A Poem - Are You the Walking Dead?

Ebola here.

Ebola there.

Ebola are You the Walking Dead?

The Chinese may cure you Zombie

With some burning garlic

But they do not claim it’s a curse

The wind that carried the ghostly scent

In Monrovia to Lagos

Also blew anger that arose the Dead

To tell stories of fear of more death

Can the Preacher’s Holy Water stop

You? Ebola are You the Walking Dead?

Our People now pick curses like stones

And hurl them at the White Saviours

Why they did not come early

With a cure? Or was it the joy of orgasm?

Of sheer power and where power lies?

But Ebola are You still the Dead walking?

And now rumours and rumours of an Instigator

Rummaging through the bushes of nearby Kinshasa

Then appearing in Conakry and then where?

Carrying along to the jungle his American lab

So the markets of Freetown are free

The life in Kenema sucked dry

Loved Ones wrestling the Dead from the Dead

Littering Death by the touch of the hour

Ebola You are the Walking Dead.

A Review of Martin Egblewogbe's "Small Changes Within the Dynamic"

This week is Ghana Literature Week. An event where Ghanaians are asked to dedicated the week to reading fiction, poetry or short fiction once it is by a Ghanaian. It is hosted by Kinna Likimani. Here, I write a short review of "Small Changes Within The Dynamic", a short story written by Martin Egblewogbe and contained in his collection Mr Happy And The Hammer of God & Other Stories. (The collection was first self-published by the author in 2008 and republished in 2012 by Ayebia Clarke Publishing Limited. It's available on Amazon)

Starting with what seemed at first as a frivolous fixation on a boot, the reader is pulled along slowly with the narrative. Quite frequently, we are tossed to and fro - the boot still being the ne plus ultra of it all. Then we are teased with the thought of a camera recording and sex and the intension of a man to arrest a situation for confirmation. 

This is how Martin weaves the story of an accomplished man who is married to Fidelia, a cheating wife who is shameless about her escapades, and yet triumphant in her illicit affairs. She has sex with other men in her marital home. And her husband, the narrator, becomes aware of her affairs and puts in place a video camera to capture all on tape. He does. He watches the lurid tape and contemplates murdering his wife Fidelia.

                "Now is the moment for strength.

                  I am going to kill her." p 35

In an instance, one could say that the man - fearing the ridicule of a society that sees him as successful, but would jump on an opportunity like vultures should he divorce Fidelia - decides to end things his way than face public ridicule of failure in marriage. This is telling of an all too familiar condition where individual suffer needlessly for the collective. The confused state of the man is shown in the ambivalence of the society: that the man married a whore, a woman less of himself; yet, the man cannot divorce Fidelia because that same society would ridicule him.

The narrative is slow but not painful. And the deliberateness of it can be exciting. When Fidelia comes home with Mike, her sex partner, the man says to himself:

                  "The cloying sense of her perfume makes me think of a funeral parlour... I will kill

                    two people instead of one. I have become evil:..."

The end is fit for a Hollywood film adaptation. Fidelia looks at herself on the screen, engaging in sex with Mike. She adulates in it. She tells her husband: "That was an invasion of my privacy". The man finally decides to kill them both. But Mike, he has an automatic pistol pointing at the man

                   "That cylinder on the snout is a silencer.

                     I look at the boot."

Cosmic Pandering - A Poem

A poem I wrote together with Dela, aka Efo Dela. I had begun to write a poem, and he genuis-ly picked up on each line and continued. The result was this poem.

You can follow him on Twitter: @Amegaxi. But please, be warned. He can be wretched.
So here we go--->

No rhyme or reason
No time or season
I saw death. All of it. And it was me
I felt life's breath, felt its heat, please let me be
But the shadow remain. Fearful and brunt
The hollow expands. Hopeless and blunt
Deep within the rubbles. In the trenches of your heart
High above these castles, in its crevices let your soul start
It is lost. For death has no heart
It is the cost. For life has no cast
And turning nature's head. Twist it backwards
And sleeping in destiny's bed, there's something we move towards
Yet to every step. Distorting nature. You pay with balance

13 December 2012
Osu, and elsewhere on Twitter.

Smolt - A Poem

Let me drop my eyes

Aligned, to the edge at the touch of your skin

Where your thick thighs

Descend to where my passions begin

Hinged to the rapturous wait

Along the contours of your exterior meat

Acoustically humming to the tingling

Of sensors awakened below my man-ness

As my eyes near your pleasure’s end

I feel your nails etch gently into my skin

My palms bury your firm posterior

My lips perch in your crotch

Inching in on your labium

My tongue cursorily flick its orifice

Continually: gates of joy flow: a drizzle-drozzle

Wet, we lose our-selves in unguided accuracy

23 July 2013. Ridge

Named Golden Baobab Prize Search Hero

I am honoured to have been selected as a SearchHero for the 2013 Golden Baobab Prize. If you have not heard about it yet, read more here and here.

This means I’ll be supporting in the search for the very best writing talent with the greatest potential across the length and breadth of Ghana. If you are a writer or an aspiring writer, I want to keep you on my radar. 

Personally, this means a lot. It means that I don't get to just yap about how we should build a great future for our children, but I get to contribute directly towards that real possibility. Read my interview with the Golden Baobab.

Connect with me here and let’s get more Ghanaian writers to submit to the Golden Baobab Prize.

I say this year’s winner is coming from Ghana. Let’s make it happen, guys!

Submit to the Golden Baobab Prize NOW! Deadline -14th July, 2013.

The Golden Baobab Prize for African Children's Literature

Followers of this blog know that I'm an avid supporter and noisemaker of writers - especially writers who are African. Today, I am introducing the most outstanding literary award on the continent for children's literature: Golden Baobab Prize for African Children’s Literature (2013).

Golden Baobab is a social enterprise seeking to inspire the creation, ensure the production and facilitate the distribution of enthralling, captivating, culturally relevant literary content by African writers and illustrators for African children. And you know I'm all for African content generated by Africans!

The Golden Baobab has organised the most competitive literary prize on the African continent, having received a record number of over 800 submissions since its inception, thereby spearheading a renaissance in African children’s literature. This year, the prize promises to be even better. Yep, the illustration bit is a turn on for me too.

The Golden Baobab Prize for Children’s Literature is calling for African citizens of all ages to write and submit stories to any of the three prize categories for the Golden Baobab, based on eligibility. Read here for more details.

The Writers Project of Ghana supports Ghanaian writers (add Creative Writing Ghana here too), and has supported the Golden Baobab Prize since its inception. Now, I belong here. So Gh writers, stand up and let’s put Ghana on the African literary radar by submitting stories to this year’s Golden Baobab Prize.

If you’re going to be the next big name in African children’s literature, you better go the Golden Baobab Prize way. And if you want to just try out, well, there is nothing to stop you

Deadline for Submission is 14th July, 2013. All the best.

Taking From Me — A Poem

I’m still in the wind, and getting

Sold by

All the lost Souls

At every blink I cannot reach her

She dies. She goes.

She removes her weak shoulder and

Wipes the trail

Of continuity of bold unseen days

I now have much Hate stored away

In a calabash I cannot show.

For God.

For Mother.

For those who hurt her.

Even, for those who force me to

Move on…

Hate

For those who use my own

Strength as chairs to sit on – the

And there remain those

Choking my throat

with Forgetfulness.

Those luring me with Reason and

Life’s givings.

You cannot understand my pain and

Fury;

If you cannot soothe me with the

Comprehension of silence—

I will go to the mountain for peace

If your palm cannot warm out the

Cold sorrows perching on my finger tips;

If your breast cannot wipe my tears—

I will seek the rivers.

And sing dirges to

All the Lost Souls

Dansoman. July 2011.

In the Light of Our Tomorrow

This poem was first published on Akwantuo, an online literary magazine, in June 2010.

Shrinking

Shrinking…

shrinking to the core

Man has lost reason

Man has refused the light

What Man has been longing for ages

Man is shrinking

Shrinking his power of thought

To his vast stretch of rich unusable land

He must lose reason

His eyes set nowhere beyond his corridors

Shrinking, Shrinking, Shrinking

Flipping his very self to hide in his ears

Man cannot think the possible

of the impossible

His firmer grip of the imagery of the impossible

is first forged, then the possible

must be forced out of Man

for he has lost reason

His knowing of everything

has become his nothing

So all things held simple

must first be complex

to be broken down to its core again

That is the unsung philosophy

Cyclical madness

Man has lost reason

So we must go to his funeral

It is at the burial grounds Man must think

who next to follow

in the journey of the burying of Minds

Man has lost reason

So keep your beloved lads indoors

He is a thief of minds

He seeks such stuff to bury

So shut your future up–away from Man

Man is you so shut yourself up

lest you kill another Mind of tomorrow

for your tomorrow

Man has lost reason

So he is shrinking, shrinking to the core

- Nana Yaw Sarpong

A Poem: Humour her a Little

Humour her a little

She is trapped in the fumes

Of ancient cities

Transmogrified to its worst

In present days

Humour her a little

When her head spun

At the piercing thought

Of this city blowing fumes

Into the Earth’s belly

Humour her a little

She crawled to this city

Fleeing her dark homeland

In search of the sweet smell

Of warm Earth to feel between her fingers

Humour her a little

For the trail of her rediscovery

Of peace and purpose

Was pulled down by tractors

Burnt out by real estate contractors

Humour her a little

Her guts choked with smoke

Her lungs bled of distaste

For the city’s despicable ways

Chasing her around the world again

Humour her a little.

24 October 2012. Osu

The Morphology of Your Dance: Poetry

It is poetry month in the United States. In Ghana, we do not have such. In an earlier post last month, I had mentioned something about how the World Poetry Day has been celebrated in Ghana for more than a day. In fact, for a week.

Kinna Likimani of Kinnareads is observing it on a bigger scale with 21 days of poetry. Do check her out

Today, I share an old poem of mine. Happy Poetry Month, Americana

The Morphology of Your Dance

Your pride is as light as your heart

Your heart as weak yet

As purposeful as the Spider’s web

Yours remain where it sits on a knife’s edge

We know the intricacies of your proud dance.

We taught the original: so

Your time and pride is predictable

You Wretched dancing to the dead

Come back with your cobweb heart,

Anaanu ntang!

Let’s see the morphology of your dance.

On the stretch of the Spider’s web

Messing your way to the dead

Your skin did

The adaptation to your cold winds

But you covered your beginnings

Telling us you were original

Playing a tune of subterfuge

Till we are

Subverted in your reverse

Psychology.

We — for the Earth’s movement —

A moment,

Believed

And while drunk with your weak tears

You danced your way into our hearts.

But come!

Let’s see the morphology of your dance

We knew your tricks were

From your weakness

Your imposed fear

That we shall come for your blood

So you came for our lands

Opening up her belly, bloodying your way to your glory

It was you covering your weakness

As you danced your way to the dead.

But when we believed you, we lost, and

You won

Yet we know your pride and time is predictable.

So come let’s see the morphology of your dance

7 December 2011

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