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A Country in Passing (Observations from a Bus Window)

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What a fine thing it is to travel by bus, to see through the window, a country in passing. Even if all you see is a vast, unbroken land, burnt black by bushfires . It is strangely delightful or perhaps delightfully depressing, to see trees, stunted by the fires, rushing past. But the bus slows. A police barrier. An officer walks to the driver’s window. Money changes hands. He smiles and waves us on. A private driver refuses to pay. He is directed to park at the roadside. Here is a sprawling town. Business is booming—or so it seems. Everyone is busy, sweating in the noon sun. And the filth threatens to swallow them. Whoever invented polythene bags and “pure water” must be smiling. What a beautiful eyesore we have made of our villages. I only cry for the villages, as for the towns and cities, From where I am coming to where I am going Plastic waste has taken over our neighbourhoods, threatens our homes, our lives and our sanity! Everything comes wrapped in a black plastic bag Even a s...
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A Dove

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On my small porch, a dove has made her quiet claim– two pale promises nesting in the shallow grammar of fragile twigs. The door had been closed for months before me. No footsteps, no sudden sounds. No reason for fear. She had found what we all look for– a place undisturbed long enough to believe in tomorrow. Now I arrive with sudden sounds and movement and ownership, opening doors like declarations–thoughtless. She startles at my clatter, rises like a thought interrupted, her heart a fluttering question I cannot answer. What does she say of me, I wonder, in the courts where all creatures are heard? Does she call me intruder? Does she name me destroyer? Does she plead, Keep my children from this man who comes with noise and presence? And I– I who mean no harm, I, who have only inherited this roof for a while– stand here, a giant in her fragile world, yet a stranger to her fear. I want to answer her, If I could. Stay, I would say. I have no quar...
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N-kaachenera

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I do not love you for a reason Because reasons can shift with time– not for your beauty that may fade, nor your youth that would pass.   I love you in the sure way one recognizes home– not a startling discovery, but always a quiet certainty.     You ask what I see in you— but love is not a checklist. If I could name one thing, I would fear to lose it.   So I love you not only for what you are today, but the way your heart rises to meet mine without pretenses, without holding back.   There is a softness in you, the world does not always reward– but I see it.   The way you give, without keeping score, the way you care, even when it costs you, That is the kind of strength I trust my life with. N-kaachenera.   You are quiet, I am not. Where I rush, you are steady. And somewhere between your calm and my fire, we meet. And in that moment, I’m home.  
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If God Wills It

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It was my great aunt who spoke on many evenings, when the sun had finished its arguments with the day, and shadows gathered us children at her feet. She told of hidden truths wrapped in simple tales– of a little bird, sweet in her tweeting, bright-feathered and quick with life, who made her home beneath a roof of clay, with two tiny lives, her quiet bundle of joy. Below, the man spoke loudly of the morrow: I will mend this roof, he said, I will tear it down and raise it anew. And the bird, hearing death in the language of men, flew in trembling circles to the ear of God . He will do it, she cried, he will come with the hands of ruin– my children cannot yet meet the sky. And God, patient as time itself, asked only, What exactly did this man say? And when the little bird had told Him, He answered gently, Rest. Tomorrow will not obey him . And so it was. Again and again, the man built his future with his tongue, and the little beauty on a wing lived in fear for her y...
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Beyond the Shadow

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The world hit a wall in the spring of that year, School gates were shut, every breath tasted fear. Classrooms stood silent, the playgrounds were still, And private in teaching meant pockets were nil. They halved what he earned just to keep afloat, And he gripped tight the wheel of his shaking boat. But she that he loved didn’t see the world’s pain, She saw some dark secret; she swore he must feign. She drank in whispers from a false pulpit on high, Traded their sworn truth for a prophetic lie. With three little children and chaos within, She opened the door and ushered the devil in— It wasn’t long till he was living a lie, He watched his name slowly wither and die. Her words painted him guilty all over the town, While he fought just to keep from going down. The mistake was not COVID or the money they took, Her heart was a field where all rumours took root. Where trust could not live, and love could not stay, And fault-finding habits just pushed all respect away. But t...
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Beyond the Flame — A sonnet

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Morning hums low across the northern plain , And in that quiet, I think of your grace . Your voice is like the hush before the rain A calm that cools the heat of the midday sun. You’re like shea trees that bless the open plain, Soft in their shade, yet firm as they become. Barefoot in thought, yet bold in all you do, You carry joy the way the North holds sky.  Not loud – but deep, like truths the elders knew , A quiet fire that even storms can’t dry. You shine without intent or need to show, Your laughter smooth as shea butter on skin. I ask for nothing – only space to see The wonder that quietly shines through you.
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Location: Tamale, Ghana
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I the land, Speaks

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Once, I was held sacred. Whole. Alive, I cradled your fathers— And their fathers before them. I gave from my bounty— Millet , yams , nuts , milk, and nectar  With sorghum from my back, They brewed pito to intoxicate their gods. Their laughter echoing down my plains. And in return, I received their care, Their love— And also, their dead. Now, your greed threatens my very essence.   Trees and shrubs once danced on my back, They dance no more. They’re gone. Once they whispered to the winds at dawn, Now only stumps and dust remain. Ghosts of life, scorched by your greed. Engines now hum where birds once sang, Bulldozers raze where crops once sprang. You traded roots for rubble, shade for shame.   They told you gold lies in my bosom— So you stab me, again and again. Looted my bowels and sold my bones. Turning my rivers into toxic dreams. My fields lie bare, my waters poisoned, Fish float belly-up like broken promises. And children drink poison for b...
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Location: Tamale, Ghana
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