Those we can love (from #TheSufist)

I picked up my diary, flipped through the pages, breathed heavily and finally I wrote what I felt; 

You know, my dear diary, it is really over when you can talk about it without crying. The people we meet determine those we can love and those we can’t. 

I met her through a friend and our friendship blossomed. It all began with a ‘hello, nice to meet you’ then the spark in her eyes and how she had dreams of becoming a beautiful poet. It was her ambitions that made me fall in love with her; who wouldn’t love a girl who can create words like an idol that feels so real, so powerful that you can touch it and think of it as real? 

We played it so nonchalant pretending what we felt was just a result of how we intellectually liked each other but even if it was love, we knew we just couldn’t speak of it. In the evenings we would meet and talk about everything and anything holding a cup of tea in one hand and each other’s hand in the other so close that we each knew we felt a connection begging softly to be spoke of. But this sort of connection was always doomed to fail, doomed to die like a flower that cannot blossom but still hoped it would. 

Then one day, she came to me crying. I just knew why she was crying and what was wrong. She looked into my eyes and begged me to love her, love her deeply till she could take it no more. But all what I was thinking of was he who I called a friend. What will he think of me, our friendship and about everything in between.

What about her? I held her hands and I felt that connection still. I belonged to her and she also belonged to me but strangely it felt we didn’t belong to each other. Then she put her head on my shoulders and cried, “I wished I had met you earlier. I wished I didn’t meet you through your friend.” We both knew this, we knew it very well but sometimes things happen the way they do. Then we departed.

Deep into my room, I paced everywhere, I touched the walls, switched off the lights and put it back on, picked up a pencil, a paper and wrote a poem stating how I loved her and threw it into the waste bin. I sat at every corner of the bed and wondered if it was best I loved her back like she wanted to do. 

What should I do dear diary? What should I do? My life is now fucked up and I don’t know what to do. Why does love always have to be so tragic? Why? Why? Why? Sometimes the people which we meet determine the people we can love and those we can’t. Ethel, one day I hope I can be able to tell you that I love you without having to put it to calculations and permutations

MARK

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"I'm in love with your girlfriend" by JYF & RMZ

How do I tell you I'm in love with your girlfriend
Without your heart skipping a beat?
How do I tell you that the day you broke her heart
I wanted to fix it and make her mine
Without you thinking I had always wanted her?
I'm tired of walking in your shadow
Hiding my feelings for her
Underneath shadows and lies
All because you're my friend
And the boys code
Says I shouldn't snatch your baby.
Do you know how much she tells me she hates you
For treating her
As if she was a forgotten memory.
Do you know how she sees me?
As a secret garden
Treating her so right in the dark
Convincing her to believe in love again.


How do I tell you I'm in love with your girlfriend?
I'm a king and I take what I want so I promised to make her mine and be selfish with her.
She deserves someone who will appreciates her flaws,
Someone who will light her soul up when she's in the dark.
You make her feel she's an option, I'll make her feel like
She's number one on my scale of preference
You make fear, I will rather colonize her heart
And make her the queen of mine.
Her heart is rusting because your love was salty filled with insecurity and hatred
It isn't my fault that I want your girlfriend
She deserves someone better
Someone like me

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Cybertonia (From #TheSufist)

14. SO Lot went and spoke to his sons-in-law, who were pledged to marry his daughters. He said, “Hurry and get out of this place because the Lord is about to destroy the city!” But his sons-in-law thought he was joking.

I was reading the part of the Bible my mother had recommended to me when I heard the door open. It was my father, he looked visibly angry and there was no need telling that he had head my decision to naturalise for Libertain.

Now, Libertain was an online society which was rich and had a very good social system for those who were poor. It was the most populous online nation of over two billion. As the name suggested there were libertarian in the way the way they saw and did their things. Many were those who drew parallels between them and Sodom and Gomorra. That is probably the reason why my mother suggested I read Genesis 19:1 – 31. She was shocked when she saw my online application to change my nationality. My sister had always found me opportunistic and greedy. She said when I was a baby, she was playing with me, holding an old 5 cyrptocurrency note when I held unto it and never wanted to let it go. A renowned prophet in Coastonia called Prophet Seth had prophesised that I’d be very rich but before that I would make shocking decisions. Growing up, everything was always about money, money and money. I didn’t believe in a God who lived up there and dictated the course of events. I didn’t believe in a God who killed innocent people through fires, hurricanes and floods.


What did I hear that you did?” my father fumed.

“Father I want to be a Libertain citizen.” I replied looking down at my phone.

“Have you forgotten Sodom and Gomorrah? Have you forgotten what God did to them? He destroyed the citizens with fire. Do you want to go to hell? Do you? Libertain is an immoral nation where even sisters marry sisters and brothers may brothers. That is even worse than what the people of Sodom and Gomorrah did. Is it about money?” he paused and looked at me.

Then he continued, “Listen and listen very well. I know you are doing this because of money. I won’t allow you to –“

“Father, I am eighteen and I ---“ I interjected but I was shocked halfway.

“Will you shut up and listen to me? Coastania is poor but we serve a mighty God.”

“Father, this is not true. Coastonia is nowhere close to what you are saying. Are pastors and prophets not ruling this nation?” I asked.

“Yes. Exactly the reason why you need to stay here and move your citizenship to Libertain.” He drew near me.

“Father, are we not drenched in corruption? Do pastors not fight with other pastors and do prophets not curse other prophets in public?”

“Mark, you do not understand. There are imperfections and as long as we are Christians, troubles may come but the Lord will see us through.”

“Father, my reason for deciding to naturalise for Libertain are simple. I can’t keep on being a citizen of this hypocritical nation. We wear religion as our banner but destroy each other in ‘Touch not my anointed and do my prophets no harm.’ We fail to criticise our leaders because we see them as Gods. Don’t we? No they aren’t. Second, this nation is no better than Sodom and Gomorrah if we do not stop the hypocrisy, the corruption, the envy and the destruction of our society by our very actions.”

“And you think Libertain is perfect?” my father laughed.

“No but they admit their imperfections and deal with it. We don’t. We are like devils wearing the clothes of angels and pretending to be the latter. Take a look at the cyber nations which claim to be religious. Look at the violence in there, the social delinquencies and the problems they are facing. These problems are inflicted by us yet we say, ‘If we pray to God, He will save us.’ How long haven’t we prayed? Did we change our behaviour? No we didn’t. I’m tired of this hypocrisy. I am tired of prophecies said by lying hypocrites!”


“If you still want to go ahead with your naturalisation then I wish you well.” My father stood up to leave the room.

“Father, can I ask you a question?”

“You can.” He said with his hands folded.

“I was checking your Facebook profile and I saw that you once lived in Nevernia.”

“Yes.”

“And what happened?”

“Son, when you become a citizen of Libertain you get to realise that the most important things in life are faith and an obsession for prosperity based on what you think the future holds. You will get to know that you will cross oceans only to realise that they do not need you there.”

“You are speaking to me in proverbs.” I sounded worried.

“I was young once and I was just like you. I saw Libertain and Nevrnia as two cities where I could get rich quickly. So I naturalise for them. You see, in snaps, Instagram stories and Facebook lives, these societies look perfect but youd go there and realise that the nation you are rushing to naturalise for has problems of its own. On the screen it may look like they need you but you would go there and realise all the fun you see on the screen is nothing but an illusion, a lie, a wondrous trick.” He replied sounding very philosophical.

“Father, what should I do?”

“Mark, I know you. You see the world in terms of money. You are young and when we are young we think our bodies know what it wants. I can’t stop you, in fact, I won’t stop you. Finish with your naturalisation process. Go and live. If you will survive you will and if you don’t, you should remember my story, I came back to the place I call home. You can always come back to this place you say is being run by hypocrites and lying pastors.” He went out of the room.

I opened up my laptop and click on the “CONFIRM” button. This was the last step that really mattered and I hoped I made a good choice.

After not more than an hour, I heard the noise of a car pull up in front of my house. I just knew they were coming for me. I picked up the few things I had and moved out of the house. My sister was looking at me with a very condescending look. In her eyes, it was obvious that she wanted me to be a failure so I could run back so she can engage in pontification about how I loved money too much. The looks of my mother was that of pain, it really hurt her that I was leaving. Her tears betrayed her, she wanted me to stay. But the looks for my father was iconic; it was that look he always has whenever I am going to the boarding house. The look always assured me that whatever happens I’d always come home. This time, I wanted it to be different, I wanted it to have a “goodbye” kind of meaning. I hugged him tightly never wanting to let go.

“Go and survive.” He whispered.

I tried to hug my mother but she run to her room sobbing. My sister………………she didn’t want to touch me, she went straight to her room straight-faced. I sat in the car and continued recording the section of the Bible my mother had recommended.

15. With the coming of the dawn, the angels urged Lot, saying, “Hurry! Take your wife and your two daughters who are here, or you will be swept away when the city is punished.”

16. When he hesitated, the men grasped his hands and the hands of his wife and of his two daughters and led them safely out of the city, for the Lord was merciful to them. As soon as they had brought them out, one of them said, “Flee for your lives! Don’t look back and don’t stop anywhere in the plain! Flee to the mountains or you will be swept away.”

But unlike Lot, I looked back but did not turn into a pillar of salt. Would I be coming back or not? Only time could tell.

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The Purest Form of Love (From #TheSufist)

I will one day tell you about why when a storm hits you, you never recover. After, I will tell you why I don’t believe in miracles and why each day I live hoping to die.

I grew up believing I serve an awesome God. I had a mental image of Him as one who never lets his children down. This is why as such I never dreamt of myself with my right leg suspended in the air as if it was one of the exceptions to gravity.

I grew up living next to a pastor, as such I visited his house each day to play with his eleven year old beautiful daughter. I was nine but what I felt towards Delphia was different. In my dreams, we walked on the streets of Kumasi making noise with our childish shoes that gave out lights when hit on a hard surface. Not that I was afraid to tell her, the thing is, her mother was fighting a personal war with the devil. Even when she fell down on her slippery tiles by accident she would pray loudly and rebuke the devil in Jesus’ name.


When the wind blew her hair damaging her exquisite hairstyle, she blamed it on the devil. Let even her forget her handkerchief at home and it will be the devil who will bear the brunt of it. Knowing her mom, I just knew she would say the devil is occupying the rooms in my mind if she should hear I proposed to her daughter. But you know what they say? They say the devil is a good businessman but as a child what I knew for sure was that the body knew what it wants and my body was no different. So day in and day out, I subjected my mind to how I could tell her I loved her without being too suggestive.

One day, we were going to buy a needle for Osoofo Maame because her cloth had been ruined by an innocent nail which was resting on the door thinking about itself. As usual, she opened her Bible to Titus 1:5 and cast out the poor devil that had troubled itself by inhabiting the nail. Often times I wondered how many devils she was fighting.

Everything happened so fast that even when I recall it looks like a movie. I remember we were almost near Auntie Monica’s shop and I held Delphia’s hands. I looked into her eyes and she asked me why I was looking at her strangely. Her lips looked like rose petals, I wanted to kiss her and show her what I felt. Then the image of her mother flashed my mind then I stopped. “Why are you looking at me like that Mark?” she asked in that her silky voice. The wind blew and I could see the naked meat of her developing breast. It was blinding.

“Nothing.” I replied. The looks on her face had me so confused.

“I want to tell you that………….” I paused, my voice trailed off.

“You wanted to tell me what?” “That I…………..watch out watch out.”

I pushed her and she fell down. A car hit me and I was flying in the skies. I had visions of myself walking majestically to heaven but St. Peters stopped me half way and asked me what I was doing in heaven. “I prayed while on Earth, I loved God, I believed in Him while on Earth, does it not qualify me to be in Heaven?”

“Your time is not up. If you want to come here you must have a stronger faith. Your time is not nigh.” Then he pushed me. I saw myself falling through the clouds.. I landed on my leg and I blacked out.

I woke up and I was on the hospital bed surrounded by my classmate. I felt fine, I moved my fingers, they hurt just a bit, I moved my left leg and it was fine, I couldn’t feel my right leg, it felt numb. I became agitated. The doctor opened the door and looked at me, “You are such a strong boy. If you were older you would not have survived.” I felt assured. I tried sitting down but he told me I needed sleep. They whisked away my classmates and I was left alone with my mother.

“Mummy I can’t feel my right leg.” She started crying, she hadn’t told me anything but whatever it was I knew it was bad. I run my hands on my right leg, it was there, all in bandages, and perhaps if they remove the bandages I was going to feel it.

“Mummy why are you crying?”

“Nothing, I am just happy that you are getting well.”

“Mummy, how long have I been here?”

“Two days.

The doctors say you will be fine.”

Instantly, Osoofo Maame entered and without greeting she started praying. My mother joined her in prayer and in their prayers they wished for a miracle for my right leg. I then knew why my mother was crying. Was I going to be a cripple? I shed a tear. I was never going to be a cripple. I had read stories from the Bible about God healing people, I knew I was going to get a miracle soon. If God could give Sarah a child, if Jesus could die and come back to life on the third day, if Jesus could rise Lazarus from the dead then the miracle I expected was small in His eyes. I had hope but later as I grew I just knew that when Dante wrote “Abandon all hopes he who enter” in Divine Comedy, he probably had me in mind.

I was discharged from the hospital and I had to learn how to walk in crutches with my right leg suspending in the air. I didn’t want to play with people again. I lost all desire to play. They added a cripple to my name. I understood them because that was what I was. It didn’t pain me that much for I knew it was temporal because I was waiting for a miracle.

There were times that I would light a fire, pick a sheet of paper and write on it ‘I love you Delphia’ and burn it. We were no longer friends. I understood it because she was growing, she was turning into a woman and I was rather settling into my new identity as Mark the Cripple. Despite everything I still waited for a miracle.

Then she grew into a beautiful flower with boys chasing her here and there. I would sit on our verandah and watch boys pass by her house. She would stand by her gate and talk to the boys smiling and flirting openly with them. At times she saw me and only waved at me. I will only stare at my phone and write a poem, “I love you, I will die for you, I love you, I will die for you, I love you.” After that I would discard it and rather go to my room and pray. God they said works in his own time and in my time He was going to heal me. Even after eleven years, my faith in Him did not wane, I knew the miracle was going to come and I was going to throw the crutches away. I was simply waiting for God’s time.

Then one day I was at my home when my mother brought me an invitation card, Delphia was getting married to the Minister’s popular son. My mother went on and on telling me about how they met and how a perfect man Delphia had found. After she was done, I went to my room and locked up the door, I prayed to God and told him that if by the time its morning and I was not healed, I was never going to believe in Him again. I would treat Him as a figment of my imagination. That night, I slept a painful sleep and I dreamt of myself walking again. In that dream, I was at the wedding and Delphia had run into my arms and begged me to marry her. I woke up sweating, my mother said I was screaming in my sleep, I was on her laps as she placed a cold napkin on my head. That morning I felt dejected, I was still a cripple in one leg. I took my Bible and burnt it. I didn’t want to have anything to do with God. I stopped going to church and my mother never understood why. Whenever she asked me why I couldn’t bear to tell her.

On the day of Delphia’s wedding, I took a white paper and I wrote on it, “Delphia I love you” folded it neatly and placed it in my pocket. That was the first time I saw her husband, he was handsome like how my mother had said it and he was also an engineer. I shed a tear, if I wasn’t a cripple, I wouldn’t have felt so inferior about myself so much that it affected my studies. I failed my exams not because I was not intelligent but because I felt a good university degree was wasted on me. If I wasn’t a cripple, I would have been handsome, I would have had more friends and importantly I would have told Delphia what I felt for her. She was happy and I couldn’t blame her. Osoofo Maame on that day did not stop talking about how God had been so good to her, she forgot about her devils and for once I was happy for the devil.

When the wedding was over, I left my note on the pulpit, it did not matter who saw it. It was wasted anyway. All the love I felt for her all gone wasted, all my faith in God all gone wasted. Nothing made sense for me anymore. I was never going to get a miracle. I missed how it felt to walk normal. I missed the part of my childhood where I played with Delphia, I missed everything that reminded me of being normal. As I walked away from the church to my house, I closed my eyes and remembered the day I had the accident. I remembered how I was standing by Delphia ready to tell her I loved her. I closed my eyes and whispered, “I love you.” I opened my eyes and my mother was standing in front of me, she responded, “I love you and I know you loved Delphia. I know you became a cripple just to save her. Unrequited love is the purest form of love.”

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Suicide Note (From #TheSufist)

Dear Ethel,

You remember when we sat on the rooftop writing a list of things we would do when we get old……very very old? You remember? You remember when you used to tease me and how you made fun of my childhood memories? Of course you remember when we used to listen to Lana Del Rey’s Lust For life singing along to it softly like the first love melody we composed? You remember when you used to tell me whenever I felt down, ‘it is better to smile than to frown’ but Ethel, for the past two months, I have come to the realisation that it is better to burn than to live.


You remember when I would suddenly get so quiet when we were walking down the streets making love with the corner of our eyes? You remember I would suddenly become sad and wear a forced smile? You remember you’d always ask what is wrong with me and I would reply ‘Nothing’. I lied. Everything was wrong.


Everything was wrong. I was dying inside. I lost whatever it felt to be happy. I was a walking empty tin. I couldn’t take it anymore, the pressure on me to keep up with promises, my honesty and my dream of not becoming a tragic role model to an unfortunate soul. What you didn’t know was that someone’s destiny laid in my hands and I crashed it. I tried whatever I could to save her destiny from crashing and to prevent her from writing my name on her list of bad men in this universe. I tried to move the Heavens, I tried to quench the fire in hell but I failed. Now this girl lives her life cursing me day and night. I hope she may one day see that I am no bad person but in this life when your destiny is cursed, nothing you do is ever enough.


I love you, I love you, I love you but I just can’t live. I can’t live waking up at midnight asking God for a miracle which never comes. I gave God an offer to help me with just one miracle and I will give our child to him like how in the Bible Samuel’s mother gave up her son to God to serve in the temple. Day came, the night went, the moon turned from a crescent to a full moon and even the sun became tired of shining yet nothing changed. I know I should have told you but I couldn’t, I didn’t, I knew I could do it on my own. Now I have failed so I am writing this suicide note hoping that I’d save my life from perpetual having to remember my failure. I know you will miss me, so will I.



Mark.

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Short Story: The Hand of God

THE HAND OF GOD

My mother used to tell when I was growing up, “Akua, a hand that does not work must not eat.” I grew up thinking of my hand as the most important part of my body. She would scream when I was washing her clothes as well as that of my brothers; one who was a mechanic and the other a trotro driver, “Akua wash it well, why do you wash as if you have no bones in your hands? This is not how girls wash things… Wash it well, wash wash, wash wash” and she will use her hands to hit my head. I hated it when I was cooking and she was around, “Don’t you have hands? Stir the food well or else it will get lumpy. You are not beautiful so learn how to use your hand well.” Often I sat down asking myself if there was anything wrong with my hands. There were long nights I spent studying my hands carefully over the flickering lights to see if there was a blemish in there that made every conversation in the house to be about my hands.

The situation was no different at school. My teachers said I had a very terrible handwriting; one of them even said that she got a headache whenever she read my work. Later she said she kept on failing me on purpose because of my handwriting. “What do you have in those little hands of yours that you can’t write well Akua? What at all? Use your hands to hold the pencil well, hold it firmly, hold it femininely, write boldly……..write boldly………Write your A like this…..Do not slant it. No… It makes it unreadable. I say again write boldly.” So I stopped school wondering if I was not intelligent because of my handwriting or because I was actually a dull student.

My brother used to tell me that the only thing I was good at doing with my hands was being a trotro mate (conductor) and in truth I loved this job in every sense of the word. The other trotro mates always made snide remarks when they saw me. They said I was a girl and a girl had no place in a man’s world. I didn’t care, once I was getting money and doing something which my hands knew how to do best, there was nothing they said that brought my spirits down. Some of the trotro mates sneaked on me and fondled with my breast, I fought those ones and sometimes beat the hell out of them. “Your hands are strong, they are not that of a woman, you must learn to make it softer and and and……..” I would watch them pant and hear their voice trail as I beat them. It gave me joy when other mates laughed at the boys I beat.

“She is not a girl! She fights like a man.” They would say as a defense.

My brother would call me and tell me not to pay them any attention. He had no idea how it felt to be laughed at something you did so well. I had a bad handwriting so I felt uncomfortable at school, my mother said I couldn’t use my hands to do what girls are supposed to do so I felt I didn’t belong at home either.

After advising me, I would enter the room in the mind and scream, “Brother, you don’t know how it feels to be dragged out of where you belong. I belong here and I am going to fight till I am accepted.’’

“Akua they will stop teasing you, they will later accept you. You remember when I was once a trotro mate? They used to laugh at me, they said I was dirty, they said I reminded them of a dwarf who lived on the mountains. I didn’t fight them, I accepted the insults, I took it in and laugh it off. That is what you should do. Laugh it off. This is what everyone does. Laugh it off.”

“But I am a girl and they say they will never accept me if I don’t fight.” He would look at me and smile. He always said he loved my spirits because there was absolutely nothing that could break it. Absolutely nothing. He had never seen a girl with a spirit like mine.

I would frown and look at him. He is just a boy and doesn’t know how much it hurts being a girl who is undeserving in everyone’s eyes but his, a girl who knows not to do things other girls knew how to do perfectly with their hands. How often did I have to tell him I was fighting for a different kind acceptance in a world I didn’t belong? He didn’t understand me; in fact, he never did. At times I wondered if he saw me as a girl. I never blamed him; we grew up together, wore the same clothes, played the same games and tricks. Deep in each of our hearts, I was not a girl.

And one day we were on our regular trips looking for passengers in our rickety car. It was nothing better than scrap. It had been pierced together by several adhesives. For example, the front seat easily gave in when a passenger relaxed too much in it. You could not afford to be careless and sleep while you sat at the front seat. You may end up falling on the legs of other passengers sitting at the back. The car could only be sparked by joining series of wires together.

There was nothing special about the day, it was just a Sunday --   people had closed from church. I stood at a vantage and watched other girls walk majestically in their pencil heels and fanciful dresses. I asked myself how it felt to be like those girls who walked as if they were walking on a thin thread. I sighed and shouted, “K-tia, K-tia, K-tia.” It was only twelve o’clock so business was a bit slow. I had told my brother to let us wait for a while before setting off to look for passengers but he said business was going to be good at that time. Who was I to argue? With a hand like mine, what aim did I have in life?

We spent more than ten minutes at Tech Junction and the six passengers we had already gotten were getting impatient. They murmured and threw naked faced insults at me. The insults were nothing to me, I had been insulted over and over so I smiled at their insults, they were nothing compared to those that nearly made me commit suicide.

“Ei driver, this your mate dier he is very aggressive.” One of the passengers shouted. I heard it but I didn’t mind her. I was so used to be called a boy. Many passengers did not actually realise that I was a girl, they were also so much used to the concept of a male trotro mate that the idea of a girl trotro mate was a bit hard to picture.

“She is a girl ooo not a boy.” Another passenger corrected. I smiled, he was one of the few passengers to notice I was a girl.

“A girl trotro mate? Interesting.”

Then I heard my brother horning signaling me to come. I had always maintained that my brother had a soft heart. He can’t stomach it when passengers shouted on him. Sometimes I wished I could give my brave heart to him. Sometimes I wish he could trust me and teach me how to drive. Secretly I tried to learn but each time he saw me, he got angry and shouted, “Akua, I know you are ambitious but no, you can‘t be a trotro driver! Have you seen a female trotro driver before?”

“But brother, I can be the first one. There is always a first one.”

“No and get out of the seat.” I always hated it when he was always angry. It took the charm he had in him.

After two passengers had entered the car, I went and sat inside and my brother drove off.

“Yess.” I hissed slowly and the passengers started pulling money from their bags and pockets to pay me.

“Mate, how much is the fare from Tech Junction to Amakom?”

“One Cedi.”

“This is not true! I just took one this morning and it was only 90p. You are the only one charging One Cedi” the passenger sitting right next to me angrily shouted.

“Madam please the fare has always been One Cedi, maybe the trotro mate was so touched by the holy spirits that he decided to reduce it by 10p.”

“Don’t be silly – “ she retorted.

“Akua just collect the 90p.” my brother intervened.

“Ah ha. As a girl you should be as smart as your brother.” She teased.

“Are you trying to – “

“Akua! Just shut up.” My brother intervened before I could launch the beginning of the Third World War. I kept quiet and collected the lorry fare from the other passengers.

“Mate, I will alight at the MTN Office at Susanso.” One of the passengers shouted from the back of the car. My brother stopped in front of the MTN office and as I was opening the door it fell on my hands and I came crushing down with the door on me. Everything happened in a flash that the pain started like how fire starts – slowly till it reaches a wildfire. I looked at my hands and my hands were deeply cut. I saw blood dripping down and I looked up to the skies and screamed, “Oh my God my hands, my hands, my hands.”

I heard my mother’s laughter in my mind as if she was standing just next to me, “A hand that does not work must not eat.” I also heard a small voice rejoicing, “Now that your hands are hurt how are you going to eat?”  Oh my God, was I going to lose my hand? What was going to happening to me when my hands were completely rendered useless? What was going to be my use?

“Oh my God, this can’t be happening to me.”

I was screaming not because of the pain I felt but because of my hand. A hand that people said were useless. A hand that was the only thing I ever known in my life.

The passengers got down from the trotro and circled around me. One of them had a perfume in her bag, she took it and had the rest hold me, she sprayed it generously on my hand, I felt a severe pain moving through my body and I heard my mother’s voice again, “A hand that does not work must not eat.”

“Oh my God my hand, my hand, my hand……………my hand.” I screamed so loud I could feel God feeling sad for me.

Other cars stopped and they inquired what had happened. “Oh the gate fell on her hands.” Someone would take up the invitation and explain how the event all happened adding a little detail here and there. I was not in the mood to correct anything.

I knew the wound was going heal with time but what was the scar going to remind me of? A failed adventure of being something I was good at? Seeing the naked meat of my body I asked myself what was I labouring for? What was the difference between an animal and I? We all are same meat, as sweet as a food when spiced correctly. So why the constant suffering and the constant insults I received from everyone? Was an animal ever useless? Then why then everyone except my brother make me feel useless?

“Oh my God my hand, my hand, my hand…………….”

Why did everything in this world had to be about the hand? Is the face also as important than the hand? God used His hands to create life. Eve used hers to pluck the forbidden fruit from the tree to bring death. Jesus used his to perform miracles. What would I think of myself everything I see the scar? Would I become useless as everyone thought of me? Oh my hand, my hand, my hand. Is there anything as important as you?

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Different gods in a body

I am tired of stopping

The nods in me from fighting each other.

The god on my left nipple

Thinks of herself as beautiful.

The one on my right

Thinks life is all about

Looking at yourself in a mirror.

The one on my nose

Is too proud

He will not stop smelling at everything

Just to tell me  how smelly love is.

The one in my ear

Does not want to listen to anything called reason.

All these gods are fighting

For my heart

At the end of the day

They end up doing nothing.



#JYF

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Review of J. Y. Frimpong’s THE ARIANIST by Abeiku Arhin Tsiwah

The Arianist is a masterpiece of brilliant lyrical dexterity from a poet who consistently is in the outlook for an infusion of words and glittery imagery that suppresses the mind and holds it on ransom for unending satisfaction. With a total of nineteen (19) poems; 24 pages, The Arianist is the surest way to understand the artistry of how words that can be birthed out of love found in the wrong places – just as the poet stipulated in his dedication to the specific personalities that this masterwork is meant for. And of course, it is a collection of poems meant for every soul who requires refueling in the face of multiple sparks of love and dodged sentiments.



“Thirty Poems in a Night” is the best way possible to begin this collection. It is the very lens through which the entire collection reflects on how other poems would evolve. Bearing nostalgia, one can make the conclusion that the poet is deeply affected in somewhat way and manner, in which his perceived lover left him, thus, writing …

“I wrote for you

Thirty poems in a night

And threw the papers

Into the fire.

If you hadn’t left

I would have made our

Wedding dress

Out of those poems” – Thirty Poems in a Night 

It is quite obvious from the kind of tone and mood utilized by J. Y. Frimpong in expressing the effect that this breakup has had upon him. In using such touchy words, it seems very depressing consoling with him over this void created by his perceived lover.


Inasmuch as it is of much interest reading these well collected poems, the poems are so well connected that it looks as though it was the poet’s intention to let the poems follow one after another, which most often is a difficult thing to do. In “Her Eyes”, there is this exuding feeling that gently taps on the reader about how the poet generously leverages poetic expression or license to himself. Filled with heartfelt sentiments, the poem is a kind of a cult of human rot that ravages one’s ability to be humane. What is more depressing is the level with which ‘betrayal’ can be expressed. Such is the reality of life that humanity can’t avoid.

“You can bend yourself for people

And they will still think you did

Nothing for them” – Her Eyes 

In “Writing a Poem”, I realized, however, that the poet sounded more like Dante Alighieri, the legendary Italian poet. His conviction of what form and which audience his poem should address is more of a naturalistic feeling and of a spiritual adherence. In making reference to heaven purgatory and hell, it quickly reminds me of Dante’s Divine Comedy, specifically, Paradiso, Purgatorio and Inferno. But somehow, J. Y. Frimpong manages to use broad array of conceptual metaphors that broadens the horizon from it just relating to Dante’s works by drifting into ghostly and geographical calls which eventually concludes into the broad theme of this work, love.

“I ask whether I should write about the

universe

Or about God

Or about heaven

Purgatory

Or hell and how not to fall in love with it. – Writing a Poem 

What surprises upon reading each poem is the conscious attempt by the poet to restore the never unending and unfailing love of God into the bigger picture. How does it feel when one recites a poem to the wind? It is synonymous to saying a prayer to the wind which you do definitely know would carry it to the heavens, where God dwells. Indeed, one can conclude presumably that the “gardens” as used by the poet is the genesis of the one puritan garden of Eden, where the source of genuine love had its roots. In a broader context, however, we are assured by the poet’s reaffirmation of God’s unflinching love towards humanity in the poem, “Looking for God”. Much as the poet seeks after God, it is intriguing to note how the poet draws critical look at whom or what God could be with an extension of his metaphoric use of “everything”.

”I wrote seven poems for God

 I recited it to the wind

 When I got tired and slept

 I dreamt about gardens 

God is everything that

 Seeks the betterment of mankind.” – Looking for God 

Everyone who has keenly followed the works of J. Y. Frimpong would have noticed something strange about him – his insistent obsession with ghosts. Sometimes, I do wonder if he himself is a kind of ghost with robes of human flesh. But what could be so exciting about ghosts that a poet dedicates himself to their thinking and ideals? However, in this poem “The naming of a Ghost”, the poet becomes the ghost whose ceremony is not that of a departure but one of a breakup from a relationship – love. The saddest part is that mostly we do not realize the best gift of the people we have until they are no more in our cultist play net. Addressing them with flamboyant words do not add a muscle to the beautiful things of love we let go waste.

“What are you going to say

 At my naming ceremony

 Now that I am a ghost?

 Are you going to call me

 The ‘Tragic boy who felt love could move mountains?’

 Or 

‘The boy who loved more than love itself?’

 Or

 ‘The boy who walked on thorns for love?’ 

None of these names matter now” – The naming of a Ghost 

In all, J. Y. Frimpong, a Kumasi based Ghanaian’s ‘The Arianist’ is a magnum opus – a tour de force in the poetry enclave – with distinguishing appeal such that if care is not taken could not be referred to as a work by an African poet and a Ghanaian at large. The imagery adapted by the poet makes the poems flowery – charging on with beauteous expression that is suspense in nature and scholarly in output. This work, The Arianist, would go down into the Africa/World Literature archives as one of the most classical work ever written by any Ghanaian poet in the contemporary age.




Reviewer: Abeiku Arhin Tsiwah. Abeiku performs poetry with The Village Thinkers, Ghana and serves as the poetry editor for Lunaris Review, Nigeria. Tsiwah, an international award winning poet and author of Afro-conscious heritage writes from his fatherland – Cape Coast, Ghana.

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The Atopa Gyengyen Chaser (From #TheAtenist)

“Yes, thirty minutes one hour! Thirty minutes one hour! Thirty minutes one hour.” The first day I heard this ridiculous voice I was going to look for a friend. The road was a busy one and more often than not, you would meet a pastor who claims to be preaching but is actually begging. I had heard all sort of ridiculous preaching on that stretch of the road; most of them by the way are about how God loves a cheerful giver and about how the more you give the more you get rich. I think it was these sort of preaching that switched off my emotional plug. Who wouldn’t if that person was in my shoes? Every early morning, a pastor – a fair and handsome one – will mount loud speakers on the road and preach that same message like everyone else – God loves a cheerful giver. In the afternoon, another one will come, a darker and short pastor who has a coarser and irritating voice. The one who comes in the evening is older and a much experienced beggar. He knew all the right Bible quotations about money.

That day, “Thirty minutes one hour” sounded rather strange or rather new. I had never heard that voice before. “It must be a new pastor” I muttered under my breath and decided to pass by like as usual. This one sat on a motorbike and was hitting the bike with something; from afar I did not know what it was and I was not interested in it by the way. “They are all nothing but fraud.”

 As I got nearer it became apparent what it was – it was a phallus – and the “thirty minutes one hour” screaming all made sense. He was selling aphrodisiacs – wow, that sounded very new. After crossing the road, something told me to go back just to have a lot at his face. So I did. When I was passing, he caught my hands and whispered to me “Thirty minutes one hour.” I yanked my hand from his hands and walked to my friend’s house.

 It only made sense for him to sell “thirty minutes one hour” along that side of the road. The road had lots of uses– in the morning, it was the road on which people took to work, in the afternoon, it was a road on which most of the sumptuous foods were sold, in the evening it doubled as the road on which people passed to their homes or to go to a certain recreational facility nearby. At night, it was a road where prostitutes paraded looking for people to “use” them. I remember once, I was going to buy mobile phone credit when I saw this attractive lady, I winked at her and she followed me; I thought she needed help so I slowed my steps. She neared me and asked me “W)nya w) b3 di?” I looked at her strangely, wondering what the nonsense she meant by that. There and then, I saw her hands unzipping my trousers and she touching something in my boxers. I spring to life and fled away from the devil. Perhaps, the “thirty minutes, one hour” man was there because of people who could not resist the temptations of these prostitutes.

 I knocked on my friend’s door and he opened me. He behaved rather strange; he looked he was in a hurry to go somewhere or in a hurry to wait for someone. He was sweating more than necessary.

“Are you going somewhere or are you waiting for someone?” I asked.

“No. Yes I don’t know. I can’t tell.” He replied.

“Which is which?” I looked at him weirdly. I noticed he had a boner so I laughed and told him I was going home. But he told me to stay and help him with something.

 “Can I get a number of one of your girls?”

 “Errrrmmm, I don’t know what you mean by that.” I replied trying to reach the door.

“Please I need this help and I promise to give you Ghc500.00 right now?”

“As you are standing here, do you have Ghc500.00? You are always broke so please stop trying to fool me.” I laughed hysterically.

“You don’t understand it, I took an aphrodisiac and I need to vent my sexual diarrhoea on someone right now or else I am going to die.”

“Did you buy it from the man who shouting “thirty minutes, one hour?” I asked.

“Yes yes yes. That man. He convinced me to buy it and now I am doomed.” He sat down to weep on the floor.

“You know there are prostitutes near here right?”

 “Bro, please can you get one for me. I go give you money. I go settle you bro. My body barb me ruff.”

“You must be crazy right? Aren’t you afraid of AIDS or STDs. These girls are so condemn, why would you risk your life like that? You are one of the most intelligent guy I know and you allowed yourself to be deceived by a fraudster!” I screamed.

 He sat on the floor, holding his boxers and weeping. He took Ghc50.00 out of his pocket and gave it to me.

“Get me a lady, buy me a condom and keep the rest.” I wanted to slap him there but I don’t know what restrained me.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.” He took the money from me, wore a shirt and pulled me along.

“Are you sacking me?”

“Of course not, I want you to escort me.” He replied placing his hands on his shorts.

“Thirty minutes, one hour. Thirty minutes, one hour.” We heard the man chanting again. We passed by without even looking at his face.

 We saw one beautiful lady wearing a short dress. She looked like a prostitute so I told him to wink at her.

He didn’t waste time in winking at her. She neared him and said in a striking Nigerian accent, “Massa you go chop.”

 “Yes yes yes.” He replied desperately.

“You get condom or you wan am raw.” She winked at us.

“Condom. Can you buy some from the drugstore?” He flew the Ghc50.00 at her.

Her face beamed with excitement. I could guess that she thought she had found a desperately rich man.

She went to the pharmacy just in front of us and within seconds she was back.

“I think I have to go home so you two can enjoy.” I turned back to go but he caught me before I could go.

“Please stay. After the sex we can work on the project.”

 “Nonsense, we have a project to work on yet you went to take – “I stopped halfway. I didn’t want to say ‘thirty minutes, one hour’ least the prostitute gets scared and decide to rather wait for another customer. But they say a bird in hand is worth two in the bush right?

“Bro, make you no spoil my business for you. So you get project do so he should not chop? Abeg waka for road.”

 She pulled my friend and they went. I turned to go but my friend shouted out for me. The project was a good project and it was going to be financially beneficial – today was the deadline and if I should leave him alone, maybe we would lose out so I just followed him. I just pinched myself to endure all the nonsense. I would after insult him the next second after we had submitted the project.

When we got to his house, he pushed the gate madly as if he was a thief. I closed the door gently and went to sit on the veranda as he and the girl got inside. I took my phone to check if I had got any email – I got one email it was from the bank. I deleted it and checked facebook.”

“Oh bros please be gently small.” I heard the girl complaining. I laughed so hard that I dropped the phone. I picked the battery, fixed it back inside and put the power back on. Lucky for me, the screen had not cracked.

“Oh bros please take your money, I can’t do again.” She screamed again. I looked around wondering if the people in the surrounding houses had not heard it.

“I said I can’t take it.” She was literally crying.

 “Oh please just one minute, please just one minute, I will double your money.” He said in almost a whisper.

“I said take your money, I can’t.” I heard them struggling inside. I wanted to go inside but I didn’t want to see their nudity.

 The door knob began to open but it seems it was locked from inside so it wasn’t opening.

“Please, please, fifteen seconds, just fifteen seconds. I will give you Ghc300.00 I swear.” My friend pleaded.

“I said I can’t take it, I can’t.” The door was shaking. For some reason I thought it was going to break. I heard him thrusting her and she was crying.

 Suddenly the door opened and she run out of the house naked! I wasn’t given time to get surprised, my friend followed her and if I was to describe the thing in between his thigh in three words I would have said “FREAK OF NATION.” As the girl was running from a monster of something, I was running too. I don’t know what I was running from but I didn’t want to go through another ordeal of going to look for another prostitute for him again.

I took another route to my house in order to avoid seeing him. I had seen enough for a lifetime and I had done enough. I run and never looked back. The next day he called me and apologised. He told me that he had done the project alone and had sent it to the email of the evaluators. I just didn’t care if we got through the selection stage or not. Whenever I see him I remember the funny episode and laugh out. He later told that because of his ‘big problem’ he can’t keep a stable relationship.

So I asked him why then he bought ‘thirty minutes, one hour’ when he knew no one could stand him during sex. He will always shrug “I don’t know. You know those kind of things you really want to try not because you want to do it but because you just want to try.”

“Did you wear the condom?” I asked. “No I didn’t.” he replied.

“I think you should go and get tested for AIDS.” I suggested.

“I didn’t really really penetrate.” He smiled. I looked at him and breathed harder and harder. This friend of mine could not be serious. Was he?

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