How Much A Female Costs

How much money am I?
Maybe this question will haunt me for the rest of my life. Maybe not. Whatever happens, I know one thing. I know this question will stay with me forever. Like a second skin, reminding me of how some people of the male gender think of me as a woman. And this makes me angry, fearful, desperate and sometimes, it makes me feel helpless. Mostly, it makes me yearn for the perfect life where once again, we’ll all be equal and true to that equality however that equality will show itself.

As a young woman, I’ve been always awake to the privilege the male gender is handed at birth. And the second place females are handed as well. But the past three years have pushed my anger and fear and disbelief and overwhelm to a further extent. Whenever I think of birthing now, I wonder how differently I can help my sons see my daughters. How differently I can help my daughters see themselves and my sons. Because femininity now is in its most confused stage; women marching for equality with men (which I support) and the same women unable to handle the good difference women have from men and thereby ending up endorsing contents and attitudes that treat women like they do not want to be treated. I never thought something I’d see on YouTube would break me even further.

Continue reading “How Much A Female Costs”

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Learning Language: Synonyms and More

Love is:

I.
mother’s eyes of 5 decades and eight staring into my clustered chest of many feelings and saying she does not worry
too much.

II.
all of her torn selves from years flipping too harshly, touching too rough
gathered in her soul’s basket reassuring mine
“you’ll be torn too
but fewer than mine
and you will heal too”

III.
the easy laughter at the misfortunes
folding around us like arms on door knobs, holding too tightly, sometimes
yanking, letting go abruptly

IV.
mother’s legs spread like melting cheese
in a chef’s pan. simmering to heat for someone else’s dinner. Never burning the eaters lips.

mother is:

I.
love carefully handwritten for my reading

II.
love. forever here

III.
always on her way
a mail I wrestle from the bearer’s fingertips

IV.
a secret I keep unspoiled by the world.

and she will never die.

© Awo Twumwaah 2018.

conversations with dead things

the years clutch her throat
every care less word is bulletproof
“some soils get too tired to be fertile
again.” the second veil is hanged
at the front of the holy of holies and
thundering hands are forbidden to ease
“but you grew us”
“I have no more wombs
you plucked a petal
he plucked a petal
she plucked a petal
bees no longer come this way
what do you suppose happens to a plant
when its sweetness dries?”
their incense crawls unto us, a cloud of separation
may it be answered prayer

 

©Awo Twumwaah 2018

Christian At Sea

At mornings I mourn a loss I do not know.
It melts on the tongue like bitter chocolate.

In the dream I was again running from.
I slept cuddling death a soft pillow of rocks

will you believe if I told you I’ve died
a hundred times times hundred

the first was while I tasted water and akpeteshie in one breath
“know the difference. This one is
truth. This one is truth.”

In a woman’s body, I am a boy, a year old, trying to find my feet.
and it was always mother’s hands opened for my falls
I limb. missing fathers’ foot.
it is there but I cannot feel it.
noone welcomed him home

I am Peter walking on water. I sink.
Please do not say keep your eyes on Him. I have
slept three suns dying in the fish’s belly.
I know how to live in water. I know how death feels.
Please do not say just keep your eyes on the Lord. I have
to have hands that have handled.

at evenings, I mourn a loss I do not know.
It melts on the tongue like bitter chocolate.

will you believe it if I told you
I have died a hundred times times hundred

the first was while lying tongue learned
“know the difference. This one is truth. This one is truth.
This one is not.”

Have a great midweek. And check out my other poem posts here. Also, I’m on Instagram, Twitter and Facebook as Awo Twumwaah; let’s be friends there too.

©Awo Twumwaah 2018.

Safe Houses

Not every girl has many fathers.

Before John drove out of mother’s heart, he left me those words. They stayed – an arrow I shoot at whoever thinks mother gave us too many fathers. Mother.

Mother is the woman a baby thinks she knows while inside her until the water breaks. She learns mother is both man and woman. That scares her, till mother crawls under her skin and sheds herself inside her. And mother’s voice, she learns comes nothing like her soft chocolate skin. Mother’s voice is a lion’s. And the language she speaks is what she must. Mother roars.

The first day I heard mother roar, my hands were in my first fathers’. She had charged at us, snatched my arm. I broke a bone. And she roared. That poor man, he bled from his mouth.
“You are a lioness! Why did I marry you?” 
“Why did you?!” 
Mother’s ring was on his finger. I knew from then that when mother roars, keep the blood from pouring through your mouth. Let it swim back till she finds the voice of a human. She rarely did. Except with my third father.

John is the man mother will stay with the longest. The man she would lose her lion voice to. The man in whose eyes when mother looked, I saw how many screams she swallowed at night to roar. John was the man you call gentleman. I learnt the word because of him.
“John, he’s a gentleman.” 
Mother showed off one of the bracelets he dumped in our home from his travels.
“John is considerate, caring, brings out the best in me and the girls. He is a gentleman. Too much of a gentleman. But a gentleman.” 
This one was to Grandma. Mother’s eyes was a mirage. Look past, you’ll come upon the dream she is having. John is on his knees, asking her. You shall beg her to wake up. Sooner.

She woke up the fourth day after falling in front of the car that had John’s bride. I couldn’t understand why she smiled. She beams when I walk into the room. I beam too. She dozes off, and I cry. I am afraid. This was not my mother.

“I have changed?”

She turned one night as I scrubbed the swell under my eyes.

“Have you not?”

I thought I shall not pretend. Let mother find her roar and carry it down her heart into her throat. Let me hear her, again. She did not roar.

“I have allowed my other self out.”

“Your other selves? Mother?”

I felt for my phone.

“Yes Anyele.”

“And put down that phone you’re planning to ring Doctor Ansong with.”

She roared. A little. I found comfort.

“I only want you to know all of your mother.”

Her tears were the waters I had never seen all my eighteen years. I had no arrows to split them from her heart with. The mirage appeared. I looked past. I saw all my three fathers.

I hope you enjoyed this short story. I pitched it for an AFREADA competition months back. I didn’t make the shortlist but I was glad I took the challenge. I have some other news. I’ve withdrawn When Love Stays, the ongoing fiction series from the blog. Plotting and writing is getting difficult. I’m sorry not to be sharing Sule and Dzidzor and Kate and Kwaku and Sefa and Freda’s journeys with you any longer. Forgive me. I’ll be posting weekly however.Thank you. I love you. A lovely mid-week Y’all.

PS. A great great storyteller on here has a super great story ongoing so go check that out. It’s MARRY ME on www.joseyphina.wordpress.com. *In a whisper* Thank me later

©Awo Twumwaah 2018.