Vacation

The sound of water thundering down the dam rang in the far off distance. Much closer, the quiet slaps of the river against its banks and the occasional splash as particularly active fish practiced their watersports competed with the chirps and croaks of those creatures whose home we invaded. She stifles a laugh, my sister, her excitement sliding down her limbs in the humidity and embracing the reeds. “Shh ah! Mummy will catch us.” We stood on the raised bank, my brother, my sister and I, watching the river moving silently in the night like a beautiful silver and black scarf draped between the hills. It was the first time I saw the Volta.

The silver and black scarf of the night was a mass of indeterminable greens and browns in the daytime. The chirping, croaking choir of the night before had made way for the twittering birds and countless buzzing flies and mosquitoes. The fish were more subdued, maybe because of the presence of canoes on the water, oars breaking the surface and the soft swish of nets, cast and settling. I was more subdued, definitely because of the ear scathing rebuke we had received for our nighttime escapades. Yes, Mummy caught us.

The splash of oars drew closer. “Buy fish? Tilapia, fresh one.” A boy of no more than twelve held up a bunch of strung together fish. He smiled at my mother, his grin trying to communicate what his words could not. Francis. His name was Francis. He brought the canoe out this morning while his father went to Mass. He does not know why he is not in school. All this he told us, bailing water out of his rapidly filling canoe with one hand and still holding his fish up with the other. My mother gave him money and took the fish, because to give the money without taking his wares would be charity, and charity would be an insult. As he maneuvered his canoe towards the next sale, he turned and waved at us. It was the first time I saw the Volta.

We three, my brother, my sister and I sat in the bucket of our truck as we drove back to Accra, nibbling on shrimps bought from the street hawkers. We laughed and joked around, our mother’s watchful eyes on us all the while. As the afternoon sun calmed its fury, and the skies began their transformation to evening, we looked at the river, running by our side in the distance. That beautiful silver and black and green and gold scarf draped between the hills. It was the first time I saw the Volta.

Confessions.

(Contains some amount of strong language)

I think I forgot why I write. Or how to write. I don't know, somewhere between "I'm not inspired" and "I'm too busy", I steadily ignored the fact that I was only using these excuses as distractions, confusing my consciousness with the humdrum of existence. I was too busy, to busy to acknowledge that maybe I wasn't too busy, maybe I had been writing for all the wrong reasons and maybe, just maybe, my conscience and intellect, the very substance of my existence was rebelling against what my intelligence was telling me was the way.

You see, really, I was just a big hypocrite, someway somehow. Because constantly and consciously I wrote about standing apart from the crowd, I spoke about speaking your own words and speaking them out loud, I wrote about individuality and making a difference in society and the sad goddamn  reality was that I was more guilty of everything I spoke against. Because honestly,  I began writing because my spirit told me to, my muse grew, my being existed in the pouring of words but somewhere between moonlight cafe stages and applause and "Offeibea, you write really well," I started to write to please the crowd. I started to write about speaking loud not only because it was what I believed in, but because I knew it was what you wanted to hear. I spoke about being different cos fuckit everyone wants to be different nowadays, it's all we hold dear. I wrote about rebellion and making a point to the older society because every younger generation believes they are the way. In my attempt to speak the truth I just spoke what subconsciously you wanted me to say.

And I knew it, I liked it, I liked the rush and I liked the applause, I liked shutting down spoken word floors i liked beautifully arranging words i thought were mine but which were subconsciously yours i liked feeling your approval. I liked it when you liked me, i liked the silence when i speak and i like the feeling of greatness thay i felt after every piece but that was not why I write. I write about society Cos I believe it, fuck what you think. Fuck What's cool, fuck the applause fuck you. I write about change because That's what I want to create, I write about love because That's one of the only miracles I am allowed to make. I write about sex because let's face it, it's one of the greatest FUCKING feelings and I write about hurt because I believe it gives me healing. i write about taking a stance and making a difference, because i want you to do so, yes, but firstly because i want to live my words. I dont want to be remembered by how warm my words made you feel, how wild my performance was, how many stages i rocked, how many rounds of applause fuck that. All i want is one person to feel how i feel when i pour out words, to feel the cleanse of my system to feel the heat of my convicion to feel the catharsis in my soul to stand up and DO something.

I write to speak to myself, to pour out my soul through this ink and this paper, on the screen of this phone, on the keypad of this tablet on my fucking skin because i write to breathe. I write when the messed upness of the world suffocates me i write when my mind closes up on me and the world becomes a dark place i write to battle stress and depression and anxiety i write to keep from falling. Under. I'm Sorry if you looked for something deep here, something that would move you and score all kinds of emotions I'm Sorry. This piece does not seek approval. This piece does not care about if you were happy. This piece is about me. I write because it is who I am and it is all I will ever know how to be.

Cacti

I shed a tear on a dead cactus today, and hoped that it would wake.

But it didn't.

I guess the movies lied. I guess we can't all be Matilda, and move objects with our eyes.

I guess fights don't always mean makeup sex, sometimes lies don't turn out for the best.

Reality is more than the hero pulling through, sometimes the villian does too, and the battle continues through eternity, casualties are many, survivors are few.

I guess love is not a picture perfect affair, with well orchestrated fights and beautifully shed tears. Sometimes we can't share all our fears, sometimes we are selfish with our dreams, possessive with our ideas.

I'm beginning to believe that we won't find world peace, there's too much hatred in these streets, discrimination is lurking behind bleached teeth.

Bleached skins and plastic grins, blaming entertainment industries to defend the very basic inferiority. Hide your identity in the search for popularity, acceptance and belonging more important than sanity. Exchange sane for fame, nobody sees the emperors new clothes but everybody's ordering the same, the makers of the magic fabric smiling, create the need for conformity to increase their gain. 

I guess honest politicians are as real as santa's elves, the only change that would mean anything is the change within ourselves. No leader is getting paid for giving a damn, its all a craftily projected plan,international relations and diplomacy all part of a big conspiracy and the painful truth is that we revel in our ignorance so none of us can see.

Illiterate supporting of political parties, archaic ideologies, on the basis of family history or tribality.

The very basis of governance has been snatched from we the peoples hands, the same way they are snatching our lands, but fuck it, all we want are literal political parties, organise a rally, play some music and let's dance.

Idolise the villains and canonise the heroes, we're only shown one side of the story, and even that is seen through smoke, so many bombs are dropped that it's an everyday deal, literally burning bodies to power industries, and we can't see that the Holocaust is still real. 

But humanity is like cacti, the poster child for hope. Because in the face of such adverse diversity we continue to grow. Inventions are made, children are born, artistes are delighted to perform. Beauty is seen, rarely, but still. We get a little money, call homies, we chill. We laugh. We ignore our pain.

Because no matter how dry the desert gets, every once in a while it recieves rain.

Daydreams.

Silent screams and quiet shouts
Lucid dreams and walking out.
Im living an imagination
And I cant imagine what its about.

Friendly ghosts and ghostly friends
Berating myself as I wait for the end.
Im living an imagination
And Im being real even as I pretend.

Reality never quite works like this
I know the answer to the question I missed.
Im living an imagination
And I betray with a smile, agree with a kiss.

Agree to what's neccessary, agree with what's not.
When love is my actions, and hate is my thoughts.
Im living an imagination
And my lie is the answer they sought.

But its not the answer I give
What my mouth denies; what my heart believes.
Im living an imagination
And their half is the all that I give.

Im living an imagination.
My half is the half I don't live.

The Proposal

Let us dance to Sinatra, let us run into a rose garden, kiss my wrist and tell me you pine for me.

Let's watch a silent movie in black and white.

Let's live in black and white. Let us be amazed at automobiles, and wave goodbye to relatives from the deck of a ship,

en route to Europe.

Let's stand at the helm of a ship and play Titanic. Ill be Rose. Draw me. Let me kiss you in a car. Let's steam up some windows. Let's sing. Let's waltz. Let's sit under moonlight and talk about ourselves.   

Let's live in Nazi germany. Let us be Jews, and try to escape with the family jewels. Let's pledge undying love as we drown in the Danube.
There's child next to me I wish we could keep. I could hold his hand.

You hold mine.

Let us waltz to Strauss. Let us love to Mozart. Let's dine to Verdi. Let's watch coronations and abdications, let us fall in love with Victoria, and Elizabeth;
"Isn't Her Majesty just delightful" "Yes, and so young, too, I think she's doing terrific" 

Let us watch operas and concerts from halls. Let us be thrilled by the happenings in america, in the colonies.

Lets us debate who should be free, and who should be slave.

Let me fall in love with you on the Seine. Row a barge under a bridge, stop and kiss me. Be aroused by my ankles and my hands.

Be my beau. Come calling at my doorstep, let's walk out together. Throw pebbles at my window and serenade me.

Love me in ruffles and lace and corsets and bonnets. Let us take a ride through central park without a chaperone.

Ive always had a wicked streak.

Go off to war. Let me love you in absentia. Let me send you scented handkerchiefs and long love letters. Let me cry myself to sleep for worry of your safety. Let me stand at the doorstep and look down the street with yearning. Let me scan the newspapers anxiously, give me the chance to sigh with relief when i don't see your name.

Let us wear Levis and have big hair. Grow a ponytail. Il keep a bouffant. I don't care, it'll be the swinging seventies and eighties and we'll run off and live in a hippie settlement. Let's be nudists. Let's have meth trips, let's get drunk and sober and drunk again. Let's dance in the rain.

Let's love wildly. I'll get a job. I'll be a feminist. Be a chauvinist. Be amused. Be impressed. I don't care. Just love me.

Let's get married. Start a family. Raise a coupla hell raising kids. I've always wanted a mozart. Lets name our kids amadeus and thaddeus and bobby. And laugh at them all their lives. Lets make the world our sockball. Let me love you in ages. And ages. And ages.

Die before me. I want to mourn you. Mourn me. Let's wear black. Lets love six feet under. We could be buried together.

Tell me your name. I want to fall in love with you right now. And over and over again.

For David, at 9.

The love of my life. You're 9 today.

So much I think of, so much I want to tell you.

Like how proud I am of you, and how much you mean to me.

And how I pray for you, and worry about how you see me.

Am I the best big sister you could have? Because I try to be. And everything I do, my love, you inspire me.

Will you adapt to a changing world, will your life be beautiful? As much as it is in my power to, it will be.

Do you worry about anything? You shouldn't. You've got more arms supporting you than a crowd-surfing celebrity.

And so many people are preoccupied with your happiness, I don't know how your life could turn out to be anything less than awesome.

But God give you life, more nine years like these, more beauty, more growth, continuous peace.

And God give us life, that we may see you grow into the wonderful young man we know you will be.

I could write at this all day, but I've got to put the rest aside to help you celebrate.

And one day, you will be old enough to understand that people get emo and write things like this, but right now...

Baby, just enjoy your play.

Washed Out

Purple is the colour of a flower
in the fields;
Growing arrogantly among the golden
corn yields.
Purple is the colour of a stormy sky
Or a sunset, announcing the black that
draws nigh.

Purple is the colour of his rages when
he's mad
And the colour of her tears
when she's sad
She smiled a purple smile when he came from work that day.
But she saw his purple, and her purple faded away.

Purple is the colour of the bruise
on her cheek
And the blood that flows out even
as she speaks.
Purple is the colour of her life ebbing away.
Purple is the colour of her night
and her day.

Purple was the colour of the sky that day.
And he hid purple tears as they
laid her away.
He followed as they drew him away
And he left his soul behind, once purple,
now gray.