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Author Archives: soulbase

About soulbase

Filmmaker, African proverbs lover, Writer,Poet, Geeky nerd,Lover,friend,annoying,fun to be around, One half of Gbemella Music, Strikingly handsome.

Tell Her

Tell Her

 

When you see her, tell her I am tired

Tired of her running through the paths of my mind

Tell her, her charm’s gait has left indelible prints

That have stained the wings of the birds of my imagination

Etching their wing marks on the clouds as they soar higher than eagles

And glide to places far beyond

One thread for the needle, one love for the heart

We shall sew one fine garment

For the union of our hearts

Tell her that though the body is weak, the spirit is willing

Willing to tame the wild cravings of the body for a greater glory

Of owning the crown of her heart

And making her heart a castle fit for a king, Me.

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When you see her, tell her I await her

On the corner of the street of my heart

Tell her she has knocked me down like a domino

And I’m drowning in her beauty

A beauty that sparks a light in my darkest moments

Like the ripe full moon’s reflection

Caught on the river with the skies lighted with patches

Of the bright bottoms of fireflies that dance to

The heavenly choruses of the toads and crickets

Tell her that though our elders say only a wise person can solve a difficult problem

I need no saving from the this problem

For she is the problem and the answer to the problem

Couple at park.

 

When you see her, tell her I love her

The canoe of my soul was lost on the sea of loneliness

But her virtuousness is the current that gently glides me home

Away from these deep waters of hopelessness

Into the Eden of her grace

Where her gentleness will lock me in a warm embrace

As she revives my soul with the taste of her lips

Tell that she is the only song my heart knows

The only song it will sing

The only food my heart craves for

The gourmet of love I feast on

Oooh Yes! Tell her I’m hers.

Tell her

Tell her I will always love her

imag

 
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Posted by on February 12, 2015 in Poems

 

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2nd Open Letter to Oko Vanderpuije

2nd Open Letter to Oko Vanderpuije

Dear Efo Roozay,

First of all Happy New year to you my friend. Though I am very disappointed that I did not receive any reply to my last and first ever letter to you, I will let it be a bygone and ‘hope against hope’ (as my famous agbadza dancer Uncle Clever Thywillbedoneonearth Agbenorxevi will say) that you will reply this one. Let me first of all congratulate you on your ascension to the enviable Odum chair of the Mayor of Mayors as well as your $399 Doctorate Degree acquisition. I’m sure the beard was the deciding factor in these achievements. These day I do not see much of you. I think it is because I do not watch Television that much again. I know the higher you climb the ladder of life, the harder it becomes to see and recognize the people below but trust me I have been following your exploits. You do not know the joy I feel whenever your name pops up on my head. It is that same joy my twelve children felt when my mother of blessed memory travelled to Ho and brought 2 sachets of pure water as agbamekanu for her grandchildren.Trust me, their eyes lit with excitement as that of the trotro driver you ‘jossed’ last year when his trouser squeezed his balls from your tight grip on his trousers. Roozay the Commando mayor! Roozay the Don! The real Life Captain Haddock of Accra! Norvinye, I feel extemely elated just knowing that it is you I am writing to again. I think I will have to add it to my CV that you are my friend and not just a friend oooh but a close friend. Now let me contain my excitement and get to the reason for writing this letter.

Don Roozay, what most people do not know is that you had your 31st night watch service at the church that had the theme for 2015 as ‘This Nances must Stop’ and based on the preaching along with what the spirit revealed to you, the only way to stop the ‘Nances’ is to tackle it commando style which you are reinforcing . At the rate at which Accra is developing I’m wondering whether people can’t see it or whether it is sheer envy. Why do people always want to bring a good man down? The whole of this year, no Cholera, no flooding, crime has gone down, no hawking on the streets, all the streets have been named,evey house has a toilet, the shool no longer run shift, you run a very accountable assembly and Accra is now the epitome of what a capital city should look like. I hear other Mayors worldwide are consulting you for tips to improve their cities. Herh Oko you be Don wati! Mayor of Mayors ampaaa.

Herh, my Don Capon Oko Roro, I have heard what your detractors are saying and trust me all they can be are detractors to your agenda. What is even laughable is when they say the President should fire you. How can he fire you? A mayor who had his life’s training in The Westside of Brooklyn New York. If the president ever fires you, what happened on the streets of Brooklyn on the 15th of February 1995 will happen in Ghana. If they like they should ask Kofi Konadu Apraku. Commando Rozay, just like you I do not understand Ghanaians ooooh. Common shooting of car tyres too and they are making so much fuzz about it. Don’t they watch American movies? If the President can’t tell you to stop using a convoy and siren then what in Memuna’s name would make a lawyer feel he can make you stop? Naniama. Look it is high time we employ some Brooklyn style action levels. Herh, Oko you be Capon. You are too ‘melch’. For a lack of better description just like Tupac, all eyes are on you. You are like that cool village kid in a city school whose ironed starched uniform shirt with the spider web design with his gabardine hold my thighs pair of shorts is just had to ignore. I doff my atsatsa hat to you. You are indeed a Mayor after the President’s own heart so do not be perturbed by what people say.

Well, the boss Madam is looking for me and I have to dodge her small. Abii you know how women are. I think I have to come for some tips on how to manage her small, since you seem to be doing so fine with Mrs. Roozay. I will also need your secret formula for keeping my beard at the same level all year round. Kindly make sure you at least acknowledge receipt of this letter even if you do not deem it necessary to reply me. Till I hear from you, be strong and may the good Lord open the eyes of people to see who you really are.

Your friend,

Efo Koshi Gator of Alakple.

 

 
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Posted by on January 15, 2015 in ARTICLES

 

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OLD SOLDEIR,THE PUNISHER

OLD SOLDEIR,THE PUNISHER

There was a loud hush across the court room as I stepped into the docket to defend myself. I do not remember that last time I smiled, for life had not given me too many chances to do so but here I was smiling sheepishly to the judge as he asked me whether there was anything I had to say before my sentencing since I had opted for no lawyer to defend me during this trail. Aside politicians, lawyers were the next people I loathed with a passion. How they can insist something is white when we all see is as black and still get away with this baffles me. Moreover the more money you have the more convincing your lawyer is and so someone will steal five fingers of plantain and get sentenced to 5 years in prison whilst our politicians steal our monies and go scot free. And so with a little shivery but firm voice these were my words before the sentencing.

‘Your Honor, I can still feel my hand still vibrating from the slap I gave the Member of Parliament on his face that floored him. For some awkward reason the accompanying pain in my knuckles feels sensational. All the anger that has built up within me over the years found an outlet and indeed it was unfortunate that it had to be his face. I can sense the surprise look on your faces but I think it was just the right time to put him in his place. I am old and may not understand your modern ways of life but I will not sit down any longer and see a small boy in the name of politics literally hang the under pants of his mother on a pole, fly it at full mast at the market place with pride, call his father impotent and expect people like me to clap for him. Nonsensical nonsense!! Your honor, pardon my French expression.

Your honor, I have served this country with my sweat and blood. At age 18 I was drafted into the army to go to fight in the world war. My testicles were pinched hard every week for a month to make sure I had no hernia and I was fit for battle before we were shipped of like a tin of sardines. Lives were lost on our way to India by ship and I saw friends’ dead bodies tossed overboard into the sea without paying them homage.

When we got to India, rumours went round among the Indians that we are cannibals, chop people and have tails So when we went to bathe in the streams, people asked us not to take our pants off in case they would be frightened by our tails. I survived all the derogatory names that came as a result of these rumours. In the Burmese jungle there was something we called tiger leech. It’s very small, very thin. If it gets to your body it sucks your blood and get bigger and bigger. So we used a cigarette end or a match on the under of that thing to take its fangs out. But if you don’t do that, but just pull it off, the fangs will stay within your body, rot in your skin and go bad – very bad.’

If you are in a war you forget everything. There was no time to pray. This jungle war was not a child’s play – it was something very dangerous, I have seen friends and acquaintances die with their intestines gushing out as though we are at an abattoir. I have choked on and somehow lost my sense of smell because of my exposure to the stench of burnt decomposing human flesh and lead that tore ones nose away from the freedom of fresh air. Experiencing war makes you a different person. You leave behind every civilian attitude, every gentle attitude that you ever had. You forgot … everything. After the war, they did not let us come home straight away. They gave us two good months, with money, to go to any part of India. It was something to refresh us, to let us come back to a human being. An action I still up till now do not understand.

Your Honor, when I came back, all the remunerations that were to be paid us were never paid. To make matters worse my wife whom I had married before my enlistment left me for Efo Dzidefo the corn mill operator behind the cathedral because she could not stand my screaming at night due to the nightmares. To make myself employable, I worked as a laborer on farms and paid for numerous private teachers to teach me

I have been called hideous names and hear rumours about myself that I knew nothing of and surprises me like a mouse caught in a trap just because of a bait of roasted fish head yet I have never for once reacted violently towards anyone in this community. But alas, your honor, the actions of the MP over the years has become the blisters on the soles of my feet that had dragged patience off my bed. I have seen governments come and go, I have met minister and MPs from different regimes but honestly speaking, the disrespect of this young man who can be my great grandson not only towards me but towards this entire community stinks like the flatulence of a pregnant woman who has had her fair share of boiled beings with egg and washed it down with a snack of ‘wagashi’ and ‘di na ta’ milkshake. Last election he promised to make sure the local LA school was fixed and stocked with the relevant textbook, he promised to make sure the was a scholarship for brilliant students from this village, he promised to fix the road for us and make sure we had good drinking water if we voted him as our MP. Me I do not trust him oooh because aside all the empty promises all he brought to us solicit for our votes was four bars of key soap. Your honor, four bars of keysoap for a community of four hundred people. After he won the elections, ask him when the last time he came here was or whether we have seen the shadows of his promise?

Now that it is time for another election he rides in his big car into this community that breastfed him into who he is, choking us with clouds of dust and comes blinking like a malfunctioning disco watch to solicit for votes.

Your honor if you are working very hard to look after a lean man who says he is a sickling and this man begins to win snoring contests against the plump you at night, then something is wrong somewhere. I do not regret slapping him. At age 88 there are quite a number of thing I regret in life but not slapping the idiot. In fact, If I get the chance again I will slap him or any other politician that takes the citizenry for granted. I am tired of all this nonsense and so your honor If you will sentence me make sure it is to death because at least there I will have my piece of mind.’

 

 

 
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Posted by on December 30, 2014 in Fiction

 

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We Have Lost a Song (Tribute to Kofi Awoonor)

We Have Lost a Song (Tribute to Kofi Awoonor)

We find ourselves at the confluence of tears and pride

Our feet and arms too weak to paddle us across the river of sorrow we drown in

The songbird that chirps the songs of our ancestral beauty has been shot down

And the wind echoes the deep silence it has left behind

The warmth in our songs has been stolen

Now the cold cloth of pain and loss embraces us

As though we share a common lineage

They have indeed poured bile on our tongues

But we are the sons and daughters of singing hunter

The great warrior whose potent weapon was his tongue

Which unfolded many leaflets of life’s songs

Hidden from every day’s eye

The hunter whose tongue was the anvil of on which

the rebirth of our songs was forged

The warmth of your voice that lingers in the ears of our hearts

Gives us hope as we carve your name in the hearts of our history

 

The feet of our emotions wobble like cassava leaves in the dry winds

We lift our calabashes of our ears and hearts to have them filled but

you are not here to serve us

And so we burn  of thirst

The sun has pulled a dark blanket over its face

so Agbenorxevi hums it’s song rather than sing it

and the  morning dew perspires as our tears water the grounds on which we stand

So the river bird sings of you not returning

For you had crossed the boundary to the other side of no return

We do not believe you are gone away

But alas, the river bird never lies about crossings

 

 

‘Wobɛ ahloɛ medoa nyi fɔkpa ooo

Yata Nyidevu amekea nebe ne do woa afɔkpa?’

Hmmm ati ga ade mu,

Nɔfe adeke mega li na xeviwo woa dze

Adzi ha viviwo nami o.

 

Today we long to hear your voice echo in the valley of

The blooming cornfields of life

Ready once again for you to set our spirits

on journeys of real identity discovery

With our mouths metamorphosing in to beautiful butterflies of smile of gratitude

That developed from the cocoons of our hearts

 

Yet the hunter, whose greatest weapon was to songs of his tongue, is mute to our calling.

 

Mute to the sounds of these same hollow pipe that spat metal pillets

That stole the breath of your song

The elders say there is nothing the eye will see that will make it shed blood

But they lied for the eyes of our hearts shed tear of blood etched on scrolls for you

Though your silence is deafening

And the distance between us undefined

We know Kitikata will wipe our tears with the gentleness

Of your undefined memories that are as soothing as a bed of detifufu

As we are assured that you still live on in our hearts.

 

 

 

 
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Posted by on October 7, 2014 in Poems

 

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LOVERS’ MUSING

LOVERS’ MUSING

Accusation

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Yes! I have mad love for this guy

Rumor has it that he has been lying to me

The wise girls have advised me to stay off

But my heart loves the lies because the truth hurts

So I hear he has another lady and I am just a side chick

if so, then I am the perfect missing rib!

The darkness told me the reason why I only see him late at night is because he spends his day with his perfect chick

I heard her once as she passed by my window

She speaks impeccable English!

The scent of her perfume filled my room for about 30 minutes

I knew it was her because I always smell the perfume on him anytime he sneaks into my blanket after she leaves

The click of her heels proves without a doubt that she is strong

But as long as my baby has never mentioned her,

I choose to be pampered with his lies

He once promised to marry me

But since then, he has not mentioned it

Just last week, I heard the birds singing about the 1000 carat diamond ring he proposed with,

But he didn’t fail to touch my body the very night he got engaged

That night he kissed me hard like never before

So I don’t care if he buys her the whole world

I love that fear that stops him from telling me the truth

I know I am irresistible!

I don’t blame him!

That is why he can’t hurt me with the truth.

Keep whispering the lies deep inside my ears…

Let me feel your lying tongue

Let me see your desperate eyes fixed on my body

I want to feel the heat from your body burn mine with your lies!

Never speak the truth… don’t hurt me!

 

RESPONSE

KWEKU  serene-edith-peterson-watson

I’m no cheat, so I wonder why her mind would journey that far?

My heartbeat speaks the truth of what she means to me

So why will I pour bile on this delicacy of true love?

Truth be told, her inner beauty and strength makes it impossible

To find solace in another’s arms

Her physical beauty the song to which day and night dance to

The taste of my name on her lips each time she mutters it under her gentle breath

When we kiss is like fresh unleavened bread dipped in virgin honey on the lips of a hungry soul

It’s true I do have a friend who speaks impeccable English

And I do know her perfume is strong that it resurrects my asthma

But that is nothing compared to Nana Yaa’s lips that make speech blush

And eloquence lose its footing.

Does she for a second know how missing her feels like?

Water becomes tastelessly tasteless and my thoughts refuse to bloom

My heart beats squeal, squeak and the waters from my eyes’ fountains gash out

Yet orchid blossom of my love for her blossoms

So tell me what sort of man will pamper his soul with lies

And still make his heart feel the way I feel about her?

How can I buy her supposed rival the whole world when she, Nana Yaa is my whole world?

So now I fear she wouldn’t see the real essence of what we have.

How can she see past all these lies of the ‘wise’ when she allows her heart to be ruled by an irrelevant cacophony of questions she has the true answers to?

I wish I could quiet all her doubts created by rumors that are nothing but rumors

Gag all the anxiety she feels and let the silence of our love sing

Time is the cloth that binds us to the back of fate

And loyalty is the walking stick that makes our love walk steady.

Tell her she is the rhythm and melody to my music

The only mosquito in my net (please continue biting)

And without her I’m as useless as ‘eue’ without que in spelling QUEUE

 

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Written by Rita Nana Yaa Agyakwa & Selikem Kweku Tenu Geni. (c)

 

 
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Posted by on August 29, 2014 in Poems

 

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MY BEARD

MY BEARD

My Uncle said, he didn’t want to see my beard the next morning

She said someone said I look like a butcher from Zongo because of my beard and it hurt her

Please shave it off, trim it shortly, make the sideburns thinner, people are talking too much about it

They said I was no longer handsome because I grew a beard

I have become an undignified being like the carcass of the poisoned Christmas goat left by the big gutter

because I have cultivated a beard

So to them, the depth of my human dignity depreciates with the length of my beard.

And so I said to him

If tell you I do not like the way you smile, because it scares daylight to darkness

Would you cease to smile forever?

And to her I said

If I tell you people do not like your gait in shoes would you walk barefooted for the rest of your life?

Go tell them my beard does not make me a sinner, neither does it make me a saint

Tell them my beard does not make me a social misfit or a philosopher

Tell them It does not make a retard or prophet

Tell them if they cannot look beyond my beard and see me for who I am

Then they should close their eyes anytime they sense me near

Tell them my beard is here to stay as long as I want it to.

 
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Posted by on August 24, 2014 in Poems

 

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WORDS

WORDS

Let us get drunk today

Drunk on the words of our fathers’ echoing silence

Words that were spoken to them under the baobab tree by the fireside

Words that were sang by the warriors that that returned

Bruised and defiled by war of hearts

Words as sacred as the cries of a corpse

Words as priceless as the tears of our mothers when we were born

Words that glorify the beauty in ugliness of our fight for survival

Yes open your mouth and let them out

Like thousands of bees homing to a hive

Let our thoughts and emotions ferment

and let us brew these words within our beings

And speak them into being

For we are children of mother’s only husband

And we do not search for the dark fowl in darkness

PowerofWords

 
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Posted by on August 13, 2014 in Poems

 

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Agbenorxevi, ‘The Cat’ With Nine Lives

Agbenorxevi, ‘The Cat’ With Nine Lives

As the bus left the terminal in Accra, Agbenorxevi, could not help but wonder whether this trip was going to be his very last one or not. All through the journey he avoided eye contact with any of the other occupants of the eighteen seater bus by hiding his eyes behind his two inches thick tad dark tinted spectacles. Secretly in his heart, he blessed the man who invented them because he could see the eyes of the others when they looked at him yet they couldn’t tell whether he was looking back at them or not. To avoid the temptation of being drawn into any form of conversation, he turned up the full volume of his Walkman, that the lady seated beside him turned twice with an expression that asked whether he wanted to go deaf or was just plainly mad without even speaking those words which he thought was very diplomatic on her side. Somehow he caught her nodding and tapping to the Kojo Antwi tune blurring out of his headphones and this made him smile.

After almost eight years of self-imposed exile, it felt a little bit awkward heading back to Ho, the town in which he had grown up. His history in that town were as huge as the spear heads of giants poking out of the dead bodies of those decayed years that it was impossible for anyone who was new in town not to hear or know a little bit about the exploits of Agbenorxevi. When the bus got to ‘Kponvie’ police barrier, Agbenorxevi’s heart began to beat like the tick tocking of a 1956 malfunctioning omega engine wrist watch and his life in Ho began to roll on the wheel of his thoughts that it felt as though he was reliving it. He could feel his body stiffen as the policeman scanned through the vehicle and stared at him for more seconds than he had stared at the other occupants. He could feel a sting in his conscience that made him nearly surrender himself to the emotions swelling up within him. He knew his goatee and the glasses he wore somehow made him look suspicious but these policemen were used to seeing people dressed like him come from Togo and Niger in search of a better life in Ghana and so felt a little bit secured. Moreover his appearance had changed over the years.

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He was not born with a wooden spoon in my mouth for if that were to be the case it would have been a major blessing and the undoing of all the . He was told his mother was a mentally retarded woman who got impregnated by Mr. Nobody. Not wanting to sound blasphemous though, he could count the number of times as a child he had bragged that aside Jesus Christ, he was the only miracle baby conceived by a virgin mother. The only difference between Jesus and I was that, instead of an angel visiting and informing his mother about conceiving him, it was a shameless and ruthless he-goat of a man who decided to rape her, hence my coming into this world. As he grew older, he realized that his mother gave birth to him in the huge gutter along the market like a goat and died shortly afterwards since she had no one, What even sank Agbenorxevi into the base of self-pity and disillusionment was the fact that his mother’s family wanted nothing to do with a bastard conceived by a lunatic. He was also told that initially he was left in the gutter unattended to so he could die because he was considered an abomination but after six hours of starvation and his defiance to live, some of the youth around the market decided to stone him to death with his crime being that he was conceived by a mad woman. It took the intervention of some catholic nuns who run an orphanage to save him from them.

Growing up at the orphanage was hell on earth, not that he had been to hell before but based on the passion with which the nuns described it to them, a bigger proportion was synonymous to hell. Agbenorxevi experienced at first-hand what real bullying was. His first encounter was when he chanced upon Maxwell the oldest boys at the orphanage smoking ‘sigliku’. At age four he was already the bottom of all jokes and name calling and so catching Maxwell was a plus for him. He tried to blackmail Maxwell by threating to report him to Sister Maria, the no nonsense nun that even the Brother who was the head of the orphanage stutter like the sound of a chain of flatulence let out from a man with severe running stomach. Instead, his threat earned him a bloody mouth and Maxwell accusing him of smoking ‘sigliku’. That evening, Sister Maria made sure extra pepper was added to Agbenorxevi’s soup and one could hear ‘usuuuuuush husssuuuuh’ like the last loud coughs of the engine of the converts corn mill before it comes to a halt. From then onwards every little thing was blamed on him especially by Sister Marie. Sister Marie was very petty in structure but what she lacked in the physical seemed to have multiplied in her character. Among the kids of the orphanage, there was a joke about how Sister Marie could crack open a palm kernel with her buttocks and this translated to her nickname “Bum Nut Cracker”. When she finally got to know guess who she blamed as the orchestrator, Agbenorxevi. It was not as though he was not the culprit some of the things he was accused of, but it just got to a point that trying to prove his innocence was as useless as a gift of chewing stick to a toothless old lady. And so, just as Christians attribute everything evil to the devil, everything that went wrong in the orphanage was attributed to Agbenorxevi and Sister Marie was always there to do justice with her punishment.

At age sixteen he was booted out of the orphanage because he was considered a bad influence on the younger ones and based on the fact that he was standing his grounds. Armed with 7000 cedis that he was given by the other Sisters, he dragged himself with his back pack that contained a pair of Khaki shorts and an over-sized Lacoste he had received the previous year as Christmas present out of the opharnage into an unknown world. And so his life of crime and double crossing began after he was robbed off his personal belongings and was forced to join the notorious ‘Kpetonku’ gang and it was based on his exploits the he was named ‘The Cat’ . A name revered the people in the ghettos within Ho. As the vehicle got closer to the sign post that read ‘Welcome to HO’, Agbenorxevi became conscious of his surroundings, let out a heavy sigh and made the sign of the cross as the vehicle veered into the town. In his heart and mind, he knew only God would save him from what lay before him…

 

 

 
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Posted by on July 15, 2014 in Fiction

 

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Open Letter to President Mahama.

Open Letter to President Mahama.

Dear Mr. President,

Well for formality sake, let me just ask how you are doing before I proceed. I hope Lordina is keeping her promise of serving you a sumptuous bowl of Tuo Zafi and dawadawa soup every Wednesday evening as she promised to when you became President. To be honest with you I won’t say we’ve not met before and for your information, I have always admired you from afar as a celebrity. Oooh yes, a Politician celebrity. It even got to a time I was thinking of asking you to represent Ghana at the big brother house but decided against it knowing the temptations that abound in that house. I really hope you do not mind me calling you John or any other pet name I deem very necessary to keep the conversation flowing. I know by now you are beginning to wonder why at all I decided to write you this letter but don’t worry, I’m not one of you detractors. I’m writing this letter to actually say thank you for being yourself and for doing what you are doing.

Jonny boy, I get very livid when I hear people say you are not a good leader. What do they expect? This is actually what they get for not learning from their mistakes. After all, by now they should know that, the fact that the Zongo he- goat has a beard does not make it a contender for the chief Mallam position. If the people willingly make the He –goat the Mallam because of its beard then they must be ready to chew cassava leaves. Today, they say electricity, tomorrow they’ll say water, yesterday it was fuel. What at all do they want you to do before they realize that you lead a listening government? I know that as for the listening you are really doing that, it is just that you are not sure of what to do so you end up doing nothing at all.

Jonny just this week, some friends of mine were annoyed that you did not fire Elvis and Yamin for the Black Stars fiasco in Brazil. Me I just laughed ooh. If they know what you see especially when you put those your spectacles on, they wouldn’t even bother. Fine boy things no be ‘gidigidi’ ooh. Have they forgotten so soon that you are the only president in the history of our country that has an individual who is an institution on her own working for you? Do they know the value of one ‘tsoboe’ by Elvis during your campaign period? Were we not all here when Samini was charging GHC 2000 for shooting one ‘kpoe’ at musical events? Now to the issue of Yamin, after Rawlings, how often have we seen what the NDC World Bank calls ‘Yevu du agba’ say things on National Television that draws intense national discourse and goes international? As a concerned big brother, I know you didn’t want Yamin to look bad that is why you released the jet and the money to ‘Bryzil’. This is a simple boys boys move that I feel everyone should understand. Errrhm my only worry is that I hear there is an unaccounted for 1.2 million. Abeg I be your boy so make I know something when the time to share comes.

 

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Yesterday I realized that Ghanaians are very wicked people. Why are they crying foul on this issue of part of a loan being used for sanitary pads? Look Jonny boy, I agree with you, we must give sanitary pads to school girls! It’s a matter of life and death! Their futures depend on it! Mind you the pads will be imported and the GFA boss Kwasi Nyantakyi will be in charge of airlifting it with support from Elvis and Yamin! If they like they should go and burn the korle lagoon. Have they not realized that up until now our young girls in SHS have been using ‘amonsin’? They need to use pads, no, they will use pads. Now this is QUALITY GIRL CHILD EDUCATION. But Jonny Boy, kindly make sure that in the next loan, allocation is made for free champion condoms distribution for University boys or you go do boxer shorts instead? Our Better Ghana Agenda is on the right path and I encourage you not to mind our detractors. . By the way, are we importing Yazz or Always sanitary pads? Please let’s make sure they come with free pantie liners too and deodorants. I will only charge three percent commission for this advise.

 

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Jonny my guy, be for I end this letter, there is one huge favor I need to ask you. In fact you’ll make me the happiest Ghanaian if you do this for me and I won’t mind if you tax everything including my flatulence. Please and please can you please give ministerial appointments to Allotey Jacob, Sam George, Richard Quarshigah and Nii Lantey Vanderpujey. These are individuals who speak and I know that what they say is not revealed to them by flesh and blood but by a ‘higher force’ I cannot and indeed most Ghanaians cannot contend with. I believe once they become an integral part of your ministerial appointees, you are sorted. The likes of Ablakwa and Fifii Kwetey are backsliding but I believe buy the time we get into the election mood their ‘spirituality’ will be revived. By the way say hi to Vicky for me the next time you meet. I will really love to get a reply from you but I know you’ll be too busy to reply so kindly just acknowledge receipt of this letter.

Your own Concerned Countryman.

Efo Koku Gator.

 
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Posted by on July 3, 2014 in ARTICLES

 

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When The Cockerel Begins To Crow

When The Cockerel Begins To Crow

We can call our fathers whatever we want to, say whatever we want to say about them but trust me despite everything we love them to the core. Look there is no formula to parenting and most of them have made some mistakes but hey no one is perfect, not even Efo’s daughter who is called perfect. As Father’s day approaches I can’t help but share my story with you.

As boy growing up, there was nothing I dreaded more than my father’s angry voice or him clearing his throat whilst my charges for the day were being recapped by the Inspector general of the house, my Mum. I swear, you can hear my heat beat ‘kpo’ like the sound of lizards hitting the floor in a falling off a tree contest at regular intervals. Most of you would agree that, a one on one chat with our Dads was not a part of our wildest imaginations. The only conversations we had with them were question and answer sessions with our heads bowed down and our feet drawing abstract imaginary images on the floor. With my Dad for instance, whenever he was looking for something, we had to make sure the thing was where any of us saw it before we offer to help him find it. Woe betides you, when you say you saw the thing somewhere and he asks that you bring it to him and then you come back to say it is no longer there.

One of the things that baffled me and still baffles me is when my Dad would insist I stopped crying whilst he was beating me. Am I supposed to laugh in pain? What kind of impossible request too was that? Even Tom Cruise would give up on this mission for it is truly impossible. The funny thing is that my beatings always increased when I wanted to prove that I could take a beating by not crying despite the immense pain. I know most of you will say ‘ooh but we were all beaten when we were young’. Well for your information there is beating and there is BEATING. And in most cases I received the BEATING for my mischief because my Dad was an ‘Eweman’. Now, let me take my time to explain this. You see in Ghana, the best disciplinarians are fathers from the Volta region who are teachers, Military men or carpenters. The unfortunate thing however is that all ‘Ewemen’ are carpenters and so it becomes worse when he is a teacher or military personnel in addition to his born-with profession of a carpenter. And with my Dad being a teacher you can begin to sympathize with me now. Reminiscing about these I’m beginning to suspect that our parents were in a sort of competition. For a minute, just close your eyes and imagine the sounds you would hear from a cluster of semi-detached teacher bungalows that had boys within the same age group on Saturday evenings. Yeah, that was us. An emotional ensemble of beatings and cries that could compete with the Israelites’ cry to Moses in the wilderness from the various households on OLA campus.

But aside all these I can say with all authority and certainty that my Dad loved me to bits and was just trying his best to keep me on the right track. Did he overdo it at times? I will say YES, but if he were here, he will disagree but hey in such a contentious debate would you agree that you are wrong? My main problem however was how like most parents he felt I was the five or seven year old kid who he must help tie his shoe lace when I entered the university. For me it was an interesting experience. Even in the University my Dad always referred to me as a boy. Well I’m sure if he were to know some of the things I was doing and capable of doing he wouldn’t have but his perception fully changed about me one Sunday when I did the unthinkable.

Now, my Dad’s trademark insults when he was really mad at me for something I had done or said were to first say ‘Are you silly?’ and then comes the real insults that come in two folds, “stupid boy and foolish boy’. And so on this particular Sunday, my Dad discovered that I had not moved some roofing sheets on which we dried some maize to where he had asked me to. So he shouts from across the compound asking where the roofing sheets were still where they were and my response was that I felt where they were, was ideal. Wrong answer kroa.!

“Where are you?” he fumed

Immediately I emerged out of the room, I was greeted with the trademark question and insults of

“Are you silly? You feel you are now wiser than I who gave birth to you because you are in your final year in the University? Stupid boy! Fooolish boy!”.

My next action surprised everyone including myself. I burst out into a hysterical laugh that confused him and made him look white as though he had seen a ghost. My big sister came rushing out of the room and looked at me as though I had committed the unholiest of all unholy sacrileges. Their reaction made it even worse because my laughter intensified. Then my Dad found his voice and with a sterner look that could crack a palm kernel, he said,

“What are you laughing at?’

Not wanting to choke on my laughter, I covered my mouth and took in a deep breath and said

“I’m laughing because even at this age you are still referring to me as a boy”

He looks at me, shakes his head, and said

“I’m sorry but you are a Foolish and stupid young man’ and bursts into laughter himself and signals me to come over so we pack the roofing sheet together.

I’m sure my sister did not understand the effect of that moment as my Dad and I did. For it was one of those rare moments when a father realizes that his son is a man and needs to be treated as such.

 

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Posted by on June 10, 2014 in ARTICLES

 

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News on reactions to Kweku Bonsams’s Confession.

News on reactions to Kweku Bonsams’s Confession.

Barely some 24 hours after the news was broken out worldwide locally acclaimed and now internationally known witch doctor Nana Kweku Bonsam claims responsibility for Ronaldo’s injury problems, the GFA President, Mr. Kwasi Nyantakyi is calling for his refund of 10,000 Ghana cedis he paid for special spiritual backings for the Black Stars of Ghana. According to Alakpanyadzordzor Newspaper’s source at GFA, Mr. Moony Watara, the GFA president is very angry that instead of  injury to more than half of the entire teams playing Ghana at the group stages of the world cup, only one player was picked from the lot to get injured. Meanwhile a section of the Ghanaian populace are asking whether Nana Kweku Bonsam’s spirits  couldn’t do anything positive like the corrective surgery he went for in the USA. One particular man, Efo Komla Ganya who spoke to our reporter said ‘So wouldn’t it have been more profitable if Kweku Bonsam used his ‘powers’ to revive the economy rather than injury Ronaldo? Why if Ronaldo no play the World cup den Ghana go win am? World cup we go chop? Naniama’.

Elsewhere, The Portuguese government is calling on their consulate in Ghana to increase its visa fees by 300% because of Nana Kweku Bonsam’s confession. According to their spokesperson Pepe Lucante, Ronaldo is a Portuguese national asset and injury to him means a toll on their economy and since Ghana is responsible for his injury, It is only prudent that Ghanaian’s pay the price. The Portuguese government has also asked its football federation to petition Fifa to withdraw Ghana for the world cup and ban them for life just as they did to India when the used juju to score Ghana 99 goals to 1 in a friendly some decades ago.

Reports reaching us from the President of Ghana’s office indicates that when his Portuguese counterpart sent a message to complain and expresses his displeasure, the response he got was Daddy Lumba’s current hit song ‘Mentie obiaa’ as a Whatsapp response.We will keep you posted as knew information emerges on this story.

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Posted by on June 5, 2014 in Fiction

 

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My Chronicles 3 (Life of a battered young woman)

My Chronicles 3 (Life of a battered young woman)

PASTOR FRED.

Its crazy how writing about my story with Pastor Fred bothers me a lot but this is a major chapter in my life that I need not over look because at the end of the day, it is my prayer that any of you who finds yourself in this kind of situation will at least know that you are neither the first nor the last to experience this. I have read most of your reactions and I know what most of you feel for me is neither sympathy nor pity. Most of you feel I’m stupid to allow myself go through all these things just like my mother did and there is no way I hold these against you. Somehow, her experiences made her more inclined towards the belief that her problems and my problems in relation to men was more spiritual that psychological hence her decision to introduce to Pastor Fred. Our relationship started out like a lost sheep and a caring shepherd who had found the once priced sheep in the most devastating state and trying everything within his power to restore the sheep to its past glory. With the zeal I was working with in the house of the lord, the Church snatched me up to groom me into a wife, teach me ministry etiquette, and give me face time with my pastor so I could “counsel” with him and make sure my decisions were ran through him before I did anything major in life.

To be frank, Fred was a rock star of a growing church…worshipped by many. He came from a gambling and petty background that fed his appetite for the carnal things according to him. He got “saved” and sought a leadership position and was a very talented guy who rose through the ranks quickly. He was very comfortable in the spotlight and extremely charismatic and he actually seemed like a nice guy on the surface though some have reported he can be a jerk…but so can we all at times. Normally I would not date a baldhead man who had a potbelly, which was competing with his head for attention but getting to know (at least that’s what I thought) him more made his body structure the least of my worries. He has this fashion sense that was on point and very admirable. Most often in my conversations with him, he’d tell me how he felt very blessed and privileged to be ‘saved’ just like certain Bishops and Arch Bishops who had similar backgrounds as his. And most often than not, there was this eternal glow that came from within him and shone in his eyes when he talked about his dream of becoming on of the top Pastors in the country.

Gradually our relationship developed into one of admiration and affection towards each other and since he was not married it felt prudent to start a relationship that will lead to marriage. The initial idea was to practice a no sex before marriage but as ‘body no be firewood’ so we found ourselves shagging left right and center like a maracas in the hands of a charismatic praises leader. At church it was an open secret that Pastor Fred and I were dating and this drew its fair share of admiration and envy but to me this was the life I felt God was preparing me for. Little did I know that there was a huge catch to this when he was exposed hiding behind the veneer that he was something he wasn’t.

It started one Sunday afternoon. I had gone to his place to prepare him lunch and supper as had become the ritual. Half way through preparing the foods I heard a knock on the door. I left everything I was doing, went to open the door only to see an angry looking at the door. When I told her he was not yet back from church after she enquired about his whereabouts, then she half shoved me out of the way as she made her way towards the bedroom. I was confused. Who was this? Was this a family member I did not know? Was this a test to see how humble or rude I was? Ten minutes afterwards Fred came home from church and before I could report to him he speed off to the bedroom. What I saw when I entered the bedroom was indeed more than a shock. Here was Fred on his knees begging the lady for forgiveness and the only response he got were to heavy slaps on both cheeks. When I rushed to defend him, he smacked me on the face and asked that I leave the room. The lady went into the kitchen and dumped all the food I was preparing into the dustbin and walked out. I will later on discover that this was a lady Fred had promised marriage, duped and dumped just two months into our relationship after he verbally assaulted me for coming to his rescue. He called me worthless, stupid, an animal that deserved no mercy and in some instances found a way of even insulting me in his preaching. During mid week service after this incident, told the congregation that the Lord had given him directives that the President of the Youth Ministry, me was to do dry fasting for two weeks in anticipation of a fruitful youth week celebration since as the leader, I needed to be sanctified and holy to lead ‘my people’ during that period.

The straw that broke ‘this camel’s’ back was when he called me an idiot in front of other church members for disagreeing with him on a program line up for the youth ministry of which I was the President. When this was raised at a church leadership meeting he charmed his way out of the truth. In some weird twisted way, the other leaders got sprinkled with fairy dust and it blinded them, and I was deemed as crazy, grabbing for attention, and trying to tear down God’s work.  Certain people who I held in high esteem and confided in them will later on betray me by concocting lies about me to the extent that one Sunday half way through his preaching he stopped and said that the spirit of the lord had directed him to break up with me and also demote me as the president of the youth ministry. According to him there were some ancestral demons that were working through me to bring down the church and that I needed prayers. I was hauled by three strong ushers for the whole church to pray for me when I refused to come forward for prayers when he demanded I do so. After this, I consulted a lawyer friend of mine who agreed to sue Pastor Fred and the church for abuse on my behalf. When the affidavit was served them they went to see my mother to ask me to drop the charges with the promise of reinstating me as a member of the church, president of the youth ministry and fiancée Fred. I found this to be very laughable and told my mother to go tell them that they could offer me the whole world; I would still go ahead to sue them. When the saw that I was not barging, they counter sued me for financial malfeasance and fabricated stories on how I had duped some members of the church. As I write this, the cases are still in court and they do not look like winning anything. Next week I’ll tell you about how everything changed for me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
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Posted by on April 11, 2014 in Fiction

 

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My Chronicles 2 (Life of a battered Young Woman)

My Chronicles 2 (Life of a battered Young Woman)

JAMES.

There are times you need to check the pieces of your life and tick some off as mistakes that should have never occurred and this chapter is one of them. Anytime I think about my relationship with James, I do not know whether to curse him or curse the day I allowed him into my life. I met James during the first half of the first semester of my first year in the University. Now, Ideally he wasn’t the one I wanted to date. I had wanted to date Eric a colleague, but Eric was also interested in Sitso my now best friend. Since I couldn’t have Eric, I decided to make sure that he also didn’t get to date Sitso by telling her lies how Eric had confided in me that the only reason he had befriended her was to get into her pants and dump her later. Up till now I still can’t believe she swallowed it line, hook and sinker because Eric was and is still just an adorable cool, calm and collected guy who would place anyone’s happiness above his when he deeply cared about the person. These days I see how Sitso struggles with her relationships and I wish I just didn’t separate her from Eric. Well, enough of the regrets. Let me continue with the James story. James was a year ahead of us and like any ‘adventurous guy, plunged himself into the whole ‘September rush’ thing. His initial target had swerved him so he fell on his back up plan ‘me’. The initial idea was to drain him of some cash by pretending I was interested because the school fees was expensive and I had to struggle for my upkeep in school. James however unlike me, comes from a well to do home and being the first child and only boy, his parents made sure he had virtually everything he wanted. We were friends for a couple of weeks and then he started taking me out to dinners and social events and out of the blues proposed to me. I told him I needed time to think about it and he agreed to give me time to do so. One day as early as 3:00 the strumming of a guitar outside our door woke my roommate and I up. We looked at each other confused as to who would be playing a guitar right outside our door at that time of the night. Then he began to sing Brandy’s ‘Have you ever’. In all honesty if Brandy had sang the song the way he sang it, it would have made absolutely no sale but the mere fact that he thought of an idea of singing to me at dawn and not caring if he woke up the whole hostel, sent a sweet sensation down my spine. I got out of bed smiling like a lunatic set free from the asylum, unlocked the door and planted a fat kiss on his lips that germinated into a yell of joy that attracted some cusses and insults from sleepy mouths.

The first month of our relationship was like a honeymoon. I was served breakfast in bed and treated like a real lady then it began to the envy of most of my other female colleagues. The sex was great too. I mean the kind that had your toes curl and tingle just by thinking about it. He did know how to make me come in many ways that one. On weekends we will visit his parents or younger sister and boy oooh boy did the love to have me around. During the second month things changed drastically. He warned me about getting close to any other guy at the hostel and that apart from his room I was not to go into any other guy’s room. At first I thought it was a joke but when he refused to eat the supper I had prepared for him but rather dumped it with the plate into the dustbin because he saw me coming out of Eric’s room I knew he was serious. There was this particular night that together with some other guys including Eric, they decided to go out for two parties they had been invited for. Around mid-night the whole hostel was up because on their way to the hostel James had picked a fight with Kwabena saying he suspected Kwabena was flirting with me. It had gotten to that point where if Eric had not practically dragged Kwabena away there was going to be a bout. That was when I discovered that anytime James had some alcohol his mental faculty switched to crazy mood. The next morning he left the hostel without a word to me and I thought he just needed some space to clear his mind. Around noon I was in my room when I heard a drunk James screaming my name on the corridor.

‘Gina Gina your whore, idiot! You think you can play with my heart eeerh? Today I teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.’

I rushed and locked my door. He tried to open the door but when he realized it was lock started banging on it and screaming

‘ Herh! Open this door right now if you do not want more trouble. I break this door oooh! Ashawo!’

I was so embarrassed all I could do was sit on my bed with my head between my thighs and weep. True to his words he broke down the door and with his belt in his hands, he gave me the beating of a lifetime. When he was exhausted. He half picked himself up and left the room. Now I know you are asking yourself whether there was no one apart from us at the hostel. Well there were others there, and they refused to come and stop him because I had stopped talking to most of them when they tried to warn me about James. Later that evening Sitso came from home to visit me. Well I do not know whether someone called to inform her of what James had done to me but one look at me and she decided it would be better if I follow her home so she could take care of me. I ended up spending a week at Sitso place and she advised that I end the relationship with James. When I got back to the hostel, I realized my door had been fixed, my bed sheet and curtains changed and a new laptop on my bed. I knew he was the one who had done all these so I packed everything and sent them to his room. He was out of the hostel and it was only his roommate who was there and so I poured the things on his bed and left him a note that I wanted to have nothing doing with him again.

For the next two weeks he was constantly begging me to forgive him, and that he didn’t know why he did what he did but no amount of begging was going to make me go back. Then he felt sick shortly and got admitted to the hospital and his mother came to plead with me to at least visit him since she suspected he wasn’t getting any better because of me. Out of respect for the mother, I agreed to visit him at the hospital, he said he would kill himself if I leave him, promised to be of great behavior and as it will turn out I found myself in his arms again. Everything was going on well then it got to a time the sex really began to suck. We will caress each other and set the mood, then he will undress me and stare at my body for long and tell me he was not in the mood. There were times he would shove things into my vagina all in the name of us being adventurous sexually and film these. Though I was not really comfortable with all of these, I partook in them all in the name of love and hoping it would revive his sex drive, at least that was what I thought. Then one day, I caught him having sex with another lady in his room. When I confronted him, he said left to him alone, he would not have sex with me because I stink and sealed it off with a sound beating. I cried the whole night and it got to a point I felt my eyes were going to fall out of their sockets and decided he wasn’t worth it. I called his mother to inform her that I had ended the relationship with her son because I could no longer take the abuse and then she came to visit me the next day.

She told me that men will always be men and that if I loved her son, I should stick by him no matter what he does to me because she knew he really loved me. That was when I realized her husband treated her the same way her son was treating me. I apologized to her and told her, I’ve had my fair share of abusive relationships and wanted a man who would treat me right. I told her that her son had filmed some of our sexual escapades and threatened to put them on the internet if I broke up with him but if she really loved her son she would advise him not to try that since there would be dire consequences. With this she stood up hugged me and left. The last time I checked, James is in Australia and married with two kids and has not yet killed himself because I left him. Next week I’ll tell you about Pastor Fred.

 
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Posted by on April 3, 2014 in Fiction

 

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My Chronicles.(Life of a Battered young woman)

My Chronicles.(Life of a Battered young woman)

It must have been the tenth time I had seen her this morning without a black eye. Was this really me?  The image in the mirror really didn’t reflect who I am but well shit happens in relationships and whether strange or not I was always the cesspit tank in most of the relationships I found myself in. I know a lot of you reading this will go all judgmental and say I was just a beautiful idiot (well not your typical beautiful girl that would have guys drooling and professing love to me by saying i was the only mosquito in their net so I should just bite them) and but hey I might even agree with you. But before you go any further than that, at least take your time to read my story and get to know me just a little bit.

Growing up, I had seen how my mother had struggled to take care of my elder brother and I. It was said that she was the most beautiful girl in the nine cluster of villages and what captivated most of the men who came in contact with her was that she had a beautiful brain. Educating girls was not a common thing then and most of the girls who had the chance of going to the village school only went up till standard six before they were married off to either some old man whose sexual libido was as short as a midget on his knees or the son of a rich farmer who wanted a girl form a good home for his son. My mother however was too brilliant to be married off to anyone when she passed her common entrance examination with distinction. Despite my grandfather wanting to marry her off as the sixth wife to Dzivenu the famous hunter of the village, the head teacher put his foot down and decided to sponsor her education at the secondary school level. It was here that she met my father. Because of her beauty that dripped like honey, she attracted her own fair share of bees, ants and houseflies. How she ended up with a cockroach like my father and ended her education, however, was and is something even I, a product of his loins cannot fathom. I was three years old when my father packed his things and left the house after beating mother severely and leaving her with a broken nose  and wounds belt stripes all over her body as though she was a zebra. That was the last time any of us ever heard or saw him. After him my mother was in and out of relationships like a ladle serving soup from a pot till there was nothing left to serve and so she decided to focus her energy on making sure we got the best education with the little income she was making.

Enough about my mother, right? So now let us begin with the chronicles of my love relationships.

DANIEL

I was seventeen when I first had a real boyfriend despite the fact that I had lost my virginity at the age of sixteen. You can say it was my curiosity about my womanhood and the things I had heard from friends that made me do it but hey that is a story to tell another day. Daniel was my elder brother’s mate in school and was more than a frequent visitor to our house. Anytime he was around, he would jump to my defense whenever I had a disagreement with my brother. I liked the way he was always defending me and made it a habit of always getting into some sort of trouble with my brother whenever he was around. Gradually he began visiting the house even when my brother was not around just to spend time with me then one day it happened. He had come around and as carefree as I had always been, I wore a see through blouse and could see him the salivate and his crouch bulge in his trousers like an overgrown boil ready to burst open. He tried to cross his legs to conceal the bulge in his trousers when he realized my eye had glided from his face to there. I turned away and smiled shyly to myself at the thought of him being embarrassed because of a natural reaction. Then I felt someone stand behind me.He held my arms and whispered into my ears.

‘Gina, you are so beautiful and I’m sure you are teasing me on purpose.’

Before I could open my mouth to reply him, his hands had cupped my breasts perfectly like a bra made specifically for them and then he began fondling them. I tried to free my breasts from his grip but his grip on them was very firm that the only defense I had was to bite him hard on the arm, which I did. He let go of my breasts and let out a cry of pain before smacked me hard on the face. I must have blacked out because the next thing I saw when I opened my eyes was him kneeling by my side and begging for forgiveness as he tapped both of my cheeks gently. My swollen eyelids seem almost impossible to open, they hurt so badly. The unmistakable taste in my mouth, a combination of tears and blood made me want to throw up but I couldn’t. What lie was I going to tell mother. She had always warned me about dressing properly with the boys around. Daniel was so visibly shaken and I found myself enjoying what was happening in a weird way. For three whole months after the incident , Daniel avoided our house like a plague and my mother even got suspicious and interrogated intensely like a CIA official on why Daniel no longer visited but I denied any knowledge of any reason. Well in the long run a had to lie to mother about the swollen eye and broken lips and she believed me. Well, that’s what i believe since she asked no further questions. Truth be told, I had to convince myself that the lie was the truth to sound convincing.

My mother had traveled and had left some money for the upkeep of the house and also some money to give to the cloth seller from whom she had bought a cloth on credit bases. When I went to give the money to the cloth seller, I was told she had traveled and would be back after three days. Then just as I left the cloth sellers house, I saw this beautiful pair of slippers that was in vogue. I decided to use the money since Auntie Jane had promised to pay me the money she owes me for doing her laundry for a month. I knew mother was not going to like it but hey, some things just need to be done. So here I was preparing to go out when the cloth seller walked in. I went pale like a rich man’s ghost that had just seen the two by four coffin in which he was buried. Yehowaaah! I had to lie to the woman and promise I would bring her the money later in the evening. Whether I sounded convincing enough for her or not under the circumstances was not something I was sure of but she just said I should make sure I bring her the money. Now, my only problem was where I was going to get the money. I ceased everything I was doing and rushed to Auntie Jane’s place to get the money but she also gave excuses. The only one I know who had that amount of money was Daniel and we were not even talking to each other.

I went home and took my bath and got dressed up. To get this money off Daniel I had to seduce him and so off I went to his house on a mission to get the money. When I got to his house I went to his door and knocked. I could hear shuffling from within the room and so I posed like a by force model trying to impress. His smile disappeared into a smirk when he opened the door and realized it was me.

 ‘What do you want here?’ He inquired without looking into my face.

I walked towards him and the door thinking he would allow me to enter the room but he stood his grounds.

‘Won’t you allow me to come in?’ I asked innocently.

He stared at me for a while and made way for me to enter the room. I made my way to the bed and sat on it. He closed the door and walked to wards me but stopped halfway from where I was. I laughed in my head got up and walked to him. I stood right in front of him and held him by the collar of his shirt.

‘Don’t you know I miss you?’ I asked

All he did was stare down at me with that foolish smirk on his face. I wrapped my hands up in his thick Afro hair and pulled his head down to mine and began to kiss him with such an intensity that when I pulled back, I knew I needed to finish this job quick. I had caught him off guard and the look in his eyes was one of him trying to figure out whether the kiss was a distractive mechanism or I was attracted to him as he was. The next hour would be of us naked as two balls of kenkey without their protection of cornhusk all over each other in a hot steaming sin escapade of sex that could burn down hell itself. After this we lay in bed breathing like a shameless boar after a heat session. Then he looked at me and smiled. The bed sheet was filled with stains of blood from the scratches he had received from me during the session

‘I am usually a control freak when it comes to sex or relationships. I see a woman; I take charge; I have sex, and then I move on. However, with you, you were the first woman who caused me to have sexual erotic fantasies just by seeing your smile’ he said.

I nodded, smiled and ruffled his Afro hair. After lying there for a while I got up and began to dress. He looked and my with his dozy eyes and asked that I stay a little longer, but I told him that I needed to go see whether Auntie Jane was back so see whether she has some laundry to be done for some money. He got up and said I shouldn’t bother and offered me three times the amount I needed which I took gladly. Come on! I know what you are thinking but yeah I didn’t need to make it obvious to him that lured him to have sex with me so I could get money. I was and am no prostitute. Well, technically speaking you can say on this occasion I was.

Later that evening I went to pay off Mother’s debt and went home. From that day onwards Daniel and I became a couple and our parents knew about this. Outwardly we were the coolest couple in the area but the truth was that Daniel was a chronic cheat who couldn’t be cured if all the fetish priests of Dahomey combined their powers. He ended up beating me every time I confronted any of the girls he was cheating on me with until one day my brother chanced upon him beating me up. The fight that emanated from this had him getting two of his ribs broken by my brother and causing the end of our relationship. I however visited him twice when he was healing and had some of the best sex in my life but then he wasn’t for me so I move on with my life. Next week I’ll tell you about James.

 

 

 

 

 

 
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Posted by on March 26, 2014 in Fiction

 

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Expressions Of Love

Expressions Of Love

I want to paint you with numbers
And calculate your effect on me with words.
I want my thoughts to beat for you
As my heart thinks about the smiles you make my eyes express
I want to find the Venn diagram within the figurative expressions of this love.
Only then will I understand this intelligent confusion of the heart doing nothing more than pumping blood
And the mind lost in thoughts it generates

 
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Posted by on February 14, 2014 in Poems

 

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Val’s Day Surprise. Hahahahaha

A year down the lane, this is still relevant.

Soulbase's Blog

The bases of all relationships is LOVE, however, there are a lot of things that need to be invested in relationships to make them work. Romantic love is a -two way traffic thing but then again the worst feeling one can have is to be in a relationship and yet feel lonely. Today as we celebrate Valentine’s day, one of the many borrowed cultures we hold in high esteem, most of the young ladies are going to legally(though with no constitutional backing) extort things they need from us (guys) in the name of love, yet most of us guys will not get any presents at all.  Let us look at this hypothetical story of our good friend Koo Kusi who earns GHC700.00 as monthly salary and is in love with a lady who wants him to take her out for dinner today at a plush place. On the average a…

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Posted by on February 14, 2014 in Poems

 

I Hate you for the same reason I Love you.

I Hate you for the same reason I Love you.

I was sitting observing the stars of the skies

Trying to heal my heart’s scars

then you shoot  my heart with your brightness.

Now my skin has split where it is the softest

I am tranquilized with these deep feelings that are deeper than the Volta

Like a bird in a trap, my song has changed

Changed to the that of the loom and the thread

as it churns out a beautiful cloth

I do not know whether I have sold my freedom to the devil

or I’m under  captivity of my guardian angel

And so lost in thoughts and emotions I declare to you Obaa Yaa

I hate you for the same reason I love you

I was at the dance of the masquerades

dancing to my own dance steps under my own mask

There was a reason to my madness

A joy that I alone understood

Then you came

Unmasked

danced and stole my heart away

erasing my joy and replacing it with another

turning my half moon into a full moon

All I do now is howl you name in a silent song of fulfillment

My dance steps are in unison with yours but incomplete without you

for you are the music that makes the head and feet of my heart nod and tap

My mask is off and I’m exposed like naked buttocks under torn cloths

Why Obaa Yaa? Why?

Now I hate you for the same reason I love you

 
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Posted by on February 7, 2014 in Poems

 

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The man Komla Dumor and Friendship.

The man Komla Dumor and Friendship.

I’m one of those who feels disgusted at how people flood their timelines of Facebook and other social media avenues with tributes to famous people who have passed away. You can actually read through the lines that since others are doing it the also want to do it and most lack that convincing tone that the person really had a certain sort of influence on their lives.And so I will like to state categorically that this is not a tribute to Komla Dumor but more of a celebration of his life and one of the basic things he valued in life that runs across all the tributes pouring forth from people he was really close to. FRIENDSHIP.

I will not for once pretend to be an expert on Komla Dumor because I never met the man in my life. Indeed his death is now sinking in. The best I’ve come to meeting him is watching him on my TV screen or listen to his voice on radio. In so many ways his voice always reminded me of my late father ‘s voice in spite of the fact that they are both Komla. Though my father’s voice was not as rich as his, the mere fact that they both still had that uniqu unadulterated Ghanaian tone despite their exploits outside Ghana when they spoke was something I really admired.

In my decades on earth, I have lost people who are very dear to me. I have seen very close friends and relative got through real tough times and I have been down that road on several occasions. Yet I have risen up and seen people rise because of the people they surrounded themselves with.  It is said that you know your true friends when misfortune knocks you flat on the floor and in most cases this is very true.One thing I have learnt through the tributes that are pouring forth for Komla Dumor is that he is someone who valued friendship. Just reading some of the tributes or even listening to them reflect how much of a loss his demise is to those who knew him personally.

Reading Francis Doku .Anny Osabutey, Kwame Gyan, Manasseh, Maama AB’s tributes about Komla and listening to Doreen, Sahmens, Jimmy Quist, Herbert Mensah, Kojo Oppong among others makes me realize that unless you get to know someone do not stand on the sidelines and conclude that the person is arrogant or, egocentric.Get to know the person and then you can decide on what perception to hold on to. Truth be told, I’ve had that same experiences in life and the one that stands out for my was during my latter days in Nafti when, a friend Stella told me that before we became friends she saw me to be very arrogant, too knowing and egocentric. Indeed people do have these perceptions about others and trust me, I always come to the defense of my friends or people I really know when people express these perceptions about them.

The least we can do is to celebrate our friends in life before we die or they die.  Just this Saturday as I sat down with some friends reflecting on Komla’s demise, I told them that we need to keep those who we care about close to our heart and remind them every now and then of how much they mean to us. We need to respect each other and our choices despite the differences in them, learn to forgive and let go, fight our battles fairly, be graceful and grateful in our victories and love like it’s the last time you’d have the opportunity to. Komla was just human like anyone of us and might have had his other side but his death has actually projected the side of him people who were close to him really loved. My wish however was all these should have been done when he was here with us.Indeed I do have very little friends but I know my friends can attest to the fact that I do hold friendship in high esteem, unfortunately this once cost me a love relationship when the lady told me I took friendship too seriously.

I do not know how Komla has impacted on your life but the question you should be asking yourself right now is, will those who claim to be your friends have something to bring a beaming smile that will rival the sun to their faces as they grieve on your demise? How true are you with the persons you call your friends? What kind of perception do they have about you, based on your relationship with them? The era of keeping silent and waiting for someone to pass away before we celebrate the person must cease and as we also wait for our turn to die, let each and everyone of us do some critical retrospect of our individual lives and those we affect and make sure our candles are burning right.

RIP Komla Afeke Dumor.

 
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Posted by on January 20, 2014 in ARTICLES

 

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My Love Letter to Yvonne Nelson

My Love Letter to Yvonne Nelson

Dear Yvonne Nelson,

This is not the usual love letter you receive that says, you are the only mosquito in my net so bite me or your smile rivals the sun. No, this is a hard core love letter like no other. A love letter that is more about how much money we can make with the gift you have. The truth is that I never for once thought you’d be the first  to receive an letter from me this year,. Anyway happy New Year to you! Where did you spend your Christmas and New Year vacation, Dubia, Nigeria or the UK? As for me I was in Accra and Ho sampling fufu and grasscutter meat but I won’t be surprised if you’ve never tried it in the last 4 or five years. Enough of the fufu business.

I know you do not know me, so please, do not worry your brain trying to figure out where you know me from. I’m not really a fan of Ghanaian films and I’m sure you won’t recognize me as one of those who stare at you on screens.I could have decided to contact Inyanya to deliver this message for me,but I fear he’ll fall short because the guy is so fixated on your waist I’m sure he has a life size dummy of your waist to keep him sane .. What lies in your waist I’m yet to discover(though I’m not interested in that), maybe you can tell me whether it has hydraulics or ball bearings.  Jon Germain would have been my other option but I was told you said, you never had anything to do with him and he was leeching to fame via you

Now, Yvey I know you are wondering why I’m writing you this letter. Well, my main reason for writing you this sweet letter is to tell you that all the people who are bashing you for saying your skin became ‘ripe’ due to your consistent use of Queen’s cocoa butter for the past three years know absolutely nothing about human agriculture. Truth be told, if in three years you could attain this ‘ripeness’ using Queen’s cocoa butter, I suspect in the next six years you’ll become transparent. Then at least we can have the Ghanaian sequel of the movie ‘The Invisible Man’ but this time it will be the ‘Invisible Woman’ starring YVONNE NELSON. I hope you’ll produce it yourself and allow me to direct.

To be honest with you Y-von, saying your beauty  glows like a  firefly all thanks to Queen cocoa butter can be seen as contempt but whether its a dying firefly or a live one is another thing all together.Unlike you, I’ve had the direct opposite of your experience using shea butter over. And so believe me when i say, I have a better understanding of you situation than Apostle Kojo Safo in reverse. I was a complete albino some years ago but the consistent usage of shea butter from the North has reversed my hitherto ‘ripe skin’ to become dark. And I fear I’ll soon become the alternative for nightfall. Traditionally, I’m not someone who makes resolutions but after my experiences last year I have made the decision that by all means necessary I want to make as much money as I can this year. It is for this reason you and I need to sit down so we see how we can see how best we can transplant this idea into plant agriculture so farmers can use Queen’s cocoa butter to ripen fruits like banana, mangoes, pawpaw and tomatoes. Oooooh yes tomatoes are fruits and and classified as berries so please lose that frown on your face. I know what I’m talking about. Just imagine the amount of money we will make providing farmers with the product. Aaarh lest I forget, please do not disclose your supplier to anyone lest they cash in on our preposition. You know Ghanaians, most of the time do not respect copyright.

Last year, you were ranting about how sexy your legs were. With no malice intended can you please let me know the SI for the measurement of sexy legs so I can measure some legs that claim to be in the same category as yours. All I want to do is eliminate any sort of competition. We can actually make some extra cash opening clinics that measure the sexiness of legs in Ghana per your standards and the extend it to the rest of Africa and the world. Our elders say Judge not your beauty by the number of people who look at you, but rather by the number of people who smile at you and you make me smile anytime I think about you. At least that’s what my mind wants me to believe as a fact but the truth is a fact can be the truth or a lie. I’m yet to discover what kind of fact it is though. Do you know the legs are referred to as cassava sticks by some tribes in Ghana? And so literally speaking if your legs were cassava sticks what type would they be? ‘Dis na jus kwesion oooh make you no vex.’

It is said that when a once-beautiful piece of Kente cloth has turned into rags, no one remembers that Kpetoe master weavers wove it.  I believe everyone and everything has beauty in it, however it is how you exhibit this beauty that reflects your true nature. You are indeed a talent and a viable asset to me now and so I advise we act aptly on your discoveries and make money with them.  Babe its all about the cash!

I really look forward to you replying  so please grant me the opportunity of getting to know you better and transacting business with you. Cos like Pae Dea said it Money over Bridges this year.

Your lover to be,

Koku Gator I

 
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Posted by on January 8, 2014 in ARTICLES

 

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Wisdom Of The Old Flaccid Breast

Wisdom Of The Old Flaccid Breast

I must have been 6 months old when Mother left for the city because aside her yearly visits, she was a total stranger to me. Indeed Naana, my old fragile grandmother whose skin wrinkles were like the abomasum of a ruminant was the only mother I knew. Though almost in her late seventies she possessed the strength and grace eight of the best young maidens combined in the village did not match up to. Who my father was, is as a mystery as whether elephants have stretch marks or not. Life to me was all about my grandmother and I. It was out of the norm not to find her sitting at her usual spot when I got home from school. This was where I had to go through everything I was taught in school with her. She would first display her golden brown teeth that shined like freshly roasted dry maize in a grin that I can neither describe as a frown nor a smile and then ask me to pull out a stool from the corner of the veranda. Spreading out my exercise books on her laps, we would go through all I was taught at school for the day. For someone who had not gone beyond standard six, her arithmetic and basic English was impeccable, well let’s just say by the standards of a thirteen year old who was now in class three, in a village school my grandmother had a very high IQ.

I do not know whether it was out of fright or just because I expected her to be sitting there when I got back home that made me scream her name as I run across the compound in search of her. I could feel my heart race like that of a little squirrel that had just escaped from the jaws of a starved hound. My ears folded like ‘wele’ as I tried to block the voices in my head that were narrating the possible scenarios playing tricks on my mind like an out of tune church organ. Just as I made the sharp curve towards the goat pen at the back of out hut still screaming her name, I was brought to a halt be when I heard my name from the main compound.  It was Mother’s.  Now my confusion was as conspicuous as that of a newborn baby when the midwives and everyone smiles at it when it comes out of the womb.  Then Nanaa emerged from within the room, her demeanor something I had never seen in my thirteen my life. Her facial wrinkles all of a sudden had become as deep as gullies caused by the tsunami of thoughts and pain that had engulfed the plains of her mind via the reality of me leaving her. In her deep but calm voice she told me she had packed all my things for me and I was to leave with mother to the city that very afternoon. A part of me wanted to be happy that I was going to the city but who was going to keep her company, who would fetch her water and fire wood, for would cut grass for the goats and take care of the fowls?  Without uttering a word I walked to her, hugged her and began to cry. It was the first time in many years that tears had rolled down my cheeks and this time Naana did not ask me to be a man and stop crying. Together we bathed in the tears and the memories of the times we had together. After a while she pulled me away from the hug and held me by the shoulders.

‘ I know you will do well in the city, never forget the things I taught you. Respect people, be kind to them even when the dislike you, learn as much as you can from your failures, fear God, appreciate life and be thankful to God for everything.’ She said.

I opened my mouth to speak but words failed me. My whole body was shivering like a faded and torn Ghana flag hanging on a pole.  Then my grandmother surprised my mother and I. She pulled out her flaccid breasts and pushed her palm kernel looking nipple into my mouth without any warning.  My head was greeted by a heavy knock from her hard knuckles as I pulled my mouth away.

‘Suck my breast’ she commanded.

Afraid of what was to follow if I refused to do as asked I sucked on her breast. After a few seconds she pulled it out of my mouth.

‘How does it taste?’ she asked

‘It has no milk and so all I tasted was my own saliva.’ I replied.

She looked at me and smiled.

“Life is going to offer you opportunities and some of them will have no taste like a non-lactating flaccid breast like mine. You can use your imagination and believe it is giving you the best milk you’ve ever tasted or choose to just taste your own saliva. You are a man and so life expects a lot more from you.’ She held the base of the cloth around her waist and wiped my face with it. Without saying another word she picked her cutlass and basket and left the house.

 

This was twenty years ago. After living with my prostitute mother for five years at Sodom and Gomorrah in Accra, I was kicked out when she discovered my friends and I rob her clients after they patronize her services hence the derail in her business. I served a three-year jail term for selling Indian hemp (this is another story to tell) and it was during my jail term that I decided to do something positive with my life per my grandmother’s last words to me. When I got out of jail, I did manual works as a laborer on farms and construction sights and went into apprenticeship as a plumber. After completing my apprenticeship I decided to work with my Master until I could establish myself. It was during this period that I had met her. She had come to ask my former boss if he could recommend someone to fix the taps at her new place. My boss told her I was the best person to do the job for her and that is how we became friends and eventually got married and now have three lovely children who are doing great and fighting their own demons.

 

 

 

 

 

 
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Posted by on December 17, 2013 in Fiction

 

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