The drive from the airport is sullen. The buildings scurry past, whirling into colors that distill into nothingness. We’re going so fast that my soul stops being my soul and emancipates into the air, becoming one with the escaping wind – converging into a cul-de-sac that will only end with one of us rolling frantically on the tarmac tonight. Above us, the night sky and the stars waltz in a celestial form of lovemaking, elucidating our surroundings until we are both so lust-filled that I can only glance at you and you at me. 

We drive in silence because the air is thick with things we’d both rather not say. Eventually, you say you love me. I’m overwhelmed by this – because the night sky is dark enough to make us feel like we’re the only beings worthy of experiencing the bliss of the celestial realm, but dotted with enough stars to make us realize our insignificance in the vast expanse of space and reality. I know I shouldn’t, but I wonder if you knew you loved me when you were inside her. The grimace that tugs on my face is enough to make you know that I am thinking exactly this. And so, you stop the car on the side of the road and stare at me silently – the stars and clouds converge into a seance. You reach for me like one of us will end up laying motionlessly on the tarmac tonight. At first, I protest. But it’s 9:40PM, a Monday and there isn’t enough strength pouncing in my bones as your fingers reel my mind into a place I swore would never exist again. At 9:41PM I realize that I will never stop loving you. At 9:42PM the words crawl up my throat and scour my lips until I pull you in like string and hand the syllables to you like silk, “I love you.”

By 9:43PM we’re making love, and the shadows decide that they are too desecrated by loss to escape their skeletons so they grab me instead, dance ecstatically around a campfire – my body the wood, the car the graveyard. The air is heavy with broken promises, I’ve baked my body into so many confessions that I’ve forgotten the sound of my own name. At 9:45PM I discover what it feels like to be on fire but never burn out – everything inside of me ashes until there is close to nothing left. And still, I am here. Still my tongue is crumbling into a murmur, into a scream, into a song. Still the stars blink harmoniously, dissipate into intricate fireflies of destruction that waltz around us judiciously. Everything is in synchrony with my steady, beating chest. Everything is converging into a cul-de-sac that will only end with one of us on the tarmac tonight. 

– One of us will end up on the tarmac tonight/ Cul-de-sac

ménage à trois

She’s screaming. It isn’t the usual laughter-sedated kind, when she eventually gets exhausted of going back and forth with you and the anger succumbs to lust and you end up making drunk love on the living room carpet. It isn’t one of those things that will be solved by wrapping her in your arms and whispering everything she wants to hear. Now, she’s wailing. Now, she’s flinging her arms about the room in a frenzy and her visibly tender lips contrast sharply with the sounds of insanity emancipating from between their folds. Now, you’re lost. Now, you want to be lost in her.

“Do you love me?”

The air is bathed in silence and her words nestle sullenly in the desolated corners of the room at first and later, waltz around the lie-infused walls. You hate this because they are compromising the intricacy of the situation and their taunting echoes seem to heighten her visible pain. You want to tell her that she is the single, definite thing you love – that she is the only person that you could possibly love. You want to say that you’ve loved her since the first time you saw her – when she was so drunk on the music that she seemed to forget that she was standing in the centre of one of the loudest drinking spots in Accra. When she closed her eyes, took gentle breaths and emptied herself into the turgidity of the music-drunk atmosphere, you got drunk on her. That you still see her face from that night – captivating. That you have the memory of the buoyant locks of her afro making love to the harmattan air locked in the furtherest depths of your sanity.

“Do you love me?”

She snaps you out of your daze. Her eyes are visibly sore from crying and bloated from the constant swipe of her fingers. Her voice is barely a whisper. You open your mouth to speak but quickly shut them tight again when you realize nothing can possibly save this. This is all the answer she needs because she has stopped crying or sniffing and now, she’s staring blankly at you. She’s shaking her head, her hair bouncing in visible frustration, and fuck – she’s beautiful. “I love you,” she says, and you transcend into an abysmal form of nothingness when you hear the knob turn and realize you’re the only one left standing in the room.

That is, until Makafui – her best friend – emerges from the closet, clad in nothing but underwear and mouths “is she gone?” Until you glance at the look of distress on her face, peep at your own morose expression in the mirror and realize that this isn’t even your own apartment, but Makafui’s. Until you register the comedic nature of this scene – that you are stark naked in another woman’s apartment, that the owner was hiding in a space she owns when the love of your life was shattering and your whole world was disintegrating. You nod a yes.

Makafui wants you to finish what you started. There is no reason to disagree. And so, you do.


I’ve always been in two places at once

I think of us as two cosmic dances
spiraling towards the same black hole.
In the desecrated darkness of night
you trace the outline of my palms,
point to the resounding stars
and compare the constellations to my eyes –
I’ve always been in two places at once.

“How did you digest the trauma?”
With two fingers pressed between my thighs.
With moans bouncing off the bloodstained walls.
With sways to the macabre waltz my body had memorized
until there was no dance left,
until my insides folded in on themselves and I’d lie awake at night
mapping out the parts of me that could never be enough –
did it hurt when you plunged into her?
did you look into her eyes and find peace?
did you recount the lineage that had transpired to bring her there, to you –
the broken bones of her great grandmother,
the aching back of her grandmother?
did you feel the earth quake beneath your feet, saying –
“it is I, take all of me?”

“Two places” seem like such easy colors to run in and out of,
we are hurtling towards an oblivion that will never end –
I am on the ground, searching,
because I want to map out my own grave
before you have the chance to dig mine,
because I don’t know how to go from calm waters
to trembling grounds,
because your tongue is the only language
my mouth likes the taste of –
the clouds above
are asphyxiated with the sound of your name.

“I want you.”
I know you do,
I’ve always been in two places at once.

La petite mort

Your father’s cologne is the smell you relate to absence. At 2AM, you hear your mother scream. It is raining, and the clouds come together to form the most obliterating compartmentalization of sky, an estrangement that exhumes vacancy that classifies you – young and longing. At 2:45AM, to the intimate beatings of loss, you absolve into an internal form of anarchy. It is raining and the flowers become ballerinas in the fleeting moonlight, making love to the water – clasping the droplets as if drowning a million different deaths. At 3:00AM you hear your mother’s wails diminish. It is the last time you will ever hear her cry. You are 11.

You are 17 when you have embodied the word “love” into a 19 year old boy who folds his jeans up at the ankles and misuses the words “fuck” and “shit”, even when “kwasia” is more accurate. When he sinks into you, when your bodies tremor in unison, you will learn the difference between want and need. You may want that boy, but you will realize, subsequent to the emptiness you feel when he is no longer inside of you and at 1:00PM, that you absolutely don’t need him.

Your father’s cologne is the smell you relate to absence. It is five years later, 1AM, when the boy (or man, he claims) you met sweating profusely at a local waakye joint ten months ago says he loves you. He, who stares hungrily at other girls when he thinks you’re not looking. He, who tells you to quiet down when you’re rambling about something you’re passionate about. “Please please please, not again” he says. The stars are awake, penetrating through the blinds as if calling a seance. When he reaches for you, you think you feel heaven. The ethereal entrenchment of the night illuminating his vacant face makes you think, for a second, that you could love him too.

At 8AM you will realize that it is impossible to love him. He says he can’t do it anymore. That you are a ghost emancipating into thin air. That you are closed off, constrained, piled with too much tremor and loss and pain. He says you are hard to love. “I am hard to love.” You will bake the words into your tongue until they become the only language you know. At 10AM, to the intimate beatings of loss, over and over again, you die then live then die a million times over. At 11AM your death will signify rebirth.

Your father’s cologne is the smell you relate to absence. When you begin to dissociate it from loss, from diminishing footsteps, it will be a Friday night – 11PM. You’ll be walking out of a bar, drunk. He’ll see you, he’ll hold you, he’ll ask you if you’re okay. He’ll drive you home. When he touches you, when you sniff the cologne, you will feel the waves of longing. The first time you make love, it won’t be a confession, it will be laying out all your inadequacies knowing that they are not inadequate, but enough – knowing that you are enough. When he says he loves you, you won’t count the hours until it’s over, you won’t even count. You will stare, he’ll stare back, and you’ll tell him you love him too. When you bury your face in his chest, what you whiff is what you will relate to presence for the rest of your life.

underneath the Ghanaian sky

The blare of horns is deafening. The only thing that encapsulates the burning air is the distant sound of the prayer call and the adept scrape of feet against sand. The colors are also loud, decorating the streets like a thousand drapes in a wedding hall. The colors calm the burn into a flame, the flame into a flicker and the flicker into the mutilated dreams of lives glued to a bike that does not pedal for them – but lives forever launching forth into anarchy. I try to observe the woman shuffling quickly by, the baby strapped to her back evidently helpless and malnourished. I attempt to pay attention to the smoke that has steadily exhumed out of exhaust pipes and formed a fine layer in the atmosphere. I can almost breathe. But I feel the desolation within me again, feel the beating of heart against chest that confirms that I am in the same obsolete place, a place where I am neither heralding forwards or backwards but remain a stagnant thicket of nothingness. I am dying an internal death.

The call sounds louder. My chest constricts further. Distant hearts facing the east – I feel myself emancipate into the surrounding air. It’s raining now, and I am almost so engulfed by the steady rhythm of raindrops that I don’t notice the right turn that will lead me down the road that will end in Femi’s arms. I go down this road because I need her, and she seems to be the single thing completely devoid of trepidation in my life, the single thing that allays pain. I take out my phone then, locate wifey and type “working late, see you soon love.”

Everything seems to calm. The rain has subsided into a gentle drizzle and the drops hit the tarmac in a calculated fashion. The incarceration I feel slowly transcends into freedom and my fingers fidget with the radio trying to find a suitable play. It is a long stretch of road. The distant stars are exhuming a subtlety, an ethereal shine that is everything and nothing all at once. There is a faint glow in the distance. The glow is visibly a blinking light when I am finally parked a close distance from Femi’s house. I notice that they are police lights, lights that move unsteadily like the silhouette of uneasy lovers. I get out of the car. The lawn is littered with people I have never seen. I start to rush towards the door and bump into an odd looking man. He looks exasperated, “ah, you no hear? Somebody die. Relax.”

I see my wife, in that split fraction of time, being escorted out of the house. I stare at her. She stares back. When she smiles, I know Femi is dead.

5PM thoughts

quell me into a nonexistence in line
with the waves awash a dream
awash a hope
awash the impending,
eminent obstruction of self
that my body is diminishing into –
subdue me into thinking
that we’ll stay afloat these waters
afloat the brisk moonlight of impending day.
we’ll bask in this rue,
our chests magnificently heaving
in the escaping sunset. i
mutter a prayer, count to ten,
close my eyes, breathe you in,
feel you in, want you in
a thousand thoughts escaping,
vaporizing into nothingness at the loss of you.
the shore comes into view –
there’s the rim of the sun clouding my eyes,
there’s sand transpiring into a softness that isn’t you
there’s me walking back into the ocean
calmed by the proclamation that
i’d rather drown a thousand times over
than lose you.

–i wanted to write something that reminded me of the ocean and it felt like I was being encapsulated by it the entire time. This is bliss.


I’m drowning
and these waters are too shallow for retribution.
Wish I wasn’t subduing into nothingness
but I’m quelling into a more abstract form –
an indelible sense of self
that on most days, doesn’t seem to exist.

These skies are too lustful
for insignificance,
these waters glimmer
with the craving sun.
The liquid is cool against my skin
and the clouds contrast with the heavens
in the most endearing seance.

I’m falling,
I’m emancipating,
And, everyone is on the pavement
watching me trying to grasp for something – anything.

You’re there too – beautiful.
The moon bathes us in a light
that I think depict your eyes,
and I find that I’m fading into this incongruous disguise of self.

He asks me if I know myself
I think that self
is constantly undergoing a metamorphosis and thus,
can never be truly understood.
I say yes,
because I find that ignorance can be survived by more ignorance
but never by the active consciousness of self.
I find that I cannot convey
the intricacies of my mind
into an intricacy that craves the understanding of others.

And so, I think everyone else needs saving,
not me.

but I’d rather leave this place than stay,
because these waters are calmer
than anything I have ever known.