To a Black Christian woman,

Your skin became an altar

With sacrifice upon sacrifice presented to God.

(like) A living slaughter

Made whole by the – not a – mortal cord

Made immortal in your heart by colours of you

When you tell your saviour, “you are all I want in you”

Dear Chocolate Chistian Woman,

Time doesn’t come late;

Only men do

And women too

But when Your Creator, you behold

It would be the sweetest taste to hold

Like chocolate

But with a better fate

photocredit: Black Christian Woman



They don’t behave themselves; they hardly behave properly. The beautiful behave in diverse unorthodox ways: they either lack the right words or over-talk. They snort while laughing, use spoons rather than forks, forget to say grace before meals; some either eat with unwashed hands or talk with mouthfuls. The beautiful are ugly a lot of the time. They forget their names, are terrible-looking at sunrise, drained at sunset. Sometimes, they behave themselves: right after realizing their mistakes.

The beautiful are not fatherless for they hide behind God. They are wounded in battle yet they are forgiven. They are unconscious of life to be conscious of God. They die every day and are buried in their guilt only to resurrect in the grace of salvation. They love all colours even the colourless. They behave like chicks but become eagles by a just law of grace and works. They behave not because they can but because they must. They are not aware that they are beautiful. They are you who reads and I who wrote. They are all; simply, not the dead but all who breathe.



Why try to be Beautiful?

Why? But why not?! At birth, we were like French mimes. Monochrome and speechless. The world shocked us to tears, that is a stage. Then we became beautiful when we ceased to be speechless.

      Beautiful art thou when thou expresses thyself.

But is that all: Become beautiful to express or express to become beautiful? Barely adequate, you know… Why bother being beautiful? Simple. We try to be beautiful to gain meaning, to express our thoughts, to become us. The beautiful is the expressive, even in the absence of conventional expressions. So I try to be beautiful to fill myself with colour, with life, with a course, with hope, with faith, with meaning, with…an endless bucket list checked-out. Why try to be beautiful? But why not anyway; after all, beauty is not really a choice but there are choices in beauty.

UP-NEXT is How are the beautiful?




A couple of condiments, really. A silver line of truth-telling; a motif foundation-acceptance; a cloak of light-weight assertiveness. The beautiful are not made-up but they make-up a lot. What makes up beauty? The ark of belief itself; a metro of sunshine’s at midnight; the right colour combination or the right combination of shades. Beauty is about colour sometimes:  black and sky blue, grey with navy blue, white and Persian blue, brown and powder blue, red and midnight blue. Blue is beautiful but blue is sad…grim and beauty could be, especially keeping up with what makes it up. Not to digress, beauty is made up of all colours in one; a mixture of sweat and pitch blood, stress to keep up sometimes. Beauty is made up of over-rated opinions, approval score-cards and miniature patterns from fashion dreams. Beauty is made up of(f) mistake(S), beauty is made of art; it is all and these days it has, in it’s sane mind, become nothing.


 UP-NEXT IS Why try to be Beautiful?


There is a simple beauty in the possession of a thought; a single eye; a blame scale; a faulty memory. There is a sound pleasure in wrestling with the past and conforming to the inability to conform. At times, my midnight battles are not with sleep or strange spirits; neighbours hammering on brick walls or frog croaks, lovers moaning, moon dancing or twilight’s stretch, mine are with thoughts. The thoughts to conquer and those that come conquered.

There is a simple reckoning in colours; submissive as they may appear to the eyes…eye. And then the sublime seduction to gloat freely in the boastings of the past. I see at times that most human battles are with the past. What was I that I am not? What did I not know that I now know? When was it – life – good or when was evil not naught? Sometimes, we hate from the past only to see our souls prosper the love to hate from the past. Its challenging to fight that battle here with a single eye but what isn’t it? It’s best to dwell on definition and for hate, it’s tricky but one must know that the definition of hate as the love to hate is not simpler yet this is not the battle. The battle is and has almost never left the past.

Referring to the past and its misgivings, I found hope belated and in a somersaulting plane I found the beauty of unholy chants best left uncharted. My scribbling is slow-hearted; pardon me, I suffer from the guilty of a self-love session. However, I have found it a blessing to testify of a mile of forgetfulness; for there is a beauty in forgetfulness.

There is a humble joy in forgetfulness and the musing of the act…art of forgetfulness and I mark transitions this way. I mark them by simply forgetting. This time, it is a long plane to cross: A weighty cross to bear: about forgetting and simply forgetting thoughts which battle with me at night or dream-chasing. It’s is a drug at times to forget this season: Forgetting sand-roads and mist rising from cars pursuing cars.

Forgetting rock-pathways and skyline streams; letting night sparkles from mountain caps go. Forgetting a rushing carnal which was my neighbour; forgetting music in the guise of language, cursing in Twi. Most spectacularly, forgetting the place where a sailor-at-sea curse for a voice is always eminent. Forgetting a hill filled with beggars; begging for attention, loving the shouts of conflict until the bad economy seals their lips to fend for food…or vend food for food.

Forgetting playful Lebanese bike-riders and money sucking warehouses; money stalking warehouses. Forgetting about semi-nude women who plead guilty to nudity proudly on the charges of fashion and vogue with young adults loving the trend of kneevage-showcase which is simply parallel to four-year event that reveals the shocking price we pay to get sold – the common beauty in paradoxes of fishes dying while trying to feed.

I bless the similitude of my battle for in my aimless strife to forget. I remember it all coming and leaving as vividly as they have always been. Do I bless the creator of memory for His creation? Yes, and for the single eye which is the light of the body, house of the soul.


Dear Dad #4


Dear Dad,

I miss you. I tell myself I’m better off alone, and I’ll be stronger when I’m independent. But I really can’t imagine life without you.I have imagined it,its not worth talking about.

I spend a lot of my time thinking. .. well… worrying actually. You always tell me not to worry but we both know that’s impossible for me.

I know you’re far… really far. But I think you’re close enough. Well… I made black braids and I added coloured pins… I got a teal coloured nail polish and found out it was too bright for my skin tone…lets not go there.

Today I took off my jeans and felt so relieved… it was extremely tight… I lined my eyes just to enhance my look but by the time I went back to the mirror. .. it was all gone… I probably robbed it off then I was pouncing on my brother. .. I guess stuff like that ain’t for me.

For the first time I figured that my brothers shirt didn’t seem soothing. .. and may be I should have worn I peplum top or a vintage gown…Well… it finally hit me… now I know that you are not bothered by my looks, actions or inactions… all you wanna know is that I’m okay. Well dad… I have been through all sorts… toothache, headache, poor decisions, crazy and amazing moments but the highlight of everything is that I’ve got you… and that’s the truth I’m sure of.



Dear Dad #2

6:25 PM

Dear Dad,

I see running away from my problems as the first step to solving them. don’t judge me At least I’m aware there is a problem (I hope that counts for something). Some months back, I noticed an unlikely situation in my head. I ignored it, I knew it was odd but I paid no attention to it. Today, there is a war going on in my head (feel free to call it anarchy). okay running away isn’t always a good idea, how about I just tell everything to you?

I’m worried about my jeans, are they skinny enough? You never seem to care. I’m tired of black braids; I think I should add a pop of colour to them, like…say… blue or red, how about both? Sadly, it would never happen: mum believes I have to be decent. Apparently decency has been defined by black braids; weren’t all colours made to express beauty? I’m a little confused here and you have nothing to say about it – you’ve never said anything…

Last week, I tried out black nail-polish but my skin tone doesn’t bring it out at all. That’s technically your fault. Sometimes I get a little pissed that I’m not as fair as mum. I feel like night at day; I guess that makes two of us: It’s not that bad; I love putting on my brothers’ clothes, but whenever I’m hanging out with my girl friends I look like drag. So I stick with the guys – did I mention they find me comforting? I seem to be living the dream around deep voices and crooked moustaches. it doesn’t hurt to be different sometimes.

Daddy, I’m only bothered about all these things because I make myself think that is the problem. But the truth is my looks aren’t the problem…if only I knew the problem I would have said it already. Do you….know the problem?