KILLERS : A POEM

Author’s Note : So I hope you are good.Im still working on my series(Still dealing with my addiction to procrastination..hmm)I hope it gets ready soon.This is a poem I wrote years ago in SHS.Enjoy

                        KILLERS

We are killers

Look at the blood

Its coppery smells intoxicates me.

We killed her

The blood drives me crazy

Her round-face haunts me.

Like the face from my worst nightmares.The spider with the human face, screaming in pain.

Her cries taunts me.She shouts my name

Whenever I shut my eyes

Like the Larbis in my school days

She attacks when I least expect.

We called her names

“Mother of none”, “Empty womb”, “The woman’s whose birthing right was withheld by the heavens”, “witch.”

We called her all sorts of names. Making and coining custom-made names just for her.

We cast boulders at her with the superhuman strength of our lips.

We led her to lose a husband.A man who wasn’t man enough.

He run when we begun.

When we began hurling the stones, just days before we progressed to boulders.

We dragged her with invisible ropes.

We dragged her to the bridge and forced her to jump.

With just our lips. How powerful we are!

We are murderers.We are killers

She died silently, without spilling any blood.

Yet our hands are soaked in blood and our heads are filled with her screams.

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THE REWARD OF A GOOD DEED : A CHILDRENS STORY.

    

        THE REWARD OF A GOOD DEED

It was a Wednesday  evening and I was returning from school. It had rained a few  hours before and everywhere was very wet the ground was very muddy and quiet slippery. I continued walking, making sure to keep steady so that I didn’t fall. I reached the bank of a large mass of water that had been created as a result of the rain. I watched as those in front me rolled up their trousers and skirts and waded through the brown water in order to get to the other side. As I removed my sandals and put it in my  bag I noticed an old woman who was standing in front of the brownish looking water with her walking stick in her hand. The other people around had completely ignored her. I don’t know why but I felt that I must help her. So I drew closer to her and told her I would help her across. She declined saying that she had called her son who would be there in a few minutes. The rain had began drizzling again and it was clear that it was going to get harder. I managed to convince her to climb on my back so I could carry her across . She took my bag off my bag swung it on her back and got on my back. With her walking stick in my hand and with the help a young woman, I managed to get across. I ended up carrying her to her house which was close by . The moment we got there  a young man came out. He was probably the old woman’s son who she had talked about earlier. He apologised and thanked me profusely and put a GHS 10 note in my hand.

I had totally forgotten about this until I was invited for an interview at one of the reputable banking companies in the country. The man leading the interview asked me if I remembered him. I told him I had forgotten .He said “I didn’t forget”. Then he went on to remind me of what I had done for his mother those years ago. Long story short, I got the job not because I was overly qualified but because of the good deed I had done some years back .It is true that good deeds are always rewarded.

THE OCEANS OF US : A POEM

Author’s Note: The state of pollutions of our waters are heart breaking.The last time I went to the beach(a lot of years ago).It was like a dump(I’m totally serious .I saw actual faeces on the beach).It’s a shame there hasn’t been much change.Here is something I wrote about our seas and how we treat them.

               THE OCEANS OF US.

In the middle of the ocean lives parts of us

You, me and them

But the dirt the faeces and the plastics

It suffocates us,  it strangles us 

And those parts of us die

And we die. And we cease to exist.

Right where the waves gather

For their timely meetings is where we sink.

For the waves are proof of our selfishness, our hate, our indifference, our shame

For only the waves know. They are proof of our existence ; good or bad.

And they will tell him What He already sees

He who promises to destroy those who destroy his earth.

Ps: Last line makes reference to Revelation 11 : 18.(Even Jehovah cares about pollution.).You should too.

 THE LIFE CYCLE OF A GHANAMAN’S SEARCH FOR MS.RIGHT : A STORY.

   Authors Note: Hey! Hope all is well.It turns out Im getting a degree in Adult Education and Human resource Studies with a minor in Psychology

  THE LIFE CYCLE OF A GHANAMAN’S                     SEARCH FOR MS.RIGHT. 

You could always tell the state of Kwame’s relationships from the state of  his bedroom. When the relationship was new and things were moving on smoothly, his room was just right, an orderly mess of sorts. Then something would happen between him and his girl and they would fight and begin drifting apart. That’s the time you would see his bedroom slowly transform into a huge dump; underwear and socks strewn about, the rancid smells of unwashed clothes, bowls filled with black mould and cockroaches playing small poles, sticky phlegm on the carpet  . After all his girl’s visits would always end in the hall. So it didn’t really matter to him the state of his room. Then they would have the talk. It would appear like the relationship is getting back on track. Like they were gluing their slowly cracking hearts back together. The unwashed clothes would be washed, the phlegm would stop. Then a week later, one of those rare fight scenes would come. It means he really liked this girl. The fight would be epic, neighbours would have to intervene. Then the relationship would end .Then the cleanup would begin, as if cleaning his room would help him clean out his crushed heart, ridding it of any affection for his former lover. With  Clothes, carpets and bowls washed and his room now smelling like a ward of a hospital , he would begin to heal. The healing never took more than two weeks. A five-day work leave, video games, visits from his friends, beer, more beer, then he would return. The pre-relationship carefree Kwame would return. He would get his laptop get to an online dating site , go to the nearest club or let one of his friends set him up with his next true love .From there, the cycle would begin again.

WHAT DID I JUST DO ??? : PICTURES

Authors Note: Yo, ça va?.So I was bored And decided to do something with my phone.How come I didn’t know photography  was this fun!!! Are the pics good? Tell me what you think.I am working on a short story series.Hopefully chapter one comes out in a month or never( Yh. Im lazy like that.Typing is frustrating too much!)Enjoy!

PS: We Need New names is a great read.

BLUE BIRD : A POEM

Authors Note: Hey! Because its a Sunday,  here is something for you.The Bible(Jehovah),Things fall Apart(Chinua Achebe), The twelfth heart(Elizabeth Irene Baitie), Joys of Motherhood(Buchi Emecheta).I was thinking of the power of words and writers( Blue bird)and how these carefully-woven words can make us feel a certain way, influence us, change us.Enjoy!

                      BLUE  BIRD

Blue Bird sings

The agony of words.Its beauty

The melting point of these words,

So so unimaginable

The exquisiteness of sounds and movements and emotions

Trickling  in, through the ears

Skipping about in the mind, Moonwalking in the soul.

Coursing through dark red blood

Cleansing, Killing, healing

Sweet pain. Sweet

Bitter happiness. Bitter

Violent calms. Violent

Peaceful Wars. Peaceful

These word.Oh these words!

So what they said stays true

That carefully woven words can melt the sun

And cool glaciers

Cheerup the euphoric-dysphoric and logoligilise the body.

These words the blue bird sings

They call it many things

They call it dopamine

They call it pleasure

They call it serotonin and endophins too.

This beautiful beak

That frees words to fly, alikoto-ing through the essence of my being.

Blue Bird, Kiss these lips

French kisses.

So it may store your wonder in the adaka

The adaka of identity and Memory

These words the Blue Bird sings like drugs

Yet like cotton and feathers and daggers and coffins

Still  logoligilising down my throat and into my belly.

Enveloping gastric juices, turning acid into wine.

These words the Blue Bird sings

They do  unimaginable things, Bringing

Oceans into huts

And worlds into eyes

And suns into clocks

And white into holiness

These words like moans, groans, teases

Yet like praise

Yet like reprimand

Yet like jokes

Still logoligilising in the esssence of my being.

It tickles and hurts and heals

As it cleans and fills up and feels up

This Blue Bird, Its beak.

Bless this beak.

Bless this speak.