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.

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 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.

THE STOLEN PHONE : A CHILDREN’S STORY

  Author’s Note : Ola! Hope you good.School has re-opened. I’m still wondering whether to do a combined or do a single major.(Ah! Well lets see what happens.)This story was previously published some months ago in the Mirror Teen section of the mirror newspaper.Enjoy.                             
                  THE STOLEN PHONE.

I had gone out that afternoon to buy some waakye when a funny looking man accosted me on the street. He said he was stranded and needed about GHS 50 to board  a taxi to go home. I told him I didn’t have that amount of money on me and turned to leave. As I turned around to go he grabbed me by the arm and pulled out a fairly new looking Iphone6.”I will sell it to you.” My phone had gotten destroyed a few days ago and I was really looking forward to getting a new one. Since I didn’t have enough money and my parents had made it clear that they wouldn’t buy one for me .I had gotten a part time job as a sales boy in order  to raise the money to buy the phone. “I will sell it to you please I need the money”, the man continued.” Please I don’t have the money even if I had I don’t think I will be able to afford an Iphone6″.I replied and turned to walk away .He followed me as I went he said he would sell the phone to me at any price. I told him I had only GHS 20 on me.”O.K bring it” he said as he sneakily looked around. That is when the alarm bells in my heard went off. Nobody in the world would sell a smart phone for GHS 20 much less an Iphone6.By this time, I was convinced that this man was  criminal. He was still looking furtively over his shoulder like someone being followed. He had probably stolen the phone and was being chased. He was probably looking to get rid of the  stolen phone. I told him firmly I wouldn’t buy it. Then he grabbed my hand again shoving the phone into my hands I turned to look him in the eye and told him if he didn’t leave me alone I would shout to attract the attention of by-passers. That got him to stop and walk away. About two weeks later I saw his face in the National newspapers ; he had been arrested for stealing several Iphones from a phone shop. And all those who had bought the phones from him had also been arrested. I silently thanked God in my head.

UNTITLED: A POEM

Authors Note: Hey there! This is a poem I wrote some time ago, unfortunately I still can’t settle on a title. I was thinking about how sometimes quiet people should be left alone because forcing ourselves on them  may  not always end well. . Feel free to tell me what you think it should be called. Comments are welcome.

She never smiled

Not even once

Those who saw that beautiful, beautiful smile

Never lived to tell the story

So she never smiled

When they asked why she never spoke,

Why she never smiled

She just stared back; blank-faced

She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t tell them

Of the flames. 

She couldn’t tell them that speech would lead to a smile,

And a smile would lead to a laugh.

And a laugh would lead to the green flames.

Then a teeny tiny abofra decided to find out, the answer 

To the question of a smile-less face

Why the sun never touched her lips

Why her sapphire blue eyes never sparkled

Why her black skin neither shone nor glowed

So he tried in earnest

To make her smile.

Doing little things like dancing and teasing and laughing

And role playing and bottom shaking and joking 

And reading and telling and lying and singing.

He tried all year but the curtains never opened

It never revealed the beautiful teeth  behind it.

Then his mother called him and warned him

“Gyae!”,”Stay away!”,”Mɛboro oo” She said.

He didn’t. Then he had an eureka moment.

He went and found a broomstick,

A green wet one, Right of the branches of the palm in their backyard.

Then he went to find the girl and tickled her

Her neck, her legs, her elbows, her feet

And she tried her best but she couldn’t resist

She smiled then she laughed

Then the green flames burst from her mouth,

Hot , Unforgiving

 and consumed the boy.

She couldn’t scream for help. She gathered the ashes of the teeny tiny abofra

And sent it to his mother. Tears in her eyes.