A FRIEND'S SHOE ON THE ROAD [first published by Praxis Magazine Online 26th November 2018]

One day, Uncle sent me to his concubine
On the other side of the next village for some meal
Begging me to beg of her to look at his pain
I smiled when he spoke of the pain
He spoke below, ashamed, and said to me
Tell her I am hard up
Broke in the pocket
Empty, like a down cast bucket

On the road I was alone
Measuring its length with my eyes
With no companion to shorten the journey
In the midst of traveller's words
Asking my feet if they were going to be painful
Walking along on light flip-flops
Then I saw a friend's shoe shining in the distance
On the road

I said with certainty, I know that single black shoe
That stands on the road so lonely
Waiting for any foot that can move it
Its owner was a sergeant; a huge, tall, hairy, simple sergeant
Why is his shoe on this war-zone road
Painted all over with colourful blood?
Has he come here? Who might have sent him?
His wife? No, I don't think so. His boss? Maybe

Look at the leaves, pierced with plentiful bullet holes
Nose don't! I don't ask you to sniff for me
Don't sniff anything strong here
Don't sniff the reek of blood here
What! eyes? What? are you seeing it too?
A warrior's uniform? Do you recognise it?
I do, but, not too sure if it's familiar to me
Am I in a dream world? Or in the real world?

Pardon me Uncle, I will go again another day
Let me first figure out this reek of soldier's blood.

CRACKED BRIDGE [first published by Praxis Magazine Online 29th August 2019]

This bridge was once a resting and dwelling place
For home-based butterflies, snails, snakes, sea birds
And many sweet fishes like those in the sea
An ecosystem of mangrove and mango trees
Of dancing leaves and all that live free

This bridge had a tree with pure spring water
For the community to ease its thirst
It never drained of water, it never caused disaster
At the other side it had a small temple
For religious migrants to kneel and pray to their maker

This bridge had built itself a firm fascinated fan base
A fiancé and fiancée base
Female fish traders wished to marry this fellow
Because of its cool atmosphere
And palatable aroma

This bridge never drained of visitors
Old lizards and foreign monkeys you could see
Many white people came here just to take photos
Interesting photos of colourful young lizards romancing
Of birds dancing, kissing in the trees

This bridge had a signboard that said
Do not fight here! Do not use abusive language here!
Do not steal from a friend on this bridge! Do not tell lies on this bridge!
But you are absolutely free, like those sea birds and tree birds
To kiss on this bridge

This bridge could see and feel like you and me
With strong passions to serve its people
Do you want to see this bridge?
Oh, I wish you could have seen this bridge
You would forget the land of your birth

This bridge was built by foreign people; the Chinese
It was called King Kong, the strongest
It allowed heavy loaded trucks to pass through
Like a rap artist passing awareness messages on vocals
But now this bridge is weak, swaying like a drunkard

Now this bridge has safety signs that read
Do not sit on the rail when it rains!
Watch out! Do not go there!
It is dangerous!
Go back please!

UNCLE'S HAPPIEST TIME [first published by Praxis Magazine Online  27th April 2019]

My Uncle; a seventy-year-old vein-filled man
Who loved listening to seventies music
Anytime I wanted to eat his food at night
I fed his old radio six Tiger batteries

I used to wait at his door when the day
Was handing over duty to the night
As I collected his black, blue, yellow, white sleeping mat
And spread it openly where the moon gleamed

To shake up his musical heart
I'd tune the wrong channel. "Uh, don't mess up!
That's not the station, go up, up, up, yeah!" he'd say
Clearing his throat before lying down. "Ehh-ehh"

Whistling, he'd put the radio up to his long, cane rabbit right ear
Take off his shirt, cross his right foot over the left, emotion clinging
Tightly to him like starch glue on a paper or a tick to a dog's flesh
Then he'd call, "Sorie Lol, check my food pan and enjoy yourself"

LIFE IN MY NEW HOME [first published by Praxis Magazine Online  28th April 2019]

I live up in the hills; the zone of icy breeze
My roof is nearby two blocks
Outside is a sad, naked tree with a big, round bruise on its skin
Every day I see different feathers on its branches
Young and old birds flocking, rocking, singing, stretching
Scratching their bodies with their long, strong beaks.

My roof is full of strangers. I am their black ranger
I have humans, cocks, hens and dogs
Insects too, like cockroaches
But I hate their steps approaching
I hear the fall of a lizard; Vap!
Hitting the ground with its concrete belly

Behind my roof there are shady trees
And a small pile of granite stones, owned
By a beautiful, brave, hard-working young black woman
Anytime I see her striking the stones
With her male hammer, I feel pity
Angry at the crown of this city

She sees me and cries: "Ar dae pa fet poh, d gron nor levul
Ar want me tri pikin dem all fo go skul
Ar nor ahbop pa govmet, na dat make r dae fen am.
I am fighting poverty; this land is not easy
I want all my three children to go to school
I have no hope in the government, so I'm finding it here."

A combat-coloured dog
Shamefully chases a fowl for its half loaf of bread
Threatened by the barking
The fowl clinches the bread in its beak
And runs inside a very tight hole
The dog steps back and sniffs

CHILDHOOD DRESS [first published by Praxis Magazine Online 28th August 2019]

Behind the blurred shadow of a stunted tree
A three-year-old black boy
Was scratching his right buttock
With a bottle top
Sweetly and softly

I watched him pressing it on his bare bottom
Enjoying the free, fresh air flowing in and out
Through a flap in his torn, brown shorts
He cleared his throat, eh-eh-hem!
As he sat down on the dusty ground

With his bottle top and two tomato-tin cups
He measured sand into the bottle top
Put some in the tomato-tin cups
Then went for some dry leaves 
To use as money

A friend joined him: yellow in skin with an Afro haircut
Different coloured slippers on his feet; red and blue
He bent down, hugging his knees
His shorts were badly worn too
As if he was at war with dogs

He asked his friend; 'Can I sell the rice for you?'
'No! Let the buyers come to meet me,' the black boy snapped
'This is my shop; I don't trust you, you are a sheep, a rat
So, I will not put you in charge'
They both made a few jests

Standing on the veranda
Watching this kids' drama
It all made me feel good; like a kid again
It brought back memories of my childhood
When I wore those same torn shorts

We used to call those torn shorts
Private windows
Playing fields
Government roads
Stadia, and many childish names

I remember, when an angry ant
Bit me on my bottom very hard
I wanted to retaliate but it rushed away
Ran into its house and left me peeping
Grumbling and rubbing the swollen spot

Torn shorts were our childhood dress
I feel joy when I see kids in torn shorts

MOMENTS I MISS [first published by Praxis Magazine Online on 29th April 2019]

When I recall the colours of my childhood memories
I fall asleep hoping to enjoy those moments in my dreams, but
I'm living now where all I dream about is fighting poverty
I miss the moments when our relatives called my friends and I monkeys

We played like monkeys; hanging upside down in Mango trees
our toes clinging onto strong branches, swinging bare-chested
in big, baggy trousers tied around the waist with shoelaces
I miss the days when I knew nothing

about the world: but I realised when I was hungry
I would go to the village stream with friends
to swim freely; catch and eat fishes for our supper
In those days my eyes never saw the piles of bodies

on TV caused by Ebola - blame was cast on eating bush meat
I remember my food bowl; it had a small hole where my soup escaped
leaving me grumbling and my belly rumbling unless I sucked it quickly
I even miss the times when a cousin came to eat with me

He was canny; he invented a game
whereby no rice should touch the ground while we ate
If one of us dropped a single grain, he must watch his eat-mate play
My cousin always won. I miss all those moments, it was fun

to watch my uncle dancing to Ghanaian house party music
on the radio at home; the way he controlled his heavy, leather shoes
not to cause any shoe accidents by squashing someone's toes
But what I miss the most is our compound; playing balance ball

in the rain, boys against girls - love came alive
I miss the moments when we played like monkeys
I miss my food bowl, I miss my uncle dancing, I miss our compound
I miss the moments when I knew nothing about the world

REMEMBERING THE VILLAGE SUN [first published by Praxis Magazine Online on 30th March 2020]

Gently, the sun crawls
Into my lonely village room
Sits on the bare ground
Sometimes
Lies down alone
On my bug-ridden mattress
Made from empty rice sacks
Stuffed with swamp grass

Slowly, it stretches
Its body of light over the cracked walls
Like the shadow of a restless dog
Wailing and waving its tail
It roams around the room
Licking my face
Jumping up at my clothes
Hanging high over a washing line

Static and stubborn
The sun stays inside
Even when I try to close the window
It keeps swinging
As the wind is singing
With the curtain
Left to right
Back and forth

Outside, in the searing heat
Dogs pant like marathon runners
Cocks rush under shady trees
Rooftops reek with a burning odour
Leaves curl from the sun's hard pinch
And the afternoon breeze
Forces village doors to open rudely
Searching for a cooler atmosphere

I remember the village sun
Whenever my body grapples cold in the city
I feed it with plentiful sunlight
Hang my painful bones out to dry
Spread my back sweetly
Under the healing sky
Until I feel the emotion of ease
Walking down my cold soul with peace

GOODBYE [first published by Praxis Magazine Online on the 8th October 2019]

We humans live in a world where strong emotions
Break into small pieces and remain silent
Sometimes forever, sometimes not
Our memories sleep very late; they awaken
In our minds when history repeats itself somewhere
Whenever I hear the voice of death
I think of my Uncle's mother, Yandama
Who travelled to heaven beyond her family's thoughts
Leaving us with endless tears in our hearts
She never said goodbye
I can still remember her shining face and sweet smile
Her friendly character and the language of her body
She was kind-hearted to little children
Keeping her food to share with us
But she hated thieves and liars
I remember how she warned me not to whistle
Because such sounds invited evil spirits
Anytime I did she would say in Themne
'Tae soh yoyeh Sorie lol'; don't do that again!
My imagination brings her face closer to mine
Her weeping eyes that hid from thick smoke
Bursting from wet fire wood
As she made local black soap with native palm oil
To soothe our bodies during Harmattan season
When rough winds tried to dry and crack our skin
She always enjoyed seeing me in my school uniform
Which she stitched and mended many times
She never said goodbye to me on the day I left her
Eating boiled maize for breakfast before I went to school
Yandama, the grandma I greatly admired, goodbye again today

KID'S WISHES [first published by Praxis Magazine Online 31 March 2020]

Walking slowly home from school
On a scorching Saturday afternoon
Village friends and I were crunching sugarless gari
Giggling gently at the contortions of our jaws
As we chewed and chattered
Words spluttered from our over-stuffed mouths

No water on that narrow bushy road
Only saliva to swallow down what stuck in our throats
Before our bellies groaned in pain
While we strolled we told our hopes and struggles
'No life is barren, all sad stories are gold
Our dim star shall shine someday'

At home during the night
As the moon sprinkled its light on our faces
And parent birds sang their young to sleep
We made our wishes for the future
Some seemed impossible to grasp
Because of our background and low status

I wished to see and talk to God about my destiny
Tell him to plant me where good things come alive
I wished to meet the present Queen of England
Ask her the secret of happiness
Open my heart like a morning window
For her to see what it holds

One of my friends wished to appear and disappear
Every second, every minute, every hour
Travel to different European states by wind power
Never to return back home
His face changed to the shape of sadness
When we said that was an ungrateful wish

Every kid in my homeland
Is taught to wish for good
Lives in the village are like marbles
Struggling to aim from where they're thrown
Struggles range from hard to hardest
Nothing fruitful to harvest

THE MIND IS NOT A SHRINE [first published by Praxis Magazine Online on the 7th October 2019]

The mind is not a shrine
Where sorcerers and their seekers
Store their worries
I can see from your sad body
That the floor of your mind is dirty
Pick up the crumbs of your pain
Caused by this life
And throw them outside
Let your mind be a blank piece of paper
Light in weight and unlined
Clean the tears from your beautiful face
Your eyes should not be a fire farm
Red with disappointment
From love, work, business or education
Do not let anything dent your dreams
Failure is beautiful
It is a stepping stone
To reach your destiny
Be a carrier of hope
If you are sad find a song to sing
Sing it in your mother's melodious tongue
To help set free the stress within
The mouth is yours
Wash your mind of worries and make it clean
The future is not sick; it will not die
If only you let the mind be a mind
And not a shrine

MY LEGEND

My feet have worn heavy hard-skinned shoes

To trample the thorny pathways of my life.

I have spilt uncountable sour tears

Unwillingly licked the raw salt from my lips

Smelt the cemetery stench of pain

But I refused to melt down under the strain.

My soul has raged tormented battles

On the shameful corners of forgotten African streets

Where poverty, disappointment, depression

And deep bites of failure

Tore at my troubled thoughts

Making my dizzy brain turn somersaults.

But, I kept telling myself

Failure is not a broken future

Not a permanent plan

But a creeping career

That will stand on its feet and run.

A homeless street servant; an orphaned child

My biological roots unintentionally threw me

Into the depths of a worn out universe.

I forced my brain to see beyond

The barren valleys of that world.

I forced my feet to be indefatigable

For I had to climb the steep-sided days and nights

Of my struggle for survival

To grasp for myself a bundle of dreams.

Now, I have done putting on my hard-skinned shoes

I have started to run on my bold, bare feet.

Even if I slip on the stony road

I shall run on my blistered soles

For I have done putting on my hard-skinned shoes

I have swallowed the self-determination of a legend

I keep going on and on.

The devil grumbling inside me says

'Boy, you are persistent

In attaining the head and heart of a legend

I am tired of disturbing you

I can no longer stand against

Your desperate fiery spirit of achievement

Go on, the unbeatable legend.'

Yes, I am

Because I have fought against my past

For its clouds of dark despair

Not to eclipse the brighter galaxy

Of my future.

I have forced my mind and pen

To write this legendary poem.

THE GUT OF AFRICA

Inside the gut of Africa

All I can see these days is war

Too many strange minds, no love

Bodies painted with strange blood

The temper of jealousy for our fellow blacks

Is tearing the future apart

The children of peace are drunk with hatred

I see the wounds of the next generation

Wounds that cannot be cured

Wounds that linger to pass through bloodlines

Staining the thoughts of the young

Africans are erasing their lives

Like fire eating up dry leaves

Many times this continent has raped itself

In broad daylight and through the night

Tell me what is right

A palace built by God is now the devil's rest room

And the world is keeping silent

While all are being silenced

So much disunity and apathy

Participating to burn Africa

If the parents of this home cannot control their anger

Their children will forever be on fire