Belinda Arthur

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A Poem In Which I Am A Gunfire 

I am drinking a serax with this poem—I mean my body is up against me,

wiggling my nails to the grave.

I am writing this poem in awe— jaw dropping

like the sentiment of my neighbor's child,

twirling like a cavort to hum for food

after mother's meal but comes back with remorse—hunger eating 

his lungs into sinking shafts.

These days, I am becoming a burning desert—

feeling every buzz of helpless names sauntering around

This evening, Ghana Broadcasting Corporation headline read, 

there's an

eclipse of rain & fire interrupting the moon, 

lurking around the benign cloud & far places than the Jubilee house.

This poem is encapsulated with black revulsion bullet

counting into every line. Some days, it averses like a nightmare,

bruises your eyes for unlearning from its origin. 

Sometimes, you wake up to see a tornado hurrying

into a boy. 

In my country everything is a  dying-to-live

say,

this poem aligns with a leader who your wish were betrothed—

you marry danger then luck keeps rewinding into its origin. Somewhere, 

silence glows between tyrants—two 

moons cracking conflict with hugs of scar-bruise.

—'In Akuapem', this is a poem of royalties but how do kings assume

the throne decorated with blood bongers, eating bodies into maltose;

a body packed like sardine with a fist, still affirming

a country's flag?

Let us resume mourning into visual contrition or 

what do you call this country into—

These words reverberate. There are routes through each letters 

where blood is shed. Say, 1983 was a year of monks & beasts

each living a dead living to appease fine coffins, 

each body speaking tongues into graves. The dead is 

still alive—our dead are worth living.

Call it power enjambment or what do you call a priest

who swears an oath of curse to befall a docile land? 

This crust & norms intertwined, that is to say, our voices are

raised in tight knots & only loose when a Judas

is present. Name this into

wingless birds, trample over our clamour. Our blood is not concocted.

Our spirit is not mild,

we are performing rituals to burn every crust of

imbecilic nut in this cola-space.

Sacrifice

This is how my mother broke into silence; when the news came

she unsurpliced her headgear & formed 

a mucus out of it. When the butcher

came,

she broke into war—

an abattoir she became after her rival

with Satan. Her eyes sunken from hearing the noise

which said her last breath has buried

a convoy

in water. On some days, Kweku became her

beloved sun—a flower 

she was readily welcomed from her womb. 

Hear him cry over his shadow, after a wound & 

mother will storm curses as rebuttal;

Onyankopon;

'set this earth on fire

turn this body into ashes

let me change to chameleon

& practice

shooting with executioners'!

Then a flower plucked from her eyes & conjured

her siblings from graves. It is 8pm & mother still

dozed off with an eye opened, 

waiting for a mosquito to bring him good news. The night crept tenderly

on her body & heaven extended

its mouth 

to split saliva. Mother, still in sorrow, 

waited 

for the worse to come. When dawn stroke, a plump of 

bellied men stood in silence—

whispering the taboo...their hands

felt acidic. Their eyes 

groan with each other's mind. 

'It is true, woman; the

gods have been appeased. There 

are only left with conks 

& bongers of blood'. Mother 

stood & gazed

into God's eye, 'I will assemble

his bones into life,

again & fly him to Ezekiel'.

Portrait of a breathless boy

Let me begin with a bruised body

that knows not to supplicate

after he is tossed by the storm into 

the bellied stream of

graffiti. Say,

this skin is an appendage of limbos. 

Or a myth buried in God's eye. 

This skin is a bald forest that walks the bullied shores. 

I spread this poem like butter / unto a tumbling body

that echoes from a moth /

& I munch it into a bitter slop—moth tired of watching

time translates into worms. 

Every night, I swallow a galaxy

of wounded

stars—stars that only emit the beauty of grief. 

I twip these words like an acne

that crisp my face senseless. Face like a buron. 

Tell a boy to reminisce pain as 

a new hymn for morning birds.

I am not green. I do not rain—I mean

I am a faggot / &

I become an ocean in mother's eye 

whenever it rains. 

Today, I exhume this body from the blank. 

An outburst. 

A screech in gloom. 

Grief knows no sadness. 

When I mention sadness, 

I mean grief has no counterparts. 

Say, this poem is an orifice to velvets changing into endless tunnels / relics

tucking in its abdomen—

how do I manoeuvre from this microscopic scape

that only gifts migraine

as presents. I'll memorize a boy like a lesson,

perhaps doing that will wind me through  nostalgic chrysanthemums

to do away with my blues.

Copyright © K. Asare-Bediako

Sometimes I wonder                    

      will there ever be  another like him, …Ali? 

On days when blood flows  

from between my thighs especially..... 

…a smile from the well meaning lady            

on the side walk.  

The smell of the perfume  

on the man standing next to me.   

”Excuse me Sir,               

You smell like my lover.",  

Sometimes I want to say.  

I love the way he loved me

…how he never missed a joke  

no matter how bad I told it.  

The not so picnic 'picnics we had '   

I have conversations with him in my head. 

Half of the day, I spend talking to him. 

Why he left so sudden, he never answers. 

How hard it is to let go without closure.  

I miss him....  

Grief, “it gets better with time”             

they say.             

I think not. Grief is time 

Ticking away like a clock,              

      till the alarm goes off.

I wake up, it's a new day. 

My lover, still gone. 

Till we meet again... 

Death is a thief,              

who steals our joy from us.  

Copyright © Hasiat Abubakar, Accra 2022, Written on world poetry day   

Fight Or Flight?  

Way back when I was in junior high school, my friends and I formed a three-woman squad . One we regarded as prestigious, the basis for admittance into our circle were only two; Be rich, be brilliant , or be both.   This new girl who had just come was overqualified, she was not just rich, she was so rich she bought us food and ice cream …for all three of us during break. She was exactly what we were about. No questions asked , we enjoyed our new found best friend. It was all fun till it wasn't.   One day, we got called out of the classroom to the staff common room where all the teachers sat when they didn't have lessons to teach. Now if you attended a public school, you'd know being called into the staff room in the middle of a lesson meant one thing, trouble, big trouble.   It was Raqeeba's father. He was there to find out who was helping and encouraging his daughter to steal money from his shop. That fateful day, no amount of explanation saved us. We were flogged and asked to work on the school compound.   It didn't end there, our troubles had just begun. Raqeeba, who had found a new squad and apparently hurt that we asked her to leave us alone , decided she and her squad would fight us. We were given two options, fight or get beaten. Fighting was the reasonable option of the two so we chose to fight.   On the day of the fight, we agreed on a venue. Now if you've had your basic education in Wa, you'd know the famous St. Andrews school park (well, not exactly the park). There was this place that would hold water when it rained (more like a dam) and served as a grazing ground for cattle when the water dried.   So at the location, we came to an agreement, to have a fair fight, we'd each fight with a member of their group in turns. I was at the end of the queue of course.   The strongest amongst us three was first to go and boy was she beaten! They beat her and stuffed cow dung in her mouth. That's just how fights were then, the loser ate the dung. The second person was on the floor now and what did she do, she said she wouldn't fight. Her reason, her religion preaches peace and even Jesus says to turn both cheeks to be slapped on (or something like that). They slapped her of course, beat her up really good .   It was my turn now and I was ready to fight, only my method was different. I hatched a plan, I knew someone had to live to tell the story so I turned and I started running. As I ran, they ran after me , shouting " catch this thief " . I was crying now, I ran and cried till I got to the first house, it was the home of a woman who sometimes came to sell things at my school. I ran into her room and my pursuers stopped outside. I narrated the story (with some exaggeration of course) and she allowed me to stay till they left. I was there till sometime in the evening and she took me home .   Of course my mom was there the next day and justice was served ....   When I look back at that day and what happened, I can't help but be proud of myself. I did what Yaa Asantewaa did, only this time, differently.   I am a hero, one without a cape.   To us who fought for independence!   

Copyright © Hasiat Abubakar