Voices

I am the voice of Yaa Asantewaa

Ɔbaabasia a metwamu kɔ me baabi

Ma abrane, ne akwabrane, ne akwabrafoɔ

Ho woso sɛ ayowa mu nsuo!

Enti motete hɔ reyɛ dɛn ni?

The winds have long swept my footsteps away

Those steps I took, leaving my own blood

As a trail for frail men to follow

Mmm! Mahome rete na adɛn?

You have allowed the very dust of your nature

To take over

As I told Anansesɛm by the fireside,

I never taught you Greed.

As I showed you the dance steps of warriors,

I never sang songs of lies

Ei! Enti mabrɛ ɛgu anaa? 

It was for love that I sliced off my breasts

And exchanged my hand-carved laddle

For a gun heavy with our metallic tears

It was not for me that I tore off

My waistbeads of gold

And in their place tied tight a talisman

That hardened my heart.

Adɛn nti na momu bi agyaagyae moho

 Ama hyɛhyɛnpɛ arere moakoma ama no asa?

I will say no more.

I will go back, sit on my stool and watch

For what I see while seated

None of you here can catch even a glimpse

Of its shadow

From atop the tallest tree

...

I will say no more

Ephemeral

You passed through

My heart briefly

And left your footprints

Behind

Harshly

In my sleep

Sorrow broke in

And made away

With my soul

Yesterday

You wrapped your heart

Around my song

And warmed it up

To sweeter tunes

Now you are gone

And

Somewhere in the corners

of my heart-throb

I learn to laugh

At my loss

And beam 

At tomorrow

With the promise

Of 

Fragrant flowers

And

Soothing showers

Our shadows meet at the bank

Now and then

My tears merge with the stream

And

It overflows

To wash muddy footsteps

Down

Memory drain

And hang them up

On the other side

Of here

To dry

Tonight,

I can only watch you

And sigh

Your heart still beats

In my eyes

My hands itch to hold

The rhythm

Safe 

In my bosom

Warmed up by dreams

Rhythm

Carried away

By the wind

Tonight

I lean back to rest

My swooning head

And fate meets me

With a hard knock

My chest expands

To catch the nectar

Of your embrace

And reality trickles in 

Hot

Crude

I was the pipe

That sent you off

To the land of dreamers

But  I was there too

Down in the valley

I was there

Waiting

For my heart

And yours

To tumble

Down

That mountain

Let it fall

Gently

Let my heart fall gently

I am in that land again

This ground I walk on 

Is not mine

This heart that climbs back

To its place

Is reflected

In the mirror

In the heart

Of the full moon

See it pulse

Listen

To the discord

Hear her moan

"He is gone!"

You passed through 

My heart briefly...

Briefly...

And left your footprints

Behind 

The Last Song

Ask me those questions

I have heard over and over

And let me think again     

Of what to say

Go on and laugh out loud

At my childish confusion

And let me sigh again

From self-pity

Turn all the way round

Yes. Exactly, just like that

And let me look again

At what I missed

The early bird sings a different song

This morning

The lone bat has overslept

And

The night languishes away without him

I waste away where I sit

My pet dog

Licks greedily at my wounds

Vampires lurk in corners

Their eyes planted on the vein

That runs down my neck

As its fevered rhythm

Slows

Hyenas salivate over

The tell-tale smell of carrion-

Their long-awaited

Corpse

Now in the silence of darkness

A tired voice sings

In bitter-sweet notes

The Last Song –

A dirge to welcome

Sweet

Sweet 

Death

It Hurts

What you are doing

To me

I don't know

But it hurts

At night you stay

Seated

On my heart

All your weight

Settled

On this heart

It hurts

Why do you stay silent?

You show me signs

I can't read

Loosen your tongue

This silence

Deafens me

Too loud

In my ears

It hurts

You mold

A lump

With your knowing hands

And lodge it

In my throat

And you breathe

Fire into

My conscience

And sit back to

Watch my brain

In torment

It hurts

Your footsteps

Echo in the chambers

Of my troubled

Spirit

Deep

In the heart

Of my emptiness

An exhibition

Of my sorry soul

It hurts

A thistle-bed

You have given

For my head

I know no rest

It is you

You hold my

Remains

In a chest

Why?

Let me in on myself

This ignorance

The very agony of it

It hurts.

Once again I am on my knees

Sharp stones pierce my flesh

See me bleed

As I bathe in my tears

I am drying up

Once again, I am here

Waiting

For the answers

This waiting

It's killing me

This longing

 Hurts

Hawa

She lay there on the earth

At midnight

Like the serpent

Her belly warmed up

The dark 

Rich soil

Prostrate before the heavens,

The moon's glow

Was her only clothing,

She lay there

And smiled

Into the heart

Of the earth.

Her laughter danced

Into the star-struck sky

And burst out in a parade

Of orange-

Shades of yellow

And

Her joy painted

A phantasmal sunrise

She tiptoed to the river

And

With a song she greeted

The early birds

And joined in the calm 

Hum of the water

That flowed into her bones

A song to welcome the day

Just then it slithered by

With dark clouds in tow

Pregnant with venomous lies

She slipped on a wet stone

And fell flat on her face

Soon  after, the greens 

Contoured her frame

She was nowhere to be found

The wind asked of her

And she whispered from 

Where she hid..

"I am naked..."

Damn! Malaria Again!

Parade Attention!

The Commander-in-Chief

Hollers in my head

And my eyes water

Faster, Faster!

The head ant scurries ahead

With millions in line

A stampede in my innards

No time to rest!

The navy officer points out

Aboard the ship on the

Sea of sweat on my back

My body is winter now

Then summer next

In my mouth, the worst drought

Savanna, my throat

Soon will come heartless needles

Soon they'll draw blood

Minutes of waiting

Then...

Damn! It's malaria again!

Sorry But...I/You cannot have you/me

I give you up

And laughter

Convulses the whole

Of me

A single tear escapes

From where I hid

My sorrow

And I chastise her

For her betrayal

A single Tear 

Tells the secret

Of my heart

As it struggles

On one foot

In need

Of some balance

I let you go

Along

With the colorful 

Butterflies

That rented my stomach

For a season

I cannot have you near

With pompous pain 

Attached

I cannot

You cannot barge in here

And upset my mind

So I turn to leave

With

My heart in place

My lips upturned

A lone tear forgotten

And some sweet

Bitter-sweet love

Forfeited.

Anathema

Tainted rose petals

Indelible stain of pain

Pulsing on a bed of golden thorns

Anathema

Dangling from the orifice

Of a new dawn

Signs of sorrow etched

Into sparkling diamonds

Sweat laced with tears and fears

Trickle down bronze monuments

As cobwebs sneak up silver walls

Anathema

Soaks up the clouds

Blackening blue skies

Listen…

The birds are mute

Feel…

The breeze freeze in flight

Watch…

Love-trains grind to a disheartening halt

Hear…

Stale discordant cords sighing

Smell…

The stench of the end of time

As it gallops here

Anathema

Lands

On our roof 

Don't!!! (Micro-poem)

Don't push me deep into blazing fire

And while watching me burn,

Gulp down some flavored, iced water.

Soon, it will be your turn!

REBIRTH (Bringing down 'Jericho Walls')

The words in Claude McKay's famous sonnet, 'If we must die', has managed to disturb the seeming quietness that existed in my heart till now.

If we must die, let it not be like hogs

Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,

While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,

Making their mock at our accursèd lot.

If we must die, O let us nobly die,

So that our precious blood may not be shed

In vain; then even the monsters we defy

Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!

O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!

Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,

And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow!

What though before us lies the open grave?

Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack,

Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!

Those last two lines keep ringing and ringing in my thoughts. I bow my head now in shame, because I feel I have not done enough, or said enough, or written enough. I have not made enough noise. Now I look back at the words of Malcolm X; "If you want something, you had better make some noise", and I feel even more ashamed that I got this far before seeing all I am seeing now. Our existence today as Africans cannot be detached from the existence of Black-Americans out there. I must admit, before recently, I never really felt a part of them as they mostly feel a part of us. In my eyes, they were Americans. Now something is happening to me, that I can only share. A sudden awareness of black history and how it has shaped African society today, as well as the African-American society. I thank the Lord I decided to major in English Literature. I now know I am not crazy. I was meant to get to this point where my eyes are being opened to heart-wrenching realities that existed and still exists, in the Black Diaspora and in Africa. 

When I think back to the last two lines of Mckay's 'If we must die', I don't envision violence, no. Rather I itch to call out to young African writers like myself to fight, by channeling the voices of our people through the pen and unto paper. I call out to them to make noise, so much noise, the 'Jericho Walls' that have been put up after centuries of White hegemony and supremacy, will crumble! We can't stay silent. We just can't. The plague - our plight itself will come searching for the African/Black writer, whether he/she likes it or not, as it is in my case. So we have no choice. We cannot choose to stay silent. 

Revolutions have been sparked off by heroes and heroines before us - 

There are even more names than these. And in our times, we have those ahead of us; Kofi Anyidoho, Ama Atta- Aidoo, Kojo Laing, Kofi Awoonor, Mawuli Adzei, other great Ghanaians and Africans. They carry our voices, and it makes me proud, but they are not ageing backwards! I look at myself, then turn around to look at other writers my age, or close to my age, and I want to believe we can keep this going. I want to believe we can make the necessary noise to effect changes in our world. There is so much to say, with so much to learn from. An immense store of inspiration that lies in wait for those who will seek for it, or like me, those who will chance upon it. We have been given much, but I wonder, do our people even expect anything? I feel like we have moved into an era where oppression is silent, camouflaged. Slavery comes in different shades. The black man's mind still has a long way to go. Progress has been made, of course. But it is not a rose-garden scene yet. Not at all. Most lay black men, and I'm afraid to say, still feel inferior. They feel beneath the European or the American. It is an Oburoni fever that needs to break. Everything Western has got to be good and everything local is not or for the poor. The poor eat the Tugyimi rice, and the rich eat the perfumed, long grain, imported rice. 

"Anytime you find someone more successful than you are, especially when you're both engaged in the same business - you know they're doing something you aren't" This was said by Malcolm X in his autobiography. The struggle now, I believe is, especially here in Africa, is not so much against the Western world, at least not directly. It is against some of our political leaders, who although tag themselves as the 'elite' of our societies, are modern day 'Uncle Toms' who are only concerned about their personal well-being and quest to keep a hold on power as long as possible. My little knowledge thus far in issues of conflict in Africa in the political science classes I have taken, plus the little I have read, has made me aware of the fact that, there are instances more often than not, when western hegemonic states will single-handedly fund a particular side in a conflict just for exploitative purposes. It boils down to the same thing. Now our leaders betray us and the sting of it leaves us too bitter for our own good. We feel so sick of it all, all the corruption wrapped in the coat of democracy, which in itself is a part of our still very colonized everyday living. 

Malcolm X, though long gone, 48 years to be precise, has left a challenge to those of us here at the other side, we who were left as remnants of what was. We who are the very root, yet ones who have forgotten the story before it all begun. We, 'the root', have sadly misplaced ourselves, forgotten ourselves, betrayed ourselves, willingly given up ourselves. It's a shame. Why were they able to cause drastic changes, Marcus Garvey, Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X Shabazz, our very own Kwame Nkrumah? It was because they did something we are clearly not doing. We are not making the noise! 

I feel different. My mindset has been knocked over and thoroughly changed. It's a refreshing emergence from the smoky ignorance I was stuck in before. I realise now, I've found a voice that was not there before. I realise now, I have just experienced a rebirth that has motivated me to team up with others like me, to make some noise!! And surely, we will.

    

I am me...I am them (A trip to the Eastern Region)

The road snaked up and around the mountains. I had taken that route too many times yet that very journey felt brand new. I was wide awake, taking in the awesomeness of nature that spread ahead in a wide expanse. An unusual wave of sadness flooded my heart and a sob threatened to escape from the base of my tight throat. I held it back just in time. On a bus full of white and African-American students my age, my presence felt loud and pronounced. I kept my eyes out of the bus, observing life whisk past me as we drove on. I knew I was going on a heavy journey. I felt it in my soul.

I looked back into the bus, allowed my gaze to fall on each blond, brunette, black, auburn head and smiled slightly. They are good people, all of them, I thought, and looked back out the window just in time to see them wave at us, a group of middle-aged men waved frantically at all of us, in the bus. I wanted to shrink away, or turn invisible. Why did they wave?, some voice in me asked and my heartbeat turned uncomfortably irregular. I closed my eyes. Why did they wave?, the voice got louder and the lump in my even tighter throat begun to swell. I closed my eyes and imagined myself anywhere but there. It all started coming to me then, not an answer, but more questions. They had always been out there - children, the young men and women, even the elderly. They had always been out there, waiting to see another of heaven's chariots pass, with the light it carried, so they could stand up and wave. It was as if that would bring them luck for the rest of the year or change their entire destinies. Why? The voice came back.

Stepping into the cocoa farm we had visited was a refreshing change from the air-conditioned bus we had stepped out from. The air was laced with earth, fallen leaves, trees, fresh plants. It was surreal and tasted  like freedom on my lips.
"Ghana's cocoa is the best ever, in terms of quality"
The tour guide said, and a warm envelope of subtle pride settled over me. The sweetness of the pulp around the seeds I sucked on reminded me of french-kissing. An immediate eruption of bile filled my mouth and I spat out the seeds. I felt angry and guilty. Why had something African reminded me of something so foreign? Something so...so European. I averted my eyes from the heap of pods and away from the pale, tanned, bronze, milk-chocolate bodies. I walked off back to the entrance and allowed the air to vacuum-clean my mind. I wanted to forget all those times I borrowed what was not mine. All those times I enjoyed not being who I ought to be. I was ashamed.

Who are you, anyway? The voice asked again as the bus backed out from the entrance of the farm and I shuddered. I looked back sharply, wanting to scream out to the bus driver to stop so I go fetch myself back from the heart of the cocoa pods we split. I kept my mouth shut and looked ahead. It was too painful to look back. Besides, they were out there still, all of them, waving at heaven pass by. I was in heaven too. I definitely wasn't me.

What would have happened if ships had never been invented? Africa would have been a different story, don't you think? We had got to the botanical gardens and the air had brought the questions back.
Well, they would have invented the airplane eventually, another part of me responded. It was meant to happen. I kicked at the leaves and sighed. Was it? I didn't want to believe it. I tried to imagine another Africa. I struggled to think up a different story and I failed. I begun to tremble physically. It wasn't from the hunger I felt. I needed more air. I needed to sit. A sob finally escaped and the trembling ceased. What would our story have been minus the arrival of the ships? My colonized existence had no answer. I felt like an 'Uncle Tom'.

Who are you, anyway? I was still hungry, but I had no appetite. Lunch was ready, plates were being emptied into stomachs around me. I had lost appetite somewhere in the middle of trying to figure out who I actually was. It was a desperate search that burned in my eyes, making them water.

Three women held up the whole continent, Africa. It was a beautiful carving. We were in the wood-carving village. I stood still, watching a young man, carve series of lines into red wood with precise hand movements. Who are they doing all this for? It was so much work making those beautiful carvings to portray Africa, but they all stood there in wait of the passing mini-heavens. The angels were the market. I passed my hand over the divisions in Africa and tried to imagine one big village without the boundaries. In my village, there are no boundaries. One child belongs to the whole village and so it was not uncommon to find a child being spanked by any elder at all in the village. Child discipline was everyone's responsibility. There were no boundaries. The divisions carved intricately into the outline of the continent felt alien. I wanted to cry again.

"How much is this?" I asked the owner of the goods and regretted immediately that I hadn't asked him in twi. He responded in an accent that I couldn't place. It sounded forced and it made my skin crawl. I feared my heart will stop. I couldn't take it anymore. I walked back towards the bus, all the way knowing that they were wondering in their heads whether I was one of them or not. Stepping back into heaven made it all clear to them. She must be one of the lucky ones, I could see them think.

You know, if another of those slave ships docks at Tema right now, people will kill each other just to get on? They will give themselves up willingly. I wanted to scream at the voice in my head but I knew it would be baseless. It was true. It hit me hard and the prehistoric American Negro Spiritual my Literature Professor talked about in class came to mind. 'Swing low, Sweet Chariot' The melody soothed me as the bus snaked back down the mountains, and again, they stood and waved. They waved at us all. At them and at me. Their eyes said they wished they were in my place. My eyes held nothing. I didn't know if I wanted to be in there in heaven with them or not. All I knew was, they waved at us, me included. And it made me realize as my throat slowly closed up completely and choked me into darkness, that I am me...and I am them.

Unchained

Kukua tied the scarf tight around her head and knelt down next to the bed. Shame washed over her as she tried to find the right words to say in the prayer. It was a whole new ritual but one she welcomed. The shame threatened to consume her as she stammered through 'The Lord's Prayer'. She had nothing more to say. She wished she knew how to pray. Feeling sorry and worthless, she stretched herself up from her knees and sat on the edge of the bed silently, not wanting to wake her husband who had been far gone, snoring away. She turned to look at his harmless-looking frame, watched his chest heave up then down and smiled. It was a wonder he still loved her, after all that had happened. Her hand went up to rub her sore eyes. It was heavy with sleep yet it was the eve of her birthday and so she waited.

Obiom had come as a miracle. His marriage proposal, a shock. He knew she was not fully human, as some of the elders back in the village put it. She did not come through the most high God. According to them, she was an abomination - a water child. Kukua's mother had been desperate to prove her fertility. She had suffered in the hands of her husband's younger wives who bore him sons. She had wanted a child badly, she couldn't wait on Odomankoma anymore. That night she had laid there on the riverbank, stark naked, weeping and pleading for the spirit to deliver her from her distress. Her prayer that night had found its way into the ears of the water-god. She fell in a trance, a very strange one. A half-man had appeared to her, his torso shone like polished gold and his lower half, was a glittering pearl-studded tail. He was magnificent. He gave her the fish that ended up in her soup bowl the next morning. A month later, she found out she was pregnant.
Kukua had slipped out of her mother's womb around the same hour her mother had the encounter with the merman. She was born that night, along with a plague - a deep misfortune that formed her very flesh. That night, her mother breathed her last.

She had been made to keep her hair in dreadlocks. The whole village knew she was not like them. Her complexion; almost white, had left the birth attendants dumb-stricken. No wonder she killed her mother, they had whispered among themselves. Grief for the death of his favorite wife had caused Kukua's father to turn bitter too. None of his younger wives was willing to raise the water-child. Her mother's mother, angered by their cowardly actions, had taken her up, moved to the outskirts and raised her. She still held memories of days when the old lady will shine her locks with Shea butter till they glowed, a shocking ebony black, against her pale skin.

As she grew into womanhood, girls her age in the village hated her. She is too beautiful to be real, they gossiped. In school, she was called Mami water behind her back. The boys gawked at her frame and beauty. It mesmerized them yet they were all scared. No one wanted to die. They knew she was misfortune, and no one wanted that.

The village almost demonstrated against her being included in the puberty rites but the queen-mother had insisted every young woman who qualified was to be a part of the ritual. The other girls had stayed far away from her throughout their confinement days. Their hatred for her was mingled with fear and a touch of their own insecurities. Her grandmother had been her pillar through it all.

The day of their final dance to usher them into full womanhood was the day Obiom had visited the village and the day a section of hell broke loose. Of all the young women, why choose her? Murmurs had rippled through the crowd that had converged to witness the occasion. In their eyes, Obiom was a fool. The young women raised concerns, that her family be disallowed from handing Kukua over to Obiom. The truth had to told to the man and his family first. In the end, the whole village sat as witness to what was to be a revelation of the truth and hence a dissolution of the whole idea of marriage. They were wrong. Obiom knew what he wanted, and made that clear to the entire gathering, that their myths were not going to dissuade him. His mother had hurled her huge self on the dirt floor and wept, and his dad, upon realising Obiom had made up his mind, washed his hands off the whole matter and as insult to an injured Obiom, disowned him.

The actual marriage ceremony was a sorry sight. Kukua's grandmother stood in as her family and Obiom came with a like-minded uncle of his. On her wedding night, as her husband, for the first time, saw how her dark coral waist-beads glistened against her fair skin, her grandmother rolled over to her left side, and crossed on to the other world. She was found the next morning, stone cold, with a satisfied look on her face; a slight smile that indicated she had moved on peacefully.

So she sat there, at the edge of the bed she had shared with the God-sent man for ten years. She just sat there and waited for the very hour. That very hour she was born, some 3 decades ago. She waited. Every single year, after she got married and her grandmother passed, on her birthday, at that hour, she fell in a trance that sent her back to that same river. She would sit rocking a baby in her arms and the half-man will appear, take the helpless infant, and cuddling him rather gently, will walk back into the river with it. It happened every year. Every year up till that very one when she had succumbed to Obiom's constant plea to get rid of her locks and go to church with him.

He had found God that year and he wanted to share his joy with her. She had agreed and had followed him. Yet she missed her locks, she felt it had been a part of her. Then he got her to get rid of the beads too.  That had happened three days ago. Still she waited for the spirits to take over her body and claim their annual payment for her life. She didn't notice the hour slip by, and she almost didn't see sleep take her. The messenger clad in white, with a sad and knowing smile on his face, looked down at her, and then her husband, sighed and placed the sleeping baby securely between man and wife.

Kukua woke up to an unusual sensation in her stomach and soon, she was hunched over the toilet bowl, heaving out the contents of her stomach.
"This is like your fifth morning in this condition Kukua"
She stared up at him, wanting to believe yet too scared to accept it just yet. It had been ten years of childlessness. But the signs were obvious and so she smiled. He smiled. And then they both burst into laughter that brought tears to their eyes. Finally, they were going to have a baby, directly from Odomankoma.

The thought hit Kukua and her tears turned bitter. She felt the emptiness overcome her. Her womb had been occupied for the very first time. She felt alien, knowing she couldn't be that vessel. She couldn't carry Odomankoma's gift. She was not going to allow it, her very soul knew that. The tears flowed freely as Obiom's thanksgiving prayer resonated from their bedroom. She had to find a way to let him know how she lost the baby. But first, she needed to have the abortion.

All Over Again

Touch of a rose, assuage my fears

Drench my sick soul in penitential tears

Scroll down my thoughts and leave me sane

Untie the aged knots, take away my pain

Forgive, do forgive my foolishness

Forget now, all my ungratefulness

At night, bestow some honeyed dream

The day, with smiles to beam

Let me see the magic in the skies

The beauty of it all, before my eyes

No more self-loving, no more me

Just you, and what you'd have me be

So let it, O let it softly fall

On my heart, like sweet freedom's call

Like long-awaited cleansing rain

O let me love you,

All over again.

Tempt me Not (An episode from his life)

It comes teeming his way

Darkness wrapped in inviting light

"I will not, I cannot" 

He says,

Yet he fades in this place

He fades.

Shadows come slithering his way

Eerie as smiles on decayed faces

"I will not, I cannot" 

He whispers,

Yet he dies in this place

He dies.

"Tempt me not, O forces unknown

Tease not my parched throat

With the scent of sweet honey-

Tempt me not"

"Tickle not my ears with music

That lures me lovingly to hell

Torture me not, O blessed darkness-

Temp me not"

"Confuse me not, master deceiver

With visions of pure gold

Lodged in the hearts of strange women-

Tempt me not"

It feeds on his need

Throws abundance at his feet

Like wild flowers spread on his path

"Do I die or do I not" 

He cries,

"Tempt me, tempt me-

Tempt me not"

Graveyard Peace

The fire starts

I scramble for the exit

A tiny opening

To life

I smell the smoke

My brain makes ready 

To explode

Into oblivion

I hang on limply

To gossamer hope

Losing silently

The battle with death

It's hard to sit still

And watch the kill

It's hard to stand by

And watch me die

Yet...

Timorous nature consumes 

Brave thoughts

As I struggle to keep

This graveyard peace

Red Light.

          It  was almost midnight when she gave her life. She woke up that Sunday determined to turn things around. She had not been too sure what to do so she just took her bath, slipped on the only dress that could pass for decent in her tarpaulin bag and walked out, her determination evident on her tired features. She had been walking for a quarter of an hour before she noticed she still had her bathroom slippers on; it was a bright orange - a clear mismatch to the pink dress that hugged her curvy form. She continued briskly on, caring less for her looks that morning, for her hair had not been combed either; it's browning look almost making her look malnourished, if not for her body size. She did not care for all that. She only needed to get to the church, she could already see the cross on the pinnacle. Her heartbeat took on a rhythm she had become used to in the past month or so. She was closer to the answers she yearned for and her heart only danced to its new song, an awkward dance. But she was determined.

  She had expected to feel warmth run up her dusty legs the moment she stepped into the church hall but all she felt was the echo of that brave step in the emptiness of her insides. She chastised the nausea that overtook her and as if walking on thorns, moved, grimacing with each step, towards the altar on the far right corner of the hall. Her knees suddenly forgot that they belonged to her when she finally reached the altar, so as if by some unknown force she sank. She shut her eyes and waited for the tears to flow. Nothing showed. Then the pain came again without warning - it shot through her pelvis and lodged itself in her brain, making that side of her head throb from the shock. She lurched forward and held on to the pure white cloth that had been laid on the altar. Her breath caught and she quickly let it fall from her quick grasp like it was hot. The story of the bleeding woman who had touched the hem of Jesus' cloth in the crowd came to her and she shuddered. What right had she to touch the altar of the Lord? The pain came again but this time she just clenched her teeth and swallowed a groan. She tried to focus on being thankful the bleeding had stopped three days before. She had no idea why the pain still came, it was as if her womb was screaming out for the premature emptiness it had been left to deal with.

  "Your down there is very nice,"
the doctor had said as he slipped all five fingers in her vagina. His fingers had surprisingly felt warm. She had mumbled a thank you she was not sure she meant and closed her eyes.
  "Not yet,"
the doctor added, as she shifted on the firm dark bed. His hands had been in for too long, she had thought. She had opened her eyes in time to see the smirk that crossed the middle-aged doctor's face then closed them again and waited. The room had smelled like nothing. It just smelled like the room. Her ears tuned in to the wall clock tick and felt the warm fingers move rather too slowly in, deeper than before. An unexpected moan escaped her lips and her eyes flew open, confused that her body was responding. The doctor smiled. He did have a gorgeous smile. She smiled faintly back and closed her eyes again. Then the sucking sound began. She only heard it, but her mind's eye saw the minced limbs, brains, tiny growing heart and lungs - a foetus smoothie - thick and bloody.

  The pain shot through her abdomen again and she was back in the church. Still no tears. She needed the tears. Those were supposed to cleanse her, but her eyes were stubbornly still dry. She got off her knees, which had found their way back home, and took a seat on the very last row. She sat in the space closest to the door and waited. It was still early. The sun had just stretched out from sleep, casting an orange glow on the wooden pulpit. She sat there, thoughtless, and waited for the regular members to come in, and for church to start. By her guess, she still had half an hour to keep trying to cry. She had to cry.
  Slowly member after member came in, some in groups, in families; they walked in confidently. Soon the service started with testimonies - how the Lord had blessed them with jobs, cars, houses, visas. She had no testimony. She was a broke illiterate orphan who needed to cry. After the testimonies, it was time for offerings, donations, and other money matters. Her fingers trembled on her lap. She had nothing to drop in the box, so she stayed in her seat and watched the members dance to, around and from the box. The younger members had formed a circle in the heart of the entire dancing congregation and were drenched in sweat; it reminded her of all the nights she had spent in clubs, and all the sweaty male bodies she had accommodated in her very nice 'down there'.
  She intentionally kept her eyes open without blinking so they'd water, and even that didn't work. She was completely dry. Then the dancing stopped and everything that happened afterwards was a haze - zombie actions. The pastor's voice was loud over the microphone - the altar call to give your life to the Lord and be born again. She wanted to be born again. The body she was trapped in had been over-used and abused too many times to house her anymore. That body contained too much pain. She had to give her life and be free from the flesh. At least that is what she had thought she heard the pastor say. Her hatred for her flesh doubled and her body trembled from the rage that had started to build within her.
  She stood up, heads turned to look at her. She stepped onto the aisle, turned on one foot, and walked out, ready to give her life, but not at the altar.

  She didn't look back. She didn't look down to see the blood that had started a snake-like journey down her thighs. She didn't mind that she hadn't cried yet. They all didn't matter. She had already made up her mind. She entered her sorry-looking single room and noticed the blood. She cursed sharply under her breath and proceeded to peel off the pink dress, her bloodied panties followed. She left it in a heap in the middle of the room, wet a napkin and wiped herself clean. She was angry. There was no money left to buy anymore sanitary pads. She had to make do with something else. Something she didn't need to buy. She got to work folding up enough cloth to hold the tears her womb let down. Then she forced her over-sized hips into jeans she hadn't worn in a year or so, and pulled down a pullover over her head. She had begun to shiver. Church had taken too long - longer than she had expected. She stepped out again, satisfied that she had got her answer loud and clear. She had seen the light. Only it was red.
  She walked past the local pub she had frequented, and past the school she had never attended, past the taxi stop where half the drivers knew what was under her skirts, past the mini-market where the women hated her and the sun slowly went back to sleep behind her as she walked on, never looking back.
  "You should come with me,"
 her only and best friend, Sophia had told her after the abortion.
  "You wouldn't be suffering like this anymore,"
 she had added, turning to look at her, seated timidly on the leather passenger seat still wrapped in transparent polythene - a brand new car.
  "Look at me now. I am above all this,"
 Sophia had waved her hand over her pitiful frame and laughed. She shrunk further in the intimidating seat and sighed. She had promised to think about it and she had. She still walked on, she could see the trees, could smell the fresh leaves. The forest reserve was in sight, a beautiful mass of green in the heart of the city.

  She found new strength and doubled her steps, the bandanna had started to feel heavy and sticky between her massive thighs but then she walked on and when she felt the darkness, looked up. She was surprised to see a canopy of vegetation. She was already in the forest. Then she heard the humming she had been asked to look out for and followed the sound. It led her there.

  It was easy to spot Sophia's back - they had been friends for too long. She had a red cloth wrapped around her middle, a white one around her head, her eyes were vacant, and so were that of the other ladies in the circle they were squatted in. She cleared her throat, no one stirred. Her knees were about to take off again but she held them in check. She felt the blood start its journey down again. She cursed audibly, the skeletal frame in the center of the circle turned to her sharply.
  "You!"
 The voice was a thick baritone. She nodded.
  "You are unclean!"
 She looked down at her dusty feet. They were surely not clean.
  "Step back."
 She did. The fearful remnants of what looked like a man walked rather energetically towards her, walked round her twice, chanting. She felt the bleeding stop, and her restless womb stilled. She sighed again.
 "Go into that hut and change"
 She feared he will break as he walked briskly back into the circle and she into the hut to change into the interesting uniform. Soon, she joined them and soon, her eyes became vacant too. She had taken her place in the circle. The time had sprinted; it was already mere minutes to midnight - the junction. Her body shook violently, with ecstasy when the spell broke and the dancing began. The beats from the drums had strong muscular limbs that caressed her body, leaving a familiar warm wetness in her 'down there'. She moved her body in tune to the beats, one mass of flesh rubbing against the other. At the stroke of midnight, she let out an orgasmic cry which echoed in the emptiness of her insides and disappeared into the night.
  She woke up Monday morning, as an observer. The new occupant of her body was loud and boastful, announcing its presence. She felt strange so she just watched. Her body had been washed clean, perfumed and stuffed in a dark blue mini-dress and her tiny feet were in her high-heels, a glossy black. Her tarpaulin bag was carried to the back of the house and burnt. All she had was the mini blue dress, high heels, and in a black polythene bag, fresh crisp notes she had woken up next to. Her hand went up to touch her sore throat. It had not been easy throwing up all that cash. She stepped out, not herself and yet herself. Her eyes glowed with visions of flashy cars and huge mansions.
  She had seen the light. Only it was red - red hot light.

Horrors in Utopia

It fails me, it now fails me

My emotions are locked up,

Fighting to break free

Yet smothered by…

I can’t tell.

Beyond my control, my body trembles…

Another strange fit of rage

Heralds the need to assuage my heart

It sears away my dreams

Reality is now too real

Eating into a world of perfection

I dare not steal another glance

Why now?

How can words fail me…how?

My nerves are razor-sharp,

A tango with hysteria

I sit and wait…fingers frozen on a harp

As horrors engulf my Utopia

Christmas and the Contrite Hearts.

So the season is here again...best wishes, church crusades, last-minute shopping, family reunions, lots of food, drinks, travelling, a long list of those. But most importantly, New Year Resolutions. So what's it about the season and the sudden development of contrite hearts in the chests of most men? I think I might have a little idea why. Let's take me for instance, I can feel mine beating irregularly right now- my heart, down flat in contrition. It's as if I fell asleep in January and when i woke up, voila! December. Time...precious time - moves terribly fast. I remember reading a poem in one of  my final exams this semester- last Thursday, talking about time. I just sat there and read the poem over and over again, almost forgetting I was in an exam hall and time; same old time, was running out. It hit me so hard -  the chunk of it I had wasted...it hit me hard.
But hey, I'm not here to talk about me, oh no, no, not at all. That is my private affair! I'm just here to talk, in general about everything that might concern all of us- might concern you, personally if you take time to think of it. Okay, so I will confront a few major shortfalls we might have all encountered throughout the year and we'll see where that goes.

First on the list is Fear. Yep, that dirty old monster! Now who hasn't been a coward before?? Raise your hands please...well congratulations, you with you hands up! You have never been held back by fear ever in your life, that is awesome!!! Well, some of us suffer withdrawal symptoms when fear is not around. We have spent years and years in fear, we miss it when it goes on holidays. Is that feeling familiar? You might not outright admit it but with careful reflection it might dawn on you, yeah! it sure had been holding you back from taking some giant 'leap of faith' sometime throughout the year. People, lets admit it, fear sucks! It taunts you, threatens you, laughs in your face. We have got to teach it a lesson, don't you think? Now it is scattered all over in the Bible, I don't know exactly how many times but I last heard it was 365 times (I hope I'm right cos I don't want to add any extras to the Bible) that we should not, must not, never even attempt, to fear! DO NOT FEAR! Alright preaching over! Let's just make silent resolutions to kick fear out once and for all before the new year arrives, so help us God.

Second is that other guy called Procrastination. Have you ever had a personal, very intense hatred for an alarm clock before? Hmm! Or maybe your phone? You set the alarm, time catches, it goes off, you hit snooze, minutes later it goes off, you hit snooze again, and then the battle continues for a while until time slowly inches away into nothing! You take your own sweet time to wake up and then start rushing around, trying to squeeze just too much into some poor little time left..and then when time complains, you pull at your hair. Why then do you even set the alarm? It's our nature to drag our feet around, hesitant to do what we know we have got to do, until the 11th hour, then rush, rush ,rush!!! It is evident every semester in our reading rooms, department libraries and the almighty Balme. Oh, let me not forget the newly added 24, where most pillows are now seriously intimate with. I am very much as guilty as you all. Damn! That popular quote about procrastination being something with, or of, or to time...sh*t! I can't remember. Anyway, no need to sound 'wise' right now so all I can say is. 'Tomorrow never comes' (at least I got that right) So yeah, procrastination is next in line to the slaughterhouse.

Now who can say he/she is not a 'rational' human being? Definitely we all are. But is it always a good thing? I woke up one morning and there and then decided not to take my bath. No one asked me anything, no one scolded me, but I had a serious fight with some voice in my head, and of course I won. Don't we always win against that voice? I came up with amazing reasons to defend my decision. Rationalization. I fought so hard to justify why I needed not to take my bath that morning.  I had taken my bath late the previous night, it was a Saturday and I wasn't planning on going out., and on and on. Why, that's no big deal, not taking my bath one Saturday morning. But we don't leave the rationalization there, over the little things. We carry it with us everywhere. So you have already justified why you should stay late out with your friends (its just a harmless girls night out), and you justify why those boys can come along (oh, they are just our friends and besides it will be fun), oh and alcohol is being served but that's okay (cos it's just 5% vol.) jeez, my head is beginning to feel light I must stop after this last one (ah, but can I get more drunk than I already am?) and look at this cute guy in my face looking like he wants to kiss me (go for it and blame it on the alcohol!). Now relate this to other scenarios you can think of...having sex with some random guy, getting rid of that 'unwanted' pregnancy, cheating on a test...its been 11 months and a couple of weeks, the year is almost done, the big clock is ticking, have you done some major justifications yourself? I know I did, but as I said, not talking about me. We know what's right from what's wrong, maybe we should just channel all our energetic rationalizations and justifications towards what's right. So go ahead and add that to the list...Positive rational behavior - Check!

I don't want to say too much, cos people hate to read too much but I just want to end with something that has been on my mind these few days. We are a bunch of filthy wrong-doers, oh yes we are. At least I know I am. We look up to the peak of the mountain, bursting with energy, adrenaline pumping at the start of the year and we head out, spirits high, up the mountain and bam! we fall...we wallow there for a while, get nudged up, and we start over, we fall, and we fall and we fall again. God knows how many times I have been there. And we tend to get tired of falling, cos we suffer bruises each time we fall so we are tempted to stay on the ground the next time we fall cos we feel we are better off down there, that son-of-a-***** called fear comes in at this point, fear of falling again. No matter how big your injury after your last fall, I think you should get up and start again. Look, the fact that we try again and fall yet again does not mean we should stop trying. Hell no! I think it only means we must change our strategies, train harder for the race, lick up more glucose powder as we run up, it is terribly steep, who says its not? But look around you, you are not alone on the track.

Christmas for us Christians is a perfect time to reflect, not only because it's the end of the year, but because it's a holy time full of blessings and miracles...to all you men with your chests heavy with contrite hearts, you better shed some tears of joy like I'm doing behind this virus-infested laptop of mine right now, because you just got your share of blessings. The Lord has fueled our hearts with contrition and we have got to make good use of it. Don't wait for another year, fuel prices might shoot up!

I got to go before I get dehydrated from too much crying, lol.

Merry, merry Christmas!!! And lots of best-wishes to all those contrite hearts. Mwuaaaaaah!!!

And So We Asked For Peace...?

I am not letting anyone in on how I feel about the election results. Elated? Sad? Honestly, I don't know. But Ghanaians are funny ooh! We don't take things too seriously and that's for our own good.

So Mahama won! (I can still hear jubilation in town). NPP is refusing to go down without a fight and some people are saying, 'All lose be lose'. Anyway, did you hear Hassan Ayariga? lol He came out to concede defeat. Hilarious! Was that necessary? He said, based on the party's investigations and projections, the PNC had lost, but further investigations were going to be made to find out what caused the party to lose (how ironic!) At least they won a couple of seats in parliament.

Muntaka won his seat again?! Why?? Makes me wonder what people look out for in the candidates. Some people will vote for anything, so far as it is in the party they favor. (I once heard one strong party 'A' person say: "Even if the flagbearer for party 'A' is a goat, I will still vote for it!") Interesting.

Ei Ursula Owusu! Iron Lady. She wasn't loud-mouthed for nothing ooh...she secured the seat!

But Ras Mubarak too paa, how else did he want them to count the ballot papers? Doesn't he know how to lose?? He should ask Ofosu- Ampofo!    

Ahah, so what are the NDC saying?? E Dey Beeeee Keke!!! Their 'John Mahama Dey Bee" track was not bad at all! Four more years- we have given it to them so we must all get ready for over 200 new schools, teacher-training colleges in every region and abi you know, QUALITY EDUCATION.

Didn't you hear? Some NDC guy, (what's his name again?...Dela! Yeah, yeah, Dela Edem). He prophesied by quoting from the Bible (or was it another book that looked like it?) on Peace FM a few days back before the election - (Romans 35:8) - no man must say "all die be die", for it is not true. The son of man died to set us all free...it was not just any common 'die' ooh...hw3!! it was the greatest 'die' of all! Is it not true? Whoever says "all die be die" is trying to say that, that die too was a die but it wasn't!
However, I opened my Bible to read this guy's quotation and alas, it was no where to be found. Last time I checked, Romans still had only 16 chapters. Ah but this guy paa! Which book was he quoting from again??

So legon campus, is that how you people are?? After the standing fans, free bus rides, tear-rubber KIA picanto's, cash, laptops, notepads (some sleek one be too ooh), and so on, you didn't vote for the NDC guy (Awuah-Darko)? Aaaah, so you wanted the pure water the NPP guy (Kyeremateng Agyarko) was distributing eh? But I must admit the water too is sweet...lol. Oh Awuah-Darko sorry ooh. But as for that cute baby boy of yours, i'll have a daughter for him soon! Herh! Boy no y3 chupa-chops papa! And Agyarko too, so it's true that you have 3 wives? ei Barima!! Yoo, it is none of my business.

I can go on and on, and truth be told, I might be back with more to off-load but what is done is done. Whether 'E Dey Bee', or 'Yebedii' Keke, we are being ushered into part two of the whole show. It has been a one of a kind ride, from Woyomisation to Ayarigation with some gargantuanism in-between. It's all good! We asked for peace, and so far, with the view I have from my room some where in Tema community 18, I think we have it

But before I leave I want to again pray for the souls of our late President John Evans Attah-Mills, and former vice-president Hon. Aliu Mahama (Ei Charley, this year too big men were called paa ooh. Hmm!). May they continue to rest in peace as we also continue to pray for peace periodically.

Catch you later!!