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