Assault Her Dreams

And she started turning the world around
in her stomach
You cannot ask what it was she did
but you only wonder
How beautiful
she made all that was grievously sad
You cannot ask what you do not ask
but murder is murder
Yet she harbours all the world's pain
when you sleep in dry harmattan
You cannot fathom so do not ask, suffer amnesia instead, torture her
And after nine months, if the world survives, forget, assault her dreams
Assault dreams of her because you are a shameless world that through nightmares you sleep
Assault her dreams

When We Lose Reason - A Poem

I do not remember exactly where I was when I wrote this poem, but I presume I must have been frustrated, yet clean in thought enough to write. A lot has been said about the poem, especially when OGOV, an online literary magazine, published it and later Badillisha Poetry recorded me on it. A friend, had requested severally that I publish the poem here.

As the year ends, (mine ended in August, as mentally I go with the Ga calender of afi ooo afi in August) for most of my readers out there, I republish the poem "When We Lose Reason". CHEERS to all Humans!


God does everything, everywhere.
She is at that palm-wine joint
Ensuring the victory of the Stars;
Killing cockroaches at the Pentagon;

Slashing off the legs of a child in Afghanistan;
Receiving praises from a politician
Who only eats beef imported

From Argentina, while the people
Queue for water.

God does everything, everywhere.
Floods stream when her bladder
Can no longer contain the screams from the earth;
Blessing the hungry with
A cedi at the edge of a gutter

At Nima—
And after gaining no pleasure
From the monotonous lives of humans,

She sets a new comic in motion:
Wives catching cheating husbands,
The blind falling in gutters,
Fools winning lotteries.

At the peak of her pleasure's end,

God laughs thunders, hurricanes, earthquakes;
And shifts the tectonic plates
While quoting Laing:
'And what was joy anyway,
But a movement of brain energy.'

Something Beautiful

I want to write something beautiful
Not a poem
For I fear the gruesome reality
Might shock me
Shattering the smithereens 

Of what so human is left

Of my community's love

I want to write something beautiful

Not a poem

For I might record something grim

Wiping the smiles off the walls

Of strangers faces that greet me

Each morning

On Amantra Street

I want to write something beautiful

Not a poem

For I must capture lost dreams

Why passers-by pass by

Erasing our once communal love

But what I heard this morning was beautiful again:

Of You telling me "we don't know you yet we love you"

19 December 2012.

Osu.

An Ode for Nana Addo

I wrote this poem on Thursday, 13 December, a few days after the declaration of the election results. What is missing in the poem is the last futuristic stanza, which a friend promised to complete. While that remains to be done, I publish this poem for all Ghanaians. Enjoy.


For a decade
Your politicking years was robbed
Dragged through the rubble
Forced to sleep at 6PM like a chicken
Your hot head filled with nightmares
Of dummy soldiers walking in your cortex
You lost your sense of smell
To the stench of khaki uniforms field with grease
And all that was left was ashes
For you to rub your fingers in.

For another decade
You fought from within
Among your own you showed
How your difficult life was raided
Why it was your turn
Because you were a vanguard
You shined in Ghana's dark ages
When your people stared into the barrel of AK47s
But you missed their thumb
And another star died.

For yet another decade
The cloud was clear and you had crossed rivers
Y3nim wo dada yet you were "Milled"
Stretched to the limit
Then you gave up only to return
Upon being stampeded by your own Cash
But you were tired of paying for all
And the last lap was to be free until nature interfered
Replacing death with unknown new life
It was then you were done.

Ga Folklore in Eve's Latest Hit Song 'She Bad Bad'

Very recently, after holding the Sunday weekly Writers Project on Citi FM, one of the poets on the show that night asked if I had heard of a song by Eve. Eve is an American rap artiste, formerly with Ruff Ryders I believe. I remember singing Who's that girl..." And Tambourine which she did with Swizz Beatz. Eve is a great rapper.

Back to my poet's question. According to him, Eve's latest track, the title which he didn't know but knew it went like "Ba ba ba oshibabaoo oshibaba" was a familiar Ga jama song he knew. I immediately sung the entire jama. Jama is a song by usually a group of people, drawn from folklore and other sources, and is accompanied by hand-clapping, drumming and other indigenous instruments. It is a highly experimental, innovative and participatory genre. It is very choral and employs the "call and response" technique. I don't know any Ghanaian who doesn't know any jama song.

Well, he said the new Eve track starts with the jama track. I paused and took a second look at him. He said you can look it up on YouTube. I did. And yes, he was right! "Ba ba ba oshibabaoo oshibaba...oshibaba! Oshibabaoo oshibaba!" I love that jama.

The friend poet said Eve dates or is married to a Ghanaian, and perhaps he suggested the jama song to the rapper. The song is good and very well done. The folklore flavour is still intact. The Ga, those who used the wulomo style, was very good. I've a feeling Ga people sung it actually. Anyway, I decided to do this quick post weeks after that conversation because I heard the song play again yesterday on the Coca Cola World Chart Show hosted by PJ Butta as a hit on the horizon. I said yes! I own a part of that song.

I want other Ghanaians, or Ga people at least, to know what was going down! Here is a link to the song on YouTube. Enjoy.

Corporate Ghana Woman - A Poem

A poem for you all: Corporate Ghana Woman

This tight skirt

That brings out  
the full ambit

Of Your Elmina Sea Defence
And a body-revealing blouse
or a long-sleeved shirt
That shows Your bloom

Your bottom power,

Dunaa ni mashi

Evenly distributed

Like ECG, showing where the power lies

Wedged—
Below Your curved
waist like Madagascar
in Communion with Africa's
Mainland siblings

You know where the Power lies

You know that Power lies.

22 October 2012. Ridge

Bole: A Real Tale from Northern Ghana

In the end, we don't know which memory to cherish: the endless stretch of terracotta, the deep bumps that felt like the terrace of hell, the frivolous urge to quit buying waakye and embark on a 7 hour journey on a sandwich served on a departure flight; pushing a car through mud or a flat tyre in Yipila at 2 A.M. with no sign of life around.

After our taxi broke down the third time - the third seeing us break one wheel as we had set off at 10 P.M. for the Tamale airport to catch an 8.30 A.M. flight - it was a rickety bus that saved us. Public transport, not a private four-wheel drive, stopped to take us to Tamale. We missed our flight, but we were in Tamale and that counted for something.

It all was clear, the issues we've discussed but which remained in fine print with no action: Energy, Roads and Transportation. The stark reality of the bitter joke is that a little commitment and supervision is all there is for the right thing to be done.

To get a vehicle from Tamale to Bole, some 7 hours distance because of the horrible road, was a huge problem. The Metro Mass Transit would make the trip once early in the morning and after 1 P.M. because it breaks down after trips. Taxis would charge you GhC300 because the road is bad and the amount certainly is a surety they intend to keep. Rental is a GhC50 more.

Our taxi driver was a fine gentleman. We met him at the waakye seller's by sheer co-incidence. He was buying waakye just like us, and he overhead us talking about vehicular troubles to Bole. He made calls for us to make sure we got the Metro. When that failed, cum our own search, we called on him, and Ibn showed. He filled his gas tank and we sped.

Like everyone in Tamale told us, the road was no road for saloon cars and they all knew the problem except that a people in this circumstance cannot fix kilometres of road. The absurd thought occurred to me then: the politicians, especially those from the region who live in Accra, also knew of the bad roads because they came here every four years - only in Toyota V8s.
That kind of beast can motor the mess of a road and only a few - politicians - have it.

What I remembered was the kindness that little boy showed our Project Assistant, as he held on to the weak door of the bus, to protect her from the splash of water trapped in the gigantic potholes on the Damongo road. What I remembered was the willingness and fondness with which the old woman offered to hold to my bag, seeing in me a tired traveller. What would people in four-wheel drives know about that?

This post first appeared on Ghana Decides.

Book: Mr. happy and the Hammer of God and Other Stories

When I first picked up the book from Martin's office, I did not know what to think. I'm 'usually' not the kind who does not know what to think. In fact, if I say nothing it is because I want my peace or I refuse to engage. So, you can imagine the situation: holding the book and just smiling. After all, Martin Egblewogbe is a funny man - not in the ludicrous sense. He likes you to think that he is a happy man.

My first reading of Mr. Happy and the Hammer of God and Other Stories was quite chequered. I saw the minds of people struggling through life - not in the hurriedly way that we are so used to in many stories. It was not too pacy, quite African. Like being told to take your time. It was psychological, it was humane. I later promised Martin a review which I wrote, but never penned down. I recall how a small audience at Cuppa Cappuccino at Airport Residential Area got stunned from a reading by Martin from one of the stories in Mr. Happy.

One thing that I have learnt to cherish from stories are those that do not carry the burden of African villages. I say this in a positive sense to those who have placed their feet so relaxed at the altar of stereotyping the African story. Martin bears no such burden. The stories hold no such traces at the surface and it is such a relief to hear the voices jump at you.

In short, Martin, the author of these fiery stories - in terms of experimentation, style and fierceness - never knew of my impressions. I came across a few reviews of the initial publication of the stories. None satisfied me. As a matter of fact, I never finished reading any single one of them. But like the stories in Mr. happy and the Hammer of God, things have churned out slowly through Coffee drunk at dusk with a perpetual habit of a return to the same location without the observation of any particular thing to the magical reality of strange characters, and here I am writing something for Martin, my friend.

If you are daring, if you have this landlocked ideas about the African novel, if Laing's Big Bishop Roko is as yet to change your obstinate mind; pick up Mr. Happy and the Hammer of God and Other Stories.

Mr. Happy and the Hammer of God and Other Stories will be launched at a small ceremony at the Silverbirds Lifestyle Store at the Accra Mall, Saturday 18 August, 2012 at 2PM. The event is open to the public.

Our President Died: On Mills' Death

When a someone dies, you cannot say you do not feel it. When a president dies, you just get lost. Today, Ghana, we have lost our president. He was a man who loved and hated. There is one thing we can do: Respect his memory.

In this light, I wrote a poem as Blogging Ghana members blog today to show the world how we feel in this country at the tragic loss. Here it is:

Our President Died

When the cock crowed

And the hen went picking

The rocks amidst the seeds chocked her

The chickens that hated her stood transfixed

Gazing at their magic wands

Did it cut her up to smithereens?

Rumours of wishes of her death

Spread viciously by wickedly jealous ants

Her lovers were many, and – but

Their chicken hearts spoke silently

She choked finally.

A Poem: Even Still Pictures Can Talk

I wrote this poem just this past Saturday and I thought I should share with you. Enjoy.

Even still pictures can talk.

A breathing collage I once saw

From across the hall I felt the throb

The Tears… Joys sinking away

In the threshold

When memory holds still

The pictures darkly form

Reminding us of lost Pain

Within which we weave weary Smiles