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