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  • You Will Be Fine…

    “Mommy, why do we live in a classroom” she said.

    Mommy looked her dead in the eye.

    She was dead?

    “No I am not dead”, she said to herself.

    “My daughter, we live here only because I want you to know

    The classroom is the best home for a child

    So make mommy proud

    And move from class to class

    Until you get to the highest class

    And become classy”

     

    “Mommy, why are our things scattered on the ground

    And that man shouting at us?”

    Mommy, with tears in her eyes and a stutter in her voice,

    She said,

    “God sent that man my daughter to tell us to move

    To a higher class

    And I am only crying because I am excited my daughter

    Because we are being promoted

    We will be fine my dear.”

    She said.

     

    “Mommy, why do we sleep with rats and why am I so hungry” she said.

    With a big smile, Mommy said…

    “My daughter, the rats are your friends.

    They are here to teach you a lesson.

    Sometimes your teacher is not only in your classroom

    Sometimes your teacher is a rat in your house my dear.

    The rat will teach you how to survive my dear.”

    She whispered.

     

    “Why are you crying Mommy?” he said

    With a big smile on her face, she said.

    “I am not crying my son.

    I am only happy because grand-Mommy is in a better place

    Even though she wasn’t around…

    When I fought to finish my degree…

    When I fought to get my first car…

    When your father fought to wife me…

    When I fought to birth you…

    When you fought to receive your first prize from school…

    And now, you fight for your first job.

    I know she is smiling at you my son

    She is fine my dear”

    She whispered.

    “You will be fine.”

     

    Brigham Young – “You educate a man; you educate a man. You educate a woman; you educate a generation.”

    Dedicated to my Mother. Love you Ma!

     

     

  • THE ANANSES: CHRONICLES OF SISTER AMA

    Kente

    A symbol of Royalty, the Kente cloth has held prominence among the people of Ghana for a very long time. Ghanaians should be grateful to me and my family, the Ananses, for gifting them with such a great national treasure. Do you think what I am saying is just noise? (Eyeballs innocent writer) Ask the Asantes. Let them tell you about how Ota Karaban and his friend Kwaku Ameyaw from the town of Bonwire both became my apprentices and learnt the art of weaving and by that, eventually introduced the first original “Nwentoma” now known as Kente.

    Naa Kohwia’s 16th birthday was fast approaching. As an Ananse, Naa’s birthday demanded all the splendor and grandeur it could receive. Obviously you know a Prada-wearing-mother like me would throw a ball for her daughter. Let’s just call it an investment, for now. I wasn’t going to pay any kind of party planner like the Cinderella’s and the Snow Whites did to distort my ideas for my daughter’s big day. So I became the planner myself. After all, I am a woman of many gifts! (adjusts self in her seat with a wit about her)

    First and foremost (please do pay attention my ladies), you need a fabulously huge venue and what better place than my own mansion. My floors are tiled with marbles from the south of France and the space big enough to accommodate “enough people”. Note this – enough people implies a strategically selected guest list. You can’t just have anybody coming through the doors of your daughter’s 16th birthday party. I mean how?! You need to invite the sons and daughters of the crème dela crème; the town shakers – the policy makers – the money brokers. Yes honey (sips wine).

    Next were the decorations. You would need a theme for that. My theme… ooops! I mean my daughters theme was Royalty. I raised my daughter well you know, just like the royal that she is – a member of the Ananse Dynasty. Let me not even dwell too much on the bits and pieces of the party planning. That is another story to be told another day by my personal assistant.

    Everything was set and it all balled down to what my daughter would wear for the night. I am a master web weaver. Among my many gifts, The Maker blessed me thus, hence the ability to weave beautiful silk. Therefore my plan was to make for my daughter one of the best silk dresses the whole land of Fairy-tales had ever seen. I set to work with my two new apprentices from a town called Bonwire in the Asante region of Ghana. Karaban and Kwaku seemed particularly excited to learn about the craft of weaving from a specialist like myself. After all, no one from their land knew about the craft and I also kept it top secret. I only allowed them into my glamorous weaving shop because unlike what you think, the Ananses especially myself, can be very understanding and kind sometimes. This was one of those times (and it sure wasn’t going to happen again in a long time).

    So we set to work. The loom wept, the silk threads crawled but all in all the work moved forth. In weaving, the warp threads are moved up or down by the shaft. This is achieved because each thread of the warp goes through a heddle on a shaft. When the shaft is raised the heddles are too, and thus the warp threads threaded through the heddles are raised. Heddles can be either equally or unequally distributed on the shafts, depending on the pattern to be woven.  In a plain weave or twill, for example, the heddles are equally distributed. That was our method.

    The work was done fast and well. I was highly impressed with my two new workers so I decided to part with all the knowledge I knew concerning the art of weaving to them. They observed and listened attentively. These two really meant business. We ended up creating for my daughter a very beautiful outfit fit for a princess – its name, Kente. I came up with that name and we all loved it (as if they had a choice).

     

    Naa Kohwia loved her dress as soon as she saw it. Well, that meant my work was done in the shop. So I decided to leave and attend to other pressing party issues. Let me not even make this sound vague – simply put, the Three Little Pigs were on the list (don’t ask me how) and to think they had demands (rolls eyes)!! Sigh… Well, a good host always moves prepared so I had to go prepare. The gluttons!

    Taking a cue from me, Karaban and Kwaku wove a strip of raffia fabric that day which showed an improvement in their skill. Well, they decided to report their discovery to their chief, Nana Bobie, in order to help their towns people use this gift better themselves (everybody loves a success story).   

    Finally the d – day had arrived. Everyone who was anyone was at the party. I am sure some of you even had your great-great grandparents in attendance (if they met my guest list criteria)… you’ll never know. People know people in these Fairy-tale streets. There was paparazzi everywhere (of course), full valet service, a red carpet reception, basically the whole nine yard. My daughter stepped out looking stunning. Everyone was in awe and of course the “master weaver”, yours truly, was praised. The party officially began after Naa Kohwia made her grand entrance and stole the spot light. To think that wasn’t enough, what happened next left an indelible mark in my mind.

    In came (unannounced but I am certainly not complaining) the Asantehene (The Asante Chief). Apparently, Ota Karaban and Kwaku Ameyaw took their skills learnt from me back to their village, improved on their skill so much and created a very beautiful colorful cloth and had decided to call it Kente – after the beauty of the woven outfit for my daughter. It was a sight to behold because the Asantehene was adorned in the full splendor of the cloth coupled with his ancestral golden jewels. Jealousy and Joy filled my heart at the same time. The Asantehene had adopted the Kente cloth as a royal cloth and encouraged its development as a cloth of prestige reserved for special occasions and royalty. That is when I knew I, Mrs. Ama “Okonori Yaa” Ananse, had landed. My two former apprentices had come all the way back with the Asantehene just to thank me and recognize me as the originator of the sacred art of Kente weaving (well I accepted in full pompousness). All I will add is: that was the cherry on top to make my daughter’s day a very memorable one for a very long long happily ever after.

    The morale of the story is – if you do things from the kindness of your heart, this same kindness boomerang’s back to you in the form of eternal gratitude. That is the best gift anyone can receive in life.

    Anyway, I do have to end here for today my dears. Hunger knocks on the door of the Ananse home and I as the lady of the house must answer this call. Fufu and Akrantie must be the ones behind our door.

    Love your neighbor as yourself and I will see you guys when I get back from my summer vacation in three weeks or less. Kisses…!!!

    A fabulous Sister Ama in her Kente peplum dress and Louboutin heels drinking Le Pin red wine.

     

    A cross-section of the Kente cloth (country of origin – Ghana) … photo credit: true devinity

    Image

  • RED LUNAR

    REVELATIONS

    It was particularly humid; the kind which kept you tossing and turning in your bed. Foolish I, thought opting for the floor that night would help my situation. Disappointment greeted me in my stride. I changed positions about a hundred times on that cursed heated floor. I curled, twirled, posed and bowed. But none of these positions calmed the discomfort. I guess it was one of those nights Luna consummated with Poseidon and in their heated pleasure, would both forget to provide the needed breeze to keep slaves like myself asleep after a tiring day. Eventually I saw myself in the third plane; a parallel reality it was. “What a relief”, I told myself. Here I could be myself, be free! If you were gifted in the craft like I was, you could visit others in their dreams, manipulate their thoughts and minds, cause them to sleep walk and do anything you want. Some of my court members and I had pleasurable times there. What is a woman to do after all? I also do have needs and trust me, working all day in the fields really did a number for most of our male slave court members. Beautiful bulges all round. The beauty of the third plane enabled us to morph into anything and most importantly – any size – we wanted.

    As I sat on a bench watching others go about their dreams, some being plagued by all sorts of creatures and others being stiffly protected by the Light, a shadow was cast over me. The shadow was very familiar, almost too familiar. But it was the third plane, anything was possible. As I tried to take a closer look at who or what it was, my extension began to quiver. What was happening? Who was drawing me back into the physical? Who was strong enough and brave enough to do this? I was subsequently yanked by my extension back into the first plane, the human plane. I was ready to attack but something held me back. Master towered over my bare breast and my lifeless body. “What was going on here?” I asked myself. “Put on some clothes slave and follow me”. Master had stopped calling me Liza. A name he had conferred on me after he bought me from the merchants at Barbados.

    I did as I was told and quietly followed him. Master had become a stickily figure as it stood; a remnant of his old self – a ghost. He no longer walked like the joyful man of noble decent he was, he floated before my eyes. I don’t even want to start with madam. Losing her only sister in that manner shook her soul. The spiritual balance in the house had been thrown off and it reflected in both the mansion and fields. We yielded less and the mansion contained an aura of deep dark emptiness.

    We entered the nursery, little master lay there peacefully. “I know what you are slave” he said as he stroke the back hair of little master. “How do you mean master?” I asked quite sheepishly. “I know what you are capable of. Help us. Please help us” he said calmly still looking at little master. “I know not what you speak of master. May be if…” with a swift move I was up in the air. My natural defenses had kicked in and somehow master knew waving a silver dagger in a threatening manner at me would trigger it. “Come down from the ceiling Calypso, Duchess of Ogygia”, master giggled in a shrill voice. “How did he know my court name?” I wondered. It was a taboo for a non-court member to address me in that manner. Even the newer court members feared.

    “How did you know…” he cut me off. “The fact that I know should tell you I am desperate. Help us Liza. I know you can. I don’t want to lose my son. I feel he is next and I don’t mind sacrificing myself for him. Please help me. Whoever is doing this wants me to suffer, see all my loved ones die before my eyes”, tears began to drip down his cheeks effortlessly. “I am tired Liza, I can’t take this anymore. I will kill myself if I have to; if that is what is needed just to save my family”, desperation rang in his voice.

    There was no point in arguing and denying. I wanted to help. Little master deserved a normal life. His stars read greatness and this diversion was distorting it. I immediately went into an uncontrolled trance. “Come close me child” grand mamma Calypso had taken over my body. “This nat ya fault me child. Now clean of ya tears and be as strong as the elephant grass. Give grand mamma ya palm. It is well me child”. Grand mamma read his palm and as soon as i came out of the trance, I knew what to do. “I would need a vile of your semen, madam’s blood and a little of little master’s hair”. “What for?” master asked. “Trust me master, after all you asked for my help didn’t you? For now I need you to leave little master to rest and for you to go sleep with your wife. For this to work, love must resonate in the compound and you and madam hold that key”.

    As days went by, Master was as helpless as a piece of bread floating on a river bank. He just could not get over the deaths of both his sister and his sister-in-law. Liquor was master’s friend now, his solace. He would drink all day and act in a crude and Hamlet-esque manner. There were still whispers among some section of the slaves that he had been possessed by a strange spirit. They (the slaves) will often spit anytime they discussed Master’s plight. But I paid no attention. My pot was literally brewing with a solution.

    Necromancy was not a common practice on our island and the very few who practiced it had fled for fear of their lives.  I had to summon the forces to gain insight on the strange happenings.  There were a thousand and one questions I needed answers to. Grand mamma had only mentioned the word Necromancy when she had summoned up my spirit onto the fifth plane where she dwelt.

    My potion was ready. Filled with my request from master, I headed out when the goddess Luna was at her brightest. I stood at the bank of the river wearing a medallion and a black bracelet which I had inherited from grand mamma. With the potion propped in front of me, next for me were the drawings of circles with smaller triangles in them. I had to create my own Red Lunar. To achieve this, I needed to pour the potion filled with the blood, semen and hair of my owners. Their spirits were automatically linked to the goddess because the goddess herself had granted little master salvation through me on the night he was born. This was therefore like giving a piece of the goddess back to her to harness the power of her blood moon. I began reciting the incantations.

    There were sudden hot flashes. My head spun. I felt like giving up immediately. Something didn’t want me here and at this time doing this. I still pressed on. The medallion emitted a pulse in the river signaling the veil between the two worlds was almost open for me to seek answers. The wind started blowing profusely while a rare sound of horrors followed.

    I felt the presence of the forces heavily. There was no much time so I asked the one question we all needed an answer to…for once the forces were mute…not a single word. Strange! A strange thing it was.

    I called on grand mamma’s spirit to join me. If the forces were still going to keep mute then I was going to have a look at the other side myself. Grand mamma held my hands and together we peered through the veil. In the deafening noise, I saw an apparition. It was not too clear- blurry I should say. Fear griped my spine as I saw the apparition. I saw the faces of Mephistopheles and young master Lacudra take shifts. Confused was the mood. To make sure of what I had just seen I intensified my incantations. Mama’s spirit also joined us. With three generations of Calypsos I knew things would be clearer now. The forces fought back to our surprise. But we persevered until all three of us were surrounded by the ring of light – ut unum sint. At this point we knew we were invisible.

    The realm of answers was suddenly opened for us. What I saw next shook my bones. In quick flashes we were transported to three answers. In the first, we were taking to a blood moon congress. There my very young self sat, cross legged chanting in my corner. And on the sacrificial stone lay a little girl, about to be taken by Pedofilis. Her parents sat close, rejoicing. Something was wrong with this picture; the girl’s parents seemed too happy; happier than normal. For even the most devout of members whose children were to be given up as a sacrifice to Pedofilis would remain gloom. As the demented spirit approached its victim, it smiled not at its victim but at me; even winking in the process. “What was happening here?” I asked myself. Grand mamma pointed to the little girl on the rock with her face covered. She was white! “That ya master’s sister” grand mamma said. The victim had been replaced at the last minute and instead of the child of a slave, a white innocent master’s sister had been used as pay back for what had been done to a member of our court by the richest slave master in the south.

    I felt a sharp pain. I knew exactly what was to come next. I was immediately whisked to the second answer. Here, I saw our grand master use incantations to resurrect the lifeless body of master’s sister. Necromancy! She not only came alive but was immediately inhabited by Pedofilis. Pedofilis had used master’s sister to curse master and whoever he intended to marry. Pedofilis was out to seek white blood, master’s innocent blood. The demented demon wasn’t satisfied after it had been sent to kill the evil slave master of the south. It wanted more blood and master’s future read bright; the ultimate victim – the ultimate sacrifice. That is why madam lost five babies through painful child birth. That is why she bled so much during labor. I should have seen the signs; the gore, the profuse vaginal bleeding, just like Pedofilis likes it. He could not touch young master because he was protected directly by the Red Lunar from the potions I smeared on his lips. “Oh goddess!” I exclaimed.

    Again, we were whisked to the third and final answer. Here, Pedofilis stood over the lifeless body of master’s sister. Luna, our goddess, had caused her to disobey Pedofilis and not kill master and his young family through poisoning. The demented demon therefore abandoned its disobedient host body. That explained the heavy spirit presence I felt in the room that day. “But how was madam’s sister also killed?” “All shall be revealed me daughter” mama said. We were whisked into another section, there we saw something strange. Master’s sister was still alive and still possessed by Pedofilis. “How is this possible grand mamma?” I asked with fear written over my face. “Me child, Pedofilis be a mad mad spirit. He seeketh to enter the Africa governess but she be protected by Africa witch goddess. Pedofilis geit mad and resurrect his minion female body (master’s sister) again to stab Africa governess”.

    I was overwhelmed with fear at how demented Pedofilis could be. Before I could ask another question I found myself standing back at the banks of the river. “So what do I do mama and grand mamma?” I asked without hesitation. “Me child, the boy is the key. As long as he stays alive, that demented abomination touch nat ya master and madam. Gieve the young master me medallion me child, and bless it with Luna’s love”. And just like that, they were gone.

    I rushed back to the mansion, and straight into little master’s room. He was fast asleep. There he lay – the strength of Kilema, our mansion.

     

    THE END. or is it?

     

    Written by Richmond Laryea (@IamSurrey) and myself – Kwame Asante Ofori (@mr_asante)

     

  • RED LUNAR

    Genesis

    The candle light flickered rhythmically to its own music. Left – right – right – dead center – taller – shorter – then normal again. Its dance was that of mystic awe. Intricately lined on the window seal, it served its purpose. Certainly not the only thing of interest in the room, one couldn’t help but notice the stillness in the air. It was heavy. Almost material like; the fact that it was a blood moon certainly added to the whole mysticism of the room. The last time we had the moon this red, the grand master was summoning up Mephistopheles. He would usually summon the demons of the cross roads who did Mephistopheles dirty work; but on that holy night, he went straight for the kill. His reason: the slave master with the biggest tobacco and sugar cane plantation in the south had wronged a court member – a slave. Our court sought payment – death. The fact that this slave master was protected by the three ugliest and most powerful witches in Kingston certainly demanded a higher power.

    We were all clothed in our ceremonial red in honor of Luna, the moon goddess. She was the source of our strength. Our faces were each covered with masks made of straw, covered from the point we set foot on the holy ground. It was forbidden to show your face at any point during the ceremony. Certain traditions had to be obeyed by the grand master at all times during congressional meetings like these. Especially if we expected the Fallen to join us in worship; man and demon, woman and creature – that was a typical blood moon. Of course a huge pentagram, our portal to the other world, had to be drawn first. The blood of a virgin was needed for this art work. This has been the case for centuries. She would usually age between 9 and 14. Pedofilis was always the first demon summoned for the night to honor our sacrifice. Pedofilis was a demented demon. He bore the strength of a thousand legions. A protege to one of the Fallen, Beelzebub – a puppet I would say.

    He would sweet talk his sacrifice first. Make her feel comfy. Then move on to morph into a person the victim on the sacrificial rock, propped up in the middle of the room, knew. Slowly he would move towards his victim, smiling, cheerful even, giving his victim that false sense of safety. Then in a swift move, he would move to the tip of the sacrificial stone. At breathes reach; he would look into his victims eyes and proceed to enter her. No one was to turn away, not even the parents of the sacrifice that night. They were to rejoice, be happy even, for once Pedofilis entered his victim, it was seen as an acceptance – the key to the other side had been granted to us.

    Ignoring the deafening screams resonating in the large room, the Papua (second in command) would collect the blood oozing from the victim’s vagina while the demon had its way. In order to keep fresh the attained aura from the act to aid the summons, he needed to do this and do it fast. The Papua would then use the blood to draw the pentagram we needed to begin our summons and worship for the night. Candles were lite in a circular style in the middle of the pentagram. They did their usual mystic dance, a dance I knew so well. But today…They danced for a different reason.

    Master’s wife was in extreme labor. On this night, it was her screams which resonated and her blood which oozed on the floor of the master’s bedroom. You would think after birthing and losing five kids in succession at different points in her life, her body would get used to this pain she had to endure. Sadly, I had to go through this with her every time it happened. I had suspected there was something wrong with madam’s destiny. It had been altered. No one of higher power was willing to tell me who had done it. Why they had done it. But I liked madam and master a lot. They were kind to me; an extra hand full of wheat or even cotton as pay for my work as madam’s right hand maid. I had to be able to do something. So I waited… thought hard and figured something out. The pattern was too clear to ignore. Someone on the other side kept sending the same child to madam. I became ever so certain when on the third delivery; I saw the same little mark I had made to the baby’s thigh during the first delivery. I had looked into madam’s stars and she hadn’t wronged anyone in her past life. So who would keep doing this to her; constantly sending a painful delivery to her?  Well, this was some years back. A lot has changed since the candle did it mystic dance to the red moon.

    “I am Liza” I said to the new slave as I stood there admiring Lacudra Litts. He played joyfully in the fields. That is the young master’s name. He, like all his predecessors, bore the mark. “It has been many a moon since I delivered him into the world”, I murmured to the new slave who just stood there surprised at how engulfed I was with the young master.

    As the new slave stood in admiration, my mind wandered to the unusual phenomenon surrounding the birth of Lacudra. Like a trance, I was hit with the memory of how quickly I had lined little master’s lips with a potion as soon as he was born. I felt his energy, he was strong. I needed him to stay; for the sake of madam’s sanctity.

    I remember master’s excitement, “A boy! Bullocks! Blimey! …” The little master made it through the first night, which was a good sign. Two months later, we could all breathe a little more easily. Eight years strong and I knew that potion really did work some magic.

    “You do know there have been deaths up in the mansion right?” I asked the new slave. “Yes Mama Liza, inna the towns place pieple be running mouths talking ‘bout Kilema deaths but triost me, me no like them towns pieple.” The new slave said in her Island accent. That was certainly going to change since master required all slaves in the mansion and fields to learn proper English – not just in speech but also write. Master was so unlike the other slave masters. Death, like an intruder, had sneaked into our mansion. Master’s sister was killed in cold blood in her room. Her body was discovered by master himself after we had returned from town with little master. The door was locked and there was nothing pointing to the fact that master’s sister had killed herself. There was something peculiar about the room when I entered with a few slaves to take out the body, a spirit was there earlier. And its trail was very clear and strong. Death leaves no trail when it visits so I knew it certainly wasn’t her time. This was someone’s doing. Who wanted master’s sister dead?

    Master grieved for months. He lost so much weight. The house was never the same again. Madame invited her sister to come over from Africa where she was a governor’s wife. She knew master enjoyed the company of her sister every time she was around. So she came. So beautiful and tanned just like madam was. Only difference was madam’s sister looked rogue. She wore boots and cotton pants like the men did. The only thing feminine about her were her firm breasts peering through her tight fitting shirt. Madame said she has always been like this and should ignore the story she would tell us about how one had to dress tough in Africa in order to command respect as a governor’s wife.

    True to madam’s words master seemed a bit cheerful. Slowly, things were changing for the better until that faithful night. It happened again. Madam’s sister was also found dead, this time on the dining table. Her body was once again discovered by master himself. That evening every slave in the mansion was summoned one after the other into the general living area of the house. Master was on fire; a slap here for this person to confess, a kick there for that person to confess. Master never hits us so my fellow slaves knew master was about to explode. They forgave him even before he touched them because they knew he wasn’t himself. It was his demon who had possessed his body.

    Speaking of demons, I felt the heavy spirit presence again. And it was particularly strong around the dining area. But there was no spirit there.

    “Who could be doing this?” I thought to myself. We certainly had a serial killer on our hands.

     

    END OF PART 1.

    Written by Richmond Laryea (@IamSurrey) and myself – Kwame Asante Ofori (@mr_asante)

     

  • I AM A MAN – ?

     

    Am I a man?

    Just because I have a penis and an Adam’s apple?

    Am I a man just because society tells me so?

    Or because “mister” precedes my name.

    You would think by the doctor exclaiming “it’s a boy!”

    I would automatically grow up to be a man.

    In this case, I am a man.

    But am I a man?

    Is this the case?

    Who is a man?

    According to you?

    “Sometimes I wake up feeling the weight

    The pressure is too much to bear

    What do you want from me?

    You remind me every single day

    A man must do this and that

    A man cannot have emotions because it makes him weak

    A man cannot have a female friend because …

    He has a meat and whenever a meat meets meat …

    Well I am tired of being your proconsul”

    The blah-blah-blah of society sings like sirens

    Tie me to a ship already so like Odysseus, I can withstand its sweet melody

    What about the man I want to be?

    A responsible man who respects women and doesn’t take them for granted

    A respectable man who is responsible for his family and is not expected to follow the status quo of abandoning them and leaving his wife a single mother.

    A reputable man who can have female friends and not have people look down on him because he is not fucking them

    What is a man to you I ask?

    One who makes you feel unwanted, disrespected and unappreciated?

    One who cannot be controlled and deems you beneath him?

    One who cares about his image more than himself?

    A puppet, a Muppet or a Ken doll?

    Isn’t the measure of a man one without strings?

    Yes!

    One who cries moans laughs and fears?

    A super protector

    A man with a purpose

    A man with a drive,

    Who makes you feel like an A6.

    A man is a beverage.

    Not just a six pack

    A man is a bottle of respect – hard and solid

    His content – smooth and crisp

    His taste – tried and true

    An experience – unique to each

    As he touches your soul and meanders down your spine,

    A feeling of calm and refresh

    That is how a true man should make you feel

    A real man will make you feel special

    Having 10 women on speed dial doesn’t make you a real man

    No!

    It doesn’t make you masculine at all.

    It makes you worn out and torn

    Your sexuality – a question

    A real man oozes power

    The power of self-control

    A real man has purpose

    A real man buys his mother a car

    And still makes sure it is washed on the weekends

    A real man is a respecter

    A real man is a leader not a follower

    If you claim you are a real man, why then conform to what the boys are calling a man

    Why not be your own man?

    Why hide your aspirations?

    Why be a crowd pleaser – an ass kisser?

    Why hide your emotions?

    Why say no homo when you really love a fellow man with all your heart.

    After all aren’t we taught to “love your neighbor as yourself”

    What do you fear? That your manliness will be questioned?

    A man cares not what others think of him.

    Ask Okwonkwo – ugly and feared!

    At least he fought for what he believed in till the end.

    A true man.

    Can you say same with your changing lips?

    No real man who changed the world ever cared for the thoughts of “cool kids”.

    What business does a man have, pondering and bothering about kids anyway?

    The cool kids after all, would someday work for his business and make him cool.

    Hence he acts as a man

    “I am a man”

    He says…

    That is what you should aspire for

    So the question I ask today

    …

    Are you a man?

     

     

     

     

  • THE ANANSES: CHRONICLES OF SISTER AMA

    Hell knows no fury…

    Laughter fills my lungs anytime I hear men say they have women in the bag. Do we look like objects to you? You would think men would be more appreciative in their stride considering women are the actual bosses. I can feel the disapproval of men seeping through my seat as I speak. But who cares? I certainly don’t (sips wine). Women didn’t ask to be created you know. The Maker is a very busy person and cannot always keep an eye on men hence the creation of the woman; to keep men in check. Think about it – an assistant manager type position while He takes care of more pressing issues. So hold on to your Dukus my women, after all, six inches eight hours a day is but the eighth wonder of the world. We are the eighth wonder honey!

    What?! You had better get back to typing. You are paid handsomely to write my every word and not to stare at me judgingly because you do not agree with my ideas and thoughts. In fact, I will have to start looking for a new desperate writer – I grow weary of you. Fiwww…! don’t try me this early afternoon. I am in my Nairobi blue Prada dress from the spring collection. Let me be great! Now get back to typing!

    So as I was saying before I was rudely interrupted (eyeballs the innocent writer), men like to take center stage and steal all the attention every single time. Read your history books, almost every major war ever fought had a woman at its center of cause. Helen of Troy; Queen Cleopatra; Yaa Asantewaa… men are just jokers and this includes my husband Kwaku Ananse – the biggest joker (with a smirk, takes another sip of wine). Oh… men, men, men!!!

    An issue weighs heavy on my heart. It has for many centuries now. Have you people ever wondered why all these stories are called Kwaku Ananse tales? Have you really given it some deep thought? Forget about the fact that it might be because my husband is at the center of these stories. The tale of the tortoise and the hare is equally considered a Kwaku Ananse tale even among the people of Ghana where my family and I currently reside.

    If we were being critical, the stories should have been called Ama Ananse stories. But no! A man wins the day again where a woman actually triumphed. At least now our pito-drinking-oral-story-tellers by the fire side have heard my cries and renamed the stories Anansesem.

    Today, I would like to share this achievement with you and tell you how all these tales got the name Spider tales or Anansesem.

    Back in the day, all the tales told were stories of The Maker. Kwaku Ananse, who was and is very conceited, wanted the stories to be told about him (typical of men). He came home one day, exasperated and jittery. He went on and on about how he is the best out of all The Maker’s creations and how he should be honored by all. Being the good wife, I explained to him how he could execute this amicably by going to The Maker and presenting him with a proposal He could not refuse. I sat down with Mewura Kwaku and developed all sorts of selling points on how we, the Ananses (note the use of “we” not “he”) could have our stories told by all!

    Kwaku was highly excited after I was done drawing out our beautiful plot and its execution. It was certainly a win-win situation for all involved and our proposal was one The Maker would never refuse. So Kwaku booked an appointment and met up with The Almighty. The Maker was highly impressed (not that I had anything to do with it) but… there is always a “but” with The Maker. He would agree to our proposal on one condition. He told Kwaku that, he must bring him three things: the first was a jar full of live bees; the second was a boa-constrictor, and the third a tiger. Kwaku of course gave his promise without a plan but knew he was covered because he has a wife like me (sips some more wine).

    Kwaku came home immediately without even passing through Aunty Adiza’s drinking spot for his usual two tots. That should tell you the magnitude of the situation. We set to work as soon as he arrived and I spared no time on my drawing board giving him ideas on how to capture these animals. I am that good my people. For your information, I have been offered a high management job at a certain agency I refuse to name where a lot of international investigation takes place. The family business of trickery pops out my eye color so obviously I turned that opportunity down. Family must always come first (smirks).

    For the bees, he took a pot and set out for a place where he knew they hang out in their numbers. When he came in sight of the bees he began saying to himself, “They will not be able to fill this jar”— “Yes, they will be able”—“No, they will not be able,” until the bees came up to him and said, “What are you talking about, Mr. Kwaku Ananse?” He then told them how he and The Maker had had a great dispute. The Maker had said the bees could not fly into the jar— he, Kwaku, had said they could. The bees immediately declared that of course they could fly into the jar. They at once did. As soon as they were safely trapped inside, Kwaku sealed up the jar and sent it off to The Maker – Smart right? Don’t you all praise me at once.

    Next day he took a long stick and set out in search of a boa-constrictor. Just as we had planned, he arrived at the place where one lived and began speaking to himself again. “He will just be as long as this stick”— “No, he will not be so long as this”—“Yes, he will be as long as this.” These words he repeated over and over again, till the boa came out and asked him what the matter was. “I have been having a dispute with The Maker about you. He claims you are not as long as this stick. I say you are. Please let me measure you by it to prove Him wrong.” The boa stupidly laid himself out straight, and Kwaku immediately tied him to the stick and sent it also to The Maker who was obviously shocked.

    We were on fire I tell you! You see how having an industrious wife by your side can be of great benefit to a family? Well, we were left with the final and most challenging task – capturing the tiger. This would obviously demand attention to detail and wit of which none had seen (qualities I breathe every day). So this is how it went down. I took a needle and thread and sewed up Kwaku’s eyes. Oh yes I did! Desperate times call for desperate measures.

    He then set out for a den where he knew a tiger lived. As he approached the place he began to shout and sing so loudly that the tiger came out to see what the matter was. “Can you not see?” said Kwaku. “My eyes are sewn up, and now I can see such beautiful things that I must sing about them.” “Sew up my eyes,” said the tiger, “so I too can see these surprising and beautiful sights.” Kwaku immediately did so with some challenge of course. But we had practiced so he was safe. Having made the tiger helpless, he led him straight to The Maker (I was having none of that cat hair all over my Persian carpets).

     The Maker was amazed at Kwaku’s supposed cleverness (we all know the amazement was directed at me right? Good!), in fulfilling the three conditions that he decided to grant Kwaku his wish. Now this is where the back stabbing began. Kwaku and I had decided to call the tales “The Ananse stories” or “Anansesem” depicting not just his stories but that of the whole family. You see how selfless I was?

    Ananse being who he was got carried away and told The Maker to name all the tales Kwaku Ananse stories and they should be told about him. How convenient. It got approved and he had the guts to come home and gloat about it. I got so pissed but what can you do? Till date, my cousin the Black Widow eats all her new husbands the first night after their wedding just to make a statement to Kwaku. This I find hilarious because Kwaku avoids her at all family gatherings out of fear of being eaten every time. He still remains the charming husband I married many centuries ago and I will always end up protecting him (sigh). After all there are many ways of making Kwaku atone for his sins against me. I can fight my own battles even in my Louboutin shoes you know.

    Well that is the story behind how my husband stole my shine. But at least now you know the truth and that is the main reason why I decided to start telling the Ananse tales as they actually happened through my eyes. You can choose to believe them or not. I really do not care.

    A major lesson to learn from this is never to send your husband alone on a job which involves the family. He can never be trusted and will steal your shine in the name of “but I am the head of the family” and like Kwaku, not even give the wife or the whole family some credit.

    Onua- suro nipa n’agyai saman na onipa hu y3 hu! Onipa y3 bad – like a woman scorned!

    Anyway, I have to end here my lovelies. In my next episode, I will probably reveal some of my foreign exploits to you lot. Brace yourselves (deep laughter).

    Happy 57th Independence Day Ghana!

    Love your neighbors and respect your elders… kisses!!!

    Sister Ama at the Oscars looking fabulous.

     

     

    P.S – In just two months, the blog has received close to two thousand visitors. I discovered this on my birthday. I must say this was the best birthday gift one could ever receive and I promise to continue to bring you worthwhile creative pieces. I am because you are! This is to us and thank you very much. As we continue to grow in numbers, Sister Ama and I together say, A la santé!! Cheers!

  • ASANTE

    Asante…

    A single word, different variations.

    A meaning per each

    An understanding par faux

    Asante

    In Swahili a Thank you

    In Akan an Empire

    To Kodzo, Consistency

    To Setri, Accommodating

    To Efua, Loyal

    To Nigel, Daring

    To Sitso, Colorful

    A single word; mutiple factions

    Asante

    How does thou understand thee?

    It certainly cannot mean a singular

    Certainly circular

    Maybe plural

    Particular maybe

    But all round a peculiar

    Word.

    In french a representation of good health

    Its origin of a certain cheer

    The French in a deep wine stupor

    A la santé would scream

    Cheers to good health

    Let’s cheer to good life.

    Step back and relax Asante

    I tell my mid of a name

    Retourner et revivre Asante

    I tell myself everyday

    To discover thyself lays true

    Within oneself, stay true

    My family, my friends, my life

    The love, surreal.

    I am eternally grateful to You,

     God

    Because even through the Goth

    On a golden chariot You have rode me forth

    Today I am independent

    But the interdependence of Me with my nature

    On ne peut pas faire disparaître avec

    Pour une bonne Santé

    Let’s cheer to life

    I have become a man

    Because my experiences taught me well

    Taught me how to be sober

    Wild though these experiences were

    “take the bull by the horn Asante,

    leave no gold unturned”

    My ancestors of the land of gold

    Thy golden stool doth guide me thus

    Life has a tricky way of testing your wits

    Like the Kente clothe, it will weave your thread up, down and through

    But like a master weaver a beautiful clothe it shall produce

    A testament of a king or queen

    You shall dance the Adowa at the end of your journey

    Hard work and perseverance shall adorn you in full regalia

    And the fruit of your labor shall decorate your feet.

    So Asante – Thank you

    Say thank you for every experience and every commodity you have

    Because it is this experience and commodity that make you who you are

    A la santé – Cheers

    A cheer for each time you’ve stayed true to yourself

    Even when society tried to mold you into a demon of yourself

    Asante – an Empire

    Be an empire, conquer each conquest

    And expand your dream even in the desert places

    “So when they say it’s over for you, they see you shining”.   

    Soyez vous-même mes amis pour la vie est courte

    Asante.

     

    Dedicated to myself on my pending birthday.

     
     

     

     

     

     

     

  • I WILL SHOW YOU MY KRAKYI POWERS – THE WORDS OF A FANTE MAN.

    Nn3, I will show you me krakyi powers. Hwonaa hwontiasi hwongyina nkyene na Fante diplomat rekasa.

    I will not conform to nkwasiadzi for I am a krakyi. Do you know the schools I have been to? Why do I say this? My coastal brothers will agree with me when I say the Fante Forex is based on the caliber of school one attends.

    Adisco, Augusco nadzi! Na 3y3 b33l33 dzaa Swesco will be your portion. Mfantsipim my alma mater did my mother proud. It spewed out a gentleman, amalaa na merika! Is there any challenger? Dwen Hwe Kan on the KwaBotwe Hill!

    The son of a seaman… I currently bear the Maxwell name. Up and down the Kotokraba Street, Kuntun Blankson and Araba Mills tell Akwasi Broni of my family’s exploits.

    Maxwell – since 1471; the Dutch christened my ancestors. Ancestors who Maximized their control on the Gold Coast very Well.

    Ivory, gold, atadwi, or cowries; ebadzi na ep3? We would deliver. Chief Mongers, we had landed.

    Edina Castle and Cape Coast castle shivered at the entry of a Maxwell. It recognized greatness when it crossed the threshold of the iron gates and hence an orgasmic welcome by its inhabitants every time to greet us.

    Where did all the greatness and splendor vanish to?  You ask?

    Bisa w)nananom nkurasifo no how they worshiped a ponytail in stockings.

    They destroyed the natural working order. Call it jealousy over the Maxwell success.

    They began to sell everything for mere pittance. Even common Ato would sell his soul just to linger in the shadow of a Pony’s tail.

    First it was land, then most of our gold and some precious gems. Before we could say Jack, it was Efua, Ekua, Araba, Ama and Aba. What was happening? Wosii Slave Trade.

    Thankfully we’ve moved past that. But recently I feel d33 I am reliving my ancestors experiences with the ponytails. Wodzi y3 gold nadzi ko, yankasa… wodzi y3 cocoa na Fernando Po dzibay3 nso kr)i… we kept mute as a people.

    Thanks to The Almighty, we discovered black gold and that one nso, ponytail is writing us off and hence, we still wallow in Blackout.

    Obrumankoma, Odapagyan and Oson will definitely be twisting and turning in their graves. They certainly didn’t lead a migration for this.

    We are without the ponytail but equally carry its wisdom; yet, we still somehow suffer. A country full of books yet no words. Can’t we speak? Why do we bury our heads in books if we don’t ever intend to look up and face our adversaries?

    What are we preaching to the future? Certainly not to Max-Well: Efficiently Maximize our full potential as a country Well.

    What else do we need to realize we have everything we need to spiral beyond Akwasi Broni?

    We have the raw material, the professors to create the equipment, the Technicians to handle the equipment and the man power to execute the duty – a duty to a nation.

    A duty to transition from a gold coast to a G-olden H-ub of A-ccelerated N-atural A-ccomplishments filled with such things as an infrastructure that actually works.

    Call it a dream but a Maxwell must dream. My ancestors did and once upon a time made our coastline a bustling trade line filled with different crops of people from far and wide.

    Well I must end here. My fellow krakyes bid me stop. They also grow weary.

    A CHANGE IS BOUND TO COME.

    Adios.

    MMM- MR. MAXWELL MANSFIELD (a Krakyi)

     

     

  • THE ANANSES: CHRONICLES OF SISTER AMA

     

    Anansesem…

     It was a waakye kind of morning. Waakye, no matter what anyone says is the ultimate food for future champions. My thoughts as I stepped out in my shades to buy Hajia’s whole consignment of the elixir of life (waakye) for my family. We do have a huge appetite you know. I am constantly grateful to The Maker for two things: the gift of fire and the know-how of all Hajia’s around Ghana to produce good quality waakye.

    The intricately woven sensation of rice and beans flavored with brown leaves which also provides the meal’s signature color. Not too salty but definitely mouthwatering, the addition of gari (cassava flakes) perfectly oiled to an orange color. Talia… oh what a beautiful name! Talia (spaghetti) – strategically sprinkled all over an immaculately steam drenched meal. What even kills me is that heated pepper Hajia infuses into the mix. The sight of the kotodwe (cow feet) and wele (cow skin) alone brings the cow back to life to enjoy itself in a hearty meal.

    Now back to the main story. This walk of life to obtain the elixir of life was being embarked on because Ananse my husband had decided to tell us one of his stories. He would only tell us a story when he was comatose after a good bowl of waakye with his shirt off and stomach dangling like a chandelier over his stool. The kids and I really did look forward to such occasions not because they were rare, no; but because it drew our family closer. With Ananse out deceiving people all day to make money so I can shop and the kids living their life, we hardly ever sat as a family to enjoy such priceless family moments.

    So you can understand my joy over an opportunity like this when Mewura had decided to gather all of us in the family vacation home in an exotic locale (which I am not revealing) to spend time with everyone and to listen to some of the Ananse exploits. Our family exploits.

    I got back all drenched in sweat and in need of a break from my heels. We sat on the floor of the living room, open up our waakye leaves which contained heaven and began the massacre with our hands (which is actually the proper way to enjoy a meal of waakye). After a few chokes from the hot pepper in the meal (we are not complaining) and some serious teasing of Eti Kelenkele, we finished our meal and gathered around the custodian of all stories- Ananse.

    HE BEGAN

    “Anansesem si so – Dear people, I spin stories. I am King of Stories, mine, yours, and those I inherited from my father, Nyame, The Maker. The stories shall be placed here, for your leisure. Take them and share them, but always remember that as they are Ananse stories, they are mine, and through me, The Maker’s. And He does not entertain thieves lightly, or gladly. So share them, but share their ownership as well. And enjoy, for is that not the purpose of stories?

    Just last week, when there was nothing but rice in this house (and I am not pointing any fingers but I have decided to look at Ama while saying this), I, Ananse, as a responsible father and husband decided to go looking for real food. It was a very difficult quest. A quest only Kings and Queens embarked on which took me across many a farmlands and fish ponds. I eventually came across Mr. Rabbito’s farm.

    Now this particular farm was blessed with lush and pomp. The farm was indeed a handsome farm! Its hair was decorated with cassava leaves shampooed with the best kind of soil available to man. Its lashes were an extension of palm fronds with beautiful palm nuts to provide a healthy glow. Its nose, huge mounds of yam sprouts. And finally, crawling watermelon leaves to grace this magnificent farm’s face with a beautiful smile.

    The Maker had answered my prayers! I immediately went to work plucking some of the cassava leaves and uprooting some yams. It was a bumper harvest my people. That was the meal you foolish kids (stares at Efu Dihwidihwi) enjoyed last Tuesday. True to my skill and to follow the tradition of “who doesn’t enjoy a free meal”, I decided to go back to this handsome farm again but this time with your mother, Sister Ama. We got to the farm with our mini truck and farm tools; ready to devour it like pests.

    After parallel parking our mini truck (Boys Abr3), I heard your mother screaming at the top of her voice at someone. My heart sank suddenly because heaven knows if it was the owners of the farm catching us in the act of borrowing some of their food stuff I would bolt without even looking back. Your mother can be very cunning sometimes and even if I bolted I know she would have talked her way out of that situation. (Sister Ama with a broad smile gets up and twirls).

    I arrived at the scene only to see Ama screaming at a man. I looked round and noticed he was alone. Whew! What a relief. Two people can take down one person right? These were my thoughts as I approached this man arguing with my wife.

    “What is the problem Ama? Is this man bothering you?” I asked with a puffy face ready to pounce on anyone trying to disrespect my lovely wife. “Mewura, this man wants to be an enemy of progress. I got here and asked him who he was, what he wanted and why he was here? He has refused to talk Mewura. He only smiles sheepishly and looks at me with vague eyes.” “Ama calm down let me handle this. It’s a man thing. Stand behind me!” I said. Oh what a fool I was. “Who are you and what are you doing here? Answer me now!” I bellowed.

    This man refused to answer. He still stood there in his shabby clothes with a blank stare. At this point my anger was off the charts. I then told him point blank if he didn’t answer my questions he was going to receive a strong slap. With vim he still stood his ground with a blank stare! This man was brave. So you know me, Ananse! Something had to happen. After all, me too I am brave some… Tah! First slap! Tah! Second… boom! Boom! Two kicks… this man still wouldn’t budge. And to add insult to injury he had seized me. He wouldn’t let me go. “I said leave me you scoundrel! Ama call for help! This man doesn’t know who he is dealing with!”

    20 minutes later…

    “Ama are you back?” I said still stuck to the fool. “Mewura I am back oo, with Mr. Rabitto. I had no choice”. I had been caught red handed. But I wasn’t going to go down without a fight! A whole champion like me. How? So I held my ground. “Why are you laughing Rabitto? This man here who is either a thief or your worker certainly needs to be punished and you are there laughing” I exclaimed. “He refuses to let me go. Do I look like a small boy to him? He had better let me go or else…” “Ananse, so it is you who has been stealing from my farm?” said Rabitto. “You know you could have just asked for anything here and I would have sent the courier to deliver it to your house.

    That thing you are stuck to isn’t a man but a wooden statuette dressed as a man smeared with extra Super glue brewed from the spittle of the three headed dogs of Hades. I placed it there because I wanted to catch the thief who was stealing from my farm and ooopps there he is”. “Rabitto what are you implying?” I said but deep down my children, I had never felt so ashamed in my life! Rabitto got me off the statuette and provided me with all I needed from his farm and even more. Even our minivan (Boys Abr3) sparked differently; it almost sounded like a chuckle.

    The morale of this story my people is, the art of trickery is a beautiful one, but never use it against friends who don’t mind sharing their goodies with you.

    Oh, and lest I forget, you must never show remorse. It is a sign of weakness. You see the way I put Rabitto in check by not showing remorse? Good!

     THE END…

    By the end of the story, I had finished cleaning all the dishes, Naa Kohwia had had two nightmares already and the other two kids, Eti Kelenkele and Efu Dihwididwi were on their second bowl of fufu. I guess perfect family moments are over rated.

    Well I must say that the Rabitto situation was a testy one for me but still, life goes on. I wasn’t as vulnerable as Ananse painted me to be. I mean, if you come home with goodies the first time and I feel instead of a few we can have it all and you agree to my plan who is the vulnerable one? Trickery is but a business for the Ananses and we must also eat to survive. These Louis Vuitton bags don’t come cheap.

    Well I must leave you lovelies at this moment to attend to our London branch but I promise to bring you even more of my greatness in my next episode. I did need a new wardrobe so I had to let the husband feature in this episode. My ladies you know this…  so until next time.

    Love your neighbors and respect your elders! Kisses…

    Sister Ama in her palmnut soup stained apron yet still fabulous.

     

    **Below is a 3D representation of The Ananses’ vacation home in a secret locale. In the picture(standing) is their house keeper, Nana Ohweadieyie II. Credit: Ekow Aseda Inkoom (@Swissplus), Amoyaw Brown Edmund, Adeduni Duchess Roberts and Archibald Eastwood-Anaba

     

    Image

     

  • An Interview

    I sat down close to her.

    Propped myself up.

    Did she notice it?

    I pushed up my glasses.

    I shifted a little in my chair.

    Did she notice it this time?

    “So Mr. Adam…”

    Oh no!! She is talking to me.

     My lashes Pat too much.

    Ok don’t move your hands.

    Maybe she won’t notice.

    “Yes. It’s a…”

    Oh shit! My left shoulder just did a twirl.

    Well, I sound intelligent.

    Maybe she didn’t notice.

    My body language.

    “Does this mean…”

    What?! Who?! Whew!

    I thought she was asking me about…

    It’s meant for the Mr. Jean.

    He seems to have his gesticulations in check.

    Quite strong…

    He sounds very intelligent.

    But I can beat him at this.

    Everyone knows this.

    I am smarter than he is.

    But…

    Right now I guess.

    No one will know.

    “Did the gov…”

    Sweet Jesus….

    “Yes, a substantial amount…”

    You have your answer now.

    Ha!

    Ok now we play the no interjection game.

    Let Mr. Jean take the spotlight.

    Even though I am smarter than he is.

    This is NATIONAL TELEVISION.

    FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.

    I can’t do this anymore.

    I grow weary.

    But I must keep the charade on.

    Lest I am beheaded.

    Well society has made me this way.

    “Well… we would like to say a big thank you…”

    “Always a pleasure…”

    Shit! Why didn’t I say “sure”?

    Or something simple?

    Now for sure she will know.

    Keep your cool.

    Smile and Shake.

    It’s over.

    Now you can go back to…

    Being yourself.

    Away from prying eyes.

    Away from Judges.

    Thank Jesus!

    This is difficult.

    Oh God…

    Oh Well…

    I must… I will…I have…

    And will continue to…

    Keep up the charade…

    Lest I am judged…

    AGAIN

    My frail heart…

    CAN’T TAKE IT

    I wonder if those Judges…

    Have no faults…

    Just because it does not show…

    Like a mole…

    On their face…

    They choose to make me…

    Like this…

    “Judge not… least you be judged…”

    I am patiently waiting for our FATHER.

    So that as WE sit in that cinema,

    Watching OUR stories,

    Those who condemned,

    Rather than redeemed,

    Shall also be condemned,

    Rather than redeemed.

    For they made me like this.

    They pushed me to the wall.

    Pushed me into the hole.

    Into the ABYSS.

    An ABYSS in which I dwelt.

    And thrived.

    But in the Light,

    A NON-ME.

    “So Jean how is your fam…”

    “…  Adam you are still single right?”

    Right on cue.

    Jean Jean Jean.

    The interVIEW continues.

     

     

                                                 Dedicated to YOU and the JUDGE.