Everyday People

I see everyday with my own very eyes, everyday people living everyday lives.

Everyday people is that poor lonely soul who is smack dab in the middle of the crowd but has never belonged, never been owned. and that one person who will sadly never know what it feels like to have peace inside even when they're alone.

The one who tries too hard, laughs too loud, and goes to bed, cries without a sound at night. The one who wants all of their life to be a part of the 'in' crowd, so they wear what they wear, talk how they talk, and lose their personality inside the society box, locked.

Everyday people is that girl struggling with a pregnancy scare. She wakes each morning and asks herself if she'd be able to find the courage to keep it there, at the same time she cannot face the disappointment in her parents' eyes if they were to hear. So she cries and she cries, she prays till sunrise, but she feels like God has turned his eyes so that one morning she wakes up, and she decides.

She calls the guy, he brings the pill. She says, she can't, but he says baby you've got to, and so she will. Two tablets, a few hours, now she's feeling ill. 

She watches her life flow between her thighs, love is life, but she didn't have enough love, she holds on to God while she dies.

Everyday people is the 'straight A' student with the weed addiction. Afflicted by the need for the herb, never mind that he's gifted- he's got too much on his mind, he's just trying to get high and get lifted, as soon as this examination is over, he swears he'd quit this. But this becomes the next examination, and then he's saying that at graduation, now he's justifying his situation like "mehn unemployment is a b*tch."

His parents are not exactly poor, but well, they've never really been rich- his mother's asking questions like "Nana why are you doing this??!"

He goes to church, he calls to God, but all he hears is 'roll a blunt.' He's getting high, he's searching for right, he's going to try to find the light.

He found the light, well, that's what his note said when they found him hanging by the light bulb- dead.

Everyday people is the woman having an affair. Her husband was 'playing' with the maid, now her son is 'playing' with her. And she's been struggling with the guilt every single night- she's a black African mother, this is white people sh*t, this isn't right! 

So she tries to have a talk with her baby, but her baby doesn't understand. "But I love you, mommy?" "I love you too my baby; my man." They shed a few tears, then they shed a few clothes, then they shed a few pounds, and after a while they begin to breathe slow...

There was a road not taken, but she chose the way she'd go, and as they sat to have the meal, she decided her son would follow.

There's two graves in the backyard now, her husband cries each day, cursing the God that took his wife and only child away.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that over time I've come to realise that everyday people save lives, and everyday people take bribes. Everyday people is everyone trying to make some sense out of life. 

Most everyday people are going to miss the point, because they're trying too hard to live the life a flawed society is pointing out as "THE WAY." So most of you everyday people are going to lose your true selves in an attempt not to stray.

But you're probably going to say "Come on, who are these everyday people anyway?" But you never have to look too far to see the truth. Because everyday people, exists right beside and inside you.

Mary Jane

Im sorry, I couldnt finish this, lost the train of thought or Im not too sure how it should end...feedback is still appreciated though.


Ive been meaning to put this up for some time now. I dunno, I guess Ive been a little concerned as to how some of my audience may react to this- im not a preacher or a doctor, and i sure aint no activist. Im just a girl trying to explain how i came to know another 'girl' , lets call her mary jane.

See the prospect of her seduced me right from infancy. As a growing person the idea of immersing myself in her flavours and vapours were the substance of my subconscious fantasy. And as I grew I knew the amount of social stigma attached to those who blew her blue-gray fumes so I convinced myself to focus my desires on things higher- people relations and school.

But after a while people stopped being worth relating to and the things I thought I knew turned out to be 80 percent untrue so the higher things I was aiming to, turned out to be the reasons I would turn to the one thing I had tried to factor out and reason, the one thing I had chosen to disbelieve in.

Because the good people died, the true people lied, the nice people either forgot I existed or stomped on my pride. God became abstract, the books- fuck that. My mind turned against me, my friends seemed to hate me...and she was always there, watching, waiting patiently.

I remember the first time we kissed. Her flavour in my mouth, filling my brain, Id never forget this. sitting in that dark corner with just me and my love, I met her alone because I was too selfish to let others enjoy what we'd have. Also I was scared, because behind the tough girl act was a little child who was so unprepared to take this first step to a lengthy commitment. Who barely had what it takes to develop such an involvement.

That first hit was not enough, loving her took time. I had to dedicate emotion and effort into finding her nuances, her little delicacies. absorbing her essence until i BECAME her intricacies. and I thought I had control of the relationship, I was the man. Id decide when we met, how long we'd stay together. But like every relationship propinquity developed into a necessity, and it didnt take long before she started controlling me. My weekend fling had started looking like a forever.

And we had our fights, some days i didnt want to intercourse because i knew fornication isnt right, but she would stand behind my mind with no clothes on and emanate her perfume until my brain was clouded with the smell of her and i had to make it a physical reality, and in the recesses of my mind i still didnt realise she was controlling me.

our relationship was bipolar, how she took me high and brought me so damn low and get me hot, solar. and i could float and orbit around planets, she was my plane, my rocket, my hammock. she put that smile on my face that no one else could erase, and i began to yearn to close my day so i could see her face.

Mary Jane.

the sound of her name, i supported her causes, invested in her charities. I knew all of her sources, she never had to find me. slowly but surely, she began to define me, my thoughts, my actions, it was like she had the blueprint of design 'me'.

Mary Jane.

I tried to get away, she convinced me to stay. never a demanding lover, but her opinions held sway over my decisions. Slowly real life began to look a lot more like fiction, first a comforter, then a friend, and then an addiction




Id like to explicitly state that all my works are works of fiction, and have no correlation with any person, either living or dead. Any such resemblance or similarity is a matter of coincidence.
Thank you

Till September

Short poem
So this is something I worked on a while ago, back in secondary 'high' school lol. Stumbled across it this morning, and thought it was quite apt for where I am now, so...enjoy.





I’ll be around till September

Till we see the fall of the leaves

And the sky heralds

The crossing of the geese.

Till September

When I can wait no more

Then, when I tire of waiting

At your door.

Till September, I’ll stay.

Till my love goes away.

I’ll be around till September.

Until then

Let it be May.

Morning After

This is uncomfortably akward. Not like theres any comfortable akwardness, but still...
Im not very good in tense situations. I feel like i need to say something. And i dont. So most of the time, i end up saying stuff that aggravates the situation. Waayyy aggravates.
I cant shut up about this. Ive got to say something.
Now hes uncomfortable as well.
Yeah run away. Like you did at 5 this morning. Like you keep doing.
We have to talk about this. I dont want to fight with you.
I dont want to lose your friendship.

I mean, i wont die, but it wont be fun either.
I suspect maybe I... 
Damn.
Love is a pretty strong word.

I dont want to rush this. Its too soon to rule out the possibility of a rebound reaction. I just have to be sure.

I have to be sure.

Last night.
Last night was not the first time last night happened, if you get what i mean.
And i wasnt exactly surprised. I was kinda expecting it.

Maybe I wanted it.

Maybe.

But somebody had to be sensible. And for once in my life, i did the sensible thing. For once.

It didnt come easy.

What, you think I was asleep??!
For a smart guy you can be awfully dense.

Awfully.

I dont want to do this under these circumstances. Because we both know how this is going to play out.
I leave here after we 'do something fun', like im going to see you again and we both know thats a lot of bullshit because we wont be able to stand each other.
We wouldnt be able to stand ourselves.

Youre not someone Id want to lose over a night. No.

What you are.
You are someone id like to do everything right with. For once in my life. Everything right, every correct process.
Every one of them. Over and over again.

Its not quite as scary anymore.

Now Im being melodramatic, so Ill just stop.
I hope you read this...

Loving You

Loving you is the physical expression of the feeling of eating banku and tilapia. With pepper. Red and green, you see, because sometimes youre stop, and sometimes youre go, and sometimes youre inbetween, colour yellow.

Loving you is the equivalent of listening to jazz. Kenny G on the sax. +233, you see because sometimes youre women of colour all wrapped up in one, and sometimes youre smooth, and sometimes youre rough. Like peanut butter. Extra salty.
That special flavour that is you, my love, sometimes youre white and some times youre blue.

The sea.

Sometimes you shout and rant angrily and sometimes your waves pound me. Literally. And you get me all wet.
Then you turn around and then you calm me.

Calm me but first make me scream and i try to escape but baby youve trapped me.

Loving you is crazy. Crazy my love, how i spend my time on something that will never be completely mine. Like a presidency. Loving you will be the death of me.

But baby kill me. Like you always do when I call out your name countless times before youre through...

Im loving you.

Inside Beauty

Beautiful one, who scarred you so? Who made you so bitter, 
so cold? 
Which twist of fate so perverted your taste, which cruel taskmaster stole your elemental warm heartmatter?
Beautiful one, who scarred you so?

 
Beautiful one, what hurt you so? What marred such delicacy, what rusted 
such gold? 
What form of pain caused such a loss, what possible name could fashion such a cross?
Beautiful one, what hurt you so?

 
Beautiful one, where did your smile go? On which sabbatical did you send 
your glow? 
From where do these tears flow? From where does such baggage grow?
Beautiful one, where did your smile go?

 
Beautiful one, where is your home? Where are those who care to share 
these loads? 
Which road do you take, which path do you beat? Where is the place where you joyfully take your seat?

 
Beautiful one, where is your home?

Perfection

perfection

the silent ones scream

the living cry..

the imperfect dream

and thoughts,like birds

fly.



perfection



the good hide

the good lie.

the wrong bluffs...

and looks for a way,any way

to survive.



perfection



the ends near..

the lies speak true.

the weak fear...

strong stays strong,always strong

and they fear too.



perfection



the sky stays blue.

Exclusivity

Not everyone is a writer. Not everyone has the power to breathe life  into stains,to communicate love and to express pain. Not everyone is  meant to impact lives through their words, to be serious or to be  hilarious, it's not a gift given to trivialities, it may seem like  playing with A B C's but its hardly that easy.Some peoples words are  just that, words- while  others move entire crowds to tears. Not  everyone can draw you into their mind, lose you there with hardly a  flicker of light to find your way out.Not everyone can make a word live, and forever echo symbolism with every  breath.Not everyone can begin a life, and bring a death.Some people  grip attention with the first line,some merely mark time till the final  statement. For a real writer there is no replacement. There is no  excuse, there is no reason. There is just the appropriate time, and the  appropriate season, and most appropriately the will to keep believing.A  real writer's reader just keeps reading...after the period yearns to  stop bleeding.

Blind

I don't want to settle for dreams and might have beens. I don't want to be amongst the would have seens and the it would seems.

I don't want to look back and regret opportunities that passed me by. I don't want to ever say if I had then maybe I...

I don't want to live a life without love- or without hate. I want to feel as much as I can and overflow on emotion like a gluttons plate.

I want to be the one who made mistakes, the one who wasn't afraid to take-  even knowing she'd have to give it back. I don't want to be the one who sat back and watched everything else move ahead, so scared of what might go wrong to even get prepared.

I want to live grand and leave with a bang, and never be too pressured to fold my hand- like a deck of cards.

I want to be able to say one day that it didn't come quite so easy, I worked hard.

I don't want to be the one stuck in a rut, static. I don't want to be one of the people who would have had it but spent all their time dreaming fantastic but living mediocre. I don't want to be of the people who follow trends and make amends to their personal selves to please their friends. I don't want to be of the people whose lives revolve around 'the period'

I don't want to be of the people, period

I want to be the period the people are of, I want a life that doesn't depend on the approval of skewed minds... I refuse to be shown the way in a town called blind.

This Note is For You

This note is for you- that person reading this who knows that its you. Youve been my friend for 5 years, only God knows what Ive put you through. Ive given you laughter, Ive given you fear, youve given me the security to write these mushy things here. A lot of the time I *may* have not been very nice, but you stuck on me like white on rice even when I was trying to be waakye. I dont want to give a speech, all I can say is that you taught me things 4yrs in someplace couldnt teach. So this is something Ive been wanting to do- this note is for you.

This note is for you-you the one reading this that knows that its you. We've always been really close but we've not really been really cool. For a lot of the time we dont see eye to eye: you think im stubborn and i think youre a *boring* kind of guy. But despite our differences we dont need to build fences, cos im of you and youre of me,grounded in the same root-that leaves nothing to hide. So on this family tree there'll always be different shades of green, but I look up to you like a lower leaf searching for a sunbeam. So well, this is something Ive been trying to do- this note is for you.

This note is for you- you that person reading that knows its you. Words fail me in describing our relationship, a sister or a teacher? Or my own personal cheerleader? All of the above, but more importantly like that star above- leading me to the Christ, although Ive not always been very wise. And not always been very nice-we all know I had some issues, but everytime I tried to be cold you would present love like a tissue. And now Im on my own, you cant imagine how I miss you- like a toddler off training wheels, I try to ride tall, but cos Im still working out my balance, every now and then I fall- and youre always the second person I call. Because you reminded me that my first should be Jesus-and Hes perfect so I shouldnt be less. My sister my teacher my friend, a lot of what I am I owe you. So this is the least I can and will do- This note is for you.

This note is for you- you that person that knows that its you. The first day I met you you took my heart like it was your stolen property and you had found the thief. Sixteen going on seventeen: I was so naive- and your hands on the piano keys produced the sound of music- you'd take care of me. My everything I gave freely-every single thing including that thing that if I say it some people will kill me ;). For whatever reason- you found me amusing when I tried to be pleasing, when you said you loved me apparently you were just teasing. I gave everything you took, and you plundered like Captain hook- piracy. My bad boy you introduced me to the streets- walking with you at three am looking for a taxi-only you were drunk and virtually asleep on me. You taught me the harshness of reality- that love isnt all it is cracked up to be. Never in a million years did I think we'd end up here, cos your people had millions there and you hung out with hoodrats- slumdog millionaire. But I looked through the haze to the man that I loved- I couldnt erase that you were the one I cant have. I loved you then, I love you now, and I probably will always do. But love cannot survive independently- this note is for you.

This note is for you- you that person reading that knows that its you. For all your contribution in my life, for which I couldnt take the time to independently acknowledge. For all the experiences Ive had with you- and for all the knowledge your proximity has afforded me. For every fun moment, for every spending spree. For every smile, every time you came by and spent a while. For each time you encouraged me and each time you hated. For all the relationships we tried to have that *thankfully* were not fated. For the time you lied, cried or inspired. For all the ones we all loved who died. This note is by extension for all your families and friends too. But most especially, if you read this, then this note is for you.


*: subject to varying opinions.

A Poet's Agony

There's a poem sitting in my chest that I cant seem to get out. It refuses to give me rest. 

Every once in a while it would come around to the back of my mind and smile, like a naughty child playing hide and seek. I think it is having fun doing this to me. Very slowly and painfully it would leak a combination of letters from its essence, like hit and run, and stand back and laugh its head off while I struggle to make sense out of that phrase, to put appropriate words in place. Bloody poem.
 
And now my space key is sticking. This is beginning to befrustrating. The poem has moved to irectly behind my eyeballs and is engaged in a tug of war with my nerves. My right eye is twitching, an it looks like my dddd key is also sticking. Shit.
I probably should put down this poem and get some sleep, but insomnia has got me under lock and key and now this stupid poem is running around my neck. It set my eye free though, I guess ishouldbe thankful for little mercies.
 
Bloody spacekey.
 
Alright. Looks like im getting some respite from the poem, but then i remember my boyfriend who no longer is. The jerk dumped me cos he flew to another country. Of course that wasnt thereason he gave... Aaarrrrrgghhh the space keytoo kraaa!
Oh ok. I get where the hit and run phrase comes in. Ok. I probably would be able to write this poem now if only i could concentrate, but the truth is ive kinda lost interest. Is there a word like demotivate? If there is ive been 
demotivated.
 
Ill ber ight back.
 
Ok so i went off to havea conversation with the poem. It looks like it finally understands me - ok not exactly.
You know what, i give up. Have fun with my eye, ok. Do what you fucking will. Fucking poem. fucking space key. Fucking dddd.(it stuck again)

I think Im hungry. At this point i will gracefully bow out of your mind...thank you for paying attention to a poet's agony.

The Children Raised Hell.

You ask who we are, you ask where we're from. You wonder how our mind works, why we do what we do, why we're not more like you.
You ask who we are.
We were sold even before we were owned. Descendants of the slaves of old, but the chains of old no longer bind us. instead of metals and steel, we are reeled in by the browns and the greens- they buy us. We are labelled inappropriately, classified insultingly, and disregarded obviously. Patronised by everyone who thinks they are older so they are wiser, the thinly veiled amusement makes the rejection seem nicer.
You ask who we are.
We have been made a race of actions without thought, we sit for hours in front of a board with no question to what we are taught. We chew and pour, you feed us more, and you call those clever who are more stupid than before. In case you didnt know let me inform you that information unprocessed is information wasted, what use is it having a generation building a nation on the basis of shit they dont understand? The pressure for a first class degree sits on our shoulders like fur coats, and were in a tropical climate- we dont need the extra heat around our throats. First class degree holders are revered like they are gifts God loaned us, yet put them face to face with practicality and they cannot produce shit the first class showed us.
Some of us though are the line breakers, although we dont just break the line, we disregard your opinions about propriety and what is fine.
You ask who we are. 
We are who you were before you sold your beings for a steady supply of the green. We are the carriers of your ideas that you shoved into closets because compromise was closest. We are Kwame Nkrumah and we are just as power hungry, the difference being that we will not let the hunger for power run we. We are JJ Rawlings but we will not use violence to prove our points, no. But that doesnt mean that we wont fight. We Are Mahatma Gandhi, but we will not sit down and stay hungry when others havent eaten- no sit down strike. We will eat and be full, and when we are satisfied we will stand up and fight. We are a movement of minds, a tribe of thinkers. We are Ashanti, Ga Ewe, Ibo, pseudo-French, Zulu, Swahili, but we dont care. We do not let a label of tribe scare us into refusing to share ideas. We love our culture, but over that we love Africa. But we dont love your Africa. We are not impressed with what you have created, a struggle over power that is worthless, a struggle over a continent that is an insult.
We do not share your dream of a better Africa. You see, you try to sell us the same lie the UGCC tried to sell Gold Coasters. There is no better Africa. We do not want a better Africa. We want a new Africa, an Africa that is not prejudiced by narrow minded views. We are an Africa that understands more aptly the power of music and arts on society. We are an Africa that aspire to be poets and writers over doctors and bankers. We are an Africa that appreciates money, and will get it, we just wont sell our and our childrens souls to earn it. We are of the Africa that will not judge a person based on their hairstyle, where an education is not determined on speech style. We are of an Africa that does not care for what you teach, that is sick of watching you idolise the lies you preach.
You ask who we are.
We are the God lovers and the Bible readers. We are the ones who have discovered for ourselves the truths the Bible can teach us- we are the ones who no longer will let you mislead and decieve us.
You ask who we are.
We are the concious rappers and art lovers. We are the ones who will occasionally blow tree, but we will not allow that to change or redefine the truth we see or the people we be. We are the disrespectful ones who will not tow your line of hypocrisy, we are the different ones who will call a spade a spade because a spade is what we see. We are the chalewote and skinny jeans wearers, we are the ones you hate to see because we contradict everything you'd want your children to aim to be, and yet you struggle in nine to fives while we write a few lines and take your money. We are what you secretly wish to be, we are the bold, exhibiting real bravery. we are the ones who don give two sh*ts and a f*ck about yankee, because what we will be is not based on where we are. And ironically we are the ones who they never bounce the yankee visa..
We are youth, we are smart, we dont give a damn about your politics because it is a filthy form of art.
You ask who we are.
We are the leaders of tommorow who did not wait to lead tomorrow- we take our stand today. We are the 'stupid' ones, the rude ones, the unapproved ones. We are the smart ones who will pay your first class degree holders- we are the empire owners.
Why do you still ask who we are?
The adults raised the children; the children raised hell.
We are your children.

What wants to be written.

Before I actually opened this blog, I had so many 'wow' ideas about blogging- the kind of deep things I'd write, my perspective on social issues, stuff like that.


Then I opened the blog.

 It took me about an hour of cafe time to even figure out what I wanted to call the damn thing.

Its taken me almost that long to try and post my first post. Sad innit?

Anyway, while brainstorming about whether I wanted to talk about the Ghanaian hypocrisy or err....sorry, I forgot that other thing, I kind of stumbled unto something relatively deep.

and here it comes. I realised that being deep doesn't come by choice.
 yeeeaaahhhhhhhh....*feeling cool*

Ok well at least not for me. See, what I mean is this. I cant turn on my moments of intense thought. Like if maybe I'm in town, and a see a billboard. Immediately I'd have a lot of ideas about advertising, the power of advertising, the seeming lack of power of Ghanaian adverts- (hmmm...wait, now there's another idea for a blog post) Anyway.
So I'd think I could blog that. Or write about that. I might even get a few really catchy phrases and stuff, plan the whole article and stuff. Then I'd sit myself behind a p.c.

And blank. For real. I'd have nothing AT ALL to write. I may still remember all my catchy phrases and quotes. but for whatever reason, the idea would either lose all its glamour and sparkle- or I'd just blank out.
The same happens with my poetry. It amuses me when people say- write about this topic. or- wow, you could get a poem out of that, dont you think? Id be smiling like yeeeeaaaah I probably could and thinking- I wish I could.

I don't choose my poetry. I don't choose my topics. I dunno, I guess I write what wants to be written then. How many times have I not sat down with a pen and a notebook and said, I'm going to write about so and so today. How many papers have I  not ripped out on these occasions. (I'm not asking you though, that's rhetoric)

Errr...I just forgot where I was going with all this. Anyway, if some of you are expecting deep insight and thought provoking blogs here, please keep expecting. I'm sure one of these days I'll get a deep moment. Or not. Whichever. But I'll pretty much just write what wants to be written.

(This is a subliminal message to all those people who have asked me to write poems for them).


Oh yeah, I just remembered what I was going to write about earlier. It was about gay people and society. Ah well.