Working From Home in the City of Accra

Six, before the sun ascends. You’re hairy-screeching, whistling through the hermetic highways and halting abruptly here and there, utterly uncertain to make it before eight to the pinched square inches you work in, or, if you make it on time, in how many pieces would you straggle up the stairs? You finally make the office scene, barely believing how you gave the runaround to scraping or bumping your car. You’re still singeing and seething from the hideous habits of the hoi polloi on the streets or the hoity-toity hoi polloi in the cars.

Imagine soothingly waking up at six, and taking calm, no-frenzy steps through your hygiene to a brilliant breakfast. The moments are still many for you to slip with ease into your “office space”, peacefully tucked away in a corner of your home. Rush Hour 1 is spent lapping on cool morning nectar, running the email trail and breezing through full-office-day work quietly and efficiently. All that goodly time, you’re keeping the corner of your eye on things at home. Wonderful day!

Paperless offices; remote access; high fuel prices; traffic-time costs; the surreal stuff that cleverly combine to make this dream so real, so sensible. After moderately high initials, the magic model makes for office cost savings and happy workers, no? The only outstanding obstacle becomes the old-fashioned boss. They need to see professionals do face time at the office desk; not wholly necessary once the job gets done, but a compromise on the wagon. Stay at home through the rush hour; show your face three times a week from eleven to three!

Nice She Looks, Bush She Is

Two dashing playboys in bespoke, slick, black suits lounge in a stylish drawing room, on a softly lit evening, wetting their wealthy whistles on expensive brandy, smoking choking cigars and deviously debating their thrilling chasing sport.

One is pulpit-preaching the virgin virtues of feeding on a fixed field of victims. He exhorts, “I’m against the cruelty of juggling more than five…”, when a fiercely fetching feline-featured woman with mostly invisible clothing on her sleek ebony skin raps on the door, and lets herself in, with lazy, libido-liberating moves.

A boy-butler (or whatever he is) appears on cue to show the sultry siren upstairs. As she sails behind him through the wide archway, she tartly trails her skilful, flexible fingers on the spotless white wall! Shocking!

First Blush

First time sparked only a light
Just a pretty passing thought
Then I looked at you again
And saw the sparkle in your eyes

Don’t know what I want from you
But I love your many ways
I love the times I spend with you
And the way you say my name.

A Promise on Love

I’ll stow your smile in a chocolate cake
Catch your breath in a red rose bud
I’ll hold your hair in a liquorice lake
And love you with blue blood

I’ll keep your heart in a glass fruit bowl
And cloak your soul in a crystal ball
I’ll melt your mind in a phial of gold
And love you, flaws and all

I’ll coat your touch in sugar strips
Set your feet in a jewellery case
I’ll warm your kiss against my lips
Love you in time and space

Finis

It rose and then it glowed
Was hot and enragé
Turned cold and blazed again
It grew and flew away

It struck a light and shone
Was swept up in a swirl
Tailspinning in a trice
It mellowed and refined

It set and gave a sigh
Was far from growing old
The time had come to go
It crept away to die.

The Seal

i’m looking for the little words
i never had use for.
the pretty pearls
that carry dreams
and cares to God
in prayer.

i’m thinking of the simple ways
i had and lost in time.
the erring touch,
the meeting minds,
the thrill of
stolen glance.

i’m dreaming of a happy place
where smile and leaping heart
dance hand-in-hand
from morn till night,
while fear and hurt
grow thin.

a magical moment will dawn,
reveal my open secret –
the truth of how special
you are,
and seal
what’s meant to be.

Standing Pretty in the Streets

Her incredibly increasing curves strut and swing my way. I demurely deflect my glimpse, for she’s clearly caught on to the fact that I’m madly amazed at her fluid flexure. Gliding gleefully towards me, she showers one last ridiculously showy sashay, and comes to a rehearsed stop at my window. She asks, “Will you buy?”

She wears her skin leathery and sable from strutting her stuff and selling her fruit (mutual advertising, no?) in the searing African sun.

The gluey situation only lasts a trice, and then the traffic passes on. With devilish doubt, I ask my Self whether I would genuinely judge her pretty, or any prettier, if she weren’t drudging and moiling daily on the streets.