The Colleague

He’s riding pillion in your car
And soon drifts off to sleep
It figures how human you are
Not to push him out your jeep!

You’re playing music in your car
His phone’s playing some too
He comes to sit in like a tsar
And of music, you have two!

The rain brings mist into your car
He takes a rag to clear
He swipes only his view, as far
Forgetting who’s at the steer!

Man’s Best Friend

A frustrated, frenetic farmer failed to fob off his faithful farm dog from fawning over him. Looking for some time alone, he bit the startled mongrel.

In a far-flung country, a man, febrile from being freshly set upon by a mutt, seized its hinds, and closed his human teeth right back in its cur-coat in a rabid rage of revenge.

And some say the Sapiens and the Canines are best friends.

La Bianca TomaNto Paste

Somebody’s selling tasty tomatoes on TV with a cool calypso chant. Imagine my prize surprise, when I really listened to the blurb lyrics. I took it for gleeful granted that Ghana had ‘imagoed’ from the invented “N” in “maNtches” (that’s [a box of] “matches”) and “tomaNtoes” (well, you know what it is). But there it was in the delightful ditty: La Bianca TomaNto Paste.

I was granting genius to the songwriter-salesman for nosing the notional “N” into “TomaNto” to mimic the other “N” in “BiaNca”, but I reversed my reverence when a vellum-voice, at the end, said “Tomato” without the nagging “N”. So what happened? Somebody's mealy-mouthed about a mistake they didn't want to spend money editing. Or?

Painting for Obama in the City of Accra

The City Auths are lathering a lick of weak whitewash on the cracked kerbs and scarcely-sacred street furniture, one week to the cherub-heralded Coming of Obama. Why don’t they as well glaze some pasteurizing pastel over the sun-scorched faces of the street vendors and beggars too?

Browning the Home Team

My street neighbour was soaring to a grand house in a more genteel geography, and wanted a titled tenant for her old cabin. I revealed my best friend’s stress for a new address, and she said she would be in touch. But I saw her take sides with the ‘Away’ team, and put in an Indian couple instead.

Moods Withstood

I do not like this life of moods
It feels like I'm in jail
Or walking alone in dark woods
Unable to exhale

Urinary

A halting hombre in a rancid-butter-yellow shirt arrested me on the deserted stairwell of a comely courthouse, and blithely asked for the “Urinary”. I don’t know why I didn’t collapse in topsy-turvy titters! I think he remotely meant ‘Urinal’. Or per-frigging-haps, he misjudged the muted building for an urethra-healing hospital!

Bananas in Pajamas

A queer, questionable name for a children’s cartoon series. Many baby-dove diversions, like adorable nursery rhymes and clean ‘cable’ cartoons, conceal cunning, clandestine, adult themes, which only show their unfaithful face and crazy colours upon dwindled innocence. My favourite poet – William Blake – was a master at the stainless strain of this craft. Imagine my heart of horror when it suddenly settled on my mind, in the shower – my thinking place – this morning. I thought back to Bananas in Pajamas and the scandalous sense it makes to me right now.

Michael Jackson, Air Crashes & Other Random Questions

Why does anybody want MJ's autopsy photos?
Can Northwest Airlines Flight 255 be the last, please?
Would you take DXM for a cough?
Is Manuel Zelaya the better of 2 evils?

Sunday Night Out

There are only two or three cars cruising along the infinite streets. And couples nuzzle in shades, or drift along in languid, luxuriant gaits. In every hot-spot hang-out, the vacant tables warmly embrace you. The waiters are familiar and friendly; the service swift. And as Monday morning looms, there is a ‘nectar-ine’, natural reason not to linger too long on the night. Pacy drinks, gush-free goodnights, a dwarf drive home. Lovely, lovely evening.

Sunday at Work

Came to work in the rain
Didn't hear me complain
Either you're back on a plane
Or I'll do this again and again.

Egg is Meat

Sitting tight for warm, wonderful, well-done Waakye to wolf on Thursday afternoon, I waded into a wager with The Cat. I slickly staked the meat that would come with the food, knowing this Cat worshipped his cooked carcass. The Cat agreed on the fly. Intern Achiaa loosely let it slip to the Cat that I was not having my Waakye with venison or any kind of viande. The Cat asked what I was eating it with. In order that Intern Achiaa would not say “fish” and ‘salivate’ The Cat, I wisely whooped, “egg”. The Cat was silent for a trice. Then he came back, “but egg is meat”. Dear reader, what do you think? Is egg meat?

Catwalk

After work on Wednesday, the Beauty Queen regaled us with this droll memoir. Many years ago, her neighbourhood kiddies club organised a Pick-n-Act. This gaucho-guy who felt ‘très bien’ plucked the nod to ape [a model on] the catwalk. Cool Dude slumps slowly on all fours, and begins a feline tread.

The Accident

This morn, while braking at the traffic light
The car abreast was still in flight
But, too late, he changed his mind
And a big bus ate his behind!

The Liberty of Cremation

Hmm, Alpha Lion. He’s mightily mirth-provoking, these days. Alpha Lion is desperately disinclined to die. He aspires to linger on, on ephemeral Earth evermore. He double-dares divine delight under the darling domes of heaven. Alpha Lion is scant seduced by saccharine stories of eternal celestial praise and carols. He’s coolly considering cremation or cryonics when he expires geriatric. He confesses a carnal dread of not being able to inhale and exhale if he is interred upon death. Wow! He elects the liberating feeling of cremation!

Tracy & Stacy

i saw two of the same face
together in one happy place
feeding on the double beauty
became my pleasant duty.

Hmm, TV3, Long Tennis?

On its Saturday-morning enfants entertainment, TV3 shows an instructor coaching the callow school-goers on a rousing game with yellow-green balls, rigid rackets and a sprawling net on a concrete court. The ritzy caption on the screen calls it – LONG TENNIS! What are they teaching the infants? Erm, Roger Federer, can you sms me on how green the LONG at Wimbledon is, when you get there?

Broiled, Blistered Backside

Alpha Lion pitched an unblest rivalry with his big sister when growing up. One morning, he had heated his multi-purpose water in an aluminium bowl. Big Sis just wanted a cup for chocolate, but Alpha Lion would not share. He put a lid on the bowl of hot water, and sat on it, while still in his pyjamas. The lid slid and down he sat in the scalding water. The harder he tried to get it off, the tighter these pyjamas stuck to his simmering flesh.

When they finally stripped him down, he had to cool off the affronted arse, first in frosty water, and then in front of a standing fan. Then, for weeks, he had blister-and-burn treatment. Needless to say, he has learned his lesson. He loves all his siblings to bits. Alpha Lion just told me this story after work. I went looking for Tiger 2 and Black Rhino to help me strip down Alpha Lion to inspect the lingering scald marks, but he bounded down the stairs.

The Village Court

they come here
with problems
they used to solve
over a quick drink

and leave here
with new troubles
they did not have
in their simple days

what they seek
is alien to their ways
who they come before
does not think like them

On Closing Car Doors

Mother courtesy-trained you to hold a door by the handle, and shut it with good grace. That is how Breeding shuts the door. Many dumbly decided that Mother meant a door to, or in, a house. So, when they evacuate a car, they grasp the portal by the flank or edge, and fling it to a vulgar close. I really hate that.