Faustina Ama Dadson

Faustina Ama Dadson

Whenever Ama passed the street
She said a greeting in a voice sweet
The boys won't blink an eye to the flies
She was just as beautiful as green skies

Ama always carried a bag of books
A serious student with humble looks
And when she spoke, a courteous girl
Her hair run down her butt in a curl

In fine, she had everything in herself
To make the girls wonder in themselves
So on, they worked harder for the light
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Faustina Ama Dadson, yesterday night
Was lying down the street bleeding and soul fled.

By Kweku Atta Crayon.

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DELA

Dela

If you have seen me smile
tis because I will live for awhile
This poem has lost its virginity
to our lustful screens and vanity

Dela
peep into my pants
see for yourself if am still a man
it sleeps even at your chants
They say its common of our clan

Dela
You alone know what love is
unzip my heart, see if I have it

this feeling
stop
Dela
stop it
Dela pls
this feeling
I don't know it
but if you could give me more Dela
Okay stop, not more

Kwaku Atta Crayon

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I AM A NORTHERNER

Author: Ruth Wewura Guribie

I am a northerner. And that is a shame, but please don’t blame me, blame God. He made me a northerner and didn’t practice democracy when he did so.
Perhaps there was a conference in heaven (or wherever babies come from) in which parents choose their children. Blame my parents and not me, I don’t recall being part of it, I don’t recall choosing mine - but hear me out, I am proud of mine.
But, maybe, given an option, I might have made a better choice, but I came as a northerner. This is the accidental badge of shame I carry, like all men, but mine is worse - I am a northerner.
Long before my parents made their choice, colonial thieves drew the map, it had nothing to do with me - they made me a northerner. No plebiscite, no Gallup Poll. With a stroke of the pen, they made their choice and made me - a northerner. My choice was never a part of it; they followed the stars and hit the mark - to make me a northerner.

My land of birth is great and vast, full of life and changing scenes. Sometimes arid, sometimes green. Most times dry and sometimes wet - it is the northern land. I don’t blame others, if they don’t know, but I make them angry for just being me.
My land is dry and breeds “no things”- but lush tomatoes, scented onions, hot peppers, and loads of grain, ginger and garlic. My land produces maize and beans; sugarcane, kola, sorghum, moringa and millet.  My pastureland is best for cattle, goats and sheep, best for donkeys, horses, and fowls of all kinds. These are part of the northern nothing.
The earth yields sheanut, melon and seeds. Once upon an ancient time, my land made groundnuts that built pyramids like Egypt land. The best of yams and potatoes breed; the best of beans and protein needs; yes, they’re nothing compared with oil - parlous insignificance to today’s gold. Whatever the north produced is nothing here.

I rile not those who produce cocoa, nor quarrel with those that grow their coffee. I bug not those whose rainforests produce the best of trees, timber and rubber and palm produce. Its nuts and fruits and lush red oil.
All I ask is live and let’s live and hold aloft our red, gold, green and black star. I don’t begrudge the vast rivers - that give more fish than the TONO DAM. I crave the taste of crabs and shrimps; I love the oil that powers boats, cars and moving machines. I love the tar that colours the road and lubricants that oil the wheels and burnish flesh.
Yet all I ask is live and let’s live, but nay they say we want you out. I am a northerner, to be seen never to whine, complain or hold my point of view.
I am a northerner, and everything I touch brings me shame. I love the land and fought for it. I love its make from my vantage point- the confluence of the Volta river, watching the evening sun throw the final arms of its glow, like rainbow shoots across the rest of motherland and even that they’ll take from me. For I am a northerner, who must see nothing, hear nothing and pretend to know nothing.
I am a northerner. Others are allowed to make their heroes, keep their heroines and turn their villains into saints but I am accused of political greed. I am the “grand daughter” of NAVRO-PIO KWARA KADATUA, but today, I am the butt of modern jokes.
I am a northerner, cousin of Hilla Liman. My uncles shed the blood that glued this nation. Yes, perhaps, not make professors per square metre but I made mine in quantum too. In NDEWURA JAKPA and NAA GBEWAAH I share my blood. I am a northerner, branded loafer, code-named parasite and forbidden to fight the label. I am never judged on the strength of my character, nor on my personal skill, for I am not supposed to have a brain, skill or character - I am a northerner.

If I drink, I’m called a drunk, and if I don’t, am called a “villager”. If I eat they laugh at me, if I don’t they say, let her starve to death if she will.
 I am the “daughter” of CHIEF S.D DOMBO, of unsung heroes and heroines, of brave hearts and royal Kings, of many tribes and many tongues. But when one Political leader errs, they say we are all incompetent; when one man allegedly fights another, they say we are all violent; when one man becomes the slave of a master, they say we are all inferior; when one woman chooses farmwork over education, they say we are all unlettered; when one woman is subjected to abuse, they say we are all timid and when one man takes a child and makes her his wife, we are all called paedophiles - because we are northerners.
The writer is the project officer for the Access to Justice Programme at the Commonwealth Human Rights Initiative. Her email address is: ruthlaic@yahoo.co.uk

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A RECIPE OF REDISCOVERY

(A narrative by Kweku Atta Crayon )

The man who brought her was of no strange face, I had met him twice. He was the father of two little girls who were under my care in going to and returning from school. The Dansoa Bruce. They had similitude in their facial appearances. So even before the headmaster had introduced her, I knew she was another of the Dansoa Bruces. More to her first day at Naraguta Grammar school, was her foreigness to the Tarkwa township. Her father called for assistance from any one of us who stayed at Tamso or its environs, to map her back home after school. Knowing their house very well, I volunteered to deliver that service. I took another look at the new girl and she was just as different as Lucifer’s first day on earth.

It was usual of anybody to invaginate on first day at a new school but the situation was adverse with Abeam Dansoa Bruce, so she was introduced. She easily diffused every of her fragrance across the class, answered as many questions as was asked, hit, laughed, smiled, frowned and even jumped from desk to desk. She, in no time had our English Master calling her an 'Extrovert'. She walked and talked like a baby doll ( obroni ba).
Abeam was our first female mate with unshaven hair, she had it not too long though and truth be told, her hair was almost always dirty except on Mondays when she had it neatly braided or trimmed and clipped.

On our way home after school, I asked where her two younger siblings were and she had to repeat herself thrice before I could understand they were in Accra and schooling and that she had also come from Accra to be with her parents.

As our days in school grew from Mondays to Fridays, so did our friendship. She soon became the most challenging girl in class; she rubbed shoulders with the big boys, of them included myself. She was extremely intelligent and unparrelled in her excellence at all ten subjects. Whiles some of us scored 35% in French, 41% in Fante, sometimes worse in Pre-Vocational Skills and 90s in the rest, she was maintaining an average of 75% in all ten subjects. Before time could label her, she had long earned herself some recognition and admiration from teachers and friends.

When we were nearing our BECE, our school hours were extended and we were closing as late as 6pm. Each of our academic days ended with an exercise called 'semi circle', this was a pedantic game in which our English Master assembled us in a semi circle and asked us questions in turns. One day, during semi circle, Abeam stood next to me, I had the armpit of my uniform torn, so when I had raised my hand up for relief, she managed to see my armpit and teased me for no growing any crotch hair. I felt belittled and wondered if she was older than me.

After our BECE, Abeam visited me in the evenings in my house, she lived in a 'self-contained house' and could only steal herself out at the absence of her parents. I lived in a 'compound house' with no gates and I could be like MTN. In those evenings, we went taking the air and talking. If by unplanned means we got to a dark corner, we stood there for few little kisses and sped off into the winds. Those moments were the best we could ever treat ourselves to.

Few Weeks after completion, Abeam enrolled in a computer school with Linda, a girl who lived in my neighborhood and I also started selling my mother's doughnuts( boflots). One afternoon, I was returning from the fire service office where my boflots were most bought and whiles struggling to climb the hill which links Tarkwa N'aboso to Umat basic school, with my glass sieve on my head, I heard a tinny voice call "boflot wura", I turned and it was Abeam. She had closed from her computer class. This time she didn't tease me but had a tete a tete with me until she branched to the station for a car. I quickly rushed to my mother's shop and dropped the sieve. I kept weeping within. My Mum questioned why I wore that sad face but I answered in silence. There and then, I knew I had shamefaced myself in the sight of Abeam. How on earth could I ever get closer again to my lover? So I shielded myself from her, I avoided her area and never passed the road where she was most likely to be seen.

Years took us to our separate secondary schools. Whiles in Ghana Secondary Technical School, I wrote Abeam a love letter which never was replied. We never saw each other again until after high school when I met her briefly. To this day, I have always wished to meet her, to stand her a man and still take her on those walks, I still long to kiss shortly in the dark.

Most surprisingly, I logged into facebook this morning to read a wisdom impregnated post from a lady called Bernice Bruce and when I viewed the profile, lo and behold it was my Abeam. I must meet this lady and give her a big hug. I have learned to say I still love you in big hugs Sisi Bruce.

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APEDWA GUEST HOUSE

Few minutes before our departure, a gentle man from the front seat,just behind the driver's, requested that we closed our eyes in prayer to Almighty God for traveling mercies. A lady seated next to me, had a garment that covered her head, just like a veil. I became certain of her status as a Muslim when she still had her eyes actively gazing through the windows whiles everyone else seemed closed. I am not a conformist to these mass prayers in public transports. So I also had mine opened, headphone on and listened to my somewhat sempiternal list of classical music. Mozart's collection always beguiled me, just after three composes of him, the player randomly picked 'Air on a String' by Sebastian Bach. That particular song is a berceuse and it always lulls me to sleep. Just about mid way the track, I tilted my back inclined in a position comfortable for sleep and in matters of seconds I had caught some Z's. Whatever I saw or heard thereafter, am sure was a dream.

I looked all lost after a precipitous regain of awareness from what could best be described a sopor. Rahinatu why has the bus come to an abrupt halt, I questioned the lady next. She showed two surprising front teeth, am not sure I could call that a smile, then she questioned back, How did you know am called Rahinatu?. Well, I just guessed. she coupled those teeth with her cheeks and it now looked similar to Michelle Obama's smile. I called my primary question back and she said "I don't really know but I should think its a slight mechanical fault", Oh that is bad, I just hope it doesn't take so much of our already exhausted time, I had followed up. I threw my eyes across and I could spot empty seats, it was apparent some passengers had got down to either refresh or join in repairing the broken bus. The seats behind and before ours were all unoccupied and I thought I could steal some privacy in engaging Rahinatu in my stupid talks. My lady do you...then the conductor interrupted with his course voice which sounded like a tired door bell, Please the damage is beyond first aid and so we will be sleeping in the bus over the night whiles we await assistance from the nearest fitting shop. His announcement did not only disappoint but also angered me, because he had just polluted a romantic soup I had started cooking in my head for the sip of Rahinatu's brain.

She quested that I adjusted my legs so she could get off the bus. Few minutes after I joined the road. It was already busy with scattered passengers, some who had carried food were seen eating, whiles others were just taking the air like Rahi. I had a bottle of voltic water and a digestive biscuit I bought from the VIP station in Accra. I imbibed just a little of the water. I had seen Rahi all alone by herself on the other side of the road behind the bus but decided to have some time to myself too.  I detached myself from the gathering, took some few gentle steps down south-side. I threw my head backwards and fixed my gaze on the black sky. It was adorned with a bold moon. The moon was governing the night with its illuminating abilities. I soliloquised a poem which had no words. I didn't know what I was saying but I sure was enjoying the company of the moon and some cold breeze from the silent forest.

I felt a saccade on my shoulders, it was Rahi. She was frigid and looked worried. I took off my jacket and insulated her soft body against the cold weather, She served me those two front teeth again, that was her own way of smiling in either gratitude or response to amazement. Later, I felt very cold too but man had to be man, so I kept talking and smiling even though I knew things were getting frozen within me.
Rahi called my attention to the majority of our colleague passengers who were walking down the road. I suggested we ascertained the course, they had received good news from  three snail hunters who surfaced from the forest. They were leading them to a guest house close at hand. We quickly dashed into the bus for our bags and followed them. About eight minutes of walking took us to an isolated unpainted structure. It was graphically labelled APEDWA GUEST HOUSE. We didn't need another prompt, it became plain that was going to be our rest for the night.

They were just five finished rooms for rent, we had to advise ourselves to sleep in groups of five or more. The situation demanded that we slept with respect to gender. The receptionist took advantage of the state of matters and monopolized the market. We paid ghc20 each in a room of six. I placed my bag in a wooden closet and came out to pass water, I turned whiles zipping up and I was facing Rahi, who was watching me from a short distance apart. She bashfully apologized and dispatched another dose of smiles. This time my candied words rushed from somewhere into my head. I took four steps closer her and asked why she was not in her room. She claimed she never slept in a room with so many strangers and feared insomnia. So what do we do, I cared and she felt accompanied now. Maybe I will join those left in the bus or hang around on the road, She sounded disturbed. I insisted to be with though she objected several times because she didn't want to cause me any discomfort.

Soon, we found loneliness on the road, our hands were locked in each others and we took loath steps. We whispered many words to ourselves, I never knew I was a comedian until that night came, I could make her laugh at each passing second. It got to a time when she laughed her head on my shoulder, gave me romantic slaps and followed it with an amatory stare into my eyes. The night kept passing and the winds blew harder and colder. She still was shivering even at the mercy of my jacket and needed a further protection. So we walked back to the guest house. Asked the receptionist if he could allow her to sleep in a room which was reportedly left untenanted for the occupancy of the owner of the guest house anytime he visited the village. He agreed on an amount of ghc50 which I painfully but manfully paid.
I mouthed her a good night into her ears and she frowned. She pleaded my company over the night. Jackpot, so I screamed in my mind voice.

She dumped herself on the bed, I came back from the washroom to find her half nude. I took off my shirt and jeans trouser and joined her on the bed. We continued our tete a tete and things got so romantic that we nearly kissed at some glances. Our lips were so close to each others that we could share a chewing gum. I looked at my wrist watch and it was 1:30am. I knew time was on athletic spikes and could reach morning sooner than usual and so I urged myself to be bold enough to begin action. I raised my right hand and gently placed it on her hips,for the third time, brought out those two teeth, I knew them and what they meant so I narrowed my lips closer hers, then she turned away from me, faced the other side. I felt really embarrassed. I breathed into my palm to check my breath and it didn't smell that rejecting.
I gave off a second try, this time I gathered my waist behind her butt such that my reared dick could feel her soft and succulent backside. Even worse, she repositioned herself to the far end of the bed, leaving an arms length between us. My erected stick started nodding in hunger and I started sweating in such a cold atmosphere. After two more failing attempts to get Rahinatu into romance, I finally gave up and also faced the wall.

Surprisingly sleep never found me, I wondered and languished all night. I picked my watch again and it was already dawn, 30mins had past 4am. It was when all hopes for romance had died out that I felt a hand crept into my singlet. I laid there so quiet as if I was long lost in sleep.She flowed herself around and enveloped me from the back, she kissed my shoulders and pressed her breast so tight against my body. A tiny voice within whispered to me that I rejected her like she did to me but I warned that voice to stay back, though it kept growing in pitch. Just when I had decided to turn to grab her lips, a knock landed on our door, I rushed to see who sought admission and it was the receptionist. He had come to inform us that the bus had been fixed and all passengers seated and waiting for us, he had forgotten we had checked into a separate room. We hurriedly dressed up and hastened towards the bus.

We entered the bus with guilty faces and Rahinatu couldn't raise her head up. One man at the back seat passed a funny comment, " eeeeh Apedwa Guest House really can be fun", it threw everyone into laughter ad others joined in the commentary, some said, young Men of today can be smart, an elderly woman looked at me and said though I look innocent, she was sure I performed well in bed, Rahinatu whose head was bowed in shame, kept laughing knowing that nothing really happened.

By Kwaku Atta Crayon

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PERFECTING ASHLARS

From the manuscript of "PERFECTING ASHLARS"...... An Operatic Poetry Play
by Kweku Atta Crayon

Scene 4.
( Faryali emerges from the convenient room adjourning King Kumboki's sacred chamber, in his left hand is a 24 inch gauge and a common gavel and in the right is a chisel. The light is illuminated and Haruq Adiq is seen descending the winding staircase from the Sanctum Sanctorum of the Temple)

Faryali (recitation in high spirit)

Oh Master of this noble craft
By thy pencil life exists
Lines are marked for this intended structure
Your words tickle my brain
and I can't help but work
Do you see a stain on my lips
One whose breast is safe
for the repository of my secrets
My right hand on left breast
Suffice me to say, yours is better shielded
against the attacks of the pernicious

Ears I bring without mouth
Eyes I offer without tongue
On your call, I have submitted
this humble self of mine
To listen but speak not
to see but picture not
Thy servant wait.

Haruq Adiq ( majestic recitation)

Words have climbed up here
The walls have seen
Your Fellow craft men are witnesses
Great works you done
I need not employ the Heavens
It is the hope of wages that
sweeten labour
This sun has called you
from labour to refreshment
and thy have obeyed
Let laziness not arrest you
at the call of the moon

I bring you corn and oil
thy fruits of thy weekly labour.
Let this benefit first God
Thy Neighbour and thyself
For man is human when he understands
why the day is in 24 hours and not 32

Both Faryali and Haruq Adiq ( aria)

For Man is human when he understands
why the day is in 24hours and not 32
For Man is human when he understands
why the teeth is fully grown in 32 and not 24

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God Speaks,Listen

Wednesday Services always were a bore
And last week our attendance was only four
But the message came so divine and hot
It filled me and in spirit I was caught
Pastor said God still speaks to Men
It was a tired truth but doubting Ben

He said do your best to listen and obey

We screamed Amen but Ben grinned Okay

Wednesday evenings after services

We do  drink up and  each  disperses
At any one sip of the coca cola

We bowed to fine tunes of  the viola
Shared Testimonies of a God who speaks
And the blessings that came in streaks
To He who listens and Obeys
In his Life it comes in many ways

As the moon smiled and walked by

We knew it was time to say guys bye

Ben took the busy street to his house
He reached a shop and thought of his spouse
God what should I buy for her?, then a tiny voice
"Indomie noodles" trust me,its her choice
Hahaha, God is that You? Ben wondered
But She never took Indomie, He pondered
All the same I will for once Obey
I need my own testimony today
So he did buy and happy he went
He walked past a house then again the voice
"Knock and deliver the noodles, just rejoice"
Ben laughed so loud and said this must not be God
We both knew this was for my wife not some clod

He stood there staring the house which looked deserted
The instruction grew louder within and he just adverted
Fineeee God, but if anything funny happens am out of church
Visit some shrines or gods and the many spirits I will search

He knocked lightly but a hard reply
Who is that? and the door a man pry
Sorry Sir, I have come to these Noodles Supply
The man grabbed them quickly and invited him
Ben entered,a baby was crying and mother singing hymn
"Julie here is hungry and wants noodles but we out of cash
My wife sought assistance from a lady who proved helpless
She didn't have money either and her husband's phone was off"
I prayed and my wife said God will send down an Angel
I demand of thee, are you His sent Angel?" The man asked
Ben's lips were heavy and just couldn't speak but Goodnight

He rushed down home
Honey where is your phone,  wife looked worried
He checked his pocket and it was off, am sorry
I have been trying to reach you
I needed noodles to help a lady
Ben broke down in tears, so it is true
We have a God with mouth, so get ears

By Kweku Atta Crayon ( Oppong Clifford Benjamin)

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AN APPLAUSE FOR MY MUM

Just a single room back in the days
No light, television,you said patience pays
One fat mattress, one huge alata blanket
One corner of same room,utensils parked in a basket
Another corner, three Ghana-must-go bags
Behind the door, a hill of dirty rags
Until you stayed with us in the rainy seasons
You wouldn't know their use and the reasons
If the rains came in the afternoon
When no one at home, our room,a lagoon
If a relative visits, Mum shared the bed
We slept bare floor with books to support our head
Mum,this is how far we have come
Can we applaud and chew gum

War befalls the one who doesn't wake up at six
Insults, anger, canes and on lucky days kicks
Unless Brother Mic, the pharmacist down the street
Confirms you are ill and needs more rest to treat
What didn't we sell?
Where didn't we vend, except hell
Early morning bankye ne abro moree (Cassava and corn dough)
In the afternoon, 'bans boflot' (doughnuts )
And the evening krazine (Kerosine)
Mum this is how we have come
Can we applaud and tell some

What tears didn't we cry
Which effort didn't we try
Any route we didn't ply?
Yet Christmas and Easter
were simply the only times
We ate jollof rice and chicken thighs

Those Sundays you sat on the last pew
In your heart were many but in hands few
Ready to run home without disturbance
At the mention of harvest or 'Kofi ne Ama'
The body was willing to serve but the pocket weak
Yet you never stayed home, worshiping every week
Those funny Sundays, you broke a note into many coins
Please this is for God not toffees, she would enjoin

This is how far we have come Mum
Can we applaud and dance
to the rhymes of the future.

By Kweku Atta Crayon........On Mother's Day.

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Our Artificial Africa

Our Artificial Africa

When the birds were heard rapping
Stead of singing and wings flapping
It was obvious somethings had gone wrong
And nature wouldn't have them to its belong

When Coca cola had replaced coconut
Our women dress fine somewhat
Men feel more presentable in suit and tie
Take every drink with a meat in pie
Africa had lost its touch
And now we talk too much

When I stopped walking the path
To Papa Akrofi's house for my math
Mum no longer visited her friends
Phone calls and even that it depends
If you go to school with food in leaf
You are teased,on lucky days its brief

Now that we are manufacturing another Africa
To look more beautiful like America
Let us keep quiet to the  western sufferings
When our every problem is under political coverings
And Mothers birth no children but rather offsprings
When it is more profitable to invest in soccer
Than in education and feeding of some Ugandans

By Kweku Atta Crayon

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My Single Story Of Nigerians

MY SINGLE STORY OF NIGERIANS
( Malicious Defrauders Until the Poets Came.)

Just some few minutes ago a very good friend of mine in Florida, USA sent me a message about how she has been codded by a Nigerian guy. The guy who has always played the Mr. gentle and Saint game all these while has had his way into deceiving a struggling woman. He is a $500 rich fraudster.

The above story also reminded me of my past encounter with a man of same attitude. Some where in 2010 I was so desperate to study abroad, I started searching for universities in the USA and China, at a point in my search I clicked on a link which beeped "scholarship for African students, Study in USA and UK for FREE". This sweet link directed me to the blog of my supposed angel. It had a long form for scholarship and another for admission to any university of my choice, I hurried through the registration and just a day after an email of confirmation was received.

It was so positive that I thanked God for the come true of some dreams. About three days later another email was received in request of some credentials which included my Wassce results, my TOEFL, cover letters and transcripts. I went through all possible means to harvest these documents. The day I had my transcript I assured myself I was soon going to be an undergraduate student of North Carolina State University.

The process went on and on to the crucial point where payment was inevitable and I had gained the trust of the other person whom I never had known excerpt through emails and the fake website of the school. First it was the admission dues of $50. Which was quite insignificant. So I quickly paid into the account number given. Another email dropped affirming my payment and I was informed the School will review my admission forms. This message sent me into some serious daily prayers. I needed God to show me my admission letter even before the school sit to decide.

Just a month later, a very beautiful congratulatory message came dancing in my mail. I was admitted and the future had arrived. In the same message I was informed that there had been cases where students got the school's Visa Application letter and never really attended the school upon arrival in America so to confirm my seriousness I will be required to pay half of my school fees and the scholarship will take care of the other half and my accommodation expenses before the letter would be issued to the America Embassy in Ghana, of which a copy will be sent to me.

Who was I to doubt at that point where America seemed just a stone throw away from me. Again Man had to enter every hole, cave and sea to conjure some dollars from nowhere. The amount was paid and that ended the whole deal. The email address which I was communicating through stopped working, my own email address was blocked and the school website became non-existing url.

I stayed indoors for more than a month, and wept bitterly for been fooled. I told a friend who was so conversant with the internet and he screamed "OOOOOHHHHH CLIIFFFF YOU HAVE FALLEN PREY TO SOME INTERNET PREDATORS IN NIGERIAN"

I was particularly shocked when he showed me the same chain of messages I was receiving and some more. He went further to show me how to determine the IP address of an email to know the location of the sender and when we checked the IP of the email address it was Ojo, Nigeria.

There and then I pledged never ever to trust any Nigerian. Until recently I met the positive ones. The ones who brought the poetry side of me and even went further to call me a brother. Had it not been these Poets I still would have remained of the view that Nigerians are fraudsters and cannot be made friends. But am glad I went through this experience and it is my prayer that my friend also console herself and learn a lesson.

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