LEAVE YOUR HUMANITY AT HOME

Picture Courtesy: www.reachingwithinfawn.blogspot.com


In the midst of hundreds,
There I was,
Human traffic
Ebbed and flowed.


He headed straight for me,
Neglected the one to my left
And the other to my right,
But I walked right past him as though blind.


I had no idea what he wanted from me,
Neither was I interested,
You might think me rude
For I just kept walking,
Couldn’t spare a moment to listen,
If only you knew what I know.


Out in the Central Business District of Accra,
If any stranger dares approach you,
Whether smartly dressed,
Or terribly dressed,
Act as though he or she were a disease.


Hurry up,
Double step,
Before you fall prey to a miscreant
Pickpocket or one much worse.


As long as you’re wearing a smile,
A shirt and shoes,
Probably with earpieces in your ear,
And you happen to be walking in town,
Remember this much,
All they see is a walking ATM,
So whenever leaving home for town,
Kindly leave your humanity at home,
You might end up very sorry if you
Happen to do the opposite.

OLDER BUT NOT OVER

Picture Courtesy: www.gawker.com


Days go by,
Months come and go,
We count the years,
We grow older.


Back when he was 18,
He could do the moonwalk,
Nonstop,
For a good 500 yards,
Barely breaking sweat,
He could probably run a marathon
There and then if he wanted to,
All could make out his six pack
Underneath the jersey he wore,
A bastion of health,
A fountain of youth.


Back when she was 18,
Walking on the sidewalk,
All would stop and stare,
It was as though she had been
Poured into the clothes she wore,
Every inch perfect,
Firm bosom,
Forget the pushup bra,
Flat tummy,
Curves perfectly positioned,
Hips swaying from side to side,
Rise and fall,
Wave after wave,
Lulls you to sleep,
In perfect harmony and unison with the wind.
Almost as though she were a painting on a canvas.


Today,
He’s 70,
Can barely walk let alone dream of a sprint,
Sporting a one pack,
None would believe he ever had a six,
She’s sixty five,
Clothes hang loosely by her sides,
Barely elicits a stare,
As though she never was sweet sixteen,
Only time you stare’s when she trips and falls,
Old age,
It sure does come with the job.


Forever young,
How wrong,
No,
Far from wrong,
It is wrong,
That you think forever young
Wrong,
We are what we eat,
We do as we think,
We probably might fail do the moonwalk
Nonstop for a whole mile,
But what stops us from it for doing half a mile?
You can still elicit stares
While dressed decently even at sixty five,
That is true beauty,
It never ages.


All who are born,
Grow old,
But you can still be pretty at eighty
And do pushups at age seventy-five,
It’s all up to you,
Yes,
You may be older,
But it’s never over,
Not even by a long shot,
Stop,
Don’t pull over,
Show’s far from over,
Older but not over.

OUR TICKS

Picture Courtesy: www.computertrainingpattaya.com


There I stood,
Before an entire class,
I was almost fifteen back then,
All nerves,
Yet I stared the class down
As though I was about to charge at them,
Like a bull,
Looking all confident,
Only if they had known how nervous I was,
In my head,
All I kept saying was,
Oh boy, oh boy.
It got me through that uncomfortable day
In Agricultural science class,
It helped me tick.


One day,
I had to speak before an audience,
For some reason,
All I had prepared seem not to make sense to me,
I was so nervous I could feel my legs quiver,
When I mounted the stage,
I performed a trick,
All I did was fix my gaze at the top of the heads
Of all who sat in the audience,
In doing so I saw them as small,
I towered over them on that stage,
From that point onwards,
I was on a roll,
When I finally made eye contact with them,
I was on fire,
If I had jumped off a cliff that very moment,
I would have taken flight,
In making everyone else seem small,
I ticked,
Never froze.


In truth,
We all have our ticks,
Some bite on their fingernails,
Other hold a pen even when there’s no need for it,
Some pull on their noses as though nursing a cold,
Our ticks are a part of us,
Over time they change,
We fine-tune them unconsciously,
They serve us well,
Some may seem odder than others,
Others better disguised than others
But make no mistake about it,
We all have our ticks,
So unless you are a time bomb,
Please tick,
Feel comfortable in your own shoes,
Be yourself,
Let the world embrace you with all your odd ticks,
Should you lose your ticks,
You’d become nothing more than a mass of meat
Roaming the face of the earth on two feet,
So please,
Just tick,
It makes you special and pretty unique.

DREAMING OF YESTERDAY TODAY

Picture Courtesy: www.crossdaily.com


Wielding clubs,
Batons and all that they could find,
They stormed the castle,
In the broad of day,
Clad in red,
Chanting war songs.


Enough
Was enough,
They had to go,
Calling them oppressors and tyrants,
Probably rightly so.


Their so-called oppressors
Sure did leave,
Not even bothering to put up a fight,
They bid them farewell,
They went away.


Amidst shouts of joy,
They drank to their fill
Happy and gay,
Freedom had finally come their way,
Throughout the night,
Till the morning that came,
They exuded unimaginable joy.


The next day,
They threw out all reminders of
Their masters of yesterday,
Gathered them all in a heap,
Set them ablaze,
One after the other they gazed upon the flames
Looking on as smoke rose to the heavens above,
In catharsis,
They found warmth in a new day,
Dreaming of a better tomorrow that very day.


They installed their very own on the throne,
Painted the castle walls in colours of their own,
Thinking they had wrestled destiny,
From within the very jaws of tyranny,
Thoughts firmly set on tomorrow’s day,
Surely,
Tomorrow looks much better today.


They barely noticed the days pass away,
Drunk on dreams of a better tomorrow
Yet to become today,
Till one morning,
When they realized their pants no longer fit,
They slowly slipped past their waistlines
Like willful four and five year olds,
Shirts hang loosely by their sides,
Like Hula-Hoops twirling,
Around rhythmically swaying hips.


They rushed to the barns,
Only to find them empty,
They had been empty all along,
They had been running on empty all along,
In a fit of rage,
They rushed to the castle gates,
Only to find them locked and bolted both ways,
They beat those gates,
Like those talking drums,
As though festivities were days away,
But not even a soul bothered take a peek from
Behind those massive gates.


In desperation they cried out to their king,
And like any other king,
He did appear on a balcony above,
In a cape with an “S” on his chest,
Drumstick and wine in both hands,
He bidst them wait,
Saying he had called for rain,
Asked them leave for tomorrow
Would be a better day,
Apparently,
They had rudely interrupted his favourite
Soap opera Acapulco Bay.


Till this very day,
They seem stuck in today,
Tomorrow never seems to walk their way,
If only they could have tomorrow for just a day,
Surely they would find that a better day,
So much for driving the tyrants and oppressors away,
Never did they imagine,
Their very own would be their tyrants today.


They’d give anything to bring back
The so-called tyrants of yesterday,
In their time,
At least food and drink sure did come this way,
Today,
Their glasses sit empty,
They’d give anything to have them at least half full.


They tend the fields to little avail,
The little that grows,
They send to the castle gates,
Surely the king must have his fill,
Little remains to go round after that,
If only they could go back to yesterday,
Never in their wildest dreams had they
Imagined this today.


How sad,
They dream of yesterday today,
Goodness knows the dreams they dare
Have of tomorrow today,
What they called tyranny yesterday
They dream of having today,
So much for a better today,
They’d give anything today,
If only they could have yesterday today.

SEVERAL HUNDREDS OF YEARS AGO

Picture Courtesy: www.americainchains2009.wordpress.com


Several hundreds of years ago,
If I managed tether you to a tree,
I would then go on to trade you for
Cowries,
Pans or
A bottle of schnapp.


Several hundreds of years ago,
Men in groups,
They would raid villages,
Taking away with them,
Those they managed capture
As slaves.


Several hundreds of years ago,
Huge ships came ashore,
With them came strange looking men,
In search of other men,
To do their washing,
Cleaning,
Farming
And any other menial chores that came to mind,
We were more than happy to oblige.


Several hundreds of years ago,
A master’s chattel,
His slaves,
A measure of his wealth,
Slaves,
A commodity far precious,
Than salt and other mercantile goods.


Today,
The slave trade’s been long abolished,
The very act of slavery,
Frowned upon and declared abomination,
Yet,
Several hundreds of years ago,
The world endorsed the slave trade,
Several hundreds of years ago
Human beings traded off other human beings,
For as little as gunpowder and muskets.


So I ask today,
Where was our sense of right and wrong back then?
What really makes things right or wrong
In a human society?
Does society require an act be wrong only if fewer
People engage in it?
Does society endorse acts based solely on the
Numbers engaged in it?
Several hundreds of years of years ago,
Only heaven knows,
I just might have exchanged you for a glass of water.

HELLO!!!! IS ANYBODY THERE!!!!!

Desperate: People queue for water on the streets of Port-au-Prince, Haiti
Picture Courtesy: www.dailymail.co.uk


Cholera is now endemic,
Everyone’s catching it,
It’s like back in the 1970’s
When the world caught disco fever,
On every street corner,
Colourful wigs
Tights,
Dresses with sequins
And pumps were common.
Down here,
Ours is cholera,
But the last time I checked,
Cholera had a cure,
So why should we be dying of it?
It’s been 10 months now,
Everyday we shout out,
From dusk till dawn,
Calling out,
Hello!!!!!!
Is anybody there!!!!
All we hear in response,
Our own voices echoing back to us,
Is there anybody there!!!


Food has become a luxury,
It is no longer a basic necessity,
The children no longer play in the streets,
They are too hungry to try,
Best to reserve the little energy they have,
Three square meals seems like utopia here,
Can’t remember when I last had three meals in a day,
Last time I ate twice was when
An aid worker spilled a ladle of rice,
After I was done with mine,
I helped myself to the rice that lay on the bare floor,
That was the day I ate twice,
That was the first time in 10 months
I had eaten twice,
Hello!!!!!
Is anybody there!!!
Can you hear me?
I probably must be dialing a wrong number.


Potable water is a stuff of dreams,
That which runs through the gutters,
Pools in depressions
And runs through channels are hard to come by,
One cannot afford to be thirsty,
We no longer drink water because we’re thirsty,
We drink at specific times of the day,
That is if we come across something to drink,
We can no longer afford to shed tears,
After all,
That’s water going to waste,
So when we absolutely must cry,
This is how we choose to do it,
Cup your hands underneath your eyes,
Collect your tears in there,
And gulp it down
Like you do with a glass of water,
It’s been 10 months now,
We keep calling out,
Hello!!!!!
Is anybody there!!!


Children walk about,
On legs the size of broomsticks,
Ribs waiting to burst out
Into the sunlight from their sides,
Malnourished
And looking very sickly,
The elderly look no better either,
Anorexic ,
You might think we are,
If only you knew of our hunger pangs,
Nights spent in tents and open spaces,
Packed together like boxes in shipping containers,
The stench from sewage and decaying rubbish,
Has made us all loose our sense of smell,
How else can you live here?
If you have your sense of smell,
You’d most definitely die for no apparent reason,
Somebody tell me how fresh air smells like,
I haven’t the slightest of it now,
A total blur is fresh air,
It’s been 10 months now,
Hello!!!
Is anybody there!!!


I wish I could paint you a better picture,
A picture of a happier place,
One with children playing in the streets,
Schools open with classrooms teaming with kids,
Mothers and fathers raising families under roofs,
Without air-conditioning or ceiling fans,
But at least a semblance of dignity,
An abundance of food
With everyone having at least enough to eat,
Over two hundred have died from cholera in about a month,
If hybrid cars are no longer figments of our imagination,
Why should we be dying of cholera in the year 2010?
We have eyes,
Yet we cannot afford to cry,
Even that, has become too expensive,
Water sure will go waste should we choose to cry.
The children no longer laugh anymore,
They just might have forgotten how to play anymore,
Childhood has lost all meaning in these parts,
Sullen has become our clear skies,
With the aged praying they do not wake come tomorrow,
Even death seems a better option now,
Bleak has been our past months,
Dire has become our todays,
For tomorrow,
All we do is hope and pray,
Hello!!!
Is anybody there!!!


I do not wish to make you sad,
Neither is it my intention to make you cry,
But I felt this much I should share,
I walked the streets of Haiti last night,
And this is what I saw,
Where did all the humans go?
What happened to our shared humanity?
Someone please remind me,
I no longer know what it means to be human anymore,
The world needs to be human once more,
Hello!!!
Is anybody there!!!

OUT ON THE LEDGE

Picture Courtesy: www.public-domain-image.com


As if walking blind
Or feeling our way around
When it is pitch dark where we stand,
We all live our lives
Out on the ledge.


Like trapeze acrobats,
It takes very little,
For us to come hurtling down,
At least the acrobats have safety harnesses,
We only have our conscience,
Our only companion out on the ledge.


As we walk the tightrope of life,
We fail realise the simplest of things,
Come tomorrow,
We just might be in freefall
Or hanging on tight for dear life,
That is life out on the ledge.


Success and failure,
Sanity and insanity,
Sadness and happiness,
Lines between the above opposites,
Are so grey
So thinly veiled,
Boundaries so undefined,
We’re more often than not,
Left asking one question,
How best does one live life out on the ledge?
It takes surprisingly little to push us over the edge.

A WALK TO REMEMBER

Picture Courtesy: www.ukhumanrightsblog.com


The market chatted noisily,
Only goodness knows whom with,
Tooting horns,
Over a hundred cell phones
Ringing all at once,
Hawkers calling out to passers-by,
Quarrelsome vehicle engines
In screams at the top of their lungs,
Chirping birds and
People engaged in conversation,
All made for a huge helping of
An incessant cacophony.


Yet I could hear your measured steps
Behind mine,
As you tread gently on the cobblestones,
You had a pained look on your face,
For you were being scorched by the sun,
I fared a bit better than you,
For my attire was coloured white
While yours was black.
The stench emanating from the choked drains,
And slowly decaying heaps of rubbish
Standing at attention along the pavements
And saluting passers-by,
Made an unbearable situation
The much worse,
Yet not even once did you complain,
You are always there,
I am never alone.


Two weeks ago,
As we walked through the pouring rain,
I noticed you were in no hurry
And so I followed suit,
For your sake, I did tarry,
The rain drops felt soft
And left a tingling sensation as they rolled
Down my skin,
When I turned to look at you,
You barely noticed
For you were busy staring up at the clouds,
Probably you were saying a prayer,
Probably you were calling for more rain,
You cared less about your attire,
Neither did you care about getting your hair wet,
You looked so peaceful in the rain,
You were happy in the pouring rain,
You never leave my side,
You never have to this very day,
Rain or shine,
You’re always there.


Come day’s end,
As I lay down to sleep,
You do same,
By my side in your pajamas,
With bunny slippers waiting on
You at the foot of the bed,
Even when I wake in the middle,
Of the night to go pee,
You tag along,
I guess you enjoy being around me,
You have never left my side,
You are always there,
Every step I take,
Is a walk to remember,
For you’re always in toe,
Bringing me cheer,
Though you hardly say much,
Just seeing you there whenever
I look over my shoulders,
Tells me how much you care.


When morning comes,
The cock shall crow,
It is then that I shall rise,
And you with me,
Two perfectly in sync,
Like clocks and time,
There’s never one without the other,
One means none,
There’s none without the other,
You are more than a friend
But you’re not my brother,
Neither are you my sister,
Companions for life,
We came into this world together,
You are my shadow,
A walk with you is always one to remember,
Here’s to you,
My shadow.

I SHALL

Picture Courtesy: www. yorku.ca


I shall scale all my hurdles,
With the wind in my sails,
And if a hurdle happens fall,
I shall place that hurdle back up right,
I shall go back from whence I came,
And re-scale that hurdle over and over again,
Till I leave it standing upright,
Bathing behind me in the dust my feet throw up.


I shall not toot my horns,
I’m no good at puffing out my cheeks,
They always hurt each time I try,
Those horns shall toot themselves for me,
Till they begin gasp for air,
Wheezing as though having an asthma attack.


I shall stand atop all mountains in my way,
Looking ahead to others far out in the distance,
Yet sit as though I never heard of a high horse.


When in public,
I shall sit in the back row
As though quarreling with the high table that beckons,
I’ve always found them a tad too high anyway.


I shall sit in plain view
Conspicuous in the market place,
Not underneath an umbrella
But rather the mango tree,
I shall pluck those mangoes,
As though I were three,
Throwing stones at them as though we were at war.


I shall eat waakye neither from take-away packs
Nor plates,
But rather out of the broad
Green leaves shaped like the ears of an
Elephant like I used to when I was eight,
Those leaves sure make waakye taste great.


I shall walk barefoot in the grass,
Run after butterflies as though I were six,
Marvel at caterpillars as though I never met them before,
And wish a million times over and over again
For the ability to change colour like the chameleon,
Please do not ask why,
It is something I’ve wished for quite a while.


On those slow days,
When I’m all by myself,
I shall intentionally tie my shoelaces all wrong,
Taking pictures of them,
Just so I can laugh at them then and tomorrow,
As though I just saw something new.


I shall live like a leaf,
Naked,
Whispering to the birds and the wind,
Without the least hint of worry or care
In this world,
I shall neither be shackled nor cumbered by a load..


I shall be a tree in a forest reserve,
Surrounded by so much green,
I will be evergreen,
Even when I have long said
Goodbye to age sixteen.


I shall do all these and more,
For life neither knows a big man
Nor one who’s small,
The grim reaper does come for us all,
Whether big or small,
So as often as you can,
Make silly faces in the mirror,
And run after one another as though still two,
Just let out the child in you once in a while,
That’s the secret to living free
Even in the most trying of times,
Try it,
It will make you brand new.

LETTER TO A THREE YEAR OLD BOY

Picture Courtesy: www. aperfectworld.org


We met over twenty years ago,
Back when disco was in vogue
And it was a fever all the grown folk
Seemed to have caught somehow.
You had a fro,
Your curly hair,
Was black like that of a raven.


All you did was play in the sand,
Run after butterflies
Eat from dusk till dawn
And sleep whenever you wished.
It was all pretty routine for you back then,
Eat
Sleep and
Play all day long.

You do not quite remember me,
Do not pretend you do,
But I remember you very well,
I always watched you from afar,
If you had bothered look past the fence
And into the leaves of the mango tree,
You just might have seen me there,
Then again,
I just might have taken to my heels,
Had you ever done that.


I remember so many things about you,
You threw tantrums,
Never did as you were told,
Half the time,
You were either in trouble or fast asleep,
Never a dull moment with you around.


Of all the things you did back then,
I remember one vividly
Till this very day.
It was a sunny Monday morning,
You had your hair was combed neatly,
Shirt over a pair of black trousers
And your shoes were neatly laced and shiny.


I sat up there,
Wondering where you were off to,
Daddy and mummy sat in front,
You chose to sit behind,
For reasons best known to you
And they let you be,
For you threatened them with a tantrum,
Your mum buckled you in
And the car sped off,
I just followed like a cloud above.


After a long while,
Daddy brought the car to a stop
In front of a compound with swings,
Seesaws, a playing field
And a lot of buildings.
Mummy stepped out and took you along,
Daddy then left for work.

Your mum took your hand,
You both entered the compound,
She led you to a building,
It turned out to be an office of some sort,
There were three women seated behind a table,
Mummy exchanged pleasantries with them
And placed you in a seat positioned almost centrally,
Before them,
She then sat a bit further away from you,
You looked nervous
Kept looking in her direction
And begun rubbing your shoes against each other.
She kept signaling you to look at the three
Strangers seated behind the table.


When you eventually did,
They asked your name,
With all confidence,
You said,
Mr. Philip Ofori – Anom,
They all broke into laughter at that point,
Even mummy did,
They would have preferred you
Used the word master instead of mister,
After all,
You were only three years old back then.

Till this very day,
I’m yet to call myself anything other than,
Mr. Philip Ofori – Anom,
The very name you gave to those
Strangers you met in that room twenty years ago,
It was actually your interview for admission into school,
You aced it,
I’m sure you know that by now.


You came to mind today,
I just realized this much,
Over twenty years ago,
When you chose the word mister over master,
I’m yet to change mister to something else
I still go by mister today.
For that particular reason,
I write you this letter today,
I do know I have to change mister to something else,
For twenty years ago,
That was you,
I’m still on my way to doing that.


However,
I’ve left a lot of you behind,
I no longer pick my nose,
I’m less trouble now,
No more biting my finger nails,
I no longer wear a fro
And my hair’s slowly turning grey,
I’ve come a long way from when I was you.


I’ve done so many things,
Most of which I know you will be proud,
And quite a few you’d probably be
Wishing you had done back then,
I’m still on my way in this journey of ours,
You begun it so beautifully,
And I promise to end it spectacularly,
Such that you will applaud.


I won’t be mediocre,
Neither will I be supernova,
I’ll grace the stage for decades to come,
For in your time you shone like the sun,
Here’s my time,
I’ll be the moon and the sun,
24/7,
I’ll shine non-stop,
So please be patient,
I bidst you wait,
For the best of me is yet to come,
I’m not even half where I plan to be,
Go wait for me atop the mountain peak,
For there that is where I’ll take my rest,
There we’ll both sit,
Roasting marshmallows over the fire,
Throwing stones into the valley below,
And telling tales of our past,
Here’s my letter to you,
You were the three year old version of me,
Over twenty years ago.

MEN DO NOT CRY

Picture Courtesy: www.feedthechildren.org


Growing up,
Daddy told me this much,
Men do not cry son,
That’s not what men do,
They’re tough and strong,
He neglected add,
Men are human too
And crying is human too.
I happily subscribed to that doctrine
Till one fine morning,
When I happened to stroll rather foolishly on the
Wrong side of my class two teacher,
And she gladly straightened me out.


I was busy making a nuisance of myself
At the back of the class while she taught.
As she looked down her horn-rimmed glasses
In my direction,
I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand,
I tried averting her gaze,
But it was as though a vice held my head in place,
She called me to the front of the class,
Had me hunched over a desk,
And flogged the talkative out of me,
Though in pain from all that flogging,
There was a far more painful experience for me,
Daddy had told me this,
Men do not cry,
Yet there I was,
My willful eyes,
Threatening the age old doctrine of
Men do not cry with a sword,
While I looked on helpless,
It was as though my eyes had declared independence.


The walk from the front of the class
To my seat at the back proved the
Longest I have ever taken on my
Own two feet to this very day,
Walking rather gingerly,
I managed fight tears till I made it to my seat,
My only reason being,
The girl I fancied in the class,
Sat somewhere in the middle row,
In pigtails with rosy cheeks,
What message could I possibly send her
By crying in front of the entire class?


The very second my bum touched my seat,
I placed my head on the table as though in prayer,
I believe you all do know,
It’s pretty needless to say,
But I’ll say it anyway,
I cried my eyes out to the sound of
The voice of my class teacher teaching arithmetic,
Men did cry after all,
Though in a somewhat discrete manner.

TRUE MASTERPIECES OF NATURE

Picture Courtesy: www.brera.mi.astro.it


When I wore purple shoes last Friday,
I felt good about myself,
Sadly enough,
This feeling lasted the distance
Of my doorstep at home,
To the parking lot of my workplace,
No further than that.


I had barely made it to the entrance
When Kofi run towards me from the
Waakye seller’s selling area,
Wearing a look quite quizzical,
I thought his meal did not quite agree with him,
But before I could enquire,
The reason for his somewhat disapproving look,
He blurted out,
You look absolutely hideous in those shoes of yours.


I stood rooted to the spot,
No different from a totem pole,
Before you even begin think it,
I feel I should tell you this much,
I did not well up in tears.
I just stood there,
Staring,
At my shoes
As if expecting them to suddenly change colour,
Or at the very least,
Say something in our defense.
Those words of Kofi’s,
Hit me like a punch,
I felt naked,
Unclothed,
Clothed in nakedness.


But i I recovered just in time,
Lifted up my head,
And told a tale
About trying to imitate a character I had seen in a movie,
In celebration of his gusto, bravado,
And the air of importance he exuded,
I had adopted his trademark purple shoes for that day.
Kofi said nothing more of my shoes after that.
Wide-eyed stares and questions from other colleagues,
Throughout the day,
Buttressed Kofi’s stance that morning.
I did look hideous in purple shoes after all,
That notwithstanding,
I admired their eccentricity.


Don’t get me wrong,
Nothing could burst my bubble that day,
I just assumed an air of importance,
Intentionally drew attention to my shoes,
Whenever I felt a stare or glare,
Just to deflect unnecessary questions
And uncomfortable conversation,
I only stopped short of clicking my heels,
That probably would have been a wee bit over the top.


At the close of work,
As I walked to the lorry station,
I was all smiles,
As uncouth and curious minds
Alike gawked at my purple feet,
I could not be bothered,
After all,
Could you blame them?
How often does one come across a gentleman
In purple shoes?


Then,
Out of nowhere,
A lady appeared beside me,
In red shoes,
Match made in heaven,
That’s purple and red.
She said,
I absolutely adore your shoes,
I love the colour purple,
I smiled back at her,
Held her hand,
Looked into her big black eyes,
And said,
I wore them especially for you,
She giggled.
Courtesy my purple feet,
We had dinner last Saturday,
Sadly,
My purple shoes were not in attendance,
They were feeling a bit under the weather.


In truth,
I did look absolutely hideous in purple shoes,
I already knew that,
I did not need another to tell me this.
Probably Kofi could have been a bit more subtle
And less brutish in attacking my shoes that day,
But he was neither subtle nor less brutish,
He chose to be frank instead,
And that endeared him to me the more,
For such friends are hard to come by these days,
They pull no punches,
No holds barred,
It is bare knuckles.


Friends of Kofi’s kind are,
Like kenkey with kpakpo shito and fried fish,
Under Akwele’s shed on those hot afternoons,
Always leaves you bathed in sweat,
Yet one keeps asking for more
In between glasses of ice-cold water,
I call such friends,
The what you see is what you get kind,
They are like a brawl at interco,
Leaves you in cuts and bruises,
Yet you are unperturbed for you happened to
Make a new female friend that day,
Who cares if your lower lip is swollen?
It was more than worth it.
Such friends are the one-in-a-millions,
The rare finds,
They are true masterpieces of nature,
Like original paintings,
They put all the fakes hanging around to shame.

PURPLE THREADS AND BUTTONS

Picture Courtesy: www.istockphoto.com


As though it were a shirt,
All want to be part of
The fabric in its makeup,
So they can fit in.


Nothing special,
Commonplace,
Mundane,
That’s fitting in,


Like threads in a fabric,
Difficult to tell one from the other,
Indistinguishable,
Far from remarkable,
They’re all the same.


I choose to be the buttons on that shirt,
Like a purple thread running
Down the middle of a piece of white cloth,
So bright and graceful,
Remarkably different,
It makes all else appear more beautiful.


Why then should you expect me,
Make myself like the many,
Tow a common line,
Or walk a path already traversed by many,
If I ever did that,
How then can I remain a button?
How then do I remain a purple thread?

AS THOUGH HEAVEN OWED HIM A FAVOUR

Picture Courtesy: www.dreamstime.com


Face forlorn,
Furrowed brows,
Hunched shoulders,
His lips could not even imitate a smile.


Under that tree
In a heap,
Briefcase by his side,
Necktie dancing in the wind,
There sat a beaten man.


I never really knew him that well,
All we ever said to each other was hi,
Yet it saddened me to see him there,
Hands up in desperation,
Arms openly embracing defeat.


Wearing a resigned look,
He kept looking up into the clear blue skies,
Waiting,
As if for a sign of some sort,
It was evident,
He had given up.


He never struck me as one
Inclined to giving up,
Yet there he sat,
Under a tree with the birds,
Waiting,
As though heaven owed him a favour.

RELEVANCE

Picture Courtesy: www.seodesignsolutions.com


Amount to something,
Stand for something,
An Embodiment,
Representation,
To become Important,
Having significance,
Worthy of note.


Power,
Aspiration,
Knowledge,
Wealth,
Fame,
Prestige,
In the end,
All we seek is relevance.

WITHIN THE MARGIN OF ERROR

Picture Courtesy: www.blogs.cbn.com


When it is dark,
I can see the sun,
Think me wrong?
Just look within the margin of error.


Lines so straight look crooked,
Lines so crooked look straight,
It’s all within the margin of error.


Gnawing at fingernails,
Underneath clouds foreboding terror,
That’s life in the margin of error.


Drunk on adrenaline,
High on frenetic fervor,
Only when within the margin of error.


I can argue red as green,
You can choose call me off colour,
But it’s all within the margin of error.


In turning left,
I can argue doing so to the right instead,
For I probably speak of your right,
Not my right,
It all depends on where you stand,
Am I not within the margin of error?


The no man’s land,
Where all are neither upright nor transgressors,
Only in the margin of error.


There are no certainties in life,
Grey is the only certainty in life,
Everything else is within the margin of error.

DREAM

Picture Courtesy: www.graphicshunt.com


Awake
Or
Asleep
Why
Should
We
Not
Dream?


Sometimes
Disturbing
Sometimes
Pleasing,
That
Is
Dreaming.


In
Dreams
We
Walk
The
Streets
Of
Tomorrows
Nearby,
Tomorrows
Far
Out
And
Tomorrows
We
Left
Behind
In
Yesterday.


Dreams
Give
Us
The
Power
To
Influence
Tomorrow
When
It
Becomes
Today.


Dreams
Give
Us
Snapshots
Of
Yesterday,
Helping
Us
Better
Understand
Our
Todays.


Dreams
Do
Not
Die,
We
Die
When
We
Lose
Belief
In
Them.


Dreams
Never
Give
Up
On
Us,
We
Give
On
Up
Them.


Dreams
Wait
On
Us,
No
Matter
How
Silly
You
May
Think
That
Sounds.


You
Could
Live
To
Be
A
Thousand
Yet
Until
You
Dream,
You
Would
Have
Lived
A
Thousand
Years
Dying.


Whenever
We
Dream,
We
Transcend
The
Flesh
Embracing
A
Consciousness
Far
Removed
From
This
Earth.


So
Let
Yourself
Go,
Awake
Or
Asleep,
Harness
A
Dream,
Ride
It
Like
A
Trusted
Stead
For
We
Can
Only
Live
When
We
Dream,
This
Life
Is
A
Stuff
Of
Dreams.

WHY THE PAUSE

Picture Courtesy: www.hubpages.com


I paused,
To catch my breath,
Not because I was tired,
Neither was I short of breath,
But rather
So I could gaze upon the big picture,
In whose eyes I could find perspective.


Oh yes,
I gazed upon those eyes,
And I did find perspective,
It shook the very ground on which I stood,
Left me staring in disbelief,
I was amazed,
So taken aback,
My lower jaw tumbled to the floor.


The birds hidden among the eaves and rafters,
Could no longer hide,
For they could not believe what they just saw,
In droves they flocked out,
Accompanied by choruses of laughter,
In laughter,
They forgot they could fly,
Instead,
They rolled up and down the concrete walls
And marble floor,
After which they asked me for cups of water,
For their throats had become sore,
From all that laughter.
When they had drunk their fill,
They then asked for a brush to
Straighten out their feathers,
For they had become rumpled.


In those crazy moments,
With birds rolling on floors and walls
Instead of circling in the skies above,
I found perspective,
There’s so much colour in life,
But not all with eyes can see this,
What matters most in this life of ours,
Is not how much time and effort
We put into colouring our lives,
But rather,
It is what we end up doing with
Whatever colours are available to us,
In every second of each day,
That gives meaning to our lives,
It is not how much colour we add that makes the difference,
It is rather what we do with the few colours we have,
That makes a world of difference.

72 HOURS TO MONDAY

Picture Courtesy: www.usc.edu


Leafing through,
My past pieces she did,
Reading,
What she had already read before,
Commenting on them
As though they were still new.


There I sat alive,
Watching my funeral unfold,
What she did made me feel old,
As though I had lost motion in my limbs,
Lost my sense of imagination,
I felt no more alive,
Than a piece of wood,
From which a coffin was being fashioned out.


I was moved to tears,
I wrestled with fear,
For I could see the new me,
Surrounded by,
Bottles of ink that had been overturned,
But not a drop of ink soiled the carpet,
The ink inside had turned to stone.
Paper lay strewn all around
But none had writings on them,
They were as blank as blank could be,
None were new,
They were all brown and old.


So hurriedly,
I looked around,
In search of me,
For that could not be me,
The more I searched,
The faster my heart did beat,
My legs grew weak
And everything else began to spin,
Feeling faint,
I sat on the nearest seat,
Lay my head on the table,
For I felt much worse than tortured meat.


As the minutes went by,
I became calm,
I lifted my head,
And realized everything else was still.
Hearing a rustling sound,
I turned to the window
And saw the wind rustling,
Saying,
Finally,
I got your attention,
I smiled back at him,
Not knowing what else to say in conversation,
I rubbed my eyes,
Just to make sure that was not my imagination,
When I opened them again,
I could see nothing more than idle plantain leaves.


Instinctively,
I reached for a pen,
Began writing on the table,
As though possessed,
When I came to,
I realised I had defaced the table,
I reached for my shirt,
In a bit to erase what I had done,
It was then that it dawned on me,
This is me,
Writing is me,
In the midst of messy and untidy
Mass of words struggling to stand straight in line,
I found me,
And in finding me,
I found those words a part of me.


In seeking challenge,
We add to what initially left us challenged,
We do not scale back on that which
No longer leaves us challenged,
We add more to it,
In doing so,
We remain challenged.
There’s no new me,
Neither is there an old me,
There’s only me,
I learnt all these and more 72 hours to this Monday,
Did you really think I’d be gone for long?