I dreamt about some rituals this morning, to be able to make something out of them— I woke up this morning in water to fetch firewoods in the outskirts but the heaviness of the clouds couldn't contain this broken body. which is to say that the tears that boil within this body does not fit in this country anymore. because the wrath of some kind lives among us, that Noah's flood somehow persists in this land. I woke up this morning gasping. which is to say that everything I inhale chokes. that being a citizen in a one-man country narrows the way you breathe. that a child does not bath water to burn, that a city gags his freedom with hot water. that even everything chokes including this dead currency. I woke up this morning on fire. even Sodom & Gomorrah didn't burn like this fragile body. which is to say I woke up black & vulnerable in Ghana. to say that this country is a packed kindling forcing mothers to give birth to bastards. that the only thing that does not burn, & welcomed by fire, is poverty that kisses the heart of citizens with common identities & allows its emptiness cascade through generations like blood. & is that not a metaphor? that a farmer & a banker works in the same country but only one keeps getting rich. I woke up this morning to a promise. I mean to say that I stepped out lighted, big headed, opaque. which is to say a strange voice begs for my thumb every four years, that I should join a queue even if I can't walk. even if I'm left with minutes to live. 'I will build you an ultramodern clinic and give you free healthcare/ your children will part ways with hunger/ your graduates can work freely/ a job of their choice/ and it's only a matter of time/ before they call you indiscipline/ lazy/ ragamuffin/ and or make you into one. that every step to your door is an ephemeral wave. every smile is a lush to show off. every action is hidden to flame the fire at your back. that every word is a smoldering cold & a matter of a season. just because we believed. & is that not a metaphor? that this body is a Palm tree that grows by the stream, full of vigor, that the summer light burns its leaves but it refuses to shrivel, its fruits, an epitome of endurance. I woke up this morning melting into a bed that refuses to dream. I mean I woke up & the first person I met was a shambolic girl. I woke up reasoning for widows. I woke up to dig the streets with the boys at underbridge, Kaneshie. I stepped out screaming for the nurse & instead of treating patients, she is stitching her stabbed heart. & is that too not a metaphor? that a city grows more bodies on the streets than infrastructure. that the economy rises faster than the salary of a teacher. that the protestant masturbates on a country that calls herself 'peace' & 'gateway,' like that too is worth celebrating. isn't the country the gateway to hell? & is that not a metaphor? Are we the reverse? & this body, shouldn't I be content? after all am I not dreaming?