I’ve often wondered that life might just be
a very lengthy story of how we died.
Every year, we pass our birthdays and know it;
yet every day we pass our death days and
have no clue. If pain was a book, every page will
bleed, and if humans were a manuscript,
our deaths will be the official publication.
If life isn’t a bed of roses, then life is a bird of doses,
a bird singing in one meaning when there’s every
reason to shut up and act.
And again, a bird on the other meaning, issuing
random doses to every possible cacophony.
How do people wake up and take life too serious?
The same life that is so unserious with all of us.
Tell me if serious is 10am in Accra and 5am
in California, all at the same time.
If seriousness means life killing my father
before I could inherit a pair of trousers from him,
then may I never be serious for the rest of my life.
Life is unfair because it refused to bleach,
but if bleaching could wipe beyond my complexion,
Then I wouldn’t mind pouring chlorine into my life,
until I lose my colours and start afresh.
Yes! I have imagined life as a memory card,
so I can format mine.
If you ask my shadows, she’ll tell you what I’m afraid of,
she’ll tell you I’m afraid of life not death,
death is safer than life. Why?
It keeps to all it has promised.
Life is a rich man with broken promises dancing on
his lips. Life has my sister hanging the painted picture
of her future husband on the walls of her head—of course,
he’d be tall, tan-skinned and muscular. He’d be wealthy
and gentle at the same time. He’d know her mind before
she speaks, and he’d be able to hear the words wailing
in every of her silence—that was the promises of life
to my sister as a five-year-old girl. Twenty years later, life
broke these promises. She’s married to a man of exact
description but a monstrous character. Her body is the
drum where he practices his masculinity. Today my alarm tune
is the cry of my sister through the phone, jerking me from
sleep. See! There’s nothing funny about a brutal man.
I am not saying we should die to fulfill the promises
of life, I’m saying that the promises of life is only fulfilled
in the death of us.
I’m a book of pains and every flip of me is a
wound that bleeds. You don’t decipher happy
men from their smiles, because misery lies in
the corners of my own. I have tried so
much in life to climb the mountain of success
but the steepness of this mountain keeps
making me fall and fail. I am the lad who did not
need to grow old before knowing knowledge.
Knowledge is the cousin brother of experience and
not of grey hair. If my life was a dinner I won’t invite you,
at least not now. Because I’m afraid of my birthdays
for I have no achievement to feed
my hungry cake; so how exactly do I give you a cake I starved?
On days I thought growing was all about
heights, love abandoned me because I am not too tall.
On days I realised growing has so much to do with my
head than my heels, I grew up.
I wish to remind us, that body-shaming is not a
daily joke we should throw about on victims.
If humans should mold themselves, nobody
would be imperfect, and ‘ugly’ will not
sit in the dictionary.
If I was a poem, I wouldn’t rhythm, because
whenever I sleep a graveyard, I pray to wake up a garden.