Monday, February 12, 2018

The Shrine and the Mosque

They stand on two junctions,
 each other with a jawbone to sneer the other,
 at the tip of the descent into the distant valley of radiant selves.

Light and smoke blow over stained waters to set the gush free
Of bile and fire trapped in the corners of her mind.

Let me be wafted to Paradisé,
Like sweet-incensed song in the heart of a newly-wed 

Leave me be with wings like childish dreams 
with lofty destinations like Canaan and Mecca 

Lend me a secret path to Dahomey to see the Khaba,
to pray to Fatimah.

15/01/2018  11:42 (From Casablanca to London)

Thursday, September 5, 2013


I am guilty of your lips, 
                        Caller of innocent songs.

You owe me a tail feather, 
                        Red-tailed beauty
Bringer of the dawn of sacrifice.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012


I have heard that name enough to last me four lifetimes. It was on every wall, wet and dry; on every lip, young and old; in every joke, sound and lewd; they would even love to hear his name in church. When I would sit at the back of the old ‘trotro’, held at the seams by rivets, he was the centre of every gossip; when I wanted to hear some rejuvenating ‘adadamu’ from my transistor radio for a change, his name would be in every news headline. All of a sudden, he was the world’s most famous human being, and his name sold faster than ‘Kofi Brokeman’ or the hitherto unequaled ‘Graphic and Times’. Before you could say ‘Jack’, and add whatever, his name would have been spelt out in full: Barack Hussein Obama. Maybe, just maybe, some children might have been named after him: Osama Bin Obama, Saddam Hussein Obama. Obama here, Obama there, Obama this, Obama that, Obama Says. ‘Maaba?’ Obama! ‘Namo ji lε?’ Obama! ‘Mini yaa nö?’ Obama! ‘Mini nε?’ Obama! I have been silent on this phenomenon that rocked the whole world, but finally I break my hymen of silence.

The Invited States of America (ISA) had to go to the polls. The old 'Bush' was on fire and almost reduced to ash. We had to officially retire the old order, to give room for the transfusion of fresh blood into the veins of our multiculturalal body; a new lid to be placed on top of our intercultural melting pot. Beside this exercise, everything else was second rate.

Above the tug of two political ideologies, parties and personalities, I saw two worlds and two generations, striving for dominance. After all those years of struggle, Father Africa, as part of his Image Reconstruction and Enhancement Programme (IREP), managed to confidently present one of his sons as a prospective to our common throne. Africa versus the rest; this promised to be a venture worth our historical while.

Today, we know the outcome, and there could be no better time to be who we are, proud sons and daughters of Father and Mother Africa. We rule the world at last, but my joy would even be sweeter, if those kinsmen sent away in 1914 and down the years, whose blood and tears and sweat fertilized the egg of struggle which has hatched our glory and made our voice heard, could witness this moment: Nat Turner, Du Bois, Luther King Jnr, Nkrumah, and Garvey. 

'Indeed, a child is nothing, it is only the glory of his forebears that the world sees and tolerates in him'...(Wole Soyinka...Kongi's Harvest)

 Now it is clear that something good can come out of Africa; that we have always been a bright continent in hiding, for this appointed time.

I wonder if the best still comes from the West. A river forgets is source soon dries up. Our gold and timber, cocoa and labour, made their glories possible. United States of America, still from Africa, ‘Obaa ma’ spiritual illumination, economic redemption, and political direction – that is the African testimony and miracle, Obama!

Thursday, February 16, 2012


Kente is a metal forged in the riddles of the loom
Sold at the market of nine moons
Basic to the piano
Played on the eye.

I would not pay a bard to sing this riddle, lest he miss a line
Of the weaver’s cold dreams
Harvested from the starless sky of his roof
The bird of dreams perches and raises this song:

“Pass it here and stick it there
Kro-kro-kro w’ate?” (kro-kro-kro, have you heard?)
Then the helms water breaks
And cock calls his boast
Kokrokoo! Kokrokoo!

The master weaver starts to dance
And loses himself in the dazing steps
“Kro-kro-kro and again pass it here, stick it here and over again”
Till the songbird stops, and the dancer is dropped from the realms of dreams.

Kente is a metal that graces the victor’s shield
Whose story is yet to be ended from the beginning
The blood of the weaver
An African statement.

Wednesday, January 4, 2012


Do not keep my greeting for too long lonely wanderer

It will grow cold

Send it swiftly to the door of my patient mother

She waits through the rigour of the night and outlasts the day too,

Holding fast to her lantern of hope.

I left home on an untold day

Before the cock could find its voice to raise the alarm

Mama came to my hut to wake me up,

Only to find me, prey to the wind

Maybe she screamed for her neighbours, or she searched for me first

Maybe Mama shed tears and seemed inconsolable

But know this for certain that she sat in the dust in the middle of her compound,

Beat the earth three times with both hands,

Placed them on her chest and


Nana Asaase © November 22, 2011

Friday, December 23, 2011


I came to new country

To find my place at home

I saw many shaded faces

But this one stood out.

Like the nimble tip of a lit candle

Gentle like a feline purr


Like the unbroken surface of a pool

I hoped to sit on


That too would be a miracle.

My heart was rent around this time

But there was a promise of warmth

In the arms of the door

Soon to fade like chimney smokes.

Dreams are the preserve of the chosen

This flicker will glow on another brow and yet another

Till )teasefo) will find rest in the bosom of )d)fo).

Leave this one here on the wall beyond touch

So )kwantuni will pass this way and see

That the road of love is tortuous to the summit

But remember also that

Nkakra nkakra, abrewa b3foro b3p) akoduru soro.

Nana Asaase © 23/12/2011

Friday, August 26, 2011


Golden sun balls ruled the days

When our hearts first met on the junctions of limbo.

Gentle breezes blew the nights

When we sat alone together on the swings of joy

Shedding our burdens on each other’s shoulders.

It was bliss, it was joy, it was love.

Nana Asaase©


Me d), Naana Serwaa,

Sing that favourite line of our secret,

Captured in the clouds,

With the paints of the wind,

On the canvas of the sky,

Through the eye of day.

Nana Asaase©