Ama G(h)ana

ASANTE

Kumasi, your name, a tree with millions 
       of golden branches, 
a border of origin from which your mother 
       was missing until 
she flickered on the ghostly lane, & again 
        in the city under Oboase.
Your children, named after historical wars of 
        a stranger who intruded your
territory. In their manhood might have met a man 
        inscribed as a stomach leader or
a greedy caucus who owned them money,
        perhaps, he partners with crime
You, mother & father did not foretell your children
        not to drink black tea from the man


AKUSIKA

In the past, you wanted to stitch students to fit 
        the class quo, little did you
know you were spelled to only imagine the world 
        of riches. In the present, you are 
being traded. The country pressing in on you 
        until it feels like a faux sperm.
You are crumbled on the land of captors. You have
        fought for your part of liberty.
You have dwindled the tricks of the man . But who
        will stay with you? 
Who will bring you food from the above? I know you 
        are a mother beyond everlasting
yet you are defaced by boat sails. You said you are 
        mightier  than the fists of God.
What should your children's children eat when you are
        nothing but invisible fog in thin air?
You still want to challenge the wind that sits with your 
        children after you died? You still won't retreat?


DEMOCRACY

Named after the dictators from 1844 who signed the
        oath of death. Named for the 
heroes in your heart. A name like Ananse, whose origin
        you said embarrasses you. 
On treasure island you are mentioned in the days 
        of the storms. Whichever stance—
I endure with you, the worst. I will be a parsimony, a tool
        to save you. If they don't want you,
turn back the books of nineteen ninety two. If allowed,
        they believe, 
you will gauge them from your back eyes & stab the one who
        made you the subject of the kingdom.


IBRAHIM MAHAMAH

Any chariot which  rode for protection in the years of the
         cattle is peaceful. Any activity
referring to a slave master's name is political. Take one or 
         deem it opposing. 
To reject is to accept, when exactly it is you lost your way home? 
         My grandmother
said if you fight for peace, you fight for  life. When you break
         a norm, you raze your home.
Here, everything unfair is overlooked, how much more a 
         child dying from penury given a name to 
hail in politics. I want an answer from a council, if you claim
         you sit to think about people, how many
 of the homeless have been sheltered under the busy bridge?


KWAME NKRUMAH

It is said you never died. God never wanted you to depart
         from the people. They made us believe,
brethren of lies. I walk passed an abandoned building
         with debris of your legacies shrewd 
on the green-coated wall. For sixty eight years of rain,
         I have parked your works 
into prayers that keep me during crisis. I have named
         you after the deities in the soil. 
Any person who survived slavery's lash with you knows
         how to produce vision.
Despite the forces you fought like a trojan. I have 
        plastered a statue as a liturgy
to mourn your living on every twenty first. 
        I mean to say Nkrumah,
you never die. Stoop, stoop & rage like a god.


JB DANQUAH

Father JB served to the last breath of his people in 
        the name of patriotism. 
I want him undead & freed. I want him to be a fog 
        in his mansion & hover those 
who sacrificed their fears for his life. I want his hands
        away from their pocket. They made
        him bite more than he could chew. 
 His selfless contribution was accounted
        ungrateful. I want to ask if that is
how a political figure is being paid in the west? I
        want to meet the ancestors for
 stocks. I want to say, father JB, reincarnates as Anokye.


STRAND

There are no roses for the custodians of death 
         ravaged by election—
Taadi girls, 2016 & 2020, so many that can’t  buy life.
So many graves for dead children. I can now worship
          friends among the dead
more than the living. Boy, breathe air into your body
          once again— come witness the
burial of your soul. To die is to relive everything—
          What is death on 
the skin of a gagged body? A torso's testimony
          becomes a burning sensation,
such that he falls in love with the devil to overshadow
          his throat. He is exhausted.
She has taken sufficient poison to kill her. He dies to live.

Albert Asare Kweku, writing as K. Asare-Bediako is a Ghanaian writer and poet. He chose writing as a therapy to aid him breath away the thoughts of his unseen father. He is featured in both local and international magazines. He was a shortlist of the SBL prize, 2023.
You can connect with him on:
X; @Asarewrites
IG; @asarewrites
FACEBOOK; Phaa K. Asare-Bediako