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?