Often times, i make an effort to write -something-delicious about him. I always start on a paper but stop half-way and tear it all-up. For what words can describe him? A man i have not seen and heard?

Sometimes when the guilt is too much, it pushes me to  pick my old laptop  and write something down like i am doing now.

But even then, the words fail me, for i fear, no words , no story or essay can do justice to him!

Even if i am able to  write my thoughts down , it still can’t describe;

how deep my heart has grown,

how much peace my soul has found,

how miraculously my paranoid- sickness vanished,

how strong i have become,

how content i am,

Because indeed , there were days  i was dead….that i thought only of killing myself, of not finding myself worthy to fit into this so called  world.

and then he appeared! to lit up my world! ooh what a joy he brought to my heart, that people who kept  a bet on me dryly asked, ‘what the hell happened to her?’


i now can laugh out loud,

i now can smile deeply,

i now can inhale the morning’s freshly air ,

i now can truly live,

i now can break boundaries and make histories,

ooh why the frown? why is  your head down? so you actually believed i would rot? face-out?

then there’s news for you….

ooh yes! You ask what the hell happened to her??…


GOD happened!



No matter how you tell yourself; it’s okay,

No matter how you think you’re preparing to handle it,

There’s not enough  preparations that can cushion the heart to take death’s heavy blow.

And so not even Time can erase the  emotions, or replace the void.

Even when you know you too would be caught by death’s long hands into the bottomless pit of no-return, you still cannot accept it! No! you refuse to accept it! It doesn’t  matter if you’re 20 or 50 or 70 you still want to live on and see the world go on. Who knows? Perhaps the moment of your scheduled death would be the time the latest-smart-phone is lunched.

Sometimes there is fear, the real fear that imprison you and sets you gaga…like the day-before-yesterday, when you heard a young man had died from a car accident… you refuse to go out , you sell your car and give the offerings to God(hoping to bribe him, but genuinely,  you do it to beg him.)  You refuse to pick a cab; you prefer to walk and so you walk and walk ; your legs all dusty. But you stop when the next day an elderly man dies on that same road; knocked down by a vehicle.

You become so  obsessed with death that you stalk him or it it her? You keep an updated list of people who die in a  week , month , year and their cause of death….

You stop eating pepper soup because ; someone got choked and died

You stop smoking because lung cancer can kill,

You put OUT ALL  your-shining-things in your house because you heard thunder can strike you dead,

You stop eating your favorite peanut butter because; some one died from it’s allergy.

You are so paranoid that you forget sleep too can kill and so one day you go to bed and you never wake. Who do we ask? Where do we go? Who are we to question Death?



It’s that time again , when my body floats in the air,  as if a piece of   string was holding me up.

Although i walk briskly down the road ,i cannot feel my feet, my eyes are wide open but yet i cannot see. I hear nothing too…no i hear the wind or is it the air chasing something i cannot fathom.

These days, there’s no motivation to wake up, its always a terrible struggle to get-up-from-the-bed , and so the act of living has become a tedious duty to perform.

I have lost appetite for living ooh,

even Abena’s horrible singing in the shower  irritates me no more,

even mama’s dawadawa jollof rice has lost its taste in my month,

can you imagine, that, i can even stand the nauseating  smell of aunt Fatima’s mysterious  concoctions  she calls cocktail.

even the smile of the tall-dark-handsome man next door means nothing to me.

And so on December 31st , when most young women are preparing to go to church (which is just to deceive God) because they would later lie down with their legs open praying to other god . I go around and around in circles searching for a manual -on-living , hoping that perhaps some angel up there somewhere would pity me enough and drop down on earth a detailed- to-do-list or manual that would show me how to live.

because i no longer know how to live,

i have forgotten, how, it is to live,

was i once living? Please do tell me;

what is food for?

what are clothes meant for?

is bathing necessary?

how do i smile or laugh?

how do i pray? and to whom would i be praying to?

Today , January 1st, i make an effort to live only because i am beginning to  frighten people;they avoid me like a plague. And so now, i pretend to live by;

talking more , so people wouldn’t notice how dead i am,

smiling and laughing , so people would think…hey- how- happy- she- is,

i now eat and eat, although i know not the difference in the taste between bitter leaves and lettuce,

nor whether a trouser was meant to be wore from the top-to-the down or from the down-to-the-top,

i bath and bath, pouring buckets of cold  water on my head…. i do not know whether cold is  hot or hot is cold,

is this is a temporary state of death? a sort of punishment?

i browse the Internet 24/7 , i roam the streets, i search the oldest archives of the library, i  ask around…..but nothing , no one , not even the mighty  Mr. Google knows THE-ACT-LIVING

i practice yoga,

read Ben Carson’s gifted hands,

speak to myself in the mirror,

get laid  with a few useless guys,

Nothing , absolutely nothing helps!


hmmm….where do i begin this my tall tale?

How do i tell you this tale that has no end?

Where do i start from?

Who do i tell it to? Should it be  told to Okoro the village mad man who never wear pants? Or should i tell it to Adisa the market woman whose mouth runs diarrhea? No , perhaps i should tell it to Baba the the village drunk or Abiba the husband snatcher.

How do i tell it? Should i whisper it slowly? Or shout it over the mountain top? Or perhaps sing it like the birds in the air?

How should i look when i tell it? Should i dress in my next year’s x’mas dress that has been recycled five times. Or should i borrow Fatima’s dress that has been wore by all the church choir girls?

How should i carry myself? Should i be coy like the Accra house girls that pretend they’re virgins but karate their madams husbands in the bedroom all night long? Should i be meek like the sheep that lie lazily on the path to village’s ‘so called powerful’ prophet who power impotent men’s wives day and night.

Please do let me know, it’s urgent!


Mum C writes


“For you,

The moon is at arm’s length

For you,

The sky is like the shortest roof

For you,

The stars like night lights will walk at my command

For you,

Trees will shake, shrubs will clap as birds sing at my command

For you,

A million years can come in minutes with no fears

For you

Problems no matter their storms will fall at my hands”

Too bad

Peril and promises have a thing in common

They give fast legs

Legs which run marathons before the mind stands

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014

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