Sunday, December 30, 2012


It all started when Asom Dwe (@saygyka on twitter) tweeted a line starting with "I write.." at me(@kwamewrite), I replied by following suit and it got more entertaining as creativity flowed like an open tap..

Empress @Saygyka
I write, etching on the rounded corners of your heart - first bloody then scar healed - so that long after i am gone, I remain @KwameWrite

Empress @Saygyka
@KwameWrite i write, paring skin from flesh, revealing quivering vulnerability to be - neither shameful nor pitiable but strength

Empress @Saygyka
@KwameWrite i write, distilling whisky flavored memories - purifying impurities, til clearness drips, chilled by time.

Empress @Saygyka
@KwameWrite i write, frantically spinning webs dewy w/ promise; mists of hope rising from sodden dreams as reality's sun burns, burns, burns

Empress ‏@Saygyka
@KwameWrite i write, knowing momentary relief as emotions unleashed,

Empress ‏@Saygyka
@KwameWrite i write, to escape the prison of my humanity, soaring above mundanity reaching ever toward divinity

Empress ‏@Saygyka
@KwameWrite i write, tripping over words, spread about like so many diamonds on a velvet sky; picking this then that, smiles tugging lips

Friday, December 21, 2012



The tongue tosses testaments,
every test I meant
to pass
that life threw my way,
plenty mistakes, I miss takes
like Asamoah since jan.
through to dec.
more than
just 24hrs in my day
it's a combination of
struggle and smiles,
tumbles and trials,
subtle and wild,
cold and calm,
Bane mindsets and Psalms,
you see this sphere suspends
in space with species of different kinds
but man is the ultimate plan,
the soul is source of control,
so as I was told,
forget the size,
it's the taste that matters most,
same as Adam was teased to taste what
Eve gave
there the serpent made slaves off the tongue..
so I tell you let the lips be the golden gates
which emit essence of life,
let agile hope leap in bounds
like traders on a donkomi day,
let inspiration wear on heads
like folded cloth under tomato sellers' trays.
my nouns jump gutters
to hug volatile verbs
crossing streets to the outskirts
where adjectives control traffic
of diction from the throat,
people of extraordinary talents,
public officers exploring targets,
persistent organizers entertaining timelessly..
                                                                       my words are mental missiles
that blow up brains
fit in ideas,
similes and food for thought
they talk about Rolihlahla Mandela and the 27 lost years,
they talk about our dying Lisas and mourners,
they question Nkrumah as to whether
after the message at Polo grounds,
Ghana automatically became free?
they rant about Rosa Park's I-won't-get-up,
they talk about an unarmed black boy and 41 shots,
Mississippi hangings and wall street sales..
where slave spittum evaporated and made skies pale
where our past falls behind us
like tattered rags
like a mother unties a baby
and makes him stand to walk
                                                  so does our future erupt
like my seasoned words
which talk about an Africa
red hot refined
washed off in its own tears,

disengaged from its dry dance
and economic fears
and bloodshed and its gullibility,
and its sons
and its daughters under one sun
who with ink of toil-stained sweat
are blessed to write a new page
to refresh the times
and a bright future after the gloom
and a change
or nothing else


Monday, December 10, 2012


keep moving on
I say
keep moving on
I hear
these grooving songs,
rhythm of earth's movement playing tap-dance with your feet
keep moving on

tap-dance with your feet


like a rolling pebble
fling-ed off free fingers
tossing on the streets
bouncing off asphalt
bouncing like a rebel
rolling under moving cars
rolling through bike spokes
and off through the motor policeman's legs
swift slow swirl swift soul spell


keep grooving on

like gazelles grazing
on shrub-lands at dawn
when the sun kisses greying grains
where lions dens are dense
keep moving on
like a lion's dance
before pouncing on its prey
breeze aligning mane


like a slum kid with heat rashes
all over a body battered by life's hardships
wakes up in a 6 by 6 packed with 14 siblings
searching for a candle to light his path
earphones hanging from his ears
intersecting with a left eye tear
and ride slow jams

and tap-dance with his feet
tap-dance with his feet


he's singing
same time praying in his head
he's singing
praying his music
would top the list
and be the hit of the year
playing his music
beat vibrating off his soul

like a slum kid musician's tear

keep moving on

like a beach side black boy
biceps like blown balloons
clinging to a coconut tree, climbing
like a child onto full breasts
he slices off a stalk like a dance
balancing boldly
breaking it open to take a looooong sip
flings off the roughage
and starts sliding back south

brave-heart beautiful
grooving on
even when the mood is wrong
he sets sail with his heart

sets snail-step sways
on ocean floors on earth's palate
plated under water
pasted over water like a stamp
enveloping faith
surfing with a piece of plastic
like a dance
moving on

keep moving on

even when echoes become walls
and rebound efforts into nulls
even in a free fall
floored, flee all, fly for fortune,
find freedom
do not fade into the future


(c)kw 01122012

Sunday, April 22, 2012


The tip of this brush is damp
Stumped and stiff
Like worn-out bristles
Tickling bubbly bacteria over decayed teeth
Instead of flossing the filth
These paintings look dull
The chipping tool's blindly blunt
Only a heathen haunted by the religion
of keeping this white elephant of a paper and shrinking black ink
This beast falters at rocks once smothered
Where beauty carved herself flawless
Where ran the smiles that germinated
from humus of morose moments?
No red rains, only blood stains,
Over anemic earth's body and brains
Clots choke time's veins
Ink runs low
Speech slurs slow
Leaving a mouth shaped in an 'O'
A touch gone lost
Like a lover came home
To a deadbeat sweetheart..
Heartbeat, a slow acapella
No timely tune homologous
Hands carved in ashy stone
Mind, an amnesic patient
Awaiting one bloody muse's kiss

The image in the blank picture is me
Tremulously twiddly
Skin pores sucking in swift cold zephyr
Like dying to catch 'chelensa' over barb-wires,
I perspire in the act of trying to respire
Why do I forget how to be me?
The pendant of glory fading
From a chain of thoughts
Society's mirror, I
Smeared with miles of a mirage, oh my!

Teach me
Teach me what I once knew
Stuck on the highest floor
Thoughts afraid of height
I tell of my storey
On writer's block
My story
In shreds and tatters
Stuck in a fighter's tux with a dead sword
A ring through to the lost
Sing blues for a voiceless flop
Cash crop attacked by drought
Needs roots to sprout
Last drop of ink cries
On a burning page

Worm-silk of wanton weariness wound over warty wounds worsening worries, all because I can't write

The font and notepad
Banku and sushi
One is stirred, the other cold

Today I'm Gordon Comstock
Trying to keep the Aspidistra flying..
Engaged at all costs
Married to the careening shadows of a sport
I forget how I should play
To the slow thumping drumbeats of soul
tam-tam-tam-tam...then the fade...
Constipated bard-ly bladder awaiting a flow
Conceptually blockbusting
Role model forgetful of the role
If I should stay
I need to learn my ways

Teach me the art the kings share with paupers

Straighten my brush bristles
Sharpen my chipping tool
Refill my ink with blood of poetic ghosts
Let me paint, carve and write away

Teach me to live

Wednesday, March 14, 2012



I guess we need to overdose on the red pill to escape the unreal/
You know its gotten bad when people think reality TV. is real/
But in a world where we chase fortune on a wheel/
I hope my appeal to feel, does not go unnoticed like an in-between meal/
These days, originality is wrapped in obscurity/
Lies are garnished with insecurity feeding people with raw stupidity/
They say by hook or crook you gotta get that cheque/
The urge to imitate the façade leaves morals not in check/
But u need to be careful how you get it cos when your victim says “Nyame betua woka”/
Rest assured one day, God will pay you with a “reality cheque”/
So somebody tell these cats you aint gotta go behind bars to spit bars/
And tell Kojo he doesn’t have to steal credit cards to escape chasing trotro cars/
It’s obvious the hustle is local but the struggle is global/
Your reasons for doing it is what I hope you think through/
Esse Quam Videri!!… be is better than to seem to be/
This is Icon and KwameWrite telling you not to let your integrity be maimed for fear of being called “lame”/


This shoe might fit so prepare some socks for it/
A mentality to lack behind is like swimming where Michael Phelps frolics/
Just like an Ashanti shy to don Kente designs in public/
Let me pepper my poem for that might incur vomit/
Over-sized BLING-BLINGZ only remind of shackles from slavery days/
I feel for that brother, why not wear a whip instead of 20 chains?/
Over ourselves we've lost Ctrl like lacking that momentous key of a notebook/
A blind eye asks an ugly eye,"which of us is denied a good look?"/
The media feeds off profit from propaganda..term that PROFIGANDA/
They took down the 'politician of pampers', one too many politicians we often pamper/
Never been afraid to say what's on my mind like Em and Jay, renegade/
We ventilate not our system if we disallow this air of correction a chance to penetrate/
Let the forest men in timber-lands bootleg this/
Let Somalians pirate it for it needs to spread like a flu exists!!
We sweat to pay taxes but the streets we drive on look like the 'Oware' game/
This is KwameWrite and Icon telling you not to let your integrity be maimed for fear of being called “lame”/….PEACE!!

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

REWRITE [collabo- Ozionn, Namoji Obese and Kwame Write]


Rewrite the scenerey of politics
With integrity as the pen and developments as paper,rewrite

Rewrite the mentality of Africa
Let Africans take responsibility for their own actions,rewrite

Rewrite the prescription for health
For the true cure lies in the mind,rewrite

Rewrite the tome of racism
It has nothing to do with colours or the rainbow,but hatred,rewrite

Rewrite the history of human beings
For we are torn between sides of a great war,rewrite

Rewrite that part of our culture
Where elders of the society refuse to accept their faults,rewrite

Rewrite the essence of education
Education is the key,but what is the door? Emancipation,rewrite

Rewrite the verses of poetry
Reverse into the past and learn about it's origins,rewrite

[Kwame Write]

Rewrite, political divisions with missions to break democratic existence
Campaign for champagne, pockets are sockets resources plug in, clueless citizens, rewrite

Rewrite, stories lost as told through the shadows of time from our forefathers lips
New world of screens, our kids are fast-cooked like 'indomie'; foreign to cultural gifts like 'obroni', rewrite

Rewrite, Sewage a smudge, electricity breaks now and then like strings of ethnicity
It's a pity clean water's not reaching every city, where your patriotic ink be? rewrite

Rewrite, bloodshed of independence would not be libation on earth where things go amiss
Don't just be pissed, act out like 'Ghana must grow' is first on your bucket list, rewrite

Rewrite, students need this tear of incite, sweat from insides, at a dead end looking to the rear
Till curricula are geared not like cars on a one-way road to a stop sign in the clear, rewrite

Rewrite, the way we eat, food genetically manipulated, packaged with chemicals to preserve
KFCs now Killer Food Communities; spicy, oily or fructose-filled junk served, rewrite

Rewrite, contracted marriages without consent, particular ethnic groups merge, some don't relate
')d) mide car no b3 ma wo' is what she wants to hear before the date, rewrite

Rewrite, till Ghana stops importing more than exporting, covered with the western mist
Till we use our herbs, HBP , diabetes and worst of all, poverty will be our script, rewrite

[Namoji Obese]

Rewrite the news, let it be known that the CIA killed Nkrumah
And the US and Belgium have stained hands in the murder of Lumumba

Rewrite the history, make the governed governor,
The colony colonial masters

Rewrite the state of mind that made the Caucasian better than the niggar
And the niggar better the African

Rewrite the syllabus that killed my creativity
So my son can explore his world of fantasy

Rewrite the folk songs, crown Ananse king,
Make Jata his vassal and Akura his Obrafour

Rewrite Shakespeare; make Romeo a lascivious womanizer,
Juliet cheap whore, see if their love breeds war

Rewrite my story; tell of the civilized savage,
Coming out of bondage to reclaim his lineage.

Rewrite an unconditional pardon, for the Nazi's, the Bolsheviks and the KKK,
Tell them religion has killed more people than all of them combined.

Thursday, March 08, 2012

>This is to the woman>

This is to the woman

This is to the woman

This is to the woman

Whose voice leaves
Soothing echoes numbing the senses for split seconds
Like 'alasa' on the taste-buds,
This is to the woman
Whose laughter vibrates like djembe thumps
Whose tear is mopped before it shows
Staying low-key like an upside-down piano
But mind-state speeding with thoughts
Like a bus from Tema to Tetteh Quarshie via motorway en-route..
This is to the woman
Who teaches about God, the storm and the rainbow after
This is to the woman

Each day wakes with dreams for breakfast
Her sleep, of several breaks
But she turns even before the crow of the hen
The dew of the lawn with her eyeballs blend
Reflecting the glossy perm,
Which she wears to keep the eye of her man directed home
But that man's eyes have been blind to time;

"Today it's 'koko' for breffis, one 'kose' each"
It's early day, the children have to rush to school
Now she can rest her breasts
Like a sagging seine emptying a school of fish.
Each kid will carry along their hobbies;

*Adwoa Boaduwaa wants her sewing kit,
*Akosua Bridgette needs her french colouring book,
*Nanayaa J. needs her 'broni-ba'
*The only boy wants 2 'boflot' balls

Her sweaty brow, her streamlined back,
Her folding bowel,
Her mean stare behind a comforting smirk planted on her face
Rooted to a heart of hope
Like God did 'cut and paste' of a storm mellowed behind a rainbow cheer.
She struggles with what the day brings to table
And mostly life's been a tale of musical chairs
In order to pinch some metal currency to the bottom of craggy duffel bags

Cowering like a tower's golden bell when the afternoon sun
With a strong invisible arm de-juices the calm
We see her sewing torn armpits of shirts
And taking down our dry clothes from the line
We clean off every trace of ice-cream from our lips
Before we run into her bosom, chiming like cutlery in a clatter
Smelling like a spray of skunk sneeze and looking like we've been powdered with red earth
We hug on her together, tightly
She succumbs though the feeling is like being hit in the face with a foul ball of moldy bread

The boy plays little soccer
And is an amateur gymnast,
The girls play girls' games like 'ampe',
Cooking with sand in miniature coal pots,
And tapping continuation of 'kokonsa' episodes with sharp antenna ears, etc

"Do your homework and you'll each get a chicken piece on top of your jollof"
Wow! God bless mummy's jollof
With little pieces of beef hidden
Like precious dodgeballs in jouncy heaps
We search and find.

With an orange frown, dusk, the town-crier for night returns.
So vividly, evening rushes in blind-
As blind as a bastard's thoughts of a possible dad.

Like blue-black cloth-wraps
Night forms around the light of moon.
Keeping the warm radiance in the semi-circle of a smile,
She swats
"That mosquito doesn't know how to tickle,
It's okay child"
She sez
It always is
She prays.

Our backs are balm-ed after showering
Our wounds are soothed with her soft creasing fingers
Her greasing lingers
Like her lullabies
We sleep to them always, before they end.

This is to the woman
Who only spares the rod if the teaching staff would do the job
This is to the woman
Who stared long at the moon, a golden egg in the nest of dark skies,
This is to the woman
With mid-nightmares of attending to new cradles
In the folds of her scarf bundled on her head,
This is to the woman
Stained with trickles from the womb at the end of each month,
This is to the woman
Wishing for menopause but not wishing for its side-effects,
This is to the woman
To whom nine months is the span of a year,
And the physical deformations after
Are signs of her abundance to share,
Each breast milk drop, of life,
Each scar on her womb, a tattoo dear
This is to the woman

My mother
This song is to her ear
This is to
Every woman who has a story to share

This is to your tear.

(c) KW 08 March 2012

Thursday, January 26, 2012


She hails from Walewale up north
But here her present future falls
At the bustling feet of Accra land-

Capital city! City of capital
Did she know it's not easy out here?
Did she care?

Her name so bold, tattooed on her arm's shaft-
"Rukaya Dargati"
Two vertical tribal marks- one on each cheek
Serve as trenches for her tears
Bloody pains seep through her firm hand-shake
She holds on a bit longer
She wants to tell a story
Of the pains more intense than a twin's childbirth
But to whom?
In what language?

Life bleeds through the 'lele' in her palms
Raped and trafficked
Each day is spent with burden
Weaving her way through dense traffic
Like a rough needle through a dry stack of hay
Her aim- to put jam in lumpy slices of stale bread
And 'waakye' on the plate for her little kindred
Without fathers,
One loosely bundled at her back
Without covers..

A ball of load every moment fractures her tender neck-
That's the nature of her work
Only support is her raggy 'mayaafi' fold..
Her words write letters of hardship and poverty
Soaking in the rains at night on a table outside
After shop-owners close their gates of comfort
Enthusiasm in her eyes, but opportunity flies
While counting each tasbar bead, she wonders if Allah counts
Rubbing shea butter on the cracks underlining her feet,
She weeps without a sound

Suddenly, a thundering scream pierces her eardrums
"Herh!Kayayo, wo b3 y33 ejuma anaa s3 wo b3 b)) life?"
(Are you here to work or dress to look good?)
Another customer beckons
"wo be tumi afa wei?"
(Can you carry this)
Lowering herself, she sombrely tips the cargo at her feet, twice her size
With the sound of rolling drums,
Her tummy rumbles with hunger as she slowly replies:
"Mepawots3o ehh" (Please yes!)

*kayayo- porter(s) in busy cities of Ghana

(c) 25/01/2012 KW

Wednesday, January 25, 2012


‎Sun flashes out her red cheeks bold,
Lizard crawls to a lawn and lazily molts
And stretches to bask out his cold.

Snail admires with a stealthy glance
And dashes off too, craving a stance.

He envies so; "why cant I have that chance
To pitch a prance
For an afternoon dance?"
He undresses in time
His shell and slime.

But sun so intense
On his soft skin burns,
He struggles once, wriggles twice and
Waggles his last, sinking in stalks of eyes
And in pain he slowly dies..

Looking on, lizard feels lost,
To see snail's matter, cadaverous-
Lifeless, lonesome on the spot..
Turning tail, his head bops as he exclaims:
"Oh snail, You and I are never same!"

(c) 24/05/2007 KW

Tuesday, January 24, 2012


(Jan 15- Feb 10-> Theme: What's on the ground) Soar through the sour slums, where sore gums mumble: "Give me dough for some chow charley,” One rumbles Breadknives don’t cut much, plates get crumbles Cheap pickpockets mix up in 'trotro' queues With passengers packed like Argentinian sardine, vans get abused Some chide; "mate you dey blow fuse!" Fraud gods go faster than Mavis Beacon to keep on key Peddling pouch produce, porch pushers claim "This weed dey bee" Over gutters choked with filth, life hugs on with hands unclean Joy belongs only to tadpoles dancing in paramecia discotheques. Delve into dark alleyways where stale smell of fermented fart is bliss for pests No Burberry clothes on, people here hardly see cheques Drunk dad flees, hungry mum bursts out of room not seeing the need To breastfeed child the tenth time while her pockets bleed With hunger; mean mosquitoes run night-shifts so how could one dream? Drugs fly like wayward planes Where slum thugs are stuck in the world trade So you should expect many a crack-head sprawled over the place Like rain, reality drips, let it pour through They create jobs that just aint there, the poor youth Stuck in the gloom on the corners bare, Is it because they're black that things just aint fair? Now visit the luxurious urbans Hidden under the elite’s turban Hungry folks knock at Bill's gates for spare buns Someone, go tell Trump to up his trump and proclaim to Warren Buffet Those Somalian kids keep warring for chaffed buffet Out here it's a random chase like a game of 'chaskele' School made the computer, Contradiction made the hacker Ignorance made the learner Assets made the accountant, though liabilities made the accountable With food on the plate, dreams are more probable So the rich get richer while the poor-man's stuck in the bustle Visit the money bank; ask them what they do for the blood bank Say hello to the white-collared guy walking like his poop never stank He'll use big words that elementary dictionaries lack His pockets with coins keep jingling like a fat girl's butts As he tells a long tale of global recession, ask him a penny for your thoughts He'll pay little attention, thinking his money might run short. (c)Jan 22,2012 KW