Love in Four Persons, Four A-s.

The Love that is Called Mother, Amanuah.
Which Mother sends one daughter
a (swim suit kind of) bra,
three strings of waist beads,
a big bottle of corn drink and
generous pounds of salted beef?
Mine does. Naa Amanuah Ankrah is her name.


Many a time, it is the thought, it is the state of heart that

matters most, and not the matter…

This too is a kind of L.O.V.E. And I am my Mother’s daughter.

– Saturday, 13 June 2015. 


People say we look
alike. Right now, like
many times, I am trying to find, to understand
what makes this Woman so full and spilling
with giving love, with simple laughter,
with unpretentious dance – a zest, an allure
that is infectious and unfading.

I am Naa AMANUAH‘s daughter. Too.


Sunday, 27 November 2016 



Picture (of a picture) of Mother. Circa 1993.  




A Love Like This

…and I saw Love today. It has
the texture of a father, the taste of a friend,
the strangeness of finding it or of it finding
you in the places you never thought to look, in
the people you never thought could care.

I saw Love today and I am still reeling
from the wonder of not knowing
how to accept it without apologizing
for it, reeling with the shock of not dying
with the shock of it all.

I saw Love today and I want to book-
-mark this day like the sheets of papers I once
said life and days are, and I want to ear-
-mark this day as the day that the fullness of the
Love that you are and you showed
me dawned on me, fell on me

with an immensity that
blesses and lifts, that builds and firms – all at
once. And before that time is come when the
eagle will not need height nor the
keenness of vision to hunt, I will be
forever grateful, and I will write…

Thank you for the gift of you. And whether I am
or I remain (your)
Thank you. Thank you,
I say.


dr mawuli adzei

Photo Credit: Dr. Mawuli ADJEI. 



The Big Loves in the Little Things, in the Not-Actually-Little Things…

They used to called me a crier.

I don’t know if they still will, would or do.

But I do know it was cleansing, healing, and refreshing the first and only time in my life when someone understood me enough to not only listen, but to cry with me.

Don’t they say when one cries, the world only watches on, watches one cry alone?

Don’t they say men don’t cry – not for the seeing of women, any human?

Don’t they say when one cries, the world looks away, lets one cry alone?

Don’t they say men shouldn’t cry – not for anything, not for any reason?

I have not stopped shedding quiet tears in memory of you, and of your passing.

And you still remain the finest Gentle-Man I have ever known. Let them say their worst, I still have you at heart.

And it is because of the seemingly little, the apparently insignificant ways you touched my life, the ways you showed that you believe in me. It is because of these same little things that you are irreplaceable. Rest in Bliss.


Sunday, 16 June 2013 



Tomorrow will be six years since Ali left. If he were here, the day after tomorrow will be LOVElier. And more. The day after tomorrow, I graduate…

We would have laughed about everything. And nothing. Too. We would have been free to be both children and adults, in public.The lines between who I am to him and who he is to me would have blurred and then brightened into LOVE unrestrained and unashamed.

As for age, it would have meant something much less than even a number.

He called me ‘Ishe’. He was the only who called me that. Any other person who used that name easily came across as a desperate copycat and sometimes, as a trying too hard to please me or to get my solemn attention or as having a not-so-sincere motive for resorting to that name in the first place.

When I am too ‘shy’ to call him ‘Bro Ali‘, I called him with my eyes and he always ‘heard’ me call him before the two syllables in his name escaped my lips. It was instinctive: my calling him and his response, his urgent, undivided attention to whatever it was I wanted to say – however childish, curious, silly or very like his Ishe.

No. He was no brother, but he was that and so much more. And no, I have no brother, but for my half-brother, Azuma Nelson, but ALI was more than just enough…

Tomorrow will be six years since ALI left, and if he were still here, it couldn’t have hurt for life to have more hold, more gait, than it does now.
This too is L.O.V.E, of a rare, irreplaceable kind.

And this L.O.V.E. is all the more special because it transcends words, time, space and the material…

Tomorrow will be six years since ALI  left, and I remain my Father’s daughter.

– Friday, 26 June 2015.



Picture mine: February 2017 – At work, in a sweater Father gave me, a sweater I had on the whole day, for reasons beyond cold weather.


for A
…With My All.

my flesh aches and faints for
your touch – no, not
your touch – your very
presence or the essence of it or a
token of it, at least.

with a will of its own, my mind
perpetually, steadily
threatens to burst at its seams:
wondering – swelling high and wide with rapturous awe-s of
wandering – whirling free and full within the enthralling aura that is

my all and I
pine and yearn
adore, dwell
crave and groan
with doubly fond thoughts and more…of you –
without a care for the world
without any care in the world

without a care for me-self.

without ready reasons,
my soul shifts and skips
at mere glimpses
what beauty-full worlds
boundless bliss and primal joys and raw delights (that are)
lying in wait for the moment (that)
You and I
will be trans-FORM-ed,
and are transcendED by

sweet sweet WE.

a sway of its own,
my spirit seeks and searches
hard after yours.

my being
desires and is desperate
to do you

If this is
not love,
what then could
it be? If this be short
of love,
what else ought
it be?

– Saturday, 20 September 2014.



A for Aisha. Picture mine: July 2015, Coconut Grove Beach Resort, Elmina, Ghana.


*   *   *




23-July-2017; Kumasi.

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