Wednesday, 24 August 2011


Why do I still feel so strongly attached to this imaginary lady? My sensual affiliation seems so non-existent when she avails herself. This mystery maiden doesn’t complain about my messed up hair, neither does she keep silent for days without calling me. She makes her presence so obvious when I’m alone and utterly morose by the stinking stillness of my life. I face this menace ever so often when my queen decides to temporarily forfeit her sovereignty and take her throne for granted.

Indignation is my daily bread, especially when I sulk so much at the inability to check on her supposed king. Although many damsels have traversed my path, my devotion remains solely imposed on my affection towards her. It almost feels like I have fallen face down, bursting my eye-balls out with no chance of seeing any other forever.

She lethargically steps up the ladder of maturity, feeling very comfortable where she currently resides: under the tutelage of dear daddy. Taking both weekly wages and instruction from him, the rules of engagement don’t matter as much as her trips to the hair parlour. Can I really blame anyone? After all, it was my choice to sentence myself to this rigmarole called courtship. Although, the clarion call for patience relents at the forefront of counsel received, I honestly prefer that virtue being left behind the long stream of thoughts running through my mind.

Every second without her stretches towards infinity, maybe because I still recount the softness of her royal regalia as I unfolded the hidden: that unseen beauty well concealed on the count of chastity and purity. This false reality continues to engrave itself on the mind of the other man, that image in the mirror fixated before me. He makes mockery of my seductive ineptitude, which fails to translate this young woman to that white polyester platform popularly known as sheets.

Waiting for that dastardly day, just wish it would be March or May...

Saturday, 20 August 2011


Ever been in that awkward situation where you just wanted to vaporize in an instant? When trying to act nice to a stranger becomes an impossible mountain to climb, or opening up to that lovely lady seems deeper than the deepest mining shafts at the Obuasi Gold mines? Well, I have always wanted those situations to arise, when I had built up enough gusto to face them. But unfortunately, they seem to be trickling in at a pace faster than I could possibly imagine. Some seem to think the liquor, whether hard or soft, would carry those moments aloft. But I beg to differ with that plastered plot.

Taking shots of alcohol have helped many a man to lay away shreds of fear and frequent fits of low self-esteem whenever they deem it crucial. Chemically belonging to the group of compounds known as ethyl alcohols or ethanol, these tonics have taken centre-stage in our daily lives. Though the original name denoted any fine powder Alchemists of medieval Europe applied to essences, obtained through distillation, its present usage has absolutely nothing to do with powder but has everything to do with short glasses and tall concoction bottles.

If alcohol would rid my being of self-belief bankruptcy, then I’d rather remain sober and out of sorts for the rest of my natural life. It’s completely outrageous to think that attaining drunkenness would somehow help in overcoming an overly-intimidating backdrop, which could be an office occupied by a bevy of ladies or your father finding you and your girlfriend in the most preposterous of positions in his master bedroom. I have not tried a full bottle yet, but I’m pretty sure its magical powers do not exist.

And to those impotent male Homo sapiens, who think the millions of mitochondria lurking within their scrotal sacs would multiply instantly, I dare say, you are in dreamland: sadly enough, without Alice as your companion. Many of these dreamers actually sit behind the wheels of our public transportation pretending to take control of their vehicles until Mother Nature feels cheated enough and slaps the living daylight off their faces. This actually happens on a daily basis here in Africa, with the culpable ones always left off the hook by the open arms of death.

Just gave a beautiful belle one lusty smirk, with no whiskey at work.... 

Written by : Kojo Essuman Ackah
(C) Copyright ~ 2011 All Rights Reserved

@Poetikojo<-----------Follow me on twitter

Friday, 19 August 2011


Plethora of reasons leave me bewildered as to why I awake so tired and totally worn out. The many billions of mitochondria could have not just disappeared. After all, nothing naughty transpired the night before bed. Even if something did happen, I’m sure it would have provided a source of refreshment rather than a pile driver through my back. Maybe my body took advantage of itself and decided to work overtime in keeping my sugar levels intact: based on last night’s chocolate delight.

With Lupe Fiasco blasting through my cochlea, my body’s cognitive skills appear to experience a sudden surge in the most uncompromising fashion, probably in response to my outcry of weakness: kind of showing me who’s boss right? But believe me, my body is boss alright, especially when it comes to waking after being unaware of your surroundings for hours on end and expelling fluids from within without my permission

Just recently, I stumbled over some very useful information on mechanisms of the sleep cycles mostly encountered. It’s interesting to note that during your nights of respite, they are characterized by moments of rapid-eye movements and non-rapid eye movements. Certain neurons within the brain just above the spinal cord are supposed to be rendered active and inactive, with respect to the previously mentioned activities. But what’s more captivating about this fact is that these neurons actually prevent sleepers from acting out their dreams, and instead, allow only twitching or very unnoticeable movement. If this wasn’t the case, many of us would either have hurt ourselves or forcibly found our way into our partners, lawful substitutes for the wonder woman seductively approaching in our virtual world.

Even though this naturally occurring phenomenon may be at least as important in calming the inward pressure ongoing within as the never-ending cycle of metabolic activity, excessive sojourning down the Slothful Street can be disastrous to say the least. So the next time you are aboard the ‘Goodnight Express’, tell the conductor to skip that bus-stop for your own sake.

Charging is currently complete, and I'm so dead beat....

Written by : Kojo Essuman Ackah
(C) Copyright ~ 2011 All Rights Reserved
@Poetikojo<-----------Follow me on twitter

Thursday, 18 August 2011


I continuously fail to phantom how fate blessed me with such a wonderful opportunity: a chance to collide with someone as sweet as you. It is true; I can’t afford to lie and simply can’t hide why: the reason for loving you. Countless times, your kindness has embarrassed me and amazed my friends: telling me what looks good on me and what food was harmful to my health. My mother would most certainly be the only competitor, but you surely would be a worthy challenger.

Some years back, a trusted someone told me not to settle down with you, because apparently I hadn’t met half the number of ladies I would eventually come in contact with through my entire lifetime. Well, I guess this friend of mine was unaware of the fact that this period of existence would be shared with an angel, regardless of the Pamela Anderson’s or Jessica Alba’s I’d eventually become acquainted with. You certainly don’t resemble that pretty pair, but baby, you are my brightest sun without which my galaxy would cease to exist.

Don’t be astounded, I mean it all. Life does not always hand everyone such a perfect deal, because if it did, an increase in wages, or that ever-growing yearn to stay forever young would be the least of our headaches. Believe me, proviso quod there were a million and more ways to express my love for thee, I’d exhaust them all with much pleasure and glee. Some say, “Love is unreal: it’s a great farce”. Maybe they should have met her before I did, because she’s the other half of me.

You complete and complement me at the same time: something of a rarity. Life would be blurry without you: lacking much clarity. So please don’t blame me for loving you like this. ‘Cos now they know that this picture is worth much more than just a kiss...

Dedicated to Mr & Mrs Tabicca

Written by : Kojo Essuman Ackah
(C) Copyright ~ 2011 All Rights Reserved

@Poetikojo<-----------Follow me on twitter

Monday, 15 August 2011


It is pretty easy to assume that the world revolves around you, especially when you decide to reside in the comfortable confines of your bed. Rising up and almost immediately going back to your slothful self, wishing everything else in existence would freeze whilst you took a snooze. I can confidently give this coherent description because this scenario was once my daily routine.

The transition from dusk to morning would seize suddenly, school children would join the sleeping bandwagon and forget about receiving those hot strokes, or maybe the tipper trucks on the nation’s highways would be rendered immobile by the far-stretching limbs of time. But the rules of engagement to this illusion still remain a mystery to that former personality I tolerated. Maybe the underlying principles were in close proximity to those of the electrical switch, where my retiring and awakening would pause and play the unfolding events happening within and without my territorial scope.

Apart from the rays of sunshine, this very much extended version of hibernation kept me away from the many opportunities and individuals that could have impacted positively or better still, rescued me from my captors. The alarm clock became my best friend with one particular problem threatening our relationship, my unfaithfulness. I would wake to impede the movement of its jingle of a waveform bursting through my eardrums. My fingers took the time to expertly detect the position of my phone without asking for directions from my eyes. But news reaching me indicates that the keyboard of a once lonely laptop captured her heart about a month ago. How comforting!

Even the masses of mucus accumulated around my dual optical organs could be accommodated within a number of toothpaste tubes. My sleeping habits became so rampant that the above-mentioned residue would have ably represented on any internationally acclaimed stock exchange, probably knocking off coffee as one of the world’s most popular commodities: obviously everybody seems to produce quite an amount each morning.

The battery power isn’t getting any better: maybe another charger?!

Written by : Kojo Essuman Ackah
(C) Copyright ~ 2011 All Rights Reserved

@Poetikojo<-----------Follow me on twitter

Sunday, 14 August 2011

Three of Me..

Poem One
Introduction: I'd just read about the Queen of Sheba, the wife of King Solomon. The poem was centered around the story on how she was astonished at the lavishness of his estate when she visited him. Wanting to impress the king, she loaded her camels with spices, gold and jewels but ironically, the king's greatness swept her of her feet. I merged this with the Trojan horse virus, specifically for effect. With this information registered, I played around with the story.

Trojan Sheba
Infect my heart thou voracious virus,
Scarcely sighted by my many blind lovers,
Jealous and full of real incubus impetus,
Only conspicuous without its carnal covers.

Without you every flaw remains relentless,
Drenching my will in obvious oblivion,
Till the end I await thee my empress,
With diamonds and rubies lavished in perfect pavilion.

Poem Two
Introduction: On the 28th June 2010, we were greeted with the sad news of 50 miners trapped and possibly dead in a mining pit in Akyempem, somewhere in the Central Region of Ghana. On hearing this news, the sudden urge to write something on this precarious line of occupation came through. Galamsey, as they are popularly known, are local artisanal gold miners plying their trade independent of gold mining companies.

Within the deepest meadows
lies the richest fellows.
Seeking the vanity of substance
relishing its golden appearance.

What perilous endeavor!
bringing earth's platform to decay forever.
Desires of men written in gold
many unfulfilled dreams left untold.

Poem Three
Introduction: She's the lady of my past, currently residing in the Garden city. I had a huge crush on her from my junior high days, which sadly lost its prospects due to distance. In November 2010, the solitary confines of my rooms motivated a nostalgic trance of my emotional hey-days. She was such a pretty darling and still continues to be one...

Miss Anonymous
My many chronicles speak well of you
The epicenter of my perfect plan
Though you are the same: never new
You are still fairer than a Kardashian.

I found solace in the Golden fortress
whilst you enjoyed the vista from the valley
For eternity you'll remain my duchess
till the duke knows no folly.

Written by : Kojo Essuman Ackah
(C) Copyright ~ 2011 All Rights Reserved

@Poetikojo<-----------Follow me on twitter

Thursday, 11 August 2011


Sitting at the balcony of my second floor room makes life look so still: firmly frozen in time and space. The weather is callously cold, unless of course I’ve decided to reduce my body temperature with the unknown potential of my brain: mind over matter. But on second thought, I could actually make an attempt, If I was been scorched on the sand dunes of the Kalahari Desert that is. However, the motivation to write tonight is not to bore you with the temperature changes currently taking centre stage due to global warming or seasonal changes, but to describe what a sight a silent night can conjure.

Though this cold breeze finds it appropriate to distract my work, I’m not perturbed whatsoever. I mean the scenery is simply magnificent. I can count the many street lights looking like matchsticks set alight and buried in the ground. The only problem here is that these illuminated rods are of different colours, certainly not consistent with that of a brightly burning matchstick, more so because they never go out. This vista intrigues me and my little finger, considering how powerful it so easily becomes, as it prevents the trajectory of the lights from reaching my eyes when it covers those tiny coloured dots. Mind you, this is only possible within the range of my pupil’s panorama and not anywhere beyond.

I wonder how it must feel to be seated in outer space, especially when everything down here is enveloped in a mass of dust, water and gases, inhabited by tiny organisms called animals (no offence to the human race). Critically observing rapid movements of many minute cars along the main road has stirred up this mental soliloquy. I could easily crush them with these same fingers from my elevated position, only if my imagination could overpower the force of reality within a split second. The giant ruling this widely stretching environment has probably run out of electric-pole sized crayons because most of the structures encompassing me are without enough or absolutely no colour.

Thoughts of touching the starless sky keep drawing me towards the balcony’s balustrade, swaying me towards the likelihood of falling over, which would certainly be a once in a lifetime experience: one that would produce a story without an author, or a portrait without a painter. Oh! The matchsticks have lost their light. I guess the giant blew over them without serving prior notice.

My eyes are heavy, and my battery keeps dropping steady...

Written by : Kojo Essuman Ackah
(C) Copyright ~ 2011 All Rights Reserved

@Poetikojo<-----------Follow me on twitter

Wednesday, 10 August 2011


My mind has remained blank for the past six odd hours, mainly due to the lonely period of respite, void of any form of useful brain activity. The first point of call for most early risers will usually be their sinks, clearing any debris accumulated in their buccal cavities. But for me, the white house on which most human beings ‘roost’ to lay brown eggs which seldom hatch (leaving room for the not so privileged folk), is my preferred haven for starting the day. Resting on this ancient plumbing fixture is one of life’s many pleasures easily forgotten about due to the nasty nature of the end result – faecal matter.

There is no denying the fact that this world would most definitely be drenched in stench if we were not privileged to have been blessed with this invention. A lot of noise is often made about the Wright and Warner brothers for revolutionizing the transportation and television (or cartoon) industries. Not forgetting the well-respected World Wide Web (www), its development being attributed to Sir Timothy Berners-Lee and the famous Alexander Graham Bell for inciting the widespread usage of his sound transmitter invention- also known as the telephone.

It may interest you to know that this indispensable tool came about as a result of Sir John Harrington’s hardwork in the 16th century, specially designed for the then Queen Elizabeth I. With the passage of time, further improvements came along to complement his efforts. It is interesting though because there’s no mention of his occupation from my research but I guess he was one hell of a toilet-maker, I mean, the knighthood buttressed his credentials.

It’s quite tempting to stay within the confines of the white house due to the unbelievable satisfaction derived from letting go of these heavy amounts of inward-generated loads. Funny enough, just like the issues of life, our seemingly chocolate-coated end products grow bigger as we caress the cheeks of time. I can only imagine how tiny they must have been when you were still a toddler. Now they’ve magnified into hot-dog sized khebabs, which thankfully seems to be the threshold level.

So the next time you decide to ease yourself on the white house, please bow your buttocks (or squat) and observe a moment of silence for the pioneers of this great indoor receptacle and waste removal system. I guess without it outbreaks of cholera would make the headlines and front pages on a daily basis.

Still roosting though, without enough buttery power.....

Written by : Kojo Essuman Ackah
(C) Copyright ~ 2011 All Rights Reserved

@Poetikojo<-----------Follow me on twitter.

Monday, 8 August 2011


Don’t be moved by this caption, at least give adequate room for minor deviations. Whatever you might have thought on seeing the title should be quickly gotten rid of. This is no expose on the hidden cities of Memphis, Egypt, nor is it an in-depth digging into the buried relics beneath the surface of the Aztecs in Mexico. With your minds fully formatted, the upload is duly commissioned. 
Cities usually define sub-regional past migrations, present challenges and future aspirations. This has absolutely nothing to do with the hidden city of Memphis (formerly the capital of Egypt) losing its most-honourable title to Cairo, nor does it bear any semblance of events leading to the Spanish invasion of Tenochtitlan, now present day Mexico City. The most hidden cities of all are those which remain unseen by all and sundry, including our very own selves.

Keeping inward those forts and fortresses which define our immeasurable strengths, is one topic hardly spoken of. "Who are you?", is one question many would struggle to grapple with, for the very apparent answer – we are not fully aware of our capabilities. With our futures determined by the decisions made on our behalf – by our parents and guardians – the young Ghanaian always finds in self-discovery, a hugely herculean quest. Those hidden cities of talents, artistry and dexterity continuously engage in a tug-of war with the gospel according to wealth, self- sufficiency and fame. For this ominous reason, exchanging the chances of working within a sense of fulfilment for the insatiable yearn of making money has become that virus of a norm.

Whether you studied General Science or Visual Arts, your choice of study might have been influenced by parents poking their noses where they belong - your business. My mother once said taking this line of action only assures that your future is intact, considering the fact that as young people, we are ignorant of who we are and what we aspire to be become. I beg to differ on that issue. As long as the Ghanaian child continues to receive scores of spanking for playing soccer at school, there will be fewer Essien’s and many under-achieving bankers and brokers.
I’m very confident crowds would lay the blame on the doorstep of the fragile and unpredictable nature of the Ghanaian economy, but I honestly believe unveiling the hidden city within ourselves could rescue us from the lore of making currency-based career decisions.

My battery wants to give up again, but I won’t.....

Saturday, 6 August 2011

Being Blunt on a Bus....

There are about a dozen red buses around me but quite a number of observers keep sitting and waiting, whatever they are waiting for remains unknown to me. Taking this bus after my debut last two weeks seems very different. The visual mixture is awesome, slim beautiful young “chicks”, menopause-stricken old ladies, forty-year old bums sitting around lurking for loaded luggage to arrive, the list is endless. Facing the many possibilities scares the shit out of me, I mean my laptop is comfortably resting on my laps obviously, but the middle-aged man sitting next to me is visibly startled. How many times do you find a young man seriously typing on a bus with nothing as expensive as a laptop without being scared?

No matter the number of robbers waiting to lay siege on this supposed prize asset, it’s a decision I’ve decided to make this cold morning. I must admit there’s a heavy distraction sitting on the throne of my mind; it’s the memory of yesterday’s goodbye kisses my girlfriend planted on my lips after being MIA these past few days. This blind-fold is good enough to rid me of such chicken thoughts of losing my laptop to an unknown assailant on reaching my destination.

My battery is fast dropping like the credibility of my dear nation’s political climate. Just overheard the occupants of my bus (I don’t own one yet) talk about some journalists being coerced into taking monies with the intention of supporting some political move of theirs(as if this is the first time anyway), which I honestly care shitless about. After all, these pathetic political monkeys depend on the ignorance of the electorate to earn their incomes or better still, their ex-gratia. My father once told me he’ll never accept a governmental appointment, or enter politics for any reason. I guess the strings attached to that line of occupation are too taut.

Can’t believe I’m listening to an Action Film: Mister Incredible is one hell of a talent. Normally I’d be enjoying an African movie on this bus, which is far better than Silverbird cinemas anyway: you can decide to sleep after a while. I keep wondering what makes Nigerians better than Ghanaians on all fronts, whether it’s entertainment, scrabble, making money (no offence in that dubious regard), even forming rebel groups. Is it the Ghanaian passive attitude or the lack of motivation to achieve greatness? I have discovered it’s more of the latter, the average Ghanaian seeks the safest option most of the time in order to avoid undue attention, whilst the Nigerian wants to make sure he has the newest jaguar or the tallest wall with well electrified barb wires. But I guess its an African thing in the end.

My battery has finally given up but I haven’t.............

Wednesday, 3 August 2011


Daddy had just rushed back outside to place the cherry on the cake, that is to say, relieve his hand of severe punishment and hand over power to a more competent wooden rod. A million rivers could overflow their banks by the amount of tears Kevin had shed, his shirt now drenched in them. “If you play football ten times, I’ll whip you a ten times. Why are you so stubborn, eh? Do you want to break your legs?” daddy shouted. These tantrums were accompanied by the occasional stroke of the rod that was sparsely spared. After all, he wasn’t a spoilt child by any stretch of a mile; he just went with the flow of his innermost instincts and disregarded the eminent consequences of his actions. Brilliant at school and but with an incredible affinity for football, he engraved his name in stone whenever it came to disobeying his parents, simply for the love of the game.

He continued to face this beat-less music from his lifetime coach, receiving each whip with much gusto comparable to that of Asamoah Gyan, after he struck the bar from the penalty during the recent African world cup. Kevin begged at least thousand times, well, counting them was the least of his worries at that moment, but this is no exaggeration. In the midst of these exchanges, his aunty, Auntie Hagar, came out from nowhere as if sent from heaven to rescue him. And rescue him she did.
Recognizing the current situation, which trickled in by her intuition, she separated the past and the future in that very moment. She instantly earned a call-up into the “kneeling and begging” squad, doing her very best to save him from further ludicrous lashes. This intriguing game ended abruptly as daddy finally felt he made himself clear enough. Kevin took an early shower, considering the fact that he often bathe only once a day.

Kevin Ashley is a very close friend of mine, so close that the pain incurred from his experience, like Ghana’s first world cup appearance, is mutually imprinted on both of our minds. Narrating this crude childhood ordeal felt like kissing my image on the side of the other. Discipline has many forms and shapes, but in my opinion, the brutality-based form of discipline is hugely overrated and overly emphasized. This slice of the punishment cake suffered him not only emotional scars, but also dented his social skills. For a long time he struggled to maintain friendship of any sort, save that between he and his mother. The good news is that he has succeeded in overcoming this demon of a memory,  invoked by the incantations of time and chance. 

Written by : Kojo Essuman Ackah
(C) Copyright ~ 2011 All Rights Reserved