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©

Monday, February 7, 2011


Tell me again, Obaa Amponsah,

Those mellifluous lines you swore to my love on that night we were caught up in the embrace of our shadows,

separable only by a hair’s width.

Nana Asaase©

Tuesday, February 1, 2011



In vertical waves the Wli comes down,
Chanting its unending chorus, together with the bats,
Snoozing in the crevices.

The ripples make for the pebbled shore,
Only to be replaced by others.
To the right, the water finds an escape,
Snaking its way through the canopied forest,
To bring its tribute to the mighty Volta.

With crystal conscience, the pool shows its entrails,
The eternal shower sprays life.

Furthermost above West Africa,
From a little crevice in Afadjato,
Does the virgin find her strength.

Monday, January 24, 2011



I smell the fragrance of the showers
I hear each note of the song:

‘Life is hard, but life is good
Come and wash your cares off’

The farmer and family, relishing the pot on the island in the pond.

The sun passes in silence
The grass and trees stand in audience:

Many have and more will walk this stone ring.

This scene may stand as long as I can’t tell.
The water may soon dry up.
But this poem lives in my heart
And the song is in the pond.



In my nineteen years on earth
I’ve seen and said and done many things:

I tried maths; it was difficult.
I tried science and though it just too boring
Though my French teachers like me,
I found them confusing.

Preachers are good people,
And teachers are strict.
Politicians are garrulous,
And the list runs on.

But women are beyond adjectives;

Predictable as chess,
Unpredictable as a programme line-up.
As complex as a labyrinth,
As simple as The Lord’s Prayer


I will build a stage in my bedroom
On which to commune with my maker
When the world goes to sleep.

I will listen to and write every message he hands down to me:
‘Father,speak, thy servant heareth.’

The world will wake up to receive
Not caring about the giver or how they were received
Just savouring and applauding and observing to do.

Thursday, January 20, 2011


He stopped in the middle of the street
And looked down at his feet
What his eyes did meet
He was least prepared to greet.

He rubbed his eyes and again and a third
They were golden bangles and a bundle of ribbons.
Those were odd out there
All the same, they looked dear
Looking closer, he found them rare
They looked like those of a lady so fair.

So a day passed and the next
Then he went back to the street
What his eyes did meet
He found it ever sweet.

She sought her golden bangles
And the bundle of ribbons.


The untamed exuberance of nature surges and rests in my stubborn head
The hot blood of youth drives all care into my old years
My masculine ego blankets all voices around me.

But I fear! I fear to say I fear, but I do
I fear my potency, the virility of manhood
Give me a basket of sorrows to hold my tears.


This song is not for ghosts to dance,
This poem is not to touch their hearts
How would life be without you?
How would the world look in your absence?
The sun might have fallen backwards
But there would still be light.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011


Odomankoma breathes gently against my skin;
I can afford a smile.
I hear the birds gossip.
The spotless sky, a sculpted cloud, a loud riddle-
The sun has fallen into my backyard.

I got this tongue from Obibini
I learnt this song from Agbenoxevi,
The ever-young song bird of the market place:

‘It is only the man who sits under the tree, who knows the intensity of the breeze-
Life is hard but there is hope in the flatulence of the bee.’

The young are teachers of the old.
So mother hen knows the juiciest worms.
The tired birds are lured into the embrace of the evening sky
But they will only find rest on the arms of Agbeti.

Ask Anaanu the spider, the crafty one who lives at the diagonal junctions:
Who sees farther, the swift hare or the slow tortoise?

I yearn for the dew to soak my heat
The toads to drown my ears
I will lie on my back and wait—
The moon and stars will soon be here.


The webs of life are spun on the looms of Oboadee,
The all and ever-seeing one who sits above the sun.

The silver arrows of rain are held in His cloudy quiver
And released with crafty precision.

He makes the sun to dim brightly and flaunt its radiant cheeks,
And when the clouds can’t hold the overflow,
They pour His tears of love on us.

The melodies of the breezes are composed in the compound of the dawn
And blown on the whistles of the day.

If you wonder why the sun is loud today,
The night just delivered the new moon.

Let the winds breeze through and renew the gossips of yesterday-
The stones will stand the test of truth.

Friday, January 14, 2011


The cock crowed at noon today
I will call our song of sorrows in the house of the moon
I will rub my palms in the face of the sun and…..
He can do nothing about it;
This is a riddle----

Virgins were broken at night
Sons were born by day
The frozen insolence of Akwasiada
Desecrated our (sacred) altars.

Ours was the last story

We lifted our songs to the red womb of the sky
Our shoulders hummed dirges of our guilty innocence
The golden black ivory had lost its shimmer.


They prided in the drab white walls of their citahells
And locked them up with the cold stony faces below.

While they chanted halleluyahs to their unknown God,
They also stared at the blank and motionless sky for hope,
From their gods or nowhere, which they knew might never come.
They sang songs of sorrow and recounted stories of their free selves outside these walls;

Of home and and family they would see no more in a long time
But today, through the eyes of their hope.

They mocked them with libations of holy water and drove them,
Shackles and on all fours, through those doors of no return.

But we have walked through these doors of return
We who are the glory of the heads bowed and backs broken yesteryears ago.


We will go 4x (decreasing in tone)
O my brothers draw near and hear, weep no more on your mats at night when you lie on your breaking backs and look intensely at the blank sky of your huts; sleep on the hope of morning,
Our glory, shrouded in impotent smokes of uncertainty.

Do not despair for the sake of the heartless kings who cling on to straws of immorality, their days will soon be spent or else they will wake up that morning to find our shells empty, let them then rule the chattels; we will be freer men than we dream to be – We will go

(Repeat song)

Today, we honour the living memory of the great dead. But tomorrow, we shall be told of in word song; we shall be remembered as the heroes of yesterday. We shall look back on the lands we tilled and the edifices we built and take pride in our living memories and the greater deeds of our seed.

These great ones have laboured, let them enjoy their hard – earned titles and thrones and rest; when our tasks are done, we will also go.

(Repeat song)

Yes indeed we will go home to beyond the horizons of this place, to the welcome of our forebears, to the drumbeats by the ancestral fireside – we will go.
(Repeat song)

Inspired by Prof Kofi Anyidoho – History Dept. University of Ghana 08/05/09

We will go from this place, when our days are spent
The memories of our footprints will outlast our age

Big, small, all the way to the gates of that ‘beyond’ of no return.


I sing this song afehyia pa
With all of you in mind
May the wheel of life spin again
And meet us on good luck.

You who taste salt no more,
Safe journey into the eternal unknown.

You who are yet to arrive,
Have a beautiful sojourn.

You who keep the pots alive,
The next harvest is yet to come.

Uncertain clouds are carrying the rains
We may be found on either side, dead or alive

Afehyia pa!

Thursday, January 13, 2011


Dearest Okonnore Yaa,

My sunshine that pierces the gloomy dawn to reveal the promising day, I miss you. I am seated under the great palms at the entrance to Mmoadomakrom, enjoying the healthy breeze and using one of the foaming gourds you left in the kitchen hut. Ntikuma, our eldest son, has gone to visit nana Aberewa and get me some herbs for my chronic cough. He is due to return later in the week.

Tikenenkene, Efudohwedohwe and Nnankohwea have gone to the farm, and Aso, our elegant little princess is preparing the evening meal. I am really proud of our children, and they really remind me of all the troubles we went through to have each one of them. I was reminiscing what a good wife you have been to me all these years. I know that thoughts of me nourish your dainty limbs with enough strength and speed, to finish your business and return home.

Aso maame, you will be pleased when you return to see the new fence I’ve built. The boys helped me to carry some bamboo home, after we planted our cassava and completed the yam mounds. This one is too high to be scaled by the stubborn goats that would steal in and nibble some yams. Yaa, I also fixed the kitchen’s leaky roof. I got new thatch to replace the old ones, and it has given the kitchen a new look. I trust it will affect your cooking. I wish there was anything more I could do for you; my dear, you ask too little of a hardworking husband. Anything within my power is not too much for you to ask, even if it means facing Mpotimpoti all over again.

I have been having this dream for three nights now. It has made me realize what a beauty our little princess Aso has blossomed into. Okonnore my wife, our daughter is ripe. In my dream, I keep seeing our princess being married off to a handsome and wealthy young prince from a far away kingdom. I pray that our eyes will see that day, before we grow and lose our last grey hairs. By the way, do you know what the materialisation of this dream holds? More money, a mansion and plantations that truly befit a man of my status, beautiful cloths and jewellery for you my dear wife, and a comfortable life for the rest of our children, before they also get married. I will visit Akyekyedee the old wise tortoise, to sap some counsel; my princess must surely marry a prince. Or what do you think?

I want to add another one to my titles. They call me Kwaku Ananse the trickster; they know Ananse the owner of stories. They hail me Ananse Kokroko, but I want to be known as and called Honourable Ananse Kokroko, the owner of stories told, being told and yet to be told. I want to contest for a seat in the prestigious General Council of Animals; I will be the Chief Spokesperson of the whole Animal Kingdom. We will discuss that one further, when you return. I really need to start strategizing my campaign, and so I need your invaluable counsel which has proven helpful throughout all the years and has helped me to climb to this height. My Image Building Project (IBP) which I started so many years ago has proven successful so far, and so winning that seat shouldn’t be much of a problem.

(Yawn and stretch) Haaauuummm! Dearest Okonnore Yaa my wife, woman with natural endowments in apt proportions, I am indeed a blessed man. When you receive this letter, hurry home before the rains come. Right now, the sun is packing his wares, after a fruitful day, and my sight is beginning to dim. I can already smell my evening meal – like mother, like daughter. Please do well to remember my new pipe and ahenema. I love you and miss you like the details I couldn’t share.

Your heartbeat,

Romantic Ananse®

Tuesday, January 11, 2011


From the summit of the black pulpit
Our prophets delivered the sermon of redemption
Then one after the other they faded before our eyes
Slain on the altars of the martyrs
To be replaced by the demagogues of doom.

There is no place like home
Home sweet home
Africa is my home
There is no place like Africa.

Grant me audience any day
And I will imbue you with Africa.
Our strong spirit, hospitability,
And innovativeness keep the world going.

The dancing floor of the creator,
Threshing floor of the moon
Bed of the undying eye of God
Cradle of civilisation.

Have you seen the Nile,
Or the mighty Volta?
The golden Sahara
Or the homely Niagara
The beautiful savannah
Or the indomitable lions?
The elegant ostriches
Or great ’lephanto?
Then you would understand.

Captivating virgins whose smiles could change theweather
Strong men who could walk the world like a mile


Elegance beyond the sky breachers,
Bravery surpassing Napoleon
The pyramids, a wonder.
That is Africa, my Africa.