I have a lot of very stirring stories about my dad to share. There is the already viral story about when he cried because there was no money to pay my fees and my university education was at stake. Then, there is the one about when my younger brother and I cried because he had been arrested by the police. So many tears between us.
The story I choose to share today, however, won because of how until I thought about it these few days to this fathers’ day, it was one of the grim memories I had about my pops. For me, it was the ultimate experience of betrayal. What I believed he did to me was light years worse than what Judas did to Jesus Christ.
I was eleven when it happened. It had been two years since I saw my dad on that fateful day. We got split because things were hard for him and he had to take my little brother and me to live with his sister (my aunt) in our hometown― Abor. But that’s not how I thought of it back in the days. For me, making us go and live in Abor was akin to the slave trade. While our ancestors were taken across the Atlantic in ships to the Americas into servitude, we were taken across the Volta River in a car over the bridge at Sogakope to Abor for a similar purpose.
The only difference between the two life-altering events was how the victims were made to embark on the journey. The victims of the slave trade were taken against their wish; they were captured, brutally treated and forced. We, on the other hand, were lured. Continue reading
it’s been seven suns
time has tested us
we’ve scored quite well
floods, mountains and brimstone
none has proven potent enough
against our seven knots of love
seven seasons of becoming
a fulfilling trip of discovery
of strangers morphing into lovers
i hope for seventy times seven more suns
with you, only eternity is enough
and it’s to be enjoyed by the second
The odyssey of the drunken lover
Began when Yao was hitherto sober
He would rant all day about love
Boast about escapades with his many lovers
Till the sun was ashamed and cowered
Awo was no older in age than her teens
Her plot was to find another man she thinks
Would fall prey to the charming beads
She wore appealingly around her waist
Awaiting the dance of the tribesmen to begin
Stanley, called otherwise by others, was standing before his mirror. ‘This one?’ he raised the mauve tie, ‘or this one?’ he picked the black-tie from his bed, alternately pinning them with his index finger on his neck to see if they did fit his pale blue shirt.
So he tied the black tie under the collar of his shirt: it had always been the black. The dance with the mauve tie was just a running joke which only his unconscious mind enjoyed.
He brushed his hair and leaned into the mirror, observing his retreating hairline vertices and almost hairless crown, ‘more Kuza, I guess.’
He applied some on the almost shiny scalp, feeling the seeds of Indian Hemp in his fingertips, which somehow gave him the assurance of success as if the granules were the hair-seeds and his scalp were the bed.
He brushed his beard, a thick thatch, and felt it, admiring it, wishing the scalp learnt the ways of hair growth from the beard. His scalp hair had not followed after his beard; it had taken its own unhealthy behaviours too far: mass follicle suicide.
Hours after the sky has turned gray
Marked by the sun drifting away
Replaced by the moon which lights our way
My heart makes melodies with your name
Matters of affection is not a numbers game
But this creative moment happens every day
Even with the frequency, it’s never one and the same
I would give anything to make this music till I grow old
Undergoing it daily feels better than mining gold
the silent gray dawn time leaves me broken
always feels like an eternity spent waiting
for the rising of my love several miles away
almost as far away as the lonely galactic reach
my hot yellow hydrogen bomb of a goddess
it’s fascinating that you’re flesh and blood
because with but a whisper of your light
you drive away the gloomy clouds in my sky
reaching for the deep crevices where I’m lost
your never-diming light illuminate my darkness
Kojo sat alone in the dimly lit dining room. Calling it a dining room was rather misleading. It was a room. He ate in it. That was all. In it stood an old cheap wooden table that rocked when he rested on it, two old chairs that he took from his father’s house and a pair of white-turned-brown curtains that let the sun rays in during the day as easily as if they were not there at all. The light bulb in the center of the room was bare and hung down on its white wire, adding to the meager ambiance of the room.
“This is where it all ends”, Kojo said to himself, flipping through pages of the Bible that was in front of him. The Bible was tattered and dusty. Kojo coughed a few times as dirt entered his nostrils. Continue reading
It’s good to have a friend who is a writer, innit? Especially if you appreciate the craft of writing and its products, you enjoy, first-hand, the fruit of their inks. The perks are even higher when the creative is a popular one – the bragging rights are awesome. Like the coin, being friends with a writer could have its disadvantages too. I will not pretend writers are flawless.
Every friendship must be mutually beneficial. There’s always some quid pro quo at play. In this article, I will share five ways you can support your writer friend on this creative journey. The benefits for anyone who does this is tremendous. Try them and come and share your testimony later. Continue reading