Image by Kwaku Griffin Many who have lived all their lives in southern Ghana assume people from northern Ghana speak one language, are predominantly Muslims, have access to powerful magical charms, know one another's hometowns, are troublesome by nature, live in primitive houses and practice primitive customs, eat weird food, and have parents who arrange marriages for children. Such people might be surprised to find people from northern Ghana who speak English very fluently without a northern accent, do not have tribal marks and do not look like their typical roadside barbecue vendor or street hawker.

I stared at the WhatsApp post for a while. Of course I recognized the face. An old classmate. Lost touch with him since we completed school many years ago. Here he was, on the WhatsApp status of a close friend, posing as a preacher. I found it hard to accept the change. That boy has never been serious with his life, chasing girls and cracking silly jokes to disrupt classes.

The last time I saw Uncle Maduk, he told me he knew he wasn't going to survive the operation, and that by the time I am back from the holidays, he might be no more. He thanked me for constantly paying him visits, bringing him fruits despite the rumors that he was an evil man and deserved what happened to him.

It was a long wall along a busy road. We stood by the wall, waiting, patiently. There always came a moment the busy road became quiet, kind of deserted. The very moment we were looking forward to. Ali bent, I stood on his bent back, and yet couldn't properly reach the top of the wall. He had to raise himself slightly with the two feet planted on his back.

You see all kinds of things at the prayer grounds. Done praying. And as I gather my mat and double my steps through the thick bushes, I contemplate on the porridge in my locker that I intended using to break my fast, my thoughts distracted by the diverse prayer groups dispersed under various trees on the parcel of land dedicated to individual prayers.

Image credits: Cottonbro studio It's easy to sometimes think you're superhuman.But a mirror will reveal your protruding stomach,hunched posture, and bushy beard that makes you look more like an ape turning into man than the superman you think you are. A mirror will show you yellowing canines, an awkward style of pursing your lips, skin defects that need attention, rheum still in the eyes even after a shower.

they say you're not goodthat you're a hypocritea wolf in sheepskin they say you're a disappointmentyou had so much potentialbut what are you today?a burdena watered seed that never germinatesyour gardeners are agingperhaps it's strangers that will reap their toil but youwhat have you got to say about yourself?you've been silentsilently workingopening up your sores, your hurtslike fuel tanksdrawing motivation to drive onpushingthrough formidable obstaclesyours is a long storybest written in solitude

Today you have the power to squash someone underneath your toe. But the human spirit is unlike the body of an insect. It's tough, refuses to die, keep coming, and will always strike back. Imagine the spirit of an entire nation. What is the sense in abusing power? No matter how powerful you are, how long can you live? Yet the consequences of our actions live long after us.

Thick clouds are gatheringAmidst occasional rumblingsAnd chilly winds mixed with the departing warmthJubilant crows circle in the sky In a corner of the sky, sun rays leakThrough a crack in the clouds Sweat from perspiring clouds in motionDrip on my face, I hurry to a shelter I watch the crows now sitting silently on nearby trees, taking a beating from the heavy rain A man joggs relentlessly round a fieldunperturbed by the downpour All around, drops of rain sizzling in white steams across cemented floors and roofs

Where is the balance between revealing your true thoughts on sensitive matters to those in your inner circle you really trust and being yourself without caring what people think? No matter how religious our upbringing was, there always comes a time in our growth process that we encounter things that force us to question and reconsider views that have been curved for our eyes for a long time.

Image by Yelena The temptation to use a shortcut to a desired destination will always be there, like a seductive prompt, ticking like a clock, ticking your thoughts into confused contemplation. But like Rick Warren once said, there are no shortcuts to maturity. Obstacles force the mind to become multidimensional in its view, in its analysis, gaining insights closed to many.

She looks like she doesn't know anything. I wouldn't say she's an idiot. Maybe she is. Perhaps I might get to know something positive about her if I draw closer. Wasn't particularly surprised at what Itaka told me yesterday. She's descending the stairs. I smile and greet. Only if she knew what I was thinking. Maybe it isn't good to be honest all the time.

I strongly believe we can do so much by harnessing our energies, by putting ideas and efforts together. It's a beautiful thing participating in picture prompts like the one by Sadje every Monday. And when writers reach out to other writers for collaboration, fireworks happen. It was such an honour participating in another rengay with David. The first time, I had to slowly learn the rules before participating.

How do I know I am growing? It's when I no more derive satisfaction from smashing old obstacles. Something inside yearns for a bigger mountain. But new mountains are not always fun to climb. There are some you'll keep circling and circling for a long time before finding an opening to begin your first foot upward. Other new mountains don't even have any path or opening anywhere.

Image credits: Ahmed Akacha The best employer is a challenging life, it pays well more than any other. A challenging life is unpredictable, full of uncertainties. It can fire you at any moment, it can announce your promotion when you least expect it. That's why many employees there tender in their resignations day in day out. A challenging life does not seek your defeat.

Picture credits: Write Ondandelions She asked if I haven't become tired of the motions of 31st all-night church services where new year resolutions and prayers are made for a year that promises much but delivers nothing. Perhaps, frustrations were providing her the lens to see things with such clarity. I try to cheer her up by saying a consistent prayer life made a big difference in what kind of year a person had.

I've come to what seems like my endwhere patched hopes refuse to mendbarriers refuse to bendthe raging sea in my pathrefuses to part and all I hear in the midst of the rising tidesis a still small voice reminding meto only believe Holding onfeels like waiting for stones to ripenI do not know if I have this patience

Image by Hans Middendorp In the shadows of every shadeAn unseen plaque with the nameOf a thoughtful sower In the success of many homesThe unheard creaking bonesOf a thoughtful shoulder Same sower and seed scenarioReplayed, retoldWisdom, wasting, waitingTo be emulated

Was woken up at dawn. Had to listen for a while before I knew what the noise was all about. Dawn prayers. At this point they were in the middle of a sermon. Was about to return to my sleep when I heard something amusing. The preacher was talking about how we black people are not kind to animals, always seeing them as food, whereas white people were kind and nice to animals.

Mother and her syringe. Colourful symbols of my childhood. As I reflect on the past, I see my legs high up in the air, suspended by mom's left hand while her right held the syringe filled with a herbal mixture. First, I am bent over, the syringe is inserted into my anus, and the green liquid within it injected into the body.

Hit songs are addictive, forcing us to put them on replay mode for days. With time, the punch lines in the lyrics lose their energy and sparkle, the funny jokes in the songs become dry.I used to think this was the cycle of every good song until I came across some masterpieces. It was December 2013. I was alone in my room, watching a nollywood movie on Crystal TV.

Image by J. MT photography the opening line of a new poem comes to mindI write it down impressiveinspiringout of the blue I think of what should followseveral attempts, no progressI doze off, wake up, continueputting many activities on hold still no progresscan't think of a sensible continuation frustration days pass byI sit, rise, pace, take a break, return, take another break, eat, drink, still very little progress I do not give up because I have come to realize that to the determined, bars bend

chunks of gingerthat have missed the teeth of a blenderhave found their way into Mom's soupDisguised among the chunks of smoked fish and salted meatawaiting an unsuspecting victimwhose feet are tiptoeing towards the kitchengently opening the doorlistening hard for mom's voice which is busy in the living room shouting on some sordid character on TV…

Today my heart is saddened. News. Of the loss of a close friend. How strange she would have found it, seeing posters of herself on walls of houses and electric poles, and on WhatsApp statuses. Obituary. If only she could see it all coming. Just last year we were home together, I unemployed, and she, doing her own little telework from home.

The restaurant stood at the foot of a hill. I had passed there several times without noticing it, partly because I was new to the area. Initially, I was skeptical about the quality of their meals. But they gave me good reasons to become a regular customer. Lunch time, you were sure to find me there, with Lisa my co-intern.