Accra’s Hawker

I wait for every car to slow down,
parallel run, cars that moan,
like, me they too are tired,
humid, drenched in sweat,
heat, long at the intersect ,
pure water, vend a packet.
quench someone else’s thirst,
dreams are so dead and decrepit,
I fear every spirit,
haunted by some threat,
I seek a share of fortune,
illusory pelf to be strewn.
The donor is long gone.
He avoids the Sun this afternoon!

Sounds of Accra

An incessant evangelist,
The hum of the air conditioner,
The fidgety jerk of the generator,
The rustle of the unread books,
Honks at meek, wearied, pedestrians,
The strokes of an over- used keyboard
The clicks of the neighbour’s mouse,
The weary wind at my window,
Guilt knocks at my drained soul,
Scheming voices of office politics,
Sighs of a hungry, tired watchman,
Dissolution of sugar into that cup of tea,
The softness of your steps on my reverie ,
The fatigued waft of your smile,
The innocence of your laughter.


Me and quietude, beside to share,
This west end of a long corridor,
Now a mute crest at some rest,
Eyes straining the night, to reset,
Experiencing a calm emptiness,
Reflective stimulus, this darkness,
Power cuts soothe my grilled nerves,
Thoughts are shorn of frills or swerves,
Short left my false, winding lanes,
Now traverse penurious strains,
Riotous colours of yesterday,
Uncivil, unsure, rigorous today,
Thunderstorms nudge my door,
Past them tall gates of fear,
Mud, brown, exuberant, so, ajar,
Raindrops tug, whistle, tear,
Trickle past the colonial wire
Rolled, barbed, now to retire,
Meditate, open my third eye,
Smear myself in ashes dry
To see , to feel,
Touch natural,
Your innocence,
Your timelessness.