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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Rotten (From #TheAtenist)

She was beautiful – even as a child I knew it was impossible not to see Nana Adwoa Serwaa and not be arrested by her charm. On her face, rose flowers blossomed, poetry failed to be pretty and prose became a ghost town. She was dark and a bit hairy for her age –at fourteen she had so much hair; her hair gyrated in the corridors of her buttocks as if they were making merry. She had an average height and had an ecstatic body figure like that of Venus. She was now developing breast and was very happy to flaunt it.

Living in one of the most notorious downtown communities in Kumasi, it was expected that you would go to one of those government schools. It was rude for your parents to send you to a private school – boys of my age felt it was a betrayal of some imagined code. Going to a private school, gave you some sort of elevation above all others and was enough to place you on a sort of black list; it was therefore not a surprise when people hated me and Nana Adwoa Serwaa. Her parents were rich and wanted a good education for her child, my parents too were averagely well better off and did not want me to be like those silly boys who went about swaggering, impregnating and disrespecting almost every adult just to prove that they were “guys”. It was very common for communities to fight against each other because each wanted to prove it was more notorious than the other. Going to private schools however cut you off joining the “war pantheons” for you were considered as weak and as someone who had abandoned the “boys” or “girls” code. Whenever a war was raging, we would sit on the veranda at the second floor and watch boys marching and shouting sexual obscenities. Whenever, they saw us, they would hurl insults at us and remind us of how we think we are better off than them. Knowing how boisterous they can be, we would simply look at them and not utter a word.


As it is well established, every great fall always begins with love. Nana Adwoa Serwaa fell in love with a boy who had come to experience the downtown Kumasi experience, he was from Accra and as it was to be expected from Accra boys who were in senior High school, he was to be rich even if he wasn’t. Of course, we heard of his arrival and of how handsome he was. By accident, Nana Adwoa Serwaa and I went to buy some biscuit and saw him. We knew it was him when we saw him, we heard he was fair, had a wavy hair, tall and had a bit of “out of Ghana” aura around him – he fitted the description perfectly. We pretended we had not seen him, of course, if he was from Accra we also attended private schools and hence there was no big deal. When we went home, Nana Adwoa praised him highly, to be honest, I had never heard her praise any boy highly like that not even boys in her school who were supposed to be elitist and middle class. Personally, I knew nothing of teenage love affair so I could have never guessed then she had fallen in love with him.

On the next day, I was coming from school when a certain boy who I knew by face stopped me and sought to have a conversation with me.

“Yoo fresh, are you now coming back from school?”
“Yes nigger, I am so tired. We close at four and by the time I get home, I am always tired.” I tried to sound gangster knowing very well I was failing in that attempt.
“Fresh, as for you and Nana Adwoa Serwaa you never want to come near ‘cool people’ like us. You always behave like you are super humans” he replied condescendingly.
“You know it’s not true, we don’t close early, we go to school on Saturdays too and you don’t believe we are gangster enough to be in your clique” I replied trying to rebuke the statement I knew was true beyond any shadow of thought.
“But nigger, can I have a deal with you?”
“But I barely know you?”
“Well it doesn’t matter” he smiled.
“Isn’t it in the clique code that you don’t fraternise with people like me?”
“That’s not so, we are intimidated by how elevated your parents have put you. Consider this, by the virtue of the school you go, you are extremely likely to go to one of those big schools; Prempeh College, Opoku Ware, Kumasi High School, T.I.AMASS or a host of good ones in school in Accra and Cape Coast. After your high school education, you are also likely to go to the university, graduate, ride a big Mercedes Benz and forget us entirely, the histories are there, I know you know Bra Asare – he’s now working in a big consortium, he’s built a house in Asokwa, an elitist area,
and now flies to London as if it is only a stone throw. But what do wilts like us have to offer? Sometimes, we behave ‘hard’ to show the world that we are happy but we aren’t. Sometimes, we go hungry and have to steal because our parents are too busy to notice us and even if they are less busy, they are fighting and these fights once they happen lead to divorce. These clique societies are escapist, no one wants to be there but we have no choice. We know how our lives will end – our dicks will lead us to impregnate a girl or two or sometimes five, we will be fathers at a young age and we will be forced into armed robbery in a quest to raise our children to be just like you but do you know what usually happen?” he looked into my face in a bid to read my facial gesture.

“Nigger, I don’t know ooo”
“There is happiness in ignorance, hmmmm, we will be caught up in the game, we will be sleeping with too many girls, drinking too many premium wines, smoking too many cigarettes and before we know what is happening to us, we have forgotten about our children leaving them to walk on the same road we walked and before we realise, we are either in prison or deep within the corridors of madness that we cannot get out.”

“But I always wanted to be like you. It is so fun in there and I am stuck in a virtual world of games and in the worlds of books I read”

He stopped and look deep into my face and I knew that he meant what he was going to say next “Never ever wish to be like me. I don’t even wish to be myself, I only pretend to be happy but deep inside I am not.”

There was a moment of silence and I did not know what to say to break it. I was very shocked at the declaration he made. I thought he was lying because if there is something these clique boys are noted for, it is lying and we all knew this.”

“Nigger, can you do me a favour?” he replied and I was more glad the silence had been broken because I was almost near home and I didn’t want to appear as someone who having a conversation with was difficult.

“Sure.”
“You know the new nigger from Accra? That fresh dude who girls have been running over?”
“Yes I do.”
“Well, the first time he saw your friend, Nana Adwoa Serwaa, he wilted, the second time he saw her, he almost turned into sand and if he sees him for a third time without speaking to him, he will ejaculate and die out of shame.”

“And what can I do about that?” I burst into laughter.
“He wants to meet her tonight just to speak to her. Can you arrange to have her meet us at the back of the Lebanese’s provision shop?”
“I can do that.”
“Nigger, I want you to do this for me, otherwise I am not going to get money to eat. I trust you don’t want me to starve?”
“Nigger, that’s a deal.”

We parted ways and I took the stairways to my room. Immediately, I opened the door, my mother informed me that Nana Adwoa Serwaa had come to request for me. I took off my school uniform, jumped into a knicker and a shirt and went to knock on her door.

She held my hands and we headed for the veranda on the second floor.

“I saw you talking with that dirty boy who lives in that yellow house”
“Oh yes. You remember the Accra boy we were talking about the last time?”
“What has he done?” she replied softly and I could see her facial expression changing from that of anger to that of excitement.
“That dirty boy you saw me walking with told me that the Accra boy wants to speak to you at six thirty this evening.”
“Tell me how exactly he put it?” she was so excited that she could literally jump down and die.
“He said and I quote ‘Well, the first time he saw your friend he wilted, the second time he saw her, he almost turned into sand and if he sees him for a third time without speaking to him, he will ejaculate and die out of shame.’

I think it was so ----“
“Let’s meet at the basement at six fifteen” she interjected and quickly run off to her room. I found her behaviour rather strange, I began to take fancy onto fancy, postulating theories into theories and I concluded that she may want to become friends with him.
I met her at the appointed time, she took me to her grandmother and asked her for money to buy an exercise book for school. Her grandmother looked at her shockingly and asked her if she hadn’t bought her a new set a week before, she lied about her needing another one because she had exhausted all of them yesterday. Her grandmother shock her head and gave her money to buy a new one. Since, she knew I was going to escort her, she didn’t have the slightest fear of being attacked or being called by any stupid area boy. She herself could not stand hearing her dating any of the
boys living around, she had personally groaned her for some white man or at worse, a rich Ghanaian politician.

“Be careful of those stupid boys who walk around with their shorts on their knees!” she remarked and we step out to do exactly what she had warned us not to do.

When we got to the rendezvous and we saw him standing by an electric pole, we neared him and he signaled me to wait behind. He and my friend went into the dark and they talked for a long time, I could see their shadow merging, I neared a bit and I saw him kissing and touching her body parts.

After what seemed like hours, they both came back happy and we went home. We passed by the Lebanese’s provision shop and bought the exercise book and went home.

From that time, we spoke less and didn’t see each other as often as we did before. I guessed she went to see her boyfriend. I was a bit bothered by the union so I sought friendship with the “dirty boy” but it appeared we were just not compatible. Later, he told me he had to choose between me and his friends and when I asked him why, he told me that such friendship often did not end well. I may move on in life while he will be rusting and feeling guilty every time he sees me; he put it like this “when I become a broken mirror, I don’t want you to look at your reflection through me just to see how illuminated you are. I never want it to happen”

A month later, Nana Adwoa Serwaa’s boyfriend went back to Accra and she asked me to escort them to the bus terminal. She cried the whole day and no matter the assurance given, she just wouldn’t stop crying but he left regardless and our friendship was never the same.

She sought comfort from other boys – she wanted to be loved, she wanted to be complete and my friendship was not enough to complete her. All what  she wanted was the sex her ex-boyfriend was giving her. She stopped being the girl I used to know.

Rumours started going around that Nana Adwoa Serwaa was a “cheap” girl.

One day, I was sitting in my favourite veranda when a girl came to fight with her. She warned her to stay away from her boyfriend or else she was going to kill her. The fact of the matter was that Nana Adwoa belonged nowhere – she had been brought up to be in a middle class so she couldn’t relate with the “area girls” and because of her behaviour and the kind of people she associated herself with now, the middle class people did not want to associate themselves with her. She was falling in an endless pit and not even my constant advice could remedy the situation.

A few days before she was to go to a very good senior high school, she got pregnant and that was her end. Her mother was disappointed and instead of helping her through the storm, she left her on the open road to fend for herself. In just a word, she became “rotten” – all the beauty she had was
never seen again. Every now and then, when I see her, I cannot believe that she was once the girl everyone thought was going to be a high class woman. She now lives with a beautiful baby girl all alone in her grandmother’s room quietly watching her beauty to rot.

 I just hope and pray the little girl doesn’t become a tragedy like her mother – beautiful girls in areas like this always end up becoming a dirty backdrop. What is more depressing about her story is that she belongs nowhere – she walks all alone in a vacuum. 

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Short Story: RAP (from #TheAtenist)

The first rap song I wrote was about alcohol, drugs and about love. My failed love forced me to be rapper, the first alcoholic drink I took made me want to be a good rapper and the first sex I had made me fall in love with the microphone. I became nothing but a microphone – all what I did was to put broken dreams together to make a song.  The first song I wrote went;

I sat in front of a half mirror

With a gun to my head

A bottle on my lips

And my hands strumming the edge of a knife

Like it was going to produce the music

That will make me not want to commit murder.

They say you live each day by breathing

In and out, in and out

Till you become one with the herbs

And not feel your face.

When my mother heard my first demo she broke down on the floor and wept “You want to be your father? You want to be a tragedy? Once you go on that road you are never coming back.” She cried and I stood by the door pretending to be hard guy but deep within I felt broken again. Music was what held the smithereens in my heart together and without it I was just pieces of broken glasses begging to be filled with water, with sand, with air or anything that will make it full. 

Everything in my house was about my father – the last time he left and never came back, he looked like vomit. My mother was sitting on the sofa and I asked her “Are you going to ‘eat’ that?” pointing to my father. She knew what I meant but she chose to pretend. In my house, we all pretended. We all pretended the sky was violet, the moon was black and we all pretended that God lived in hell ready to quench all the fires of hell and set heaven on fire.

The first time I tasted alcohol I was with friends. I was sad and one of them said to me “If you want to forget about all your troubles just have a sip.” How could I not be convinced by that? 

Everywhere I went I met trouble – home was trouble because father was always there making music with his friends. In my house we all pretended not to hear the music, the words, the violence and the constant promises of “I am going to be a celebrity, just one day I will have a hit song out there, I will go for shows, the money will come and everything will be alright.” My father produced a lot of music, some of them never left our room, others left our rooms and never came back and the others which returned came with series of insults plastered on its face like my battered mother. When I went on the street too, I saw kids making music and smoking weed – they said if you smoked weed, you would be a philosopher, you would be able to write deep lines and punchlines that will bring girls begging for sex and kisses. They also said that the weed also could make you fuck girls harder, they also said sex was the sweetest thing on Earth, the more you had it the more of a man you’d become. A man who has never had seen is still a boy. How could I not be convinced by that? 

Ever since I was born, I had found no meaning in life. In my house, we had a dictionary that sat on the room divider which we never touched. My big sister once told me that she used to hide herself to read the dictionary yet she found no meaning in life. The truth was that the dictionary in our house was a curse, father always used it when he wanted to find the meaning of words he sought to use in his music. He always told us that music was meant to educate the listener but he himself never gave us any proper education. He told his twelve children including the countless others he bore with other children “Go to that school near the market, that’s where all the neggars go. I pay taxes and the government uses my tax to buy luxury cars and use the penny left to pay the teachers. That is the only thing I get from the government.” 

Everyone’s favourite subject was ‘Doomed to fail.’ During that class, the teachers reminded us over and over again that we couldn’t never make it. My favourite teacher was called Madam Beautiful. She was not beautiful as her name was and her heart was much uglier. She constantly reminded us “If your parents wanted you to be great men and women in future they would have sent you that school down there.” We knew the school down there very well, that was where all the rich parents sent their kids – the girls wore nice skirts and nice heels – the boys wore nice trousers and nice sneakers which we constantly insulted but in secret envied. In that school there were no rappers. The only songs they sang were from a certain blue-black book – they called it a Hymn Book. You would hear them singing boring songs about Jesus who reigned where there is the sun and boring songs about Beloved let us love on another.

Talking about love, the first girlfriend I had was called Maleficent. Her name was too heavy for us to mention back then – there were a lot of variants of her name – some called her ‘Marefrencent’, others called her “Male-vincent”, she called herself “Maliceficent” she was full of malice so I also called her Maliceficent. She told us that her mother was watching TV in her master’s room (her mother was a cook) when she was pregnant and she heard the name, she made her master’s children write the name down for her. It took her eight years for her to learn how to pronounce her daughter’s name properly so she always advised her “Never trust anyone who cannot mention your name properly.” No one could mention her name properly anyway so she trusted no one. 

I met her when I was writing my second song – I was at the studio and I was like;

Press record

Press record

Them bitches don’t know we are rich

Them bitches don’t know we have a big dick

Them bitches don’t know we can fuck them all night

And all day and they will still be begging for more.

Those weak rich neggars down there

Can’t even fuck for three minutes

Their dicks be too small to fuck pussies

Press record

Press record.

She heard that song and she loved it. By the time I had finished recording that song, we had had sex for more than five times. She became my girlfriend by default. She said to me “If you can fuck me like this all day I will give it to you all night.” When other girls heard this song they all wanted me to fuck them. The more I fucked other girls the more I became convinced I had to be a rapper and a successful one at it. Maybe one day if I get a hit song out there I can be able to sleep with rich parent’s daughters. 

She knew I would leave her so she left me before I could leave her. I really loved her, if she had asked me to compress her breath into a river I would have made a sandstorm out of the heat in between her two breast as a bonus. The night she left, I was horny, I just wanted a bit of sex so that I would feel alright. She held my manhood and said “No, it’s too small, I am leaving for another man with a big dick.” I looked at her and cried “But you said it was big a week ago?” Then she replied “If you had learnt how to pronounce my name properly I would have shown you how and why your career was going nowhere.”

After she left, my love became like a door and the ladies who came – came with either a broken key or a sledgehammer. For instance, Aaliyah came with the key which didn’t fit the door in my heart, she tried to open my heart and could not. Thinking she was wise, she broke into a window near the door. Guess what? She fell into a dungeon and she was been there since. Once a while I hear her screaming “Let me go, let me go but I say to her, if I am not done having sex with you I will never let you go.” Mavis came with a right key but she trembled whilst opening the door – I only wonder the number of women she would have found in the hallways in my heart if she had opened it. Then was Kafui – she came with dwarfs and spirits – she chanted and chanted but the doors of my heart did not open – she got tired and left with her demons. 

The third rap song I wrote was an inspirational song, I felt if I could inspire myself, I could rap my way back to my mother who had stopped looking for me and my father. My father – I think I saw him once, he was so full of weed that he asked me “I think I know you. Aren’t you the fictional character Kweku Ananse from the famous Efua Sutherland’s The Marriage of Anansewaa?” I replied “Daddy, it is me, Samuel.” He replied back laughing “Ei so I have a son?” I got angry and left. So that the day I prayed that my mom will never find him. This was the reason why I wrote the song;

It is not every day

That you get a perfect owner

Sometimes they come with their storm

Other times, they come with their lights dying out

But with every master

You do nothing but tell him or her

That they remind you of

Forest where ghosts walk gleefully

In the pale moonlight.

After this song I smoked my life out. The next day I woke up in a prison. I said to the prison warden “That beard of yours is not yours. You stole it from my dead grandmother.”

IF YOU WANT A FREE COPY OF THE ATENIST, SEND ME AN EMAIL: jyfrimpong@outlook.com

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A Burning House

Sometimes,

You wish

You could go back to 

The burning house

And stop the gas

And stop yourself from lighting the fire.

Sometimes, 

You sleep

On your bed

And wonder how crying ghosts

Find peace in light and in love.

Sometimes, 

You wish

You could go back to the second

When the cup got broken

So you can lie on the ground

And rather watch the house fall on you.

How do girls who get their hearts broken

Find a way to love again? 

They say nature is good at surprising us

With unforeseen circumstances

But how do we live when

There are so many strings

Trying to pull us down?

In all these moments

I go back to the burning house

And instead of running

I watch myself burn in flames.

The Atenist is dedicated to

Those who are still struggling

To find peace in areas 

Where peace is like a drop of water

Struggling to quench a burning house.

The Atenist is for

Those who are broken from within.

J.Y. Frimpong

The Atenist

A burning House

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