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Wednesday, 3 August 2016

Executioner's Business

I have not come here
To put back together
The Guinea fowl egg
That was broken on Her Majesty's sandals.

I am an Executioner.
The why and the how matters not,
It's the Who.

Those who in malice
Destroy good food in fits of pettiness
Then turn to mock the distended bellies
Of hungry children
Shall know no peace.

But today,
It is not scoffing egg breakers that vex me.

It is,
Those who in silence watched
While the dirty deed was done,
Unconcerned about hungry mouths,
Then proceeded to,
on the miscreants
behalf, plead for mercy,
It is they who stir my bile.

So may I not be blamed
When in swinging my blade
I, accidentally, chop off the heads
Of wailers who stand too close to the guilty.

The Executioner's job is urgent business
I have no time for the niceties
Of giving, those who loiter, final warnings.

***** August 3, 2016*****

Friday, 17 June 2016

High Octane Love

I don't love easy,
Or slow or even low.

I love hard and busy,
high octane,

when I crash,
I am a shipwreck,
Shattered past salvaging...

Untold Stories

The Antelope has its own story,
but it matters not to the Lion.

The untold stories of dead antelopes
is why gazelles run when lions come.

*****March 02, 2016*****

Sunday, 5 June 2016


We have become sheep,
fattened on campaign promises,
slaughtered at the swearing-in,
and feasted upon for four years.

we are reincarnated,
to be feasted upon the next four years.

*****December 17, 2015*****

Monday, 2 May 2016

Bloody Fingers

I'm still picking up pieces of me
off the concrete of betrayal,
You smashed me, hard.

Shards and slivers of self,
infinitesimal, sharp,
bloody my fingers,
this lesser pain,
a temporary distraction.

I finger painted your name in blood,
a masterpiece of pain
forever in the gallery of my mind.

*****April 29, 2016*****

Sunday, 1 May 2016

The Moon, In Spite of Rumors

They say
The Moon, unlike stars,
Does not produce its own light.

From Earth, where we stand,
At night, nothing shines more bright.

Monday, 18 April 2016

The World Outside Mine by @quasiadu

If I should stand here
And speak my mind
I will speak of places
Places I have seen and heard of
I will even speak of the faces
That fill the spaces of my mind

I will speak of Korle
Bu, Dudor, Wokon and Gonno
And sickening stench from the Lagoon
That wafts gently through the air
I will speak of the dirtied skins
And the pregnant, half-fed bodies
Of women and girls
Who are desperate to find choices
They were never given

I will tell you
Of the harsh life of Kumasi Kejetia
I will speak of the curbside prophets
Sermonizing soulfully for their pockets
I will tell you about the beggars
In fraying dresses
From the lands beyond here
And I will speak of time
Time expiring towards emptiness

I will speak to you
About the other side
Of beautiful Accra
Of the attractive headporter
Whose life has oft been
A bias of the plain truth
Searching for the place
And the space that isn't there
I will also tell you of her child
Hungry for his mother's soured milk
His numb fingers holding on her
His world will end in weak chokes

I will tell you of a trade
Often recounted in whispers
And in hushed tones
Between beautiful bodies
And weak-willed men
In the winding half-lit streets of Cantonments
In the sweltering brothels of Adum
And in the indigenous outbacks of Cape Coast

I will tell you about the migrant
In the informal settlement of Ashaiman
Forgotten by fate
His mind is blind
The whole of it
Contained within fragments of indecision
And in the tempest of vague dreams
His hands are outstretched
Feeling the contours of the darkness
That slowly waits for colour
And the condition of certainty

I will speak to you
Of the Godless churches
And the virus of religion
That smothers the hopes of the people
I will tell you of the desperate woman
Questioning her fate
And looking up to a God so far away
She waits for the bequest of Heaven
And that great epiphany

From the fringes of Ayigya Zongo
To the streets of Metropolitan Accra
I will tell you of the child hawker
Who wishes he had just a moment
To indulge in the trivial
And childish extravagances of time
Patterns emerge and quickly fade
Before his eyes
There is a little sun
And a lot of gloom
A defeated song
And a daunting silence

I can only tell you of my obsessions
Ripe obsessions
Smouldering obsessions
And even dead obsessions
I can tell you of the moments you overlook
The waning lantern
And the perpetual darkness
Outside your lighted room

I am lost to the world outside mine
But I can only speak of it

 - by Kwasi Adu (April 17, 2011)

A photo posted by Kwasi Adu (@quasiadu) on