


Could it be the need for quarter buttocks

To get the glue of octagonism

On the famed seat of governance

Through playing saints into stooging to please us into teasing in deceasing?


Or our baby milk lacks the willpower to stand for the right

Erasing pain in forgetful insanities

Making troubles into strong footballs

Knocking us down and bouncing back in hitting

When we stand back on our feet in repetitive annoyance?


Our elders lied not

When they said forgetting pain begs for more

Yet we defy their stance like disobedient children

Pouring lives through unfair death colanders

Which wicked gods follow us in white man’s sneakers?

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©October 8, 2017


I know you are a perfect piece

Parts carefully fitted into a whole

Just as the sun completes daylight, 

You, in this time complete me

Love is a vehicle, ridden through the test of time

With prompts and bumps and tips and dips

Bringing me to my favourite parts of you


Your hands which weed my shreds

And till my land

Digging stumps and planting goosebumps

In these pores

In preparation for a great planting


Your mouth which sings my praises

And its red towel which feeds my toffees 

And drinks from the twin pots well filled by nature

And oh, the careful working

In the hidden bowl into lickhood

Calling in the moisture of heat

Which moaning beats in drumming

And when it gently takes the hearing cup

The heavens open to throw in needed pleasure

Gifting us a coupling leisure


Your eyes

Which travel into knowing

And softens into taking cues

Seeking approval after careful permissions

Showing the most adorable pictures of me

Like a world class channel


Your pestle

From the best tree with great nutrients

Shaped into standing tall

Carved into my falling call

The sweetest taste of a never finishing lollipop

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

When it, like the angelic congregational knight

Enters my beautiful temple in loving prayers

And when it sings to the rhythm of nature

I can do naught but be the best backing vocalist

Until we climb to the peak of passion’s mountain

And blend into orgasmic submissiveness


Your chest

The best place for my pampered head

Never thought my best pillows could host a better rival

In my explorations into meditation

That space in time fits my dreamlike cocoon

You sure are my best me

My best parts on you fitting into the fantasy you are

Blessed me in my dreamy you!

A joint conquerers in singular charm!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 7, 2017

Photo Credit: Google Pics


The dark is a cool place to hide

But a cruel place to be

Every leg can boot, step on her

Every spittle can fall on, bathe her

Every phlegm can plaster, plaster her

Every urine can shower, shower her

Every fecal matter can smear, smear her like disgusting pomade

And no sweat can be seen

Sad, that many a man, feel it is a place for a lass


Beauty is a blessing, many agree

But beauty has broken deep into hymens and has been blamed for existing

Beauty has been to many a cruel court

And lost battles uncountable

Beauty has been rendered mouthless by many a man’s greed

Like a flower at birth, beauty mostly dies a rag

What then is the difference between a blessing and a curse in the feminine line?


Be beautiful by being a bull

Ridden, hidden, ladened, maddened, frightened or killed!

Hide in the heat of a veil

To tempt not the saints!

Let the sound of your voice taste not the ears of others

Be the dog of man, living for his pleasures and whims!

What at all rooted the birther as slave to the birthed?


He must go and you must stay

Explorations best fit pestles and not mortars!

Such an uncanny law

As if fufu sees the light of day without a mortar!

I am ashamed of the many brains buried untapped

Pained by the many wills imprisoned at birth

Hurt by the many ambitions sentenced to death by societal courts

Frustrated at the many souls, lost to the evils of the dark


Shadows within shadows!

Amazing the sprouts of minds on this farm land of life

Minds hitherto buried like tubers of yam in the heat of the earth

And left rotten

Minds planted in painful marriages

And killed by servitude and abuse coupled with neglect

What beauty stands!

How lovely the rains of emancipation!

Falling to fertilize the birth of girly can-dos!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 7, 2017


Once Kwaku Ananse met a Baboon

One who was fetching water with a basket from a river

At the feet of a mountain

Into a drum at the pate of the mountain

Out of pity for an artificial brain tiring a living body

He stopped to help

He called on the Baboon to use his pot

But then he rejected

With the excuse that the pot is too fragile

Agya Ananse asked when it started its chore

With a foresight of pointing to its futility

Baboon mentioned a week and a half

As to who ordered the chore

His partner at the farm on which only he worked into readiness

Baboon insisted the basket needed air

And that God will miraculously help fill the tank

If he worked in dedication

Agya Ananse realized, that the baboon loved its state

And had made its fate

Any attention to him tainted his sagehood

And so it was, that Ananse left Baboon

On his chore whose core point would be his death

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 6, 2017


Every teacher is a potter
One who digs the clay of the mind

And gives it moisture

Amidst pounding and kneading

To get the right texture

Setting it on the wheel in direction

To mould the right item  through heat in finality


Every teacher is a farmer

One, who prepares the land of all ready minds

For knowledge planting

Choosing the best seed based on the type of soil

Is a teacher’s blessing in wisdom

Knowing the weeds which will burden

And finding time to weed them out of the planted 

Is a natural duty 


Every teacher is a driver

A driver of the unenlightened to enlightened destinations

Knowing not the right route will cause the loss of all passengers

Driving without a license will cause unnecessary delays

A driver knows that time is imperative to all on board

A corrupt driver shows quick and diabolic routes to passengers

Power drunkenness and speed can cause a fatal accident


A teacher is like a writing god

One who writes not on pads but in mind

One whose mistakes have no ready erasers

One whose soil lives on his dictate in fertility

One who can make and break

There is no greater life led not in teaching

A teacher is a director

A director of all minds

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © October 5, 2017


I have known rivers that have run out
Their sleeping places weeping on blame of thirst

But you in your small spots

On varied chests, feed the world

From vacant suckers to the teeth full 


Not only do you subdue man

Into knowing his forever child-like nature

You give women the pride of shape

Our pampering, even in loving runs

Telling tales of your value

Oh you pots which never run useless!


The standing you, order many into bonkerhood

The fallen you tell of your good works in world building

You are like a sea on the softer man

A sea in which many swim into sanity and or insanity

You are the manna for the world’s new visitors!

The clutches of passion!

The honour of world feeding!


We know many stifle you in showcasing

We know many anoint you into a man charm

We know many suffocate you in clothes coated in dirt

We do know of those who never pay heed to you

But make sure you honour your duties

But these would never make you less of the saviour you are

You are the first food of man

The first teacher of tongues in sweets and sours

So your celebration remains a ritual

Even if mouths sing not of your goodies

Pots whose food never run out

Some call your younger you titties

And your elderly, tartars

Others call you boobs

We know you as breasts

Pairing angels in tender feeding!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©October 4, 2017


In your scented garden 
You left many flowers

Maybe for your precious lavenders

Maybe to heal foul scents

Maybe to sooth the thirst of precious birds in their prime

Maybe to multiply and beautify the land

But the harvesters of scents have been harvesting the nectar

Before they blossom to bless the temples of noses


The lavender harvesters now sit

Looking for perfected flowers to work with

And realize they are all scentless

Yet they stand tall

Their egos hanging as their badges of honour

Claiming no knowledge of the disaster

While stepping on the dead pride of all your fallen flowers

Whose teeth of thorns roar voiceless

In the death of their pride

Where are the eyes you left in watch?


How legs meant to protect have turned bees

Fetching nectars through unformed hymens

Beats my imagination

How those same pretentious legs

Search for full and ripe nectars to crown their egos

Sits on the thoughts of my mind 

How you, who sees it all, stand the pretention

Now acts like a dog, chasing the meat in my head


Your garden now reeks of filth

Your flowers turned mere weeds

Calling for your hoes even in fear of death

What kind of farmer at thou?

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©September 30, 2017


What does it mean to be my friend?
Is it the whispering rumouring 

Like naughty airs being tossed by blocking walls?

Or the sharing of secrets

Which are kept in our brainy books of memories?

Or even the taste of our handkerchiefs

At the sips of our overflowing eyes

In the heat of sadness?

What explanation does our codification of friendship give?


Shouldn’t it be stronger than hatred?

I know two close trees bump into each other often

Just as tongues battle teeth in chewing

Shouldn’t it be greater than distance?

Oh is this world not a bouncer of beings?

Today sits here as tomorrow moves there

Shouldn’t it be greater than silence?

Even wits rest when the dawn of thoughts fall

When a mouth closes in thoughts, can’t the other call?

Shouldn’t it be greater than intuition?

Oh human fallibilities tap from our abilities

What greater cause is there than clarity?

Shouldn’t it be greater than rumours?

Those smokes which spark forest fires are not always from the hunter’s match!

Shouldn’t it be greater than wealth?

Money is blood but blood alone makes no being!

Shouldn’t it be greater than darkness?

Hands are there to feed minds

When darkness falls upon eyes’ light

To fix the severed or join good threads

Shouldn’t it be greater than jealousy?

Hearts are fickle and yearning can clash

In the heat of pain can we dwell on sanes?

What does it mean to be my friend?


Read my thoughts in the memories we shared

Fix my void with the delights which clothed our minds

Run me a chore with the past which was meant to last

This trolley of life knows no stops

So why burn the ages rooted in the archives of our history?

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©September 25, 2017


This class mask
Is it not a daunting task?

This heat of a task

Does it have a dawn and a dusk?

Even chameleons tire of stealing reflections

So why model your deflections?


I see a whore in clothes of virgins

An unscrupulous you modelling pious clothes

Why is a pedophile rocking a priestly cassock?

As a servant fits into a kingly crown

I see a demon in angelic gown

While hell parades as heaven

Why doesn’t pretense come with a tag?


Fuss of a cuss!

Artificial makeups in a fit!

Heels of lying hills!

Clothes of phantoms!

Boxers of stealing pythons!

Anuses usurping mouths on faces!

The world of a classless classes

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©September 25, 2017


​A mother’s spectacles

Is like a fairy oracle

Her love, making her a congregant in her children’s tabernacle

In them is her miracles

So in their diabolicals, she gets no logicals

Even their unfunny jokes act comical

On a stage most find horrible

Oh her love is so adorable!


Who forgets the stretch of stomach walls?

The boiling pain in saucepans of breasts?

Who forgets the load of carrying

Like a world in an ever growing lead in the stomach?

Who forgets the taunting back pain 

Which sounds like the whips of an annoyed demon of hell?

Who forgets the pushing and tearing

Or the knifing and stitching

And oh the grinding of sores

Which swells innocent pores?

Who forgets flattening breasts like fallen pancakes?

Who forgets the bloating and sleeplessness?

Who forgets the culprits of these ills and loves like an enchanted fool?


None but a mother

One who can pluck her life from life’s tree

If her own can sit comfortably on it

Oh a mother’s spectacles!

A lens none can get

Without stretching on the life and death path

Of opening life’s doors

Either in heart, mind or body to others

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©September 23, 2017


Gather all ye unhappy hens

From the coops of your watching owners

Gather, ye who need chicks to follow their cocks

Come all ye aggrieved

Water has lessons to show


It tastes heavens and licks the earth

It knows the hearts of mountains and

The feet of the earth

It convenes to carry ships and boats

While feeding as many as wishes

But none has seen and tasted rear foods

In their horribilities like it


It knows the human body like no other

It is a big part of the living factor

Pushing filth and running grace

Yes, it evaporates in too high a heat for rebirth

And metamorphoses into  stone in severe cold

But returns to its normal form

And keeps doing its natural chores


When blocked, it can kill at will

But still, water’s bill is a thing none can fill

And its benevolent height is a hill none can till

No living can be without water

Shape all forms as you want

Be like water

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©September 22, 2017


Which is the right way?

The rough route with sharp stones

The smooth route with the slippery oil?

Or the cool road built with a painful patience?


Which is the right way?

Rebellion to conquer slavery

Battle to kill desires

Or dialogue to smoothen seams?

Which is the right way?

Which is the right way?


Bliss is an expensive kiss

Which, as flies sitting on sugar, feeds on work

On patience

On humility

On sacrifices

Yet many want a goal without a run


Mouths can curse and bless

As teeth watch and tongues stir

A choice calls from all angles

Heed your best to get a chest

Which reliably follows through your hollows

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©September 20, 2017


Lord God

Your fallibility tool in the living

Is a great disservice to you

Yet magnanimity is one of your gracious parts

You sure are the only thumb

Without whom no rope can be tied

The I am that none is



The crow of a cock in the day

Might be complaints but you deem it praise

The meekness of a sheep might be folly

But your graceful thoughts attaches obedience

The stubbornness of the goat is unquestionable

But your nature makes it a trace of determination

And so it is

That you wired us with all the traits there are

Giving us will to select


You’re not just an Alpha and Omega

You’re not just Omnipotent, Omniscient and Omnipresent

You’re not just Elshadai, Elohim and Adonai

You are an all perfect God

Who hides the sun under rain

Hides the moon in the dark

Hides rain in thirst

And food in hunger

Can I complete the testament of your grace?

You hide tears in laughter

Greatness in slavery

Strength in weakness

And oh life in death!

Immortal, Invisible, only president of sages!

I worship thee

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©September 17, 2017


The beginning of bad thoughts

Marked the end of harmless nakedness

That I know


The beginning of birth

Birthed the beginning of death

That too I know


The beginning of want

Dug the endlessness of need

Well, took a while to harvest that on the tree of thought


Greed is sometimes a seed of need

Which felt thirst in the belly of hearts

And was boxed by hunger into anger in the loam of minds


What has turned puzzle

Wriggling its weight on my mind

Is what turns them snakes to bite themselves

Chewing some and hiding much under their land

Do they need the dawn of death

To see the handiwork of disaster

In their signature on themselves?

Chai! Common sense seems to hang on higher skies

To hearts in hurry for much

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) September 13, 2017


When rivers stood in their dreams

They forgot of days they acted as streams

And tasted filth, felt the sharp teeth of stones

And travelled miles in the lone

They, now in pride, bloat

As they on top of seas float

Blocking streams and rivers

Who in need of strength shiver in quivers

Forgetting tsunamis still have power

To on their happy fate tower

The future sure blinds

So we do need to mark our hinds

In this travel

Which in uncertainty wobble

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © September 15, 2017


The fascination of Ghanaians in watching the Mexican, South Korean, and Indian soaps has gone from ridiculous to worry. It is laughable to see a country once colonised, in the process of development, and still bemoaning the loss of most of our cultural values sink so low, aided and abetted by the media which has decided to break instead of make up for our cultural loss. The movie industry is a very powerful tool in every country. It is the tool used to showcase a country’s culture, which include values, morals, language, fashion, beliefs,  beauty, to mention but few. Ghanaians however, have chosen other country’s culture over ours, stifling the Ghana Movie Industry. The Hong Kong Movie industry stands at a whooping US $1.65  billion, Nollywood Film Industry is worth US $ 3.5 billion. With Hollywood grossing over 10 billion dollars annually, and South Korea’s movie industry drawing many tourists to them, why must we graze our own down to nothing? 

In today’s Ghana, hardly will you get a television station showcasing only one of these soaps, some run as many as four at a time and during prime time too. It is a fact that most Ghanaians take in what is given and end up getting obsessed with it. So I am not surprised when children burn because their parents go on telenovela hunting. Try listening to names of some children born in this era to telenovela enthusiasts.

The Ghana I grew to know was a place where decency was revered. It was an abomination to see couples kissing in public, married or not, let alone wearing inappropriate clothes in the name of fashion.

Now what do we see? Not only do women copy what they see through these telenovelas exhibiting their follies in the name of love, they also inculcate into their minds the low morals carried by these soaps. Now ridiculous happenings like two sisters fighting over a man, a father and son killing each other because of a woman, people loving their roles as antagonists caring less about what society considers ill, rule. I believe the most dehumanizing aspect is that people sit, with very prominent people who serve as role models to discuss these soaps on national televisions. And oh the killer; some stations even translate into the local Akan language infusing our cities and locally made products into them in their bid for advertisement. Is this not brainwashing? I would not be surprised if a mexican city is shown to telenovela enthusiasts in an exam and the singular answer turns out to be “Accra”. What are we doing to our country? 

Why will a Ghanaian help another Ghanaian to see himself or herself in a white frame? The very frame whose major population considers us inferior? And oh sometimes, the hyperbolic language translations and the pronunciation errors  pollute students whose parents can’t control them because of the fact that the soaps are everywhere. 

I know the media is a huge factor and may not help out in stopping this menace seen as a money making venture for broadcasting corporations, but in putting a stop to this, the cost involved in watching these things online will make it decrease and with time, the generation polluted will fade out. 

I believe this is a national manipulation which fester on the needs of the lonely and fantasies of illiterates, semi illiterates and bored literates. I know some do have moral lessons but their way of living is different from our ways and this further deteriorates the erosion of our culture. Why do we still kick against homosexuality when we allow such movies on our national screens? Do we not know that homosexuality rule in Mexican soaps and sometimes South Korean ones? Some attitudes and way of life are picked from movies, a fact.

It takes a radical and brave hearted to put a stop to something that has already become the norm, but I believe if investors and the government come together to encourage movie makers to come up with series that will not be based on insults and horrific follies, and they come out like Shirley Frimpong Manson’s Adam’s Apples, and Kumawood’s “Kumasi Yonko”, Ghanaians will fully embrace and lift our flag higher on the international market. Loving everyone’s but ours is the worst form of slavery. A canker only the media can spearhead to move this nation forward.

Information on best movie makers culled from


We are like trees
Problems are like our earth

Each can’t be

If the earth refuses entry

Roots are like our will

Meandering through sand

Around rocks

On worms and running rats

Hunting water and food


We know God is at post

His all seeing eyes watching his little garden

Knowing the roots making him proud

Knowing the rocks arresting some wills

Seeing some waters drowning some roots

Seeing some worms eating away some roots

Seeing some sands even killing some roots

Cheering on the strongest to the end

In his unseen throne

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © September 11, 2017

​WORLD OF WAR (Crazy Stanzas)

I know not much

I am no Methuselah as such

But I do know whatever war touches

Does with chaos marches

Like monsters of the night, hurtful words hold no soothing balm

In their flight to the land of any mind

Like terrorists on their site, bullets have no hearts, hands or eyes

To root out revenge before landing on their targets

Like savages in hunger, swords have no allergies when feeding on human bodies

As obedient children in diligent works, arrows obey the hands which need their errand

Bombs know not their gods but work in their moments like tsunamis

Believe their chore for an enemy 

Will surely conceive naught but perfection

Know that moulded feuds lose their reasons with time

But feed fat on innocent lives

Lives whose souls begrudge without a cause

How long do hearts travel in beating

To force minds into scheming hatred,

Roasting plans of traps and

Cooking death formulas?

We are cotton strands in transient travels

Through the path of earth

We are stars who taste the palms of the sky

Once in a nightly travel

We are fireflies hopping on the arms of days into oblivion

We are but future memories

Waiting to be washed by dilutions

We are that which needs no complicated weavings

In apparels of mortality

We are minds which need to swim in seas of love

Until the mythical hands do hunt our breaths

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©September 8, 2017


There are many roots beneath a single tree

Yet it needs many others to break winds

There are many brooms running and breaking free

But their strength in numbers, all fear rescinds


Sometimes, even fecal worms, do space need

Sometimes, even water, do drops be

But a sea stands  more chance of waving at a shore

Than a drop of water


I need you

Like I need this breath in its running seconds

I need him

Like I need this body in every moment

I need her

Like I need this heart in its working beats

I need them

Like I need this earth in every  living sphere

I need us

As yam plants need their mounds


In the garnishing of age

On this queer me

This memory needs no sage

To know that wrinkles are sensitive to loneliness

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©September 7, 2017


One day

The mist of this pain will blur

As the reality of this living clears

Minds will think of me as a cloud

Which fell in a moment to give the thirsty rain

Not as a thirsty whose tears quenched the dryness in other throats

Under the drought of helplessness


One day

This running heartbeat will lose its mobility

The eyes which swam in an ocean of tears

Surrounded by oasis of fantasies

Built into a wall to deceive

Will receive its oblivion


One day

None will remember the sun baked tree grower

Murdered by lack of warmth

One whose oxygen harvest saw not its nostrils

Talk less of its food channel


One day

Every little sand this feet tasted

Will clear from the tongues of its soles

Every blessed breath will be imprisoned in history

Keys to that prison thrown into the abyss of forgetfulness

Eventually flying into nonexistence


One day

These puzzled alphabets 

Will play hide and seek

With new minds whose souls live on future’s passion trees

Shadows of these fingers who birthed them

Would have fallen into its doomed darkness


One day

Just one day

This given life will end with its strife

The best days will be but wrappers

On its boxed remains in fond minds

Sighs of relief will heave from begrudged hearts

Then I would reach the dock I seek

For now

Crawl on, ye tired soul

With all your heavy laden

Your veins belong not to you

But to skins and blood in covering

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©September 3, 2017


In celebration is the key

Of seeing you and I as we

And learning to in harmony be

Like a mighty flock of bees


In solemn prayers is the need

To all intimidatory sins, like bothering weeds, weed

Making sure all mouths feed

Giving respect to all living seeds


We are a living flock

With a mighty ticking clock

We can easily run amok

But we sure are grave stocks


Let Allah!

Let Allah lead us far

Leaving his fights so our plans won’t mar

His punishments and lessons to all living bars

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © September 1, 2017


I see the money weather

Even after the taunting shower

That led to the punching rains

Which bloated your opponent’s treasured eye land

I must confess you tower

More like the Everest of fists

In this generation

Left fist like a power volcano

Right fist like a bomb slap

Speed in punches like a terror tsunami

You are the power behind all rings

In your mighty realm

Undefeated, you were made for the tops

Clearly so strong

You are like the fiercest of lions

None can compare to you in these times

A legend is he who listens to wise clowns

In all glories

Many lorries are packed with rolling eyes

Clearly seeing needless boasting in place of your thoughts of showmanship

Money is no being on a stretcher

The holes of wombs have brought many a men down

Booty shakers are no hungry children

Neither are they destitute who bring honour

To their saving angels

There is a reason chambers come after halls

You are a legend

A legend who must act legendary

Gloating is a goat’s coating

You are worthy

You are wealthy

You are who you are 

But be the honourable you

As that is the clothes that suits legendary bodies

Many a black children run on hunger

Many a homeless being cry tears of desperation

Many ill bodies roll on stretchers in pain

Hoping to an angel gain

Salt praises not itself

Tongues sing its praises

A word to a wise head needs no repetitive ladder

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © August 29, 2017


Many sicknesses walk 

On the body of my motherland

Causing it to walk naked on the global market

Every pore battles an unhealing sore

Sore of greed concreting each founding ailment

Why doctors are like its grim reapers

I am still sitting under the sky of reasoning

Trying to catch a raindrop of understanding

Which obviously pours into my mind with misunderstanding


Each throat can admit a morsel at a time

Each body is like its shadow in daylight

Waiting to disappear with the night of death

So why do we fume corruption

Knowing its chaotic eruptions?

Why do we seek to destroy a bridge which carries our weight

On the mouth of the dungeons of death?

Why do we seek to strip our own into bonkerhood

On a stage where civility sides ability?

Why do we sew clothes of shame

Which calls for pests to have us tamed

Right after seeing us maimed?


Jump from your fences

You wearing shorts of indifference

Throw down your differences

You with busy mouths propaganding nonsensicals,

Deafening ears 

Blinding eyes to the pain on the body of our nation

Wash your wicks of enlightenment

You heads with inks of knowledge

And lead like captains on battle grounds

Won’t you snap out of your power drunkenness

You possessed with fake thoughts of immortality

Emboldened by wealth


We are ants creating foots

Too heavy to carry

We are now Frankenstein monsters

Building our murderers with glee

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © August 28, 2017


Me I no know wetin man go give me

Wey I go be like im sick chick moder

Going to scatter to bring him choo to fill im bɛllɛ

When im hands dey lie in perfecsion

If I no heaa anyting for elder person im mouth koraa

Ino be hand dey go, hand dey cum


I go feel like goat wey no like im life

If im beatings no dey charge my legs

To run like  Ussein Bolt from im devil pitch

Ino bi same blood that cause Jesus to shout for helepu

Wey dey for my body?

My mama no bi mumu

Wey she no go feel her stomach tunder

If her eyes see man hand dey pound me like fufu

Chai! If I no know anytin for elder im teaching

No bi hand dey go, hand dey cum


My natural mortar no bi wood

Wey go scatter if im dry

Abeg, ino bi alumi

Wey go rusti, if I no shine

Wetin I want koraa, wey go make me your mumu

Com dey take your beating

Come dey take your shakara

Come dey take your shame

And come dey be your game for night?

Chai! Gyare, if I know see anytin koraa

I see say, as this my left hand dey go

The right hand dey cum


I go be like lonely bottle

I go shake like one tree wey dey for wind inside

If all I go get be so so beating

And so so cheating

So so insulting

And so so shaming

God no dey judge person wey dey walka by imself

Bone go turn dust no matter how much

Dog cry for im hardness

All tongues go taste sand im mouth

When die die catches person

And wheder pɔɔɔ pii or apii tɔɔ

Die die go catch all

So why i go cry for bad man?

Yes, as this hand dey go

That hand must cum

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) August 25, 2017


Once upon a time

Our land was a loamy rhyme

Our airs sang for happy trees to chime

A bite was meant to tease tongues from lime

But all that, now, means no dime


When the cloth of colonialism

Met the scissors of independence

And freedom apparels were carefully tailored by hope

Little did we know greed will nurse itself in multiplications to feed

Leaving huge holes in our growing seeds

Holes in which many hovering pests shelter

To hunt the rest of our freedom juices

In a shadow slavery bid


How did general development melt into selfish aggrandizement?

How did sweat of paupers rain into barrels of the rich?

How did power fly from the masters to the servants?

How did truth metamorphose into lies

In a vice-versahood which gains applause on entertaining stages?

How did we get here?

We as children of embittered souls

Who fought their rage to get us a page!

How did we get here?


How do we break this cycle 

Of the oracle of greed?

How do we cast out the possessions of corruption in ourselves?

How do we get back the sensitivity of hurt

To feel our punches on our own selves?

How do we?

How do we?


If only darkness will work with light on its ruling nights

If only responsibilities will whip consciences in all spheres

If only capable heads will work with their legs

To jump from indifferent fences

If only political promises will gain colour from their white elephantship

If only

If only you will see me as you

And I will see you as me

And we will see our land as our mother

If only

If only…

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©August 23, 2017


It is like the best servant of mankind
It is like the humble air holding our precious lives

It is like the great explorer and traveler

When it is given its due


Time has travelled to a place

Where many things imprison this saving servant

To think river channels lie in even mobile beings

Why will the earth’s water bodies face cages in their daily travels?

Even frogs vomit when their throats get soaked

So why won’t the cornered break free?

Why won’t the suffocating strike for breath?


Heaven knows it does no wrong

When its rebellion steals our dears

We have planted hell into a harvest

A harvest which takes from its mother sweat

From irresponsible dumping to unplanned buildings

From horrid policies to greedy land owners

Every building of dirt culminated into our loss

So why whine?


Let’s cry for the scape goat of our flaws

Let’s weep for our attitudes which walk like heels on negative talking tiles

Let’s mourn our loss by draining our drains

Removing chains from the bounded paths of the thirst quencher

For a death that all conscience grips

Deserves all hands on deck for a reversal


A wound not well catered for 

Surely can’t hide from flies

Stagnant mud is sure to splash

Without a care as to the legs in its midst!


A wake up call by the realization cock

Let the elders from indifferent slumbers wake!

Let the leaders, in corruption parties, shake!

Let citizens, all bad attitudes, rake!

To let nature cohabit with mankind

In a nest of respect

A nest, which will make our waters run our chores not our lives!

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) August 19, 2017


​There is an irony in sight 

Where vision is concerned

That part where the blind looks forward to tomorrow

Despite all the sorrow

That part of the mind which no one borrows

No matter how shallow

Is the lid of hope

So why will I mope?


Even snakes, dwelling on their venom

Instill fear in beings

Even crabs, without heads

Instill fear in elephants

Even mother hens, dwelling on beaks

Try to with hawks battle in protection of their young

Even a Christmas cock has hope in stock

So I feel no mockery

As suns shine even in their twelve hour life span

So will I shine instead of whine


A widow, according to biblical tales

Gave her soul in her little out

Without thinking forward


Breath is not mine to give nor take

But as long as it engines my being

I will see the ship of help

Sailing towards my dock

With goodies in flock

For in the tower of living

Hope holds firm

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) August 17, 2017


Alien things are swallowing ours

Their gluttony making them relegate their teeth to the background

As their tongues fold to push

Through the mortar of their mouths

Everything with an African tag


Civilization first removed our eyeballs

And replaced them with artificial ones

Making seers the abominations they abhorred

Banishing themselves through shrines they worshipped

Playful hands now play with their “poduas”


When buttocks started their servings in skimpiness

And breasts were given mouth charms in braziers of harm

Aided by sunshine of sheabutter

As mouths stood out clothed into nakedness by different colours

We saw hairs from under dream seas in artificial chase

And soon, eyelashes begged for glue to have their fill

After fingernails won their clawhood in the court of fashion


Now we have lived to see

Humans behaving like snakes

Peeling their skins in broad daylight like knifes stripping yams white

When they are in no thought of roasting in the sun

As if that is not enough

Now morality has been called to an immoral court

Hailed by blinded owners

Whose loss weeps with stretched fingers

Calling on ancestors who went through so much to build them

We are lions turned cats

We are eagles turned fowls

We are skies turned ground

We have sold our birthright for sluggishness

Sluggishness which leads us to the cages of slavery

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia ©August 14, 2017