Someday

I’ll wake up in a sunlit room
With breeze and curtain playing in my face
I’ll turn to see her sleeping smile
And how she wakes up so secure
I’ll hide a little note in her bag
And polish her shoes to a glint
Shampoo her hair or iron her dress
I’ll not mind doing these for her

I’ll call her in the afternoon
And tell her that a deal went through
And thank her for her great support
To celebrate, I’m picking her for lunch
Her friends will call and say she’s lucky
And mine will ask for success tips
I’ll ask her about her day so far
And tell her that I’m there for her

At night we’ll read a book together
And talk about themes and plots
I’ll tease a bit and praise a lot
She’ll smile and tell me her newest dreams
We’ll dance and play a song to us
And though the ground moves, we stand happily firm
We’ll laugh and part for a little time
To think alone and do other things

I’ll come to the room, she’s waiting for me
She winks at me and calls me her man
I’ll smile and feel the greatest joy of all
I’ll go to her and be her man
We’ll lie awake in the dark for a while
She’ll whisper and say she wants to talk
Good or bad, we’ll deal with it
And go to sleep on another beautiful day.

The Cars Run on Air in the City of Accra

A rapid waltz out of the languid urban safari into this five-minute haven. Beaming attendants wish wonderful weather on your way, and, sometimes, ask if you’d like your windscreen laved. Pointing to the digital counter with a good grace, they give the trigger a gentle squeeze, and the limp, hanging hose suddenly springs up into a stiff throbbing force.

Not a few drivers in the City of Accra carry the cathedral conviction that half of the tedious tugging and cha-cha chugging only ejaculates thin air into your petrol tank; that frenzied coming is all in vain :-))

You cough up your children’s future college fees for the rarefied air you dearly didn’t design to invest in, and unknowingly urge your still-hungry hybridised car forward into the gasoline-guzzling traffic again.

They Stock Women at the Accra Mall

Shoprite is a great place to meet a girl in the City of Accra :-). It is gaining on an adroit art to drift among the ample aisles, vacationing on the exotic food smells, and lingering for the grasping encounter with the lone, mesmeric mademoiselle. The double-dyed tale of how they glitter through the food-and-consumables displays will be spun on another glorious day.

At 8 p.m., my best friend and I crashed into the mall to buy a single, little body sweetener, when we laid our hungry eyes on her. She was beautifully brown and frightfully fresh-looking for that time of a working day. In the brilliant lights, it might as well have been 8 a.m. We forgot the dainty deodorant, and ghosted around after her, watching her lovely, slightly sidewise-inclined body hovercraft over the floor tiles. The blemish of the bend set an outre accent in her eloquent hips, as she blithely bewitched us to careless curiosity. We wandered so close that I could smell her every exciting essence of creature womanhood.

In a happy snafu, she dropped her handbag, and a gripping story spilled out on the floor :-). A slim, black leather diary with fine, gold-leaf pages, three slender cell phones and a vermilion necktie. As she bent over to retrieve the betraying objects, the wonderfully warm and open sight was excitement enough to cap a voyeur’s night of delight, but out tumbled more girl stuff :-) – a nude pink lipstick, a black pair of glasses, a shiny, silver cigarette lighter and a huge gold pen.

Her entire life story was spewing out on the public floor. We, the twin-watchers, rabbitted here and there, gathering up ice-breaking bric-a-brac to hand back to her: a Dictaphone, pills for the heart and a fragrance bottle (Escada Magnetism for men) :-).

So, what was she? We had scrumptiously stalked her for ten minutes, and were certain that she was not a sleazy shoplifter. She may have been some middle-level executive or a secretary (cell phones, Dictaphone, heart pills for her boss) or she may have been sleeping with her boss, an old man (heart pills, lighter, gold pen, necktie. Or did she have a cardiac condition at her young age? If she was having a tryst with a geriatric, why was the fragrance Escada Magnetism and not Old Spice?

I should have loved to stay a little longer to let my second sight ravish and enjoy her some more, but she coyly snatched the bottle out of my outstretched hand, turning crimson in the face, and turning on her lovely heels, away from me. Then, I reckoned that it was time to go home.

Melissa

Belle Melissa
Tripper of hearts
Dream snatcher
Lovely eyes like green lanterns
Sable skin so soft and sleek
She smiles milk on cherry lips
Her hair flows sweet in bergamot
She has her heart in the right place
Serving sweet moods in the cold
The milk of human kindliness
She loves lilting with the lark
Skinny dips in the midnight lake
Dancing late or curling with a book
Wild Melissa
Beautiful
A galaxy of diverse dreams.

Mother Tongue - Poetry

Nothing appeals more to me
than seeing little kids
speak, in their mother tongue.
Nothing comes near the thrill
I feel, when twist and turn, trill
and churn, come out with polish
and cultural relish.
The way a thing is said,
may make it prettier yet,
than the thing itself.
To be there, when they tell
of the wonders of the world,
in enthralling fairy tales, saying
things never said, playing
with words as with clay,
feeling no consciousness of self,
makes you stop
and feel the shame
of those who swap
for fake acclaim.

Gorgeous Akosombo

The searing heat slips into a sweet and crisp coolness, as you approach her from the City of Accra, and a brisk breeze sweeps along with the car. The road is well-kept and lushly lined with tall trees with fresh, green leaves.

She is curled up at the foot of running hills, and sleeps silently on the banks of the Volta River; the lake unfolds itself upriver. Her plains and hills are spotted with many well-fed woods of humongous trees, saplings, shrubs and bushes watered by little spill-over pools from the occupying river. Never too hot or too glaringly bright, it looks like a 3-D postcard picture; crystal clear with muted colour tones.

Multi-storeys are very rare. Flat box-houses crawl in ornate order over the hobbling landscape and equatorial plains, allowing splurges of comfortable space everywhere.

Her many fine hotels and spick guesthouses welcome holidaymakers who want an easy-peasy drive through the clusters of copses, a tranquil cruise on the many boats, or some rapid, reckless and raw-nerve water sport. The best by far is the Volta Hotel; luxurious for the rooms, cuisine and service; built like a ship, a submarine and a citadel (have you seen it?).

She’s quiescent and picturesque, laidback and breathtakingly beautiful, but she is not Accra. After three days and two nights you want to descend into the furnace, clangour and stuffiness that is the City of Accra. Gorgeous Akosombo!

Untitled - Poetry

he offers her his bar stool,
and that makes me smile.
at last, a gentleman!
and then, i catch him,
gazing between her legs.