Hairy Legs

I'm crawling up your legs
With my flippant, flirty mind
I'm counting your unshaved hairs
Each a reason you're not my kind

Accra now Loves Flowers

Residential Accra is now favours fine flowers. What tells me so is all the comely ceramic vases, sundry seedlings and weft wickerwork that environ the streets of the city of Accra. Plus, there are many nurseries among wafer woods where rich people browse and buy one hundred far-flung species.

These flowers are expensive, I’m told. There was a time when flowers were either freely obtained in the city of Accra, or else the average Accraian home simply went bare. Plus maybe Accraian homeowners, with all the castles they build in the air, are becoming ‘civilised’. Or maybe the economy is just booming. Ha!

I have seen pinched places in Accra where if you planted the straitened people in your private pleasance, they would devour the petals, leaves and beds out of hunger. So, I don’t really feel civilised by festooning and garlanding the bare house I live in. But from an artsy point of view, it is good that Accra now loves flowers.

Shoe-Flirting with Lil Girl

I flew into Lil Girl (the first time) on a sun-kissed, blue-sky Thursday morning outside a court room. We huddled together – she, Kiz, Aby and I - exploring budding friendship; laughing; teasing and tempting; taunting and tantalising one another (not caring who witnessed). As Lil Girl played her batting eyes and raising brows all over me, her feet kept stepping on my soleil-shined shoes. We mock-kidded about magnetic attraction, and that day has brought us this far. If you asked her to recall what happened then, today, she would swear by the name of Sir Dalliance Flirton, that I was rather dancing all atwitter on her shoes, although she’d not bothered to polish them like mine. My defence against her velvet version, is that she has much the longer legs.

Big Feet

Feet as wild as yours
Could sweep the streets in aisles
They should be shod like a horse
Or tamed with emery files

At Least, Not More Than ...

I suffered the captain of the B Black Stars this morning, on Joy FM’s sports news, coolly declare that they would beat the B Super Eagles by ‘at least not more than 3 goals.’

Now, if you would permit me to go and make breakfast (by frying the egg that ought to be on his face) while you flounder at decoding his most-confusing cipher, I’m sure your high logic would gather my pain.

I’ve heard too many people deploy words, but especially phrases, that they don’t understand. I hear many say ‘at least’ when they clearly mean ‘at most’. But, ‘at least, not more than 3 goals’ is surely a medal-winning gaffe.

‘At least’ being a floor, and ‘at most’ a ceiling, I do not think the B Black Stars really intend to play in that match. What they seek to do is simply impossible for footballers ... or even politicians.

Untitled

He's sleeping in the office
That wavering woman of his
Has done her thing again
He's running from the pain

Three

All triangles
Have three sharp angles
It's thrilling to be paired
But three can only hurt