He walks up to her front door, the brown paper bag lodged in the crook of his arm.
He knocks.
Takes a deep breath. Behind him, a car horn blasts. He turns; it’s far away. Nothing to do with him.

He wishes it had something to do with him.
He sighs and turns back to the door. Knocks again.

The trapdoor opens and she stands behind the main door.

He can feel her behind it, hesitating on the knob.

‘’Edem.’’ It leaks. A confession. A sound comes from behind the door.

He tries the knob.

‘’I know you’re in there. We need to talk.’’

Slowly, the knob turns.

She stands behind the trap door now. Braids in a bun, yellow tank top and earphone cord around her neck, she looks like something out of a productive Pinterest doomscroll.

No one says anything for a few heartbeats, the only sound, the hinges of the trapdoor dancing in the wind.

‘’What do you want?’’ She’s tired. It’s in the bags under her eyes; in the way her jaw is set.

No doubt, her teeth are gritted. Either to stave off a sharp retort, one he most likely deserve or an attempt to keep her awake and upright.

‘’I need to talk to you. I have to get something off my chest.’’

She snorts. ‘’It’s always about you, isn’t it? What you want. What you need.’’

She begins to shut the door again.

‘’You’re right!’’ That stops her in her tracks. She doesn’t close the door fully, but she doesn’t open it like it was before. He takes that as his cue to continue.

‘’Shit, Edem, you’re right. It’s always about me. I’m selfish. I…’’

He didn’t know how to get it out. It was one thing to realize it, but saying it out loud? Especially to her? That was something he hadn’t thought through.

But he didn’t have a choice. It was either that or losing any chance of fixing this.

Of fixing them.

He took a deep breath.

‘’I haven’t been myself for a while now and you know it. I’m trying to be good, I really am. But I’ve spent so much time recovering from being nice, from wanting people to like me that the alternative, to me, was to get worse so I could find a balance. And that phase almost cost me you. I’m sorry.’’

In the crook of his arm, the brown paper bag feels heavy—laden with everything he should have said to her since she returned. Not wanting to bear it’s weight anymore, he sits on the ground, crosses his legs. Opens the bag.

‘’I wrote a couple of things when you were away. I wasn’t sure if I’d let you see them, but now-‘’ he looks down at the papers in the bag and smiles to himself-‘’now I don’t have much of a choice, if I’m being honest. So here goes.’’

‘’I’m not sure when I’d see you again. But when I do, I hope I’m bold enough to let the first hug linger longer than comfortable. I hope I’m bold enough to not care where we are. Or whom we’re with. I hope I have the courage to sniff you without shame and whisper an equal dose of a shameless, ‘gods… you smell so good’. I hope I’m bold enough to watch your laugh travel up your carotid artery from the crook of your neck.

And when the hug eventually breaks apart, I hope I have the balls to look you in the eye and maintain that contact. I hope I’m confident enough to tear my lips into a grin, one that is nothing short of genuine. One that you can mirror.

Edem, I hope when I see you again, you can tell how much your return has inflated life back into me.’’

He looks up at the door. Nothing has changed, but he knows she listened.

He knows that at least.

‘’I missed you, Edem. Everyday you were away, I counted. I did everything to remind myself that it was temporary. That eventually, you’d come back to the island. Come back to me. Even when the storm ruined our phone lines and I couldn’t reach you, I still held on to the hope that you’d be thinking about me as I was you. I suck, I know. I suck at speaking and expressing myself, that’s true. But I don’t think I could ever find the right words if it came to explaining just how much you mean to me. Nothing measures up. And it…it frustrates me. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and an ache in my chest that I can’t properly articulate how much I care about you.’’

The door opens then. Edem stands over him. He looks up at her, unable to read her expression. Then slowly, she sits on the ground, leaning against the trapdoor to keep it open.

Scraps of a weak sunset pour on into the space between them.

She looks down at the brown paper bag on his knees now.

‘’Do you want me to go on?’’

She gives him a look and he chuckles, nodding to himself. He clears his throat and continues.

And in the descent of day to night—with a good number of written confessions—Edem’s forgiveness was earned, the weight of their relationship slowly returning.

Their swords met with a clang that shrieked of death. It was a thirsty sound—one that demanded the slit of parted flesh and the compulsion of blood.  Orion gritted his teeth and pushed against Vi, but the latter did not relent.

‘’You look like you actually want to kill me,’’ Vi said, his grip tightening on the hilt of his blade.

‘’And if I am?’’ Orion retorted, voice sharp.  He pushed against Vi, but his best friend’s stance was immovable—he was one with the ground and unless he tried a different approach, Orion was not going to win this duel.

‘’If you are, I would advise you to rethink that. You could never kill me, in my sleep, in stupor, even with my mind fucked by the call of a bottle. You do not stand a chance against me,’’ Vi sneered.  Orion snatched his blade back and screamed, bringing it back down at Vi, but Vi dodged, twirling his blade to nick Orion’s arm. The shame of his blunder stung more than the actual lesion brought on from it.  Vi, smiling at his handiwork side stepped a lazy swing from Orion.

‘’You should try harder, Ori,’’ he teased.  ‘’Surely, you intend to kill me with much more than what you’ve shown?’’

Orion rotated his shoulders, tilted his neck and gripped his sword tighter. He took an immovable stance, one much like Vi’s.

‘’Are you going to come at me or are you going to run your mouth like a bitch?’’

‘’If you insist,’’ Vi responded, chuckling to himself before splitting the ground with sheer force of will, propelling himself, his blade, the finger of death homing on Orion’s chest.

I feel bloated—filled with so much yet having no way to churn it out.

I call this phase, ‘’the valley of despair’’, because truthfully, I’ve been swallowed by it’s maw. My anxiety has become crippling, it bucks my knees, sweeps my feet from under me and smothers any attempt I make to be productive; to soldier through my feelings and get what needs to be done done.

I’m not totally helpless, though. And I think therein lies the problem. For a man can lie to himself of having motion, so long as his two feet are moving. Even and especially when they move where he no suppose dey go.

I am in new territory. I am dabbling in things that I have dreamt of—things that in reality, hold more weight and are more menacing up close.

I stare into the darkness surrounded by rows of jagged teeth that promise more stress and agony and new ways of altering my brain chemistry and I can do nothing but let it ravage me because I asked for it.

I called it forth. Said yes. I did this.

I deserve it.

I coaxed the storm and I realized it can’t be tamed or tricked into a bottle.

It must be weathered.

I am cold. I shiver at the work yet to be done and what lies in the carcass of what has already been achieved. Even there, new life sprouts; viridescent, promising.

I am learning. I am unlearning. I am relearning.

And what an arduous task it is!

I haven’t written anything substantial in a minute because the last big thing I wrote yearns for all my attention and I have no choice but to give it what it demands.

How can I birth a baby in this cruel, cold world and deny it the nutrition it needs to be bolstered and fit to take on what comes its way?

I am in the valley of despair, but my hands have yet to fail me, it seems.

My legs keep buckling, but my arms stay true.

So I should be able to eventually climb. Once I remember that valleys are nothing more than troughs that show reverence to a mountain.

To the top.

And soon, I shall climb out of it.

Fear my return.

All roads lead to her eyes and how the world could slip into oblivion without her looking away, so long as my voice cut through the gale of the day.
All roads lead to the curve of her right wrist whenever I said something unhinged; either to smother a laugh or to swat me for the outburst.

Or both.

All roads have led to her, her existence, the shape of her smile, the grace of her attention. The dusk woven lullaby that coalesced in the sweet things she couldn’t help but tell me.

‘’I love you.’’

‘’It’s you.’’

‘’I miss you.’’

‘’You make me happy.’’

‘‘You have such a big head.’’

All roads lead to her patience with me. The softness and curiosity whenever I was offended by something she did.

The ease of an apology—sincere, penitent. Loving.

All roads lead to her because even when she was guilty of hurting me, she was equally guilty of bringing me back to life.

All roads lead to her love—the standard it set. For I have—and probably always will—searched high and low, looking for something, anything that emanates even a whiff of what we were.

What we could have been.

All roads lead to her devotion to the things that made me happy. How she would tell me what I needed to hear, not what I thought I wanted to hear.

All roads lead to her compliments, how rough and callous they were; how human they tasted.

She would never tell me I wrote like Shakespeare, no. She said most people who said that either didn’t know me or didn’t know literature.

She told me my writing had audacity. It wasn’t overly flowery.

All roads lead to her telling me Oscar Wilde, Kafka, Chinua Achebe and Bukowski would either love or respect me if they knew me.

All roads lead to the warmth that arrogated my innards at that statement.

All roads, resistant or otherwise, lead to what she evoked within me—desire so consuming it bordered unto the first three beats of what sacrilege looks like.

For with her, I finally understood the curvature of true praise.

Of devotion.

Of worship.

All roads lead to her impact on my life—for without her, I wouldn’t know what I didn’t want.

All roads lead to her, for without her, I wouldn’t know the first thing about what I need.

From Over Your Shoulder,
Roughly 90 degrees around your neck,
Your Person.
7^th June, 2026.

Hail Papa,
I write this to you a few hours before you turn 25.
The weather has a delicious bite to it, and I know you would love it.
You are currently ensconced in a duvet up to your belly typing in a gentle swallow of darkness in your room.
Your ceiling fan still rattles—holding your laughter, your confessions, the clacks of your keyboard and the myriad sniffles and silent tears you have shed within those four walls.

Papa, life is life.
It is a bittersweet thing now, with days that make you grin till your eyes are nothing more than sharp slits that dare anything to interrupt them, and those that feel kpanlogo-ing with death.
Your eyes haven’t gotten any better, but you joke about it that you’ve seen enough in this lifetime, so it doesn’t matter.
Your friends laugh at that comment, but they know there’s more than some grain of truth to it.

Papa, you are loved. At home and with your friends.
And you have come to realize that truly, the ritual sang in the heart of night, and the sternum of morning has different notes for everyone.

Love is in the way your mum grins whenever she sees you during the day. The gentle tap or random hugs she gives you. It’s in the ‘me piesie’, ‘bossu’, ‘Mr. Ohene-Agyekum’ and many other names she’s given you over the years. It’s in the many, ‘Are you home?’ when it’s past 11:pm and she hasn’t heard from you.

The ritual is sang in the way your dad casually asks ‘how are you’ when you go silent. ’How was your shoot?’, ’Did you sleep last night?’, ’Please make sure to come home early, the weather forecast promises heavy rainfall.’

It’s in the way you look over your shoulder when you walk with your sister every two minutes because she walks so damn slow and won’t look away from her phone as she does so.
Love comes in the ’even if na my last, you know it’s yours’ Khufu tells you when you’re short on cash and he catches a whiff of it.

It’s in Jeremiah’s hugs—the ones that travel from your back to harass your bum.
The ones you hate but have accepted just as you have the grin that arcs across his face before he makes yet another lewd comment.

It’s in the way Lois will go through great lengths to doll herself up just to record herself reading an excerpt of your work. Well, maybe that could be her narcissism at play.

The ritual’s note is felt in the way Kuuku always asks, ‘you dey cool bro?’ whenever he gets the chance, his eyes searching your face for something. For anything that may contradict the obvious ’yessir’ or ’oh yeah’ that would pour out your mouth.

It’s felt in the way Luedtke name drops you in the most weighted literature he writes. In the many ways he has shown up for you that you can’t talk about.

It’s in the way Koku always motivates you and has no doubt that we’re going to be good. Because where there is belief, there is love. You cannot love what you don’t believe in.

It’s in the way Dani calls you to ask, ’I saw this, do you want it?’. ‘Papa, this book is out. Do you want the hardcover?’

It’s in the vulnerable conversations with Beau that makes your lips tremble.

It’s in the ’I miss you’ Yorkz sends every two to three days and the hugs that follow whenever you two meet.

It’s in Amanda-Stacey’s random facetime calls that always make you grin because one way or another, a compliment you didn’t know you needed is going to find you. Even if the succeeding conversations are of her accusing you of behaving so much like Ryan Coogler and you outrightly denying it but secretly loving it. (Don’t tell her).

Love is in the way Rukia grabs your hand to cross the street because she feels the need to make sure you aren’t left behind—on the street and even in life.

It’s in the way Alexis is ready to go to war for you and won’t hesitate to tell you you’re fucking up and need to get your shit together.

It’s in the late-night drives with Mizzle Tizzle, Burna Boy’s ‘Pree Me’ blasting through the speakers, our voices a close second.

Hell, it’s even in the times you slip and reach out to people you have no business talking to anymore, realizing your blunder and deleting; its in the way they don’t say anything when they notice it.

The ritual sang in the heart of night, and sternum of morning is alive because all these people and more are alive and around you. And you are fine, in that regard.

Your writing is improving. You are considered when it comes to conversations of changing the narrative of African fiction and even literature, evidenced by the three and counting—I use that lightly because well, who go stop we?—literary publications as well as the handful of fans you have garnered over the years.

Your literature has learnt to bite. It has learned to cauterize. It has learnt to draw blood, and it has learnt to heal.
Your literature has made people shed tears. It has made people block you.
It has made people laugh, wince, blush and in some cases, has gotten you to taste heaven where women’s honor resides.

Your craft, I dare say, is the best thing that trauma could have unearthed from within your once brittle bones and weary soul.
As I speak to you, you’re neck-deep in so many projects, all promising. All worthy of the applause, recognition and dollar bills they will soon compel. Because, as we have said and keep saying, reality has no choice but to bend to our will when it’s time.

And it’s almost time. I feel it.

How?

It’s in the way you almost lost your mind during the first two months of this year.

It’s written in the curve of the many ways we fucked up last year and the ways we were fucked up last year. It’s in the hurt, the unsaid words, the relationships that had to fall from the waist-side to the foot-side because everything that was once dandy there is now sour, spoilt or sullied.

It’s in the respectful walking away, the realization that love doesn’t exempt one from harboring resentment.

It’s in the acceptance that we cannot be a nice man and be ourselves in this lifetime.
The two just cannot exist.

It’s in the settling for being a good man and the begrudging acknowledgement that we cannot control how people perceive us.

It’s in breath we blow out when we realize we had a hand in the woe that befell us.

It’s in the wince when the revelation of our hypocrisy catches the glint of a balmy morning.

Realizing that the world will fall to your knees soon, Papa, is borne from the fact that we stood and still stand at the town square, naked with our testicles out for all to see.

Our shadow has nothing to hide from us anymore.

As for what the future holds I can assure you there’s a lot of saints and scoundrels (hehe) you are yet to meet. But you have found yourself, even versions you never expected to meet. And albeit a series of unfortunate events may snipe at your heels, you will prevail.

Why?

Well, the answer is in your full name.

Papa, for the father. The one ahead. The leader.

Mmireku, which roughly translates to he who has something good to say; the bearer of good news.

Ohene-Agyekum, which translates to the King who accepts destiny.

You are the first of his name.

He who has something good to say.

The king who has accepted who he is.

So if you ever feel like doubting yourself, you can refer to evidence of why you deserve all the greatness coming your way.

Or if you want the short route—the one of least resistance, go to your name.

Happy birthday, Papa. I hope tomorrow is kind to you. Much kinder than you are to yourself.

Strength, always.

May you never spoil,
P.M. Ohene-Agyekum
(Birthday boy, Artist, King, Myth, Legend)

He finally does it.

He shivers in two parts excitement and something else—but he pays the latter no mind. He has done it.

He sends a message to the group chat, announcing his seat unto the ‘table of men’. They congratulate him with stickers, Gifs and memes. It’s all glory, all guts and all glamor.

Till one of them asks the question he has been dreading.

‘’Who was she?’’

The question releases alarm bells in his head.

Should he tell them? He promised not to. Even if he didn’t, it still doesn’t feel right telling them who she is. Stomach roiling and churning at the thought, he places his phone down to think. Weighs the pros and cons of telling.

Pro: they get more info and respect increases. They finally stop making fun of him.

Con: they know something she clearly doesn’t want out. And he promised. Breaking his promise to her would sting more than breaking her hymen did.

He weighs these options like how he weighed her breasts in his arms and as expected—he goes with the one that appeals to him more, gently placing the other one down to revisit later; he has never been good at multitasking anyways.

So, he types her name. Presses ‘send’. Turns his screen off.

A sigh escapes him, taking with it the first tear of his honor as a young man. He just doesn’t know it. And how could he? His innocence, just like the crown of his penis, was just pulled back a layer—the rest was yet to see the world.

Boys will be boys.

Months have crawled by, taking with them more of his innocence. He knows how to put a condom on in record time now. He can find the clitoris if he was retarded, drunk and tripping back blue on LSD and his fingers have deduced how to draw God Himself from her lips.

She loves him—she says it anytime she can, and when she can’t, it is evident in the ways she giggles when she sees him. How her inner child leaks in her impatient sways when she waits in front of her gate to embrace him. How her hands find him, even in slumber.

He loves her too—the weight of everything falls to the way-side whenever he is with her. And what better reprieve is there than the intermission that love brings to the scuffle that is a man’s life?

They know this. He knows this, but it’s never enough though.

Because where man creates, man also ruins.

Boys will be boys.

The bend-down effect slithers into the crevices of his relationship with her.

Girls who barely gave him the time of day begin to seek him out with fervor.

He complains casually to her, but when it’s with the boys, the fear is much more palpable. They smell it. They laugh at it—the strong odor, when such an opportunity has been presented to him.

‘’How many shades of stupid is he?’’ They ask.

Does he not see the opportunity so graciously placed on his warm laps?

He doesn’t understand—remember, the skin hasn’t peeled all the way. Most of his innocence remains.

They tell him things like, ‘he shouldn’t be dull and let these opportunities pass him by’, ’these girls are just for fun and he wouldn’t be hurting anyone’, ’it’s normal and what’s to say she isn’t doing same?’

He knows she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She loves him.

He almost says this, but he hesitates, because his naivete has a color and the boys know it. And when they see that shade, the blade of their laughter draws more than embarrassment.

‘’Isn’t this wrong?’’ he asks. They tell him not to look at life like that. Like it’s black and white—good and bad. Life is grey, and right now, the grey is in his favor. Best to make the most out of it while he still can.

He doesn’t yield then, no—his honor still has color, still has weight.

But like all things that don’t operate on faith, enough pressure eventually causes collapse.

The collapse shatters what he has with her. Hatred blooms within the cracks of what they used to be. And within the corrupted clefts, thorns that will draw blood weave around her heart, ready to prick and tear at anyone unlucky enough to cross her path.

She is scorned—and everyone with a penis must suffer for it.

Years have passed now and the foreskin of his penis has been peeled back a great deal of layers. The pink underneath has acknowledged air and the warmth of many a woman’s walls. His honor has taken a beaten; it is now a black and blue thing, not yet on its last legs, but dragging itself in that direction.

Where his honor falls short, his confidence redeems him. He has found himself—filled the hole within him. His naivete has disappeared, replaced by experience, by knowledge.

And with great power, they say, comes great responsibility.

There is a tilt in his universe—after losing her, he wasn’t allowed to grieve. No, they told him this wasn’t heartbreak hotel. He was free now—she was only going to hold him back. Now, he could do what he damned well pleased. Fuck who he wanted. Fuck who he didn’t.

‘’Plenty fish dey sea.’’ One of them says this as they walk around campus one particular day. The sun beats down on them, but the coruscation of their teeth and the fire in their eyes in unmatched. They are gods of scorch.

He can only nod. He knows his friend has more experience. Knows better about these things. The women he has been with—the criteria of them holds enough weight to press his lips shut.

Stunning, stylish, sensual, sinful; everything heaven on earth ought to look and feel like. He has always admired the boys, his boys who were able to bag these girls. The two of them. They did it so effortlessly; charm, charisma, humor and unshaking confidence.

But you see, he wanted that too, even though he admired them. Even though he got his fair share of girls now—and although they were up to standard, he wanted more. He wanted the boys to look at him the way he looks at them.

And that’s where the admiration ferments into something caustic.

Envy.

And where there is envy—competition is bred.

Campus becomes a colosseum between them. All of them. The battle is silent—the slaughtering done covertly.

Looks that linger are jotted down in memory. No one is safe. The strategy is the same: plough through as many as you can and leave evidence of your kills. The mounds of carcasses will eventually confess the winner.

They do this so casually—without penitence. Their victims, the poor unsuspecting—and sometimes deserving, in their opinion—girls find themselves subconsciously falling prey to their whims and their games. Battle lines are drawn with smiles woven in faces, but the hint of sharpened teeth catches light still.

Humor barely hides the warning.

‘’Yɛne wo sere kwa.’’

He doesn’t notice the harm it’s causing their friendship. Four boys, inseparable since he can remember are now walking a thin line. All because of what? He doesn’t know. But the skin understands—the one that has been peeled back. The one that knows that there is a hierarchy of things in every system. Even in friendships.

Especially in male friendships.

And before the pyramid is formed, bones must bend.

Egos must die.

Suddenly, ‘’where you dey go?’’ that was formerly responded with detailed accounts of one’s journeys are responded to with, ‘’I dey come.’’ Furtive glances are awarded those in proximity to the ones openly using their phones. Instagram followings are combed through to make sure the others aren’t on the chase.

It’s all a game.

Boys will be boys.

Just like all battles and all wars, it reaches a crescendo. Casualties spring up—deaths unravel. Grief leaks. Regret weighs. But due to either sheer dumb luck, the fates or a weird amalgamation of both, they crest the hill laden with bodies and still remain together. Stronger in blood. More stupid in loyalty.

The skin of his flesh has been peeled back so much that the pink-innocence has conceded into a smarting of brown. He expresses his worry to the boys and they tell him it is meant to be so. He thinks it decay.

‘’It is not decay. Skin must die before it can strengthen.’’

So he trudges on, with the boys. Because they know best. Because they are stronger now. Having been through all they went through. Even though it matters not that they are the authors of the chaos that lies behind them. The broken bones and broken souls that time may never finish repairing. The lights they snatched without care, without knowledge. The love they forgot to acknowledge.

It all rots behind them. And where there is rot, Karma presents herself.

She comes for one of them, wearing the skin of someone they want. Someone who tugs at more than their loins. He doesn’t know what to do with that. He has never felt more than below his waist. Everything above has been dormant—dead to the world.

Slowly, he confesses to the others, hoping for insight.

They confirm what he already suspects. It boggles him further.

‘’I no know what I dey see in am. She no even bad like that.’’ He sighs, deep in rumination. The others all look at this their boy in amusement. The irony is so thick, it borders on cloying.

He who still decays asks He who now feels what he intends to do. The latter shrugs. The former asks him to pursue it, whatever it is. It could promise something beautiful.

Or something worthwhile, chaotic or otherwise, the others muse.

So He who now feels heeds them. He lets her in. He feels. Above his groin and within the cage of his sternum, his heart then finds something else to do aside pumping blood. Time caves in on itself and within the premature abyss, He who now feels hears the first whispering of Karma.

‘’She doesn’t want to go all the way.’’ The statement cuts through the balm of a particular afternoon, sending something across the cheeks of all the boys.

There isn’t surprise. But there’s something that connects all of them, something heavy enough to crease their brows.

‘’Does she even love you if she doesn’t want to fuck?’’ He who decays asks. The silence is all the response he needs. They don’t believe it’s love anymore. Love, to them is succumbing. It is wanting to traverse the full route. It matters not what you are, who you do. Love requires pleasure. They go hand in hand.

They ask He who now feels what he would do. He tells them he would change her mind. He believes she needs some convincing. And once she is, everything would be as it should be.

Karma, lurking within a corner in the room can’t help but chuckle. She agrees.

Karma unfurls at a house party.

You know the type. The one where the four corners of every room are choked with the devil’s lettuce, where sweat is the order of the day and alcohol is religion. Where tongues have learnt to dive down into orifices they have no business being.

The boys thrive in this habitat—adept at fucking and fucking up.

He who now feels has plans of doing the former in such a way that it doesn’t compel the latter. He convinces her to join them. She obliges after much convincing.

She arrives early—too early. But He’s there for her. He makes her comfortable. Turns her no’s to yes when it comes to alcohol.

‘’It’ll make tonight more enjoyable,’’ he tells her. She obliges once again.

She obliges some more and before she and fate realize, they’re in a room. Alone. The thump of music, nothing but an echo behind the door.

He who now feels is right; the alcohol makes her loosen up. But not to the point of losing sensibilities. But he, unfortunately for all of them, seems to have lost his.

Her ‘no’s’ are ignored. Her ‘waits’ are smothered. The conviction in her pleas are stolen with kisses that make her insides wither. Her screams don’t make it past the door. They are barely registered in his ears.

It happens so fast and ends even faster.

He who now feels watches her, how her eyes are glassy. How, save for her chest moving, she resembles a statue. How she flinches, her eyes sealing shut the moment he reaches for her; the act of not wanting to see him making him see what he has done.

What he has become.

He leaves her in the room, not looking back because he has realized he left her long before they entered these four walls.

‘’How ego?’’ they ask him when he meets them. His eyes are unfocused—he is sober.

Somehow, they know it didn’t go according to plan. It doesn’t help that she walks out, honing for the door, ignoring every and all who try to talk to her.

‘’How ego?’’ they ask again on the ride home. The night is mature now, ripe for confession.

He tells them. Explains how he didn’t mean for it to happen like that.

‘’I no know what do me. I no even reck what I dey do till we finish.’’ He who decays notes how he ends with ‘we’ even though he began with ‘I’. But he keeps mute; he cannot judge him.

He’s his boy. They make mistakes. It probably wasn’t that bad. Maybe the alcohol blew things out of perspective. Made it worse than it actually was.

The others console him. Reproach her.

‘’If she no want fuck, why she come the party sef?’’

‘’Which mixed signals be that one too? Tsw.’’

‘’Guy, she no try. Why she enter room with you. I no fit reason am.’’

The night is silent, but the thoughts being voiced are loud. Splintering.

He who decays notes how claustrophobic the car has become, but he keeps mute.

He is his boy.

His skin crawls but he ignores it.

He is his boy.

He is his boy

He is his boy

He. Is. His. Boy.

Time crawls some more and within its trail, karma still plagues the boys. She does it softly, leaving no evidence of her actions—no tell-tale signs that this is divine intervention or retribution. To them, it is just a string of situations that one must go through when they love those they love.

But you see, sin swept under the rug doesn’t hide its teeth from the world. The darkness sharpens its edges; makes it pine more for the light. For the damage it can do in the light. The boys don’t know that because even though their honor is on its last legs, their ignorance is still bloated and bright.

He who now feels has become something else—something that ignores the bells in his head. Once the weight of that night has been stripped and the flesh of the act and the power within it has been laid bare, he indulges some more.

He calls his crime many names. Names the internet has provided him with.

CNC. Rough sex. Rape Kink. Role Playing.

The other boys accept it because the internet says it exists. Says it’s normal.

They even wonder if they are also like that, but fortunately for us and them, fear does them a great service by keeping their what-ifs in check.

But He who now feels plummets wholly.

And when he does finally emerge from the murky waters, he has made his abode, he brings the stench of trouble with him.

The rumors earn flesh and bone and palpability. The truth weaves its way out of open maws, permeating the four corners of the university, hospitals and finally, police stations.

The boys are all called forward. Different parents all wearing the same type of rage and loathe on their faces. Splotchy, bloody. Murderous.

They are grilled—asked to come clean about their friend’s behavior. Interrogated on how often it takes place. If they are in the know. If they enable him.

‘’He is not like that.’’

‘’It’s all lies, propaganda because of his father.’’

They say it so much—with so much conviction that unfortunately, they all begin to believe it. And someway somehow, the others do too, because Karma, for all her worth, doesn’t hold enough sway over the weight of a bundle of cedi notes.

Not in Ghana, certainly not in Accra.

He is free, but the others are caged now. They have picked a side—torn the remaining flesh that protects their honor and now, the rot of living has noticed it.

And after noticing comes devouring.

But these boys don’t know that; they have forgone honor but still possess ignorance.

And Karma, ever patient, ever vengeful, still casts her shadow over them.

Through paths that meander and those ridden with thorns

Through forges littered with skulls and war fronts that make blood boil

The code strikes true, the code strikes through

Boys, at their core, will be boys.

Boys, at their core, will be boys.

‘’I may not be where I want to be, but I know 10-year-old me would think I’m so cool.’’

Would he though?

I think 10-year-old me would watch me in silence—his eyes betraying what is caged behind his teeth. The worry. The pity. The mounds of ‘’are you okays’’ and ‘’what’s wrongs’’ would be insurmountable.

10-year-old me wouldn’t find me cool. He would find me delicate. He would hesitate to hug me, because all the cracks webbing across my body tells him something about what time and life can do to flesh. And he worries that the weight of his sympathy would shatter me.

So, he would stand beside me, his words caged, his eyes flooded with everything, but saying nothing, because his very breath, his very concern may be what becomes my undoing.

10-year-old me wouldn’t find the fact that I’ve finally gotten over my shyness when it comes to girls a great feat. He would wonder where it got me.

In between thighs, but never where it matters most—within the parts of wholesome smiles and the rupture of sweet mirth.

He wouldn’t be in awe of how adroit I am at melding lips with attractive girls who smell like freedom, peace and everything that resides in between. He would be concerned as to why it is so damn difficult for those same lips to tell those who matter the most that I love them.

That I need them.

That I’m sorry.

That I forgive them.

10-year-old me would not really give a fuck that I can pair clothes in such a way that makes me look stylish. Instead, he would tilt his head to the side and wonder why there’s a galaxy sized chasm of loneliness that engulfs me whenever I shrug off those same clothes in the darkness of my bedroom.

10- year-old me would not bat an eye at how good I’ve gotten at not stammering or tripping over my wording if those words do not calm my mother’s nervous system, scab over the wounds living undoubtedly inflicts on my sister and acknowledge the weight of the woe it is being a man when it comes to my father.

10-year-old me would not be too proud of how good my fingers, tongue and manhood can make a girl call God. He would be ashamed that those are the only times that God is mentioned behind closed doors in my bedroom.

10-year-old me would not find me cool. He would pity me.

He would pity the confidence, the bravado. The arrogance I adorn that catches the glint in everyone’s eyes—because they remind him of punches to the gut, laughter unceasing and of names that would embalm his self-esteem till time withers and rots their potency.

He would shy away from the silver of my tongue; how sharp it has become. Even though it protects, it has become a blade that pines for blood than it does boundaries.

He would crinkle his nose in unease at the motivations behind my desire to be great. Not all heroic or mature.

Not all of them deserving the spotlight of what I reap.

10-year-old me would weep if he knew that the light in my eyes may never ever see another sunrise.

He may be proud of the path I’m treading.

The feats I’ve achieved and am yet to achieve with the craft. But I fear he would wince at what I had to give—what I had to lose to get here.

He would wince at the scars, the ones that burrow beyond bone and marrow and those that have punctured the bubble of our soul.

He would know I have died, but my flesh is yet to break the news.

10-year-old me would be impressed by what my passion has brought, but he would not be able to overlook what it has taken. And I fear, he may reconsider growing old so soon.

For all that awaits him is numbness—the same one that currently spills over his fingertips.

10-year-old me would not find me cool. On the contrary, I reckon he would worry about me.

Or not.

I guess time will tell…

‘’What is this I see in your eyes?’’ Marco whispers, leaning down so he is eye-to-eye with Polo. ‘’Fear?’’

He tosses Polo away like a bad memory. Paces. He points, finger trembling, mouth foaming with rage—white and frothy.

‘’What the fuck do you know about fear?’’ He shuffles forward, awarding Polo’s sternum a kick. Polo grunts and that motivates Marco to award him another. And another. And another. And another.

‘’What do you know about fear, Polo?’’ Marco exclaims—stupefied.

‘’I know fear,’’ Polo whispers.

Marco snorts. Then chuckles. Then succumbs to strings of hysterics.

‘’You don’t know jack about shit, Polo.’’

‘’What do you know about it? What is fear to you? Was it that coil of nerves when you were worried you’d get a disappointing look from your ma and pa when you turned in a bad report slip?’’ Marco shakes his head. ‘’Is that fear to you?’’

Polo looks up at him, his face an expanse of anguish—red, radiating.

‘’Let me tell you fear. Fear is hiding behind the fridge, your palm covering your mouth as your mother gets beat down by your bum of a father. Fear is picking what remains of her in the bathroom corridor, not knowing if she’s unconscious or dead. Fear, is standing at the bus stop alone at night, your monthly stipend burning a hole in your backpack not knowing if today is the day they finally jump you and take it all. Fear-‘’ he leans down, grabbing Polo by the scruff of his shirt-‘’is hearing your mother whisper a thousand ‘Nyame kyer3 wo tumi’ right after receiving another bill and eviction notice in the span of half an hour.’’

He shoves Polo away and punches the wall. Whips around, knuckles raw.

‘’Fear is standing in front of the mirror with the expectations of an entire household on your fucking back, wondering how long its going to take before they realize you weren’t built for greatness—but just to get by. Fear, motherfucker, is all I’ve known. It’s staking out the house you’ve been evicted from and tossing what remains of your belongings over the wall. Fear is robbing yourself!’’

Tears stream down Marco’s face now. He can’t help them. He doesn’t help them.

Polo watches, petrified at his best friend—or what he has become now.

‘’I have found that when you go through all these things, and you come out on top, the mere concept of fear becomes foreign to you. After all, what’s more to fear? Death? I have died more than I have lived. Disappointment? Everyone I loved, I have hurt or lost. Loneliness? What? Pain?’’ Marco scoffs. Widens his arms.

‘’Pain is what reminds me I’m alive.’’

Lightning tears through the night then, rivulets of rain snaking down the windowpane reflect on half of Marco’s face—like maggots. Like rot.

Marco saunters forward, a bright smile on his face—mucus running down his nostrils. ‘’And tonight, you, my dear friend, are going to know just how much pain and fear you can endure.’’

You are, I am. Everyone is a hypocrite.

Sit with it, let the accusation lose its weight, let the insulting nature of it become digestible for your ego. Don’t fight it too much—you may waste precious time and energy needed to understand why I say so.

Or you may need that same energy to stop reading.

Your choice—your cup of tea.

Your poison.

We are all hypocrites, choosing what we tolerate for a variety of reasons.
Love, lust, people pleasing tendencies, hatred, rage, reverence, religion, whatever you want to call it, pick your poison.

Now comes the hard part—the drinking.

The acknowledgment.

Have you shed your ego? Are you ready to listen?

Do you know where I am going with this?

You don’t know me. I don’t know you.

But by the end of this, you and I may get to know me a bit more than we did before. And I hope you catch a glimpse of yourself here too.

I am a hypocrite.

I hate being lied to. I don’t see the logic behind choosing falsity when you can be honest from the get-go. Especially when there is no need to spread glamor over certain truths and realities. I detest falsities but I have found myself—more times than I’d like to admit—telling a lie or three.

I reckon you have too, but this is about me, so I’ll leave you be.

I am a hypocrite. I lie and lie to myself some more with justifications for my lies.

It was necessary.

The truth would have made matters worse.

I didn’t want to get into it.

I did what was best for both of us.

I didn’t want to lose them.

I don’t want them to see me in a different light.

I justify, cushion, gloss over and stretch taut realities till there are tears I can tip-toe out of. Out of convenience. Out of selfishness. Out of fear.

Out of hypocrisy.

I am a hypocrite.

I dislike revenge, but I have found myself pandering to the act when it suits me or when it provides some warmth or a stroke to my ego. My tongue, a double-edged scimitar deludes itself into believing it is returning a favor, but at the core of it all, it just validates the weight of my reality; I am a hypocrite.

I have fallen prey to hypocrisy at one point and every time I bend to its will, logic, a velvet curtain obscuring the implications, blankets me, coaxing and cooing me to submission.

What you did was for the best.

You did nothing wrong; you were just saving yourself.

They deserved that.

These, in their own ways, may be true, but when you stare down at where the cheese binds, are these reasonings sound enough?

Is the gain worth the chipping of my integrity?

Is the profit worth the corruption of my soul?

I am a hypocrite.

I have criticized things and judged behaviors that I never saw myself indulging in, only to be presented tickets to front row seats—only to find myself doing the things I swore I would never do.

Some would say to forgive myself for what only experience could teach me.

I say, if I wasn’t ever in that position, I have no right to give my two cents.

And personally, that makes me a hypocrite.

I preach against anger—against letting the strike of cyanide stagger out of your control, yet when rage colors my vision, I don’t fight it.

They deserve it.

This would make them not joke with me anymore.

They get away with so much.

I am tired of being the bigger person.

Preaching—but not practicing.

Hypocrisy.

I tell people to choose themselves, especially when it comes to those who take them for granted, but I have yearned for someone who did not and still does not know what to do with me.

I am a hypocrite.

You are a hypocrite.

Hell, we are all hypocrites.

Wrong is wrong, but in the right circumstances, under the right amount of pressure and lubrication, we all, at some point, yield to that which we preach against.

Because it’s easy to run our mouths when we aren’t the one battling the sin at the moment. It is easy to point flaws and chinks in people’s decisions when we aren’t the ones dealing with the chaos they scuffle against.

It is easy to teach someone how to swim, when you are not the one drowning.

I don’t have a solution for those still reading.

If your ego has allowed you to see me—and hopefully, see you—and you wonder if there’s a solution, a point to all I’m going on about, I regret to inform you I have no answers.

Not at the moment, at least.

I do know that they say a problem realized is one half-solved.

So, I’m sticking with that, whatever it means.

Sike…

You thought we were both going to get off easily, huh?

Sorry to disappoint you.

I have drunk my poison, and it has settled in my belly. It waits for an antidote, lest it huffs and puffs, blows and corrodes.

So, without further delay, kindly find below, the three dosed antidote for you, if you happen to be a hypocrite like me.

DOSAGE 1: SLOW & STEADY WINS THE RACE. SPEECH IS A MIRROR, WATCH WHAT IT SAYS.

Socrates, in one of his many speeches that have shaped the hearts and actions of those who believe in his school of thought always recommended the art of slowing down before responding and speaking. Why? Because it gives you a chance to filter out and transmute what you should say from what you want to say. Three seconds is a very powerful filter.

That principle, applied in the fight against our innate hypocrisy goes a long way in dealing it its first true and fatal blow. The silence coalesced within three seconds is heavy. Excluding one’s heartbeat and the background noise, one’s thoughts ring louder. Within three seconds, the glamor of judgement can be lifted, just a smidge, for you to see bits of yourself trapped within the confessions of the speaker.

And what better way is there to kill your demon than to know its name?

In three or more seconds spent pausing and assessing, one can jilt judgement, embrace empathy and sometimes receive revelations.

DOSAGE 2: QUESTION & MENTION—WITHIN THAT MAY A LESSON START LEARNING.

Usually—uncomfortably so, for that matter—what you judge harshly in others is something you recognize in yourself. Sometimes, the shape of one’s sin looks just like the one you commit, they just have enough gall or shamelessness to commit it in public. Questioning why you find yourself so incensed and judgmental of what they do is more often than not because you do it or see yourself doing it.
Time and luck have just been favorable to you.

Asking yourself, ‘’Where am I doing something similar?’’ cleaves the illusion of being above the errors of those who just happen to be in the limelight with their flaws and habits.

Questioning, mentioning and acknowledging why you judge people will go a long way in realizing where you err in secret and what your demon looks like in public, when it terrorizes someone else.

DOSAGE 3: TO OWN IS DIVINE, TO OWN OPENLY IS THE DESIGN.

Admit your demons. Do not hide them. Do not let the glamour settle and gain confidence and control over you. When its influence affects those around you, admit they exist and take the road of penitence—apologize and express intentions of doing better and improving, so as not to return to this lowly road with nothing to show for save for a sheepish smile with teeth smelling of sulfur and chipped with brimstone.

NB:

These dosages will go a long way in curbing the demons, but they don’t extirpate them. As your resident exorcist and recovering hypocrite, I would like to tell you that you will slip, from time to time. You will contradict yourself.

Why?

Because you are cursed with the burden of being a human enduring this scuffle we call living.

What separates you from the others is what you choose to do after you slip.

Will you succumb to the allure of conceding to the demons, or will you arm yourself with the trinity of doses once again?

She says it with finality. Almost like her breath, pushing those words out her mouth is the final sealant to transform them into the gospel truth and nothing else.

My mother has taken it upon herself to always remind me of the stamp, of the truth that whatever I have brought into this world, either in chaos, in pain, in tranquility or even in boredom has been made, authentically and faithfully, by yours truly.

I’ve found myself ruminating on that phrase off late.

‘’By yours truly.’’

So simple, but oh so layered.

Every patch of skin housing the syllables of that phrase reminding me that in some way, at some point, I played god.

And what I created was the farthest thing from shabby.

Because I felt a sense of pride—albeit short-lived—once it cooled from the forge it came from; my soul.

I have been creating for close to eight years consistently.

And in those eight years, I have learnt a lot about myself than I probably would’ve learnt anywhere.

Gratitude to the ability of yours truly, I have learnt, for example, that I was born for this. Or I was made for this.

That sounds better. Because the human condition, or at least, the one I was privy to growing up, broke, bent and bludgeoned my will and devotion into something that could house the fervidness that comes with creating.

Of knowing that what you bring to the mortal plane is often bigger than you are.

Bigger than you could ever be.

I have learnt that I’m at my happiest when I’m creating. My hands move with surety—precision, twin scythes tearing into the fabric of reality and drawing in the ichor of the unreal.

The arc of my smile is wide, casting any shadow of anxiety from the farthest reaches of this art of wrestling we call life.

When I create, I am invincible. I am doubtless. I am audacious—clutching the hem of the Lord’s garment so much so that He gives me a once over, a blinding-bronze smile woven into His face.

I have learnt that pain is temporary to me in those moments of being a conduit to the beyond. Everything becomes secondary, save for breathing.

Pain is a whisper, hunger is a dried carcass, and exhaustion is a friend I will meet once the day winds down into the swallow of its conclusion.

When I create, inwardly, I am fulfilling my promise to my family. That I would be a doctor—a healer. Because when I create, I heal. Even if sometimes, the person I heal is yours truly.

I forgive myself for things only time and experience could teach.

And I remind those around me that loneliness is nothing but a mirage in an arid and destitute desert. It feels tangible, till you glimpse a story, a sentence, a phrase, a pose, or a scene that is shaped just like the turmoil you are currently inhabiting.

Whenever yours truly commands something into existence, I feel closer to the membrane of my purpose. I don’t touch it, but the doing that wants to be done does a wee bit more.

Within the blessing and curse of creation, catharsis takes place. Old and toxic feelings that have festered to the point of being cancerous are evicted, leaving me feeling hollow, but willing to live a bit more.

When I create, I no longer feel dead.

When I create, I no longer feel numb.

When I create, I feel.

Whenever a concept in my head is given flesh and bones, I am reminded that my mother gets to go a while longer with her son.

He told me the symbol meant endurance.

I asked him why he chose that symbol particularly for me.

‘’Wetin you no see before?’’ he responded, like that was the most obvious answer.

I chuckled, knowing he was far from wrong.

True true, wetin I no see before?

Mind you, this is not in any way an attempt to glorify the sheen of misfortune that has covered my flesh for a time. It is simply an acknowledgement of its presence.

Of it being a part of me.

I have endured a lot. Those around me know—from my parents, friends, even lovers. They know and sometimes, they understand. But you see, the downside of an endurer, the con of being someone who persists through whatever cards dealt you is the fact that people rarely worry about you.

You confide in your closest friends and loved ones about the most soul-crushing things and they’d sigh, pat you on the back and tell you you will be fine.

At first, I reckoned it was because we all had things we were going through. People drowning can’t exactly find the time to urge you on to keep your head afloat.
But one moment in particular made me rethink my assumption.

It began with a card dealt me that quite honestly, broke my very existence. I was lost—in who I was and who I always wanted to be. I felt hollow, numb; a shapeless shadow plastered against the surface of the earth.

A smudge waiting to be covered by the sands of time.

I confided in one of my friends, told them how I was feeling, or in that case, how I was not feeling.

‘’Take it easy, my bro. You go dey alright,’’ they said.

‘’Remember who you are. What you’ve gone through. No worry cos me sef no dey worry about you. You always pick yourself up.’’

I remember nodding, feeling very inspired. It was good to have people who had the utmost belief that you could defy all the odds hurtling your way and make it out bloody and bruised, but not too worse for wear.

But as time went on, a question nudged in the far reaches of my mind; a voice that was three times whisper, three times wind; ‘’what if the next predicament is the one that strikes true?’’

That question terrified me. It unearthed a picture of loneliness so vivid, of a death submerged in soot-blackened solitude so much so that it smothered till it was too late.

For truly truly, who was going to hear you cry when they weren’t really listening for it?
You would be fine. You always end up being fine. Why would this time be any different?

That realization still haunts me. I have found myself wondering every time one misfortune or the other lunges for me.

Will this be the one?

The straw that breaks my back?

I don’t think I am the only one who wonders about these things, because I am of the firm belief that a good number of you reading this have endured far more than you thought was possible for someone. Yet you stand—bloodied, bruised, torn, broken. But still standing, a smile ripping through the warpath that has become your face.

We have endured a lot, but that is not to mean that we should be above worry.

If anything, we deserve worry. Because our XP is at a critical low.

Our health bars are at the mercy of fate herself.

Our backs, harboring spines of primordial creatures have caved in, and even bones, no matter how durable they are, eventually succumb to impact.

Endurance is not invincibility. It is nothing more than extended tolerance.

But flesh is still flesh—hurt is still hurt. Just because we are acquainted with it does not mean the initial impact doesn’t rattle us to the crowns of our teeth or the core of our souls.

So, on behalf of all the endurers, we ask our loved ones to worry about us.

Worry a lot—for we know not when what meets us at the gate would be that which we have not seen before.

And to us endurers, continue to endure, nothing is truly permanent. But remember, time plus negligence does not equate healing—it results in infections, and some wounds require more than endurance to scab over. Speak up. Confide in those who deem you worthy of worrying about you.

Because at the end of the day, truly truly, Musah see a lot for gate ein front—but he never see everything.

So try dey worry about Musah.

You have been staring at the submission website for a few minutes now. The deadline is approaching—it crawls leisurely. There’s still time. Your work is ready; no longer scalding, but palatable enough for those who wish to consume the weight and taste of what you have to offer.

All requirements have been met.

So why do you find yourself feeling like maybe you should wait a few more days?

After all, the deadline isn’t till the end of next week. Surely you can wait a bit longer, probably go over one last time—show it to two more friends so they can give you their expert opinion.

And with that knowledge settling—a layer of oil on your resolve—you close the project.

Should you set a reminder just in case something happens and it slips your mind to submit?

No, no, you want this. Plus, you assure yourself, if it is meant to be yours, you’d remember even before time and submit.

You then let the wave of the day take you towards something else.

‘’Did you manage to submit to the magazine I sent?’’ they will ask.

‘’Hm, I forgot chale. Can you imagine?’’ you would respond, your eyes finding something more interesting to watch other than the mirth losing its luster in their eyes.

‘’Oh Papa, how did you forget? Didn’t you finish before time?’’

You would nod. ‘’Yes, I did. It just slipped my mind. You know how life has gotten.’’

You will look up then, casting a quick glance at them and true to your assumptions, the disappointment would have finished arresting their features, soiling the rest of the conversation and the rest of the day.

Why do I always do this? You would ask yourself.

All I had to do was submit the damn thing. It’s not bloody rocket science.

You would toss around these thoughts and questions in the rickety trotro on your way home, hope dampened. Then you would stare around you, seeing the different people going about their own lives and a deep detachment would fill you. Because you know this cannot be your life forever.

Things must change.

You must change.

But how? You would sigh then, turning to place your cheeks against the glass window of the car, the streetlights filtering through your glasses.

This can’t be my life.

What are you doing to change it though?

The question would cause you to snort. Have you not seen the work you’re doing? The hours you’ve been putting into it?

So what is holding you back?

Nothing. Nothing. You frown. It’s just the process of things—things have to get muddy before they become clear.

Is that all? Is that all there is to it?

What more could there be? You’re doing your best. I mean you’re afraid but…

Yes! There is fear and fear-

You would scoff. Roll your eyes for good measure.

Of course there is fear. Everybody is afraid of failing, of being rejected, of not getting it right the first time or after the first few hundred times.

It. Is. All. Part. Of. The. Process.

That’s all then? Fear of failure?

Well…yes. What more could there be? You want it bad—probably more than those who even have it. And fear has always been a primal accessory dangling around the neck of the human condition.

Everybody fears.

But what do you fear?

Failure. Rejection. Running out of time. Death. Losing yourself; pearls that dangle around the neck of  what it means to be human—catching light and spitting it back out in one fluid motion.

Is that all?

What more could there be?

Your stop will be mentioned and you’d inform those beside you that you would be alighting. They would shoot glares your way at the discomfort of moving, but you would pay them no mind because if they wanted comfort, they wouldn’t be huddled up in a trotro.

But, you think, you also want comfort. And there have been people before you who were in more frightening circumstances who overcame said fear and made it out on top.

You would begin walking into the swallow of night—your thoughts louder than your feet against the gravel.

So what fear reigns supreme within you?

You would stop. Frown. Look back, like the answer is an old friend you have forgotten about. But nothing would be waiting over your shoulder.

What fear then?

Rejection? No, you’ve been rejected so much so that your resolve has become used to it.

What of acceptance?

You laugh. That’s dumb—doesn’t even make sense.

Failure? Not really—failure is just learning from experience.

What about success?

You would stop again, but this time from the sheer absurdity of the path your thoughts are taking you towards.

Fear of failure makes sense, but fear of success? What does that even look like?

‘’What does that even look like?’’ you would ask yourself. A car’s horn would jar you from your thoughts and have you shuffling towards home.

The shower would be cold, but the droplets snaking down your back will be warm—having travelled through the tangle of hair on your head. You would close your eyes, slow music thumping through your waterproof earphones. You’ve promised your folks to stop listening to music in the bath, but tonight is an exception.

Tonight, your head needs rest from your thoughts.

Loud and demanding—they smother the music, reigning at the forefront of your mind.

You would sigh, pausing the song to entertain them once again.

‘’What does fear of success look like?’’ you would ask yourself for the third time.

That tears open the charm.

It looks like procrastination. It looks like the delay in submitting the story to the literary journal. It looks very much like that, ‘one more revision’ you told yourself a few days ago even though you knew deep down that story needed no more attention. It was all it could be.

You would shake your head. A bitter laugh would claw out of your throat.

No way, that was not procrastination. You can’t help it if you want your works to be perfect—even if not to the standard of acceptance, then to the standard of begrudging respect from the judges.

But these reasonings would not thunk with that clarity like they used to. Something would be missing—your hope in them. Your faith.

You would realize that maybe, just maybe these thoughts weren’t rubbish. Maybe…

Think about it.  How many times have you conveniently delayed submitting to these magazines knowing very well that the works were as ready as they could be? How many times have you recited, ‘its not ready yet’ to yourself regarding anything at all you set your mind to creating?

How many times have you prepared for something without actually doing it?

Those concepts in your notes app. Those plans you keep ‘preparing’ for but never execute?

No, you would shake your head. Those ones needed research. They needed time! They needed…

They needed action. You know it. You’ve known it.

You’ve known it; from all the missed deadlines. You’ve known it in every ‘if its mine, it’ll come to me’ that you’ve told yourself whenever you remember to set a reminder to do something.

This fear of success has been in every hesitation—every illusion of patience. It has been in those moments where you know you should keep on, but you assure yourself you need rest.

‘’But it’s best to pick a day and rest, so your body doesn’t pick it for you,’’ you would say to the walls of the bathroom. Your voice would barely echo; it would be light, cracked. Weak.

You would turn the shower off then, leaning against the tiled walls. Wiping your face with the back of your hand, you’d blow out a breath.

How long has this been happening?

Long enough.

Those hours spent learning—revising, editing drafts. Those nights reading courses and learning techniques but never executing anything with them. It has been there, egging you on, a glint in its eye, malice in its teeth.

Its been there in every decision to stall posting that work you know someone deserves to consume.

Why?

Its been there in those lies you tell yourself that you should hold on with submitting to the big magazines and writing prizes because its best to start small. Start small? Which great person in the history of history started small?

Why?

Its been there in those opportunities you overlook. The ones that you know damn well you can achieve but for some reason or another, decline.

Why??

It’s been there in all those worries that plague you; ‘what if they only like this style? These kinds of pieces? Would I be able to replicate them?’

‘’Why?!’’ you would scream into the shower. The outburst would take almost everything from you. Unsteady and shivering not from cold, but from cresting the peak of a daunting truth, you would sit on the bare floor of the bath, eyes closed.

Why? Because you are afraid of success, Papa. You are frightened by the prospect of it actually working out.

You would shake your head. That is some bullshit. Success is what you want. It is what you need.

That doesn’t mean you can’t fear it. Or fear what it would bring…

What would it bring? Money? Freedom? Ease? Peace of mind?

Yes, yes, yes and yes. But it would bring other things. And these things frighten you.

It would bring change. You don’t like that. But success comes with change—they are sewn at the hip like morn and dew. Your life will change because of it and you will change because of it.

Success will come with responsibility. Standards. Rifts. It will come with more expectations than you can imagine. Depth. Consistency. Greatness. And the thought of disappointing everyone who believes in you is so terrifying that the coruscation of success has morphed into a thousand scalding suns in your mind.

You would swallow a huge lump—one made of bile and something else. Something new and foreign. A bitterness that nestles something within it; undeniable truth.

You would rock yourself back and forth, trembling, nauseous, angry, confused.

Awake.

Because you have looked into the maw of the abyss and seen your reflection. And you didn’t have the time to hesitate. Not like you have for the past few years—those times where you catch a glimpse of your potential. Those moments where the future unfurls itself in that phrase, that sentence, that concept and you quickly muddle it with excuses.

With fear.

And this fear has been with you since you could remember. Masking itself. Adopting faces of things that seem controllable. Things that can be rectified.

And you would feel helpless. Overwhelmed. Numb by and to it all. You would retch, in an attempt to regurgitate the realization out your system, but you know the weight of truth can never be evicted.

So you would sit with it, tentative, but tolerable, because you know that this has been a profound moment for you. Cresting this peak means something. You don’t know what yet, but fortunately for you, you have the rest of your life to figure that out.

You would rise then , turn on the shower and let the water droplets snake down your body, only this time, they won’t be warm, but cool against your skin—the tangle of thoughts tamed, the illusion of a thousand scalding suns extinguished.

I don’t miss you when its late at night
I don’t miss you when I achieve great feats with nothing but charm and might
I miss you when I have the sudden urge to pronounce a word in a comical light
I miss you when life gets too serious and I yearn for the warmth of your respite

I don’t miss you when I see couples holding hands
Neither do I miss you when I see them share a kiss
For those things were not what shaped our bliss
With us—what we shared was more humane than it was grand.

I don’t miss you when I’m lonely
I don’t miss you when I dream of you
I miss you in the lulls between emptiness and the crest of feeling
I miss you before I succumb to slumber, because I would rather succumb to the thought of you.

I don’t miss you when its late at night
I miss you during the day
Whenever I have to pause from the strain of growth
Whenever my mind has the chance to wander
Within that cavity that still holds the echo of your laugh
And the way my name would sound delicate on the tip of your tongue

I don’t miss you when I weep
I don’t miss you in grief
I miss you in the sways of trees
Because of the freedom they sing
And I miss you in every shade of green
Because they exist in every acreage that agrees with me

I don’t miss you when I think of greatness
I don’t miss you when I think of who I used to be
For my dear, I miss you fervently
When I remember I don’t want to be anything
Other than what I’ve been trying to be lately

There exist a great number of hindrances on the path to self-actualization. Some are loud; obstacles whose reputation precedes them. The ones that go bump in the night and boom in the day—the ones that come with thunder, pain and red-rimmed regret. Those are the most obvious—the ones that are much easier to evade, because they are audacious enough to make their presence known—daring you to make the blunder of attempting to face them down.

With those, if you’re careful and lucky enough, you may escape by the skin of your teeth, grazed and sore, but ultimately whole.

But within the obstacles we all face, there exist a kind, hidden in the shadows and mist; shod in silence and way more malicious. They come as friends and we embrace the idea of repose they wear on their flesh. They are soft, calculating—patient.

The worst kind of obstacle.

Today, I will be speaking about one of them.

Comfort.

The concept seems so harmless—so docile, like the first smile of morning after deep, dark night. But those are the kinds that are the most dangerous; problems we don’t see till they’ve matured, grown wings, sharp teeth and have infiltrated your systems and habits covertly.

Comfort, to me is the first tell-tale sign that along the road to your purpose, you decided to find repose on a flat and promising looking rock and before you knew it, so much time had passed. Time that could have been spent moving.

Time that could have been spent achieving.

Comfort is that tiny voice in your head that tells you to slow down—you still have ten hours more till the next day. It’s that soft coercion that you shouldn’t push yourself some more because after all, you still have those five friends who will always like your work, repost and give you the same monotonous remarks.

Comfort is a meretricious knockoff of stability.

It is that reminder that your parents are present for you to fall on, so when the WhatsApp dms keep flooding with messages along the lines of, ‘I think this job would be perfect for you’, ‘You should apply, the pay looks great’, ‘I saw this and thought of you.’ You find yourself acknowledging the intent behind the messages, but ignoring the urgency underneath it, because you’re still seated on that rock, the path ahead looking daunting.

Just a few more minutes.

Just a few more hours.

Just a few more days.

Just a few more years.

Comfort and procrastination may go hand in hand, but they are not the same. One is a subset of the other. The former, the ailment, the latter a symptom.

And though it pains me to say this, for a long period of my life, I have fallen prey to this malady and the stagnation it is made of.

And the realization, although necessary was so jarring I am still coming to terms with the weight of it.

Comfort, much to my dismay, has made me soft—pliant to my wants as opposed to my needs. It has made me relaxed—complacent. Malleable.

The hunger that once simmered within my belly for more and more of more is now barely a gurgle that has forgotten its former shape—the syllables of its potency have become diluted. Washed.

And God, that hurt me so much.

I have spent days beating myself to a pulp. Resenting. Regretting. Rinsing. Repeating.

How did I get here?

Idleness.

Too much free time on my hands for a while played a part in landing me here. Don’t get me wrong—I put in the work. But for a time, I was of a very strong conviction that being idle helped me tap into certain parts of my being that helped make creating and expression second nature.

Total and utter hogwash.

Idleness has done nothing but waste my time. Made me more susceptible to unnecessary endeavors. Entertaining things that shouldn’t even be in my proximity. The devil truly does find work for idle hands and man do I have a long way to go after paying my debts to him.

Why didn’t I realize?

I deluded myself to believe I was doing enough.

Comfortable—but not complacent. I had convinced myself that if I write as much as I think is enough, read and study enough, I have fulfilled my quota for the day. No extra risks, no midnight oil burning, no extra hours. To me, I would eventually reach my 10,000 hours with ‘consistency’.

Bald. Faced. Lies.

I was and am still not doing enough.

I was just comfortable with the progress or the idea of progress in my head. I had become so used to the routine that I didn’t consider upgrading or improving it—challenging myself seemed a rather unnecessary endeavor. For truly, wasn’t being an artist in a developing country already a challenge in itself?

How do I get out of it?

Discomfort.

By regulating my nerves to take on the hard things—the riskier ones. The ones that make my stomach churn, my fingers clammy and my heart jackrabbiting in my chest. Because to be honest, life in the absence of challenge is existence without memories. It is delayed agony. It is a slow, selfish death.

And I plan to live—to thrive in my discomfort, to rid myself of any remnants of comfort that linger within and without. Aggressively. Mercilessly.

Delving headfirst into the overwhelming; submerging myself within its turgid and turbulent waters. Scraping my knuckles against the skulls of that which scares me; that which makes my heart stutter.

Rising off the comfortable flat rock and not daring to look back; shuffling, limping, dragging my feet till stagnation and the seduction of comfort are nothing but sins I have forgiven myself for.

I pray we all prevail over this malady and the faux repose it promises.

An exhale is the strongest push for a, ‘’hallelujah’’ to spring forth from your mouth.

Not pain, not grief, not glee—just a simple, sometimes subconscious, exhale.

I have exhaled a lot, probably every day of this year. Some were out of exhaustion, some, in a bid to exile some of the frustration that was gurgling within my belly. Some, were the first sign that tears were about to make an appearance. Some, thankfully so, were right after a ridiculous amount of laughter was fading into the day.

This year taught me a lot.

I learnt, for example, that the day after tomorrow was ‘’overmorrow’’. Learnt that love, in its purest and strongest form, would never be enough.

I learnt the difference between ego and pride, also learnt that people applauded you for your propensity to stick to your boundaries till it affected the type of access they had to you.

I learnt that love was a ritual, sang in the heart of night, and the sternum of morning, and that its habit, was the most archaic form of bloodletting.

I learnt that a mustard seed was one of the littlest seeds on earth, and that it was perfectly okay and mandatory to make it a point to disappoint people, so long as you didn’t disappoint yourself in the end.

I learnt that, to overcome stage fright, one could look atop the heads of the audience, or zero in on someone familiar and maintain eye contact with that person as long as they could. I also learnt miscommunication and wrongful assumptions truly are the thieves of joy and civility.

I learnt that wherever there is a swamp, a crocodile was close by. I also learnt that people prone to victimization see their suffering as superior to others.

I learnt that too much watering can kill plants, and too much love can scare people away.

I learnt that fear of success was more potent than the fear of failure, and the final act of love was not to let go, but to let go with love.

I learnt that you can heal what you didn’t break, and break what was almost healed. I learnt that sorry was two tablespoons of a placebo for wounds that deserved more, and that mourning was about 60 pounds of grieving what could have been.

I learnt that people tend to forget the good you’ve done for them the moment they feel offended by you, and that anger was a strike of cyanide with more bite to the biter than the bitten.

I learnt that a match cut was different from a jump cut, and that the only way to greatness and total mastery was obsession, not discipline.

I also learnt that changing someone was impossible, and that the savior complex was a term for fools with no sense of self preservation.

I learnt that the line between love and hate was thinner than the eyes perceived, and that sacrifice was the final sob before deciding between the greater good and the understandable bad.

I learnt that friendship was the most powerful community ever, and that grief, unchecked, was a lust-blackened dog with rabies.

I learnt the many uses of the em-dash, and also learnt that crying over little things after years of not shedding a single tear sometimes meant you were grieving things you didn’t know you had lost or were losing.

I learnt that want want may never get, and get get may never want. Learnt that it was okay and justified to put yourself first, as much as you could.

I learnt that the brows released when you say yes for the first time, but they creased when you say no for the first time.

I learnt that frequent use of words like echo, shadow and certain punctuations made people question the validity of your craft, and that sometimes, not everything needs to be addressed.

I learnt that creamers were hard to melt with cold water, and that you never get the same person twice.

I learnt to speak up for myself, but I also learnt that sometimes, the wise thing to say, is nothing at all.

I learnt what an eater was and learnt to make sure never to bite off more than you can chew.

I learnt how strong someone with a thousand splendid suns could be, and I learnt how gentle the embrace of darkness was.

I learnt that communication was best—but comprehending what was being communicated was the best.

I learnt what a mockumentary was, and I learnt there was a doing within me that wanted nothing more than to be done.

I learnt that you have to pick a day to rest, or your body will pick it for you—also learnt that I don’t want to be anything else than what I’ve been trying to be lately.

I relearnt to take people seriously when they say ‘’I don’t deserve you’’ and to steer clear of people who weren’t sure what they wanted.

I learnt that people can change their mind at any time, and that freedom of speech did not guarantee freedom after speech.

I learnt that regrets weighed heavily on the mind than failure, and that at the end of the day, we were all a product of someone’s ‘’yes’’, ‘’no’’ or ‘’maybe so’’.

I learnt that the object of your desires could be the bane of your existence. I also learnt the true history of my name.

I learnt that loving yourself was key, and that your trauma was not the responsibility of others.

I learnt that feelings being valid didn’t mean they were appropriate and that reality eventually obeyed delusion.

I learnt that its better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved anything at all, and I learnt to always get to the studio at least fifteen minutes before time.

I learnt what shutter speed is, and learnt that hardwork pays.

I learnt what an inflamed gut felt like, and that embarrassment was the first step to being free.

I learnt that I didn’t need to perform my pain to be believed, and that true strength, true power, was that goofy smile you awarded your loved ones after beating cancer and squarely facing your greatest fear with nothing but an arsenal of ‘’Hardy boys’’ fiction.

I learnt the  function of a palindrome and an emordnilap and also learnt that the best person you could invest everything in was yourself.

I learnt all this and I learnt some more. But truly, I learnt more than anything that this year was one of looking within. Doing the hard things. Hearing the hard things. Saying the hard things. It was a year of facing fears, staring them dead in the eye and daring them to do their worst.

And they did, to some degree, do their worst.

Bridges were burnt, their ashes roaming the wake of different mornings. Dreams collapsed in on themselves, with barely a sound; silent they came, silent they left.

I learnt that if you have to question it, then it most likely isn’t for you. And that  whatever you think, you become.

I learnt, finally, that, sometimes, the beauty is in the attempt. Not the result, not the process, not the journey, but the attempt.

So I will attempt and hope that come another 365 days, this quilt of cold and broken hallelujahs will become something else. Something warm. Something safe.

Something better.

Dear sir/madam,

                          I will not be kindly finding anything attached to anything.

These hands were not meant to traverse through bland e-mails and to make tables with excel. They were crafted to shake and break them, excelling at chaos and curating destinies that outlast the flesh that borne them into existence.

This e-mail does not find me well. It finds me marooned between a rock and a hard place. The devil and the deep blue. Depression and suicidal ideation.

This brain was not meant for monotony. It was meant to break generational curses, leave lasting legacies and to spearhead visions that would change the narrative of what it means to be someone who touched the garment of God way before they knew what pain was.

Dear sir/madam,

                           I reject your rejection! Pray, do you know who I am?

Do you know who I will be once the stars align in my favor? Do you know what awaits me on the other end of discipline and the thousand plus hours I’m yet to stomp through? Do you know what my mum calls me in the corpse of night when she moistens my forehead with Borges anointing oil, thinking me asleep?  She calls me her son, her salvation made flesh.

Her first true risk.

So respectfully, I reject your rejection, you could not even begin to handle me if you did give me a shot.

Dear sir/madam,

                          I don’t have much on my LinkedIn because I don’t believe it will alter anything for me. As Zoë Gadegbeku said, ‘’None of my favorite novelists are on LinkedIn, and I’m really trying to become someone’s favorite novelist.’’

I’m really trying to be someone’s favorite inspiration. Someone others can look at and know every single dream is possible. Why? Because I’m the living embodiment of achieving dreams. I’m really trying to be a mirror for people to know that it does get better, if you stick to your guns and believe in yourself to delusional degrees, reality has no choice but to cower at your feet, whimpering and pliant.

Dear sir/madam,

                          You do not regret to inform me of anything! I saw it coming a mile away. It was engraved in the skill gap between me and a chance at that position. It was written in the loud and near timeless beat that cut through my plans when they reached the ears of my confidante(s).

Spare me the spineless responses and tell me the truth; undiluted with diabetic words and yeast infected punctuations. Question my sanity; how dare I apply for a position like this? Who do I think I am? Do I think this is a joke?

Question my very existence—so once my parents read it, they can finally see that the path they wish I take has spat me out and spat again to rid its tongue of my taste.

Dear sir/madam,

                           I will not be compromising my leave just because you need me. My dreams need me more. They have been clawing, begging, biting within and this week is one of the few times I get to give them my devotion. I hope you respect my response, just as I have respected your system of working, even if I don’t always believe in it.

I know you think me foolish. You pity me. Wonder why I’m even trying to balance a 9-5 with whatever it is I do when I’m not at work. You are entitled to your opinions. I know you and the other staff members snicker when you see my films, my content, my writings, my paintings, my poems, my pictures, my studio sessions, my designs and wonder where I think I’m taking these things to.

But don’t worry about that. Leave it to me.

For I would rather be the foolish fool who tried, than the wise one who perpetually wondered, ‘’what if?’’.

Dear sir/madam,

                           I truly hope this email doesn’t find you well, or alive for that matter. I am only here because the stares and whispers about how I’m still unemployed keep slithering around my earlobe. They dare not enter, because they know they will just as quickly fall through the other end of my head. But they linger outside, petulant, like mosquitoes intent on making me a fan of their incessant music.  I send this e-mail hoping it doesn’t find you at all. So they can acknowledge my efforts and give me some space to breathe.

So I can go back to these stories that plague my every waking moment and even the repose of my sleep.

In nightmares and in dreams.

So I can go back to these scenes that circle my mind’s eye like a never-ending carousel. So I can go back to stomping through the thousands of hours I need to stomp through so I can finally get that shot that cleaves in half the bated breath within their chests.

So I can be me for a few more weeks.

To you with a hurricane of emotions,

P.M. Ohene-Agyekum

Yesterday, Dee asked me a question she saw on the twitter timeline.

‘’If you were in a relationship, maybe, the best one of your life, but it ended on a sour note, and you had the option to erase that person and the memories from your mind, would you do it?’’

I remember responding quickly with, ‘’Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind’’ (starring Kate Winslet and Jim Carrey) because that seemed like the premise from which the debate stemmed from; the classic tale: guy meets girl, they fall in love. But the twist here is, somewhere along the line, the girl erases her memories about the guy. She forgets about him. Finding out about her decision, and wrenched three ways to the ribcage about it, the guy decides to return the favor.  I won’t bore you with the rest of the details, but for those who haven’t watched it, I do recommend you do.

It really is one for the books.

Anyways, I remember giving the response, ‘’I would most likely opt to have my memories erased because of how the relationship concluded, irrespective of how great it was.’’

I still stand by it, but there was one opinion I saw that bled so much logic that it was hard for me to ignore.

‘’We are a mosaic of everyone we have ever loved.’’ Despite my stance, that phrase really resonated with me, because verily verily, who are we, if not the products of someone’s ‘yes’, ‘no’ or ‘maybe so’?

Their truths, lies, praises, chastisement, fears, dreams, insecurities; we are tapestries woven out of not just blood, sinew and bone, but of the experiences we share with others.

Fortunately, or unfortunately for us, they do shape us in one form or another.

So, I had to hand it to that person, when you do look at it that way, deep deep down where the cheese binds, there should be some hesitance in erasing one’s memories pertaining to a person solely out of the fear of losing a part of yourself in the process.

That Is fair.

But is the reasoning enough?

Does it weigh more than the alternative?

I don’t think so.

I hold to this belief for the simple fact that, more often than not, the sourness that coats the back of one’s tongue and the edges of one’s soul after the relationship meets its demise is the deadliest type of erasure.

It steals your smile, taints your innocence, bends your conscience. Pain and hurt erase more than any thingmajig crafted by a mad scientist residing in a dark tower out of a gothic fantasy ever could.

That bitterness after, for some, may be the only thing that reminds them of the love that was once shared; the broken and deformed version of it, nonetheless, but a version all the same.

But for some, it corrodes, reminding you of what once was. What would never be again.

Healing from the ‘sourness’ robs you of the time you could spend finding yourself in other ways. Healing your heart from what could have been robs you of the time to face what will be.

And for me, the weight of that, the ineluctability of forging through pain, fire and brimstone just to arrive at a version of yourself you know damn well you don’t deserve, a version that doesn’t even deserve you, is something I think I can do without.

Everyone heals differently, everyone mourns differently. Love , to some is remembering, to some, forgetting, and to others, remembering to forget.

No answer is wrong, no answer is right, in my opinion at least.

But I do think forgetting, erasure, is the final act of loving one’s self.

Giving you the chance to have just the sweet, without the bitter, especially as you can help it.

Giving you the chance to spend time being you, instead of finding what remains.

Giving you the chance to be the ‘yes’, ‘no’ and ‘maybe so’ of your reflection, not an echo of it.

My father was a photographer. And I remember him always taking me to his studio during the weekends or on days I was home.  He would make me model and pose for him. And sometimes, when my grades were very impressive, he would make me ‘’instruct’’ his clients—at least, the ones who wanted to indulge my antics—on how to pose for him to take photos of them.

At an early age, I could tell a picture could tell a myriad of words; stories hang within the bow of arms. Stretched smiles hid tales behind yellowed teeth.

Hands clutching chins were holding a lot more than just bone and brain.

Side-eyes conveyed more than just the intelligence of human anatomy.

And I would like to think that’s why I developed a penchant for creative directing; I wanted the chance to help people tell the stories their bodies yearned to release.

And maybe, tell the stories my body wanted to tell through others.

Most of my childhood was spent reading books because of my shy disposition. The only times I wasn’t shy was when I was on stage reciting poems or acting in stage plays. Over time, that definitely became a path worth looking into. But the pivotal moment for me as a writer was when my English teacher in SHS tried to convince me to change my course to general arts because he felt I held so much promise as a writer. The prospect was scary, but the possibility held more thrill.

I didn’t heed his advice though; I did him one better.

I worked twice as hard as a science student and as a budding writer.

And years later, I’m closer to being the greatest writer I would ever know.

There may be no clear-cut lore behind my career as a creative, but the kaleidoscope of my fate is in the little critical moments I have mentioned–and those I am yet to recall–for they have shaped me, molded and branded me on this journey, a big black mark atop my head that probably screams, ‘’Touch not my anointed, the world is his oyster and playground. His office, his canvas. His typewriter, his studio.’’

I am like a moth; fateful, petulant, drawn to you, my final demise—despising the journey that shortens the distance between us. And yet, the first true sigh of relief escapes my lungs once you’re within my sights.

Within reach.

Within touch.

You, the wisteria of my existence; you, the embodiment of all my desires.

You kill me.

You cure me.

You bless me.

You damn me.

You are in every storm that quakes the earth. In every wail that tears through the night; relentless, cruel.

But in the same vein, you are the first true exhale after grief.

You are the first inhale after the ugliest of sobs.

You are the fine line between love and hate, between worship and idolatry.

And what a fine line you are, your body, a rich obsidian, cut from the most glorious of stars. You are a god in your own right, the border between good and evil.

You make me.

You break me.

You, who is both smile and scorn.

Two parts healing, two parts scourge.

You are the first wail of life, and the murmur that beckons the reaper.

You are sword; you are scythe; you are hope; you are blight.

You are my salvation. You are Avernus.

My one true home, what a conundrum thou art!

You told me the weight would fall off

You said this was law

You told me I would receive all that I have foregone

You told me I need not worry about eternal agony and its maw

You told me these thoughts have felled Kings

You told me their bones were enriched with the blood of lore

Now, my pages are brittle, pale and devoid.

Your lies wrinkle my chest

They have made a home there

They infect my person with regret

They leave what should remain hidden, bare

The weights used to cover them, at least, I benefited there

You lied to me, and now, the wind sings between the crevices of my despair.

You told me I would be great

You told me it was written

You told me life will bend to my tongue once I berate

You told me fate would be smitten

You told me my gift would sate

You assured me nothing would I want for!

So why is solitude my only companion? Why is it all missing?

You told me to keep my head down!

You told me to always be proud!

You told me to shed the layers of spite!

Only then would all be mine!

You told me passion would trump pain

That everything I prayed for will lie within the marred flesh of my prey

You told me only then will my true self emerge and remain!

Now I sit, propped up on the weights that had my knees scarlet and buckled

The stories before me, mindless and gargled

Broken is the reflection before me

Shackled is the demeanor of my creed

Why, did You have to lie?

When the truth might have set me free?