CREATIVE LOOM

THE CASE FOR SEXUAL PURITY

2026-07-14T01:05:38.000-07:00

In Ghana, where traditional values and Christian faith deeply intertwine, sex before marriage is viewed through moral, social, and public health lenses.

Ghanaian society is communal and lineage-based. Across ethnic groups, marriage is a family contract, not merely a personal choice. Premarital sex threatens family honour, complicates bride-price negotiations, and risks disputes over paternity. Christianity, embraced by roughly 70% of Ghanaians, reinforces this through biblical teachings reserving sexual intimacy for marriage (1 Corinthians 6:18–20, Hebrews 13:4). Churches actively teach abstinence as both spiritual obedience and a prerequisite for divine blessing.

Recent events have added urgency to this debate. During mandatory medical screenings for Ghana's security agencies, approximately 1,300 out of 100,000 applicants tested positive for HIV. The Interior Minister disclosed the figure before Parliament, with the committee chair calling it "huge and scary" and warning that without intervention, the number could multiply as infected individuals unknowingly spread the virus.

The Ghana AIDS Commission responded by reminding the public that disqualifying applicants solely based on HIV status violates the Ghana AIDS Commission Act, 2016 (Act 938). Advocacy groups cautioned that publicising such figures without context fuels stigma and discourages testing.

Yet beneath the policy debate lies an uncomfortable reality: How did 1,300 young people contract HIV? While transmission routes vary, the figure underscores what traditional and religious leaders have long warned: sexual activity outside marriage carries profound risks to individuals and communities.

The Ghanaian standpoint remains clear. Whether rooted in ancestral wisdom, Christian scripture, or public health data, the message converges: patience, purity, and commitment protect both soul and body. The 1,300 affected young people deserve care and dignity, not stigma. But Ghana must also ask whether it is doing enough to prepare youth for choices that safeguard their futures. In a nation where faith and tradition still shape society, the cost of premarital sex is no longer abstract; it is measured in lives permanently altered by preventable disease.

By Augustine Opoku Agyemang

aoagyemang@gmail.com

Why the Buzz Around the England vs Ghana Group Stage Match?

2026-06-23T06:48:24.000-07:00

The excitement surrounding the England versus Ghana group-stage match extends beyond football. It is a clash between one of Europe's traditional football powers and one of Africa's most successful national teams, making it a contest rich in history, pride, and cultural significance.

The match has attracted even greater attention due to discussions surrounding Ghanaian midfielder Thomas Partey. His recent legal troubles and the public debate they have generated have placed additional scrutiny on the Black Stars, making him one of the most talked-about figures ahead of the game.

Adding to the intrigue are predictions from some Ghanaian prophets and religious leaders, who have publicly forecast the outcome of the match and Ghana's fortunes in the tournament. These predictions have fueled conversations on social media and in the mainstream media, with supporters eagerly debating their validity.

Combined with the strong Ghanaian diaspora presence in England, Premier League connections, and the high stakes of the group stage, the fixture has become much more than a football match; it is a battle for national pride and a major talking point on both sides of the globe.

By Augustine Opoku Agyemang

Father's Day and the Question of Glamour: Why Are Fathers Not Celebrated Like Mothers?

2026-06-22T08:06:22.000-07:00

Every year, Mother's Day is celebrated with remarkable enthusiasm across the world. The occasion is often marked by elaborate ceremonies, gifts, social gatherings, media campaigns, and heartfelt public tributes. In contrast, Father's Day, though widely recognised, tends to receive less attention and excitement. This disparity raises an important question: Why are fathers not celebrated with the same glamour and intensity as mothers?

Traditionally, fathers have been associated with the roles of provider, protector, disciplinarian, and head of the family. Across many cultures, including indigenous African societies, fathers have been responsible for ensuring the welfare, security, and moral upbringing of their children. These responsibilities remain relevant today, even as family structures and gender roles continue to evolve. Yet public appreciation of fatherhood appears less visible than that of motherhood.

One reason for this difference lies in society's perception of parental roles. Mothers are often seen as the primary caregivers who bear children, nurture them from infancy, and provide emotional support throughout their lives. The visible sacrifices associated with pregnancy, childbirth, and child-rearing create a strong emotional connection that society readily acknowledges and celebrates. Consequently, Mother's Day naturally attracts greater public sympathy and recognition.

Another factor is the cultural expectation that fathers should perform their responsibilities without seeking praise or recognition. In many societies, a father's role is viewed as a duty rather than an act deserving celebration. Men are often socialised to be stoic, resilient, and self-sacrificing. As a result, expressions of gratitude towards fathers may be less frequent, even though their contributions are substantial.

The commercial influence behind Mother's Day also contributes to its greater glamour. Businesses, marketers, and media organisations have long promoted Mother's Day through advertising campaigns, special offers, and public events. Flowers, clothing, jewellery, and other gifts are heavily marketed during the period, creating widespread excitement. Father's Day, while also commercialised, has not received the same level of promotion, resulting in lower public visibility.

Historical factors also play a role. Mother's Day gained international recognition earlier and developed stronger traditions over time. It became deeply embedded in many cultures as a day to honor maternal sacrifice and affection. Father's Day emerged later and struggled to establish equally powerful traditions and symbols. Consequently, it has often remained a more subdued occasion.

Furthermore, emotional expression tends to be more openly directed toward mothers than fathers. Many people find it easier to express love, appreciation, and affection toward their mothers because maternal care is often more visible and emotionally engaging. Fathers frequently demonstrate their love through actions such as working long hours, providing financial support, ensuring education, and maintaining family security. These contributions, though invaluable, may be less immediately noticeable.

However, the relatively lower glamour surrounding Father's Day should not diminish the significance of fathers in family and societal development. Research consistently shows that active and responsible fatherhood contributes positively to children's emotional well-being, educational achievement, self-confidence, and social development. Fathers serve as role models, mentors, and sources of stability within families.

In recent years, there has been growing recognition of the changing role of fathers. Modern fathers are increasingly involved in childcare, emotional support, household responsibilities, and nurturing relationships with their children. This shift presents an opportunity for society to celebrate fatherhood more meaningfully and acknowledge the diverse contributions fathers make beyond financial provision.

As we commemorate Father's Day, it is important to move beyond comparisons with Mother's Day and focus on appreciating fathers for their unique contributions. Mothers and fathers play complementary roles in raising families and building strong communities. Both deserve recognition, gratitude, and celebration.

The glamour associated with Mother's Day may continue to be more visible, but the value of fatherhood remains immeasurable. A society that honours both mothers and fathers equally strengthens the family unit and promotes a culture of appreciation, responsibility, and love. Fathers may not always receive the same spotlight, but their influence continues to shape generations and deserves to be celebrated with pride and gratitude.

By Augustine Opoku Agyemang
June 2026

A FRIEND TO A FRIEND

2026-06-06T22:10:01.000-07:00

Her infectious smile radiated her entire body. “As a woman, you have to play your cards well,” Akos said, adjusting her wig in the mirror. “These boys of nowadays? They like high-maintenance babes. If you don’t ask for things, they’ll assume you’re getting it elsewhere or say you’re too independent. Don’t enter relationships with your heart, oo. Use your brain, unless you want heartbreak served hot.”

I laughed softly. “Who said I left my brain behind? Abeg, he isn’t like your boyfriend and your exes. This one is true love… odo elastic. He asks for nothing but my love. He looks at all the scars in my life and still calls me beautiful.”

Akos paused dramatically and turned to face me.

“Eii… then you’ve fallen papa. Don’t let these men fool you oo. All men are the same.”

“Or maybe,” I replied, folding my clothes into a suitcase, “you’re afraid to love. Afraid to be vulnerable. Tell me, what exactly do you and Clement have? Love or just a business transaction?”

She hissed. “Once bitten, twice shy. And whatever is going on between me and Clement is not the topic for today.”

“Then don’t come and make my matter your TED Talk.”

“I’m serious!” she protested. “The way you are, he can easily use you and dump you.”

“Am I that naïve in this day and age? Why would he even use me?”

“Because you’re emotional. Men can smell soft hearts from afar.”

I smiled. “Akos, he will never leave me. He wouldn’t abandon me.”

“See this rydee girl,” she scoffed. “Didn’t you see what happened to Serwaa? She gave a man everything ,her heart, her time, her money and he left her in pieces.” I zipped my suitcase slowly and looked up.

“I’m not Serwaa. And even if I loved that deeply, I still wouldn’t end up broken. Besides, he isn’t like other men. He isn’t deceptive. He truly loves me.”

I paused. “Do you know because of him… my criminal record was cleared?”

Akos froze. “Like… actual police case criminal record?” I nodded. “No more police wahala.”

“Ei!” She nearly dropped her phone. “Then this guy is either rich, powerful, or connected to Jubilee House. So where did you meet him?”

“At a random place, actually. But before that, I already knew about him through his friends. They kept telling me he loved me, cared about me, wanted me.”

“Why? Was he shy?” she quizzed.

“No. He tried to get my attention many times, but I ignored him. Sometimes I saw him in trotro conversations, sometimes at the market, sometimes on social media, even on billboards. But I didn’t pay attention.”

“And he still stayed?”

“He never stopped loving me.”

Akos sat down slowly.

“Eii. So a celebrity was chasing you all this time? Is he a model? Influencer? What’s his IG handle?”

I laughed.

“Yes, he’s influencing my life. He’s radiant. He’s an author too. His words heal people. Honestly, they’re more refreshing than cold water on a hot afternoon. He’s someone everyone should know personally. But he doesn’t really have a personal IG account. People just create pages about him.”

“Ayoo, CelebMama!” Akos shouted. “At least show me a picture. Or when is he coming around?”

“You can’t exactly see him,” I said quietly. “And he can come at any time. You can choose to wait for him or not. But I’ve told you what you need to know.”

She stared at me suspiciously.

“Hmmm… so this is love. So this is what people mean when they say love is divine. Cinderella! So your Prince Charming is rich too. No wonder you’re smiling like this.”

“Why is it always about money with you?” I asked gently. “Can’t someone love another person sincerely? Can’t blessings simply follow love?”

“In this generation?” Akos laughed bitterly. “Money makes the world go round. Money brings respect. Money makes love last.”

“No,” I replied softly. “You’re confusing love with lust. Real love brings out the best in people. If you truly love someone, you listen to them. You speak with them even when you need nothing. And when they guide you, you trust them because you know they want good for you.”

“Abeg, save the sermon,” she interrupted. “Just small time in a relationship and now you’re sounding like counsellor Charlotte Oduro.”

I burst out laughing.

“But seriously,” she continued, eyeing the suitcase beside me, “where are you taking all these things? Don’t tell me you’re moving in with this mysterious boyfriend?”

I nodded.

“Yes. I’m leaving for the convent to be with my lover.”

Silence.

Akos blinked twice.

“Wait… wait… WAIT.”

Her mouth fell open.

“Were you talking about JESUS this whole time?”

I smiled peacefully.

“Yes.”

REMEMBER ALL THE TIME THAT JESUS LOVES YOU.

By N. A. Dede

A Mother’s Day Reflection

2026-05-11T13:01:30.552-07:00

It was one of those Sundays that happened to be Mother’s Day. WhatsApp statuses were flooded with pictures and messages of friends and family celebrating their mothers.

What caught my attention most was the thought of how I would have celebrated my own mother if she were still alive. Around that same time, I had been scheduled for a training programme in Kumasi, the very place we hail from. In my thoughts, it would have been the perfect opportunity to visit Maame Afia Asubonteng unfortunately she was no more.

Everyone seemed to speak about the sacrifices their mothers made for them. It reminded me that mothers could have chosen comfort for themselves, yet they chose responsibility, sacrifice, and positioning us well in life instead.

In Ephesians, we are reminded to honour our parents, for that is right. It is even the first commandment with a promise — “that it may be well with you and that you may enjoy long life on the earth.” That alone tells us how deeply God values the place of parents in our lives.

Let us make those sacrifices count while they are still alive. Show up for them when they least expect it. Celebrate them beyond special occasions, because surviving in this world often comes through the strength, love, and sacrifices of people like mothers.

By Augustine Opoku Agyemang

aoagyemang@gmail.com

ENO KRA - Mother Soul

2026-05-09T06:05:00.000-07:00

A Happy Mother’s Day

The road to Akesse was the kind that reminded travellers how far civilisation still had to travel. Red dust rose angrily behind the old commercial bus as it groaned through potholes deep enough to swallow a goat. Every bend revealed another stubborn stretch of untarred road lined with cassava farms, tired palm trees, mountains, rivers, and women balancing aluminium pans on their heads as though the weight of the world had trained them into elegance.

By the window sat Kwaku, returning to the village after many months in the city. The Harmattan wind slapped his face from time to time, carrying scents of firewood, roasted corn, wet earth, and dry leaves burning somewhere in the distance.

Inside the overloaded bus, life itself seemed packed into every corner.

A woman squeezed beside him with a sleeping child tied tightly to her back. One hand held the child protectively while the other struggled to keep balance whenever the bus crashed into another pothole. Each time the child stirred, she gently patted the little back without interrupting her conversation or losing her balance. Sweat gathered around her neck, yet her wrapper had been carefully adjusted to shield the child from dust entering through the broken windows.

At one point, the baby whimpered softly. Immediately, her entire attention shifted.

She leaned closer, humming under her breath with the tenderness only mothers seem to possess naturally. Not annoyance. Not frustration. Just instinctive care. The kind that sacrifices comfort without announcement.

Then, from a small rubber container tucked into her bag, she scooped a little mashed kenkey with pepper sauce and blew on it patiently before feeding the child tiny portions. Only after the child settled peacefully again did she finally relax her shoulders.

Kwaku watched quietly. There was something holy about mothers. Even inside discomfort, they created safety. Even while exhausted, they still carried softness.

Around them, traders argued over coins while an old radio wrestled against the growling engine through crackling highlife music. Beneath one seat, a trapped chicken protested every pothole while the scent of a goat tied atop the bus somehow still found its way inside.

Chaotic. Dusty. Loud.

Yet alive. Nothing like the city where neighbours lived behind metal gates and barely knew each other’s names.

By the time the bus reached Akesse, evening sunlight had spread across the village like melted gold. Children chased bicycle rims barefoot through narrow paths while smoke curled lazily from cooking fires. Elderly men sat beneath the big tree debating politics with the seriousness of ministers.

And there she was. His grandmother. Bent slightly with age but unshaken in spirit, wrapped in a faded cloth with silver hair hidden beneath a scarf. Time had carved wrinkles across her face, but none had defeated the warmth inside her eyes. She had nurtured nearly three generations in Akesse. Some she gave birth to. Others she simply gathered into her care through kindness, food, advice, prayers, and shelter.

Nobody could count how many children had grown up eating from her pot. How many young mothers she had guided through childbirth. How many broken homes she had quietly repaired with wisdom beneath the mango tree. How many travellers had survived difficult journeys because Eno Kra fed them before they continued on their way.

Age had slowed her knees, but not her compassion. The moment she saw him climbing down with his backpack, her entire face lit up.

“Kwakuu!” she shouted. Before he could answer, she had pulled him tightly into her arms. Like all mothers, she inspected him immediately. “You’ve become lean,” she complained, holding his cheeks carefully between her palms. “These city people don’t feed you?” “They feed me, Granny.”

“Then why are your cheeks disappearing?” She dusted his shirt instinctively, adjusted the strap of his bag herself, and held his hand briefly as though reassuring herself that he had truly arrived safely.

There are some forms of love words cannot fully explain. Motherhood is one of them. It is the ability to worry and rejoice at the same time.

To pray for someone constantly without informing them.

To notice hunger hidden behind fake smiles.

To remember whether a child has eaten, rested, or slept properly even when that child has become a grown man.

The whole village called her Eno Kra.

Mother Soul.

At first, Kwaku thought it was merely an affectionate nickname. But as he grew older, he realised the name carried testimony. Because Eno Kra did not merely feed people. She refreshed souls. Her compound never rested.

Someone was always eating beneath the mango tree. Someone sleeping after a long journey. Some widow receiving food quietly by the back door. Children running endlessly through the compound as though it belonged to all of them. And perhaps it did.

Even the women in the village found refuge in her presence. Young wives came seeking advice after misunderstandings with their husbands. Pregnant women sat beside her for reassurance whenever fear gripped their hearts. New mothers brought babies for blessings and guidance.

Eno Kra listened more than she spoke. And when she finally spoke, her words carried the calmness of someone who had suffered, survived, and still chosen kindness.

On his second morning in Akesse, Kwaku woke to the smell of stew bubbling over firewood. Outside sat three strangers eating yam and garden egg stew comfortably like family.

“Eat well,” Eno Kra kept telling them. “The road is long.” One of the men coughed repeatedly while eating. Immediately, she pushed water toward him. “Slowly,” she warned gently. “Food should not fight you.”

The same way mothers speak to their own children. Kwaku watched in disbelief.

Later, while she sorted tomatoes beneath the shade, he finally asked the question that had troubled him for years.“Granny, why do you do this?”

“Do what?”

“You spend too much on strangers. People come here, eat your food, sleep in your house, and disappear. Some don’t even say thank you.” Eno Kra smiled quietly.

“You young people count everything.” “I’m serious. People are taking advantage of you.” As if summoned by his frustration, one of the travellers appeared carrying her old radio.

“Madam, I’m leaving,” the man announced. Kwaku’s eyes widened. “Why is he carrying your radio?” “I gave it to him,” Eno Kra replied calmly. “You gave him your radio?”

“He said his sick mother cannot sleep without music.” Kwaku nearly exploded. “This is exactly what I mean! People lie to you because they know you’re soft!”

For the first time, Eno Kra stopped what she was doing and looked directly into his eyes. There was no anger there.

Only wisdom.

Then she spoke softly. “Kwaku… one day you will understand that a mother’s work is never wasted.” He frowned. “What does that mean?”

“A real mother does not only feed the child in front of her,” she said gently. “She feeds tomorrow.”

The words stayed with him long after the conversation ended. What confused Kwaku most was this: Eno Kra never lacked.

By every human calculation, her kitchen should have been empty long ago. She fed travellers, widows, children, wandering strangers, and anybody whose face looked burdened by hunger.

Yet every morning there was always food. Always. Bags of rice leaned against walls. Cassava overflowed baskets. Fresh vegetables appeared mysteriously. Firewood never finished.

Then slowly, Kwaku began to notice something extraordinary. The village itself was feeding Eno Kra. Every passing bus seemed to carry something for her. One afternoon a conductor shouted from the roadside:

“Kra! Your plantain from Kumasi is here!” Children rushed excitedly toward the bus as sacks were unloaded. Another day it was cooking oil from Accra. Another day smoked fish. Another day bread wrapped carefully in newspaper.

Sometimes the senders were strangers. Sometimes no explanation came at all. The blessings simply returned to the woman who had spent her life becoming a blessing. Yet she never kept anything for herself. Before sunset, portions had already left her hands again.

Rice for a widow. Milk for children. Soup ingredients for a struggling mother with twins. Corn dough for an elderly woman too weak to farm.

Because that is what mothers do. They divide their own portions to make sure others survive. They go hungry quietly if it means someone else can sleep with a full stomach. They carry pain privately so others may rest publicly.

Every evening her compound transformed into the heartbeat of the village. Barefoot children turned the yard into a football field while dust rose beautifully into the setting sun.

“Pass the ball!”

“That’s not a goal!”

“You’re cheating!”

Sometimes the ball rolled directly into her cooking area, scattering firewood.“One day all of you will destroy my kitchen!” she shouted dramatically. The children only laughed harder because moments later she would emerge carrying roasted corn, groundnuts, or chilled water.

No child left her compound empty-handed. No child left unseen.

To weary travellers, Eno Kra was rest.

To lonely people, companionship.

To hungry souls, dignity.

To children, safety.

To mothers, strength.

Then school reopened.

The city swallowed Kwaku again with assignments, traffic, noise, and endless movement. One hot afternoon during lunch break, he stood near the cafeteria while students shouted around him. Suddenly someone tapped his shoulder.

“Charlie, the food seller is calling you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. The old woman by the corner.”

Confused, Kwaku approached the woman seated behind steaming aluminium pots. Her face carried the weariness of many years.

“What is your name?” she asked. “Kwaku.”

The woman paused. Then her eyes widened slightly. “You speak exactly like one of my sons.”

Kwaku blinked.

“My son works far away from home,” she continued softly. “The way you smile… the way you pronounce your words…” Emotion briefly crossed her face before she quickly recovered.

“From today, always pass here during lunch.” Before he could protest, she had already filled a plate heavily with rice, stew, meat, and fish.

“Auntie, I don’t have enough money for all this.” “Did I ask you for money?” she snapped affectionately. Then, almost unconsciously, she added more stew.

The way mothers always do.

“Sit down and eat before the food gets cold.” As Kwaku ate quietly, the noise around him slowly faded and suddenly, he understood. He saw Eno Kra again beneath the mango tree.

“A real mother does not only feed the child in front of her. She feeds tomorrow.”

At that moment, the truth settled deeply into his heart. Goodness travels.

A mother’s love travels farther than roads, farther than villages, farther than generations.

Some mothers may never become famous. Their names may never appear in books. They may never sit in offices or stand behind microphones.

But quietly, through sacrifice, prayer, kindness, sleepless nights, endless giving, and invisible battles, they build invisible bridges for their children long before the children arrive there.

They plant trees whose shade they may never sit under.

They become shelters during storms.

They become strength when homes are weak.

And somehow, through God’s mysterious design, the kindness of a good mother returns like rain to generations after her.

That evening, for the first time in his life, Kwaku did not remember Eno Kra merely as his grandmother.

He remembered her as what she truly was:

A mother whose love had become shelter for an entire world.

And he finally understood why the village no longer called her by her real name.

She was Eno Kra.

Mother Soul.

By Augustine Opoku Agyemang

aoagyemang@gmail.com

THE BURDEN OF “HOW DO I SAY IT?”

2026-05-07T03:44:00.000-07:00

Continuation from BORN SLEEPING..

The stress of the postnatal procedures was completed, and I was discharged that same afternoon. I had already requested leave from work prior to delivery, expecting to spend those days nursing my newborn, adjusting to sleepless nights, and embracing the quiet joy of motherhood once again. Instead, I was going home empty-handed.

Physically, I had done what every mother does I had carried, laboured, and delivered. But emotionally, I carried something far heavier than a child. A silence. And one question that would not leave me:

How do I say it?

After the stillbirth, the weight of the emotional load was unbelievable. I wished I could loan it out to someone else, trade it away for the bundle of joy I had earlier anticipated. But grief does not transfer. It settles into your bones and makes a home in places words cannot reach.

Beyond the pain itself was another burden, the courage required to face society. The whispers. The pity. The gossip spreading like wildfire through people who did not know the full story yet somehow had opinions about it. I dreaded every question, every sympathetic stare, every conversation beginning with, “Ei, what happened?” How do I explain to people that I gave birth… but there is no baby?

I looked at my husband and knew his mind too, had wandered into a painful wilderness. I could only imagine the thoughts racing through him, the burden of trying to remain strong simply because society says a man must. He was broken too, shattered in his own way, but while everyone gathered around me with concern, his pain was almost overlooked.

After all, he is a man.

People expected him to carry the weight quietly. Yet I saw it in his eyes. The silence, the disappointment. The helplessness of arriving to receive a child and instead preparing for burial in his heart.

The journey home felt longer than it should have been. Loud silence filled the air between us. Even inside the air-conditioned car, the heat generated from our thoughts was enough to fry an egg. We barely spoke. Words had become too weak for what we were carrying.

I felt empty, exhausted and hollowed out by pain.

Then we arrived home.

My four-year-old son was the first to welcome us. He had longed for a younger brother since he was two years old. The excitement on his face nearly broke me completely. His broad smile, glowing eyes, and restless little body moving around in anticipation were too pure for the tragedy waiting at the door.

The moment I saw him, everything that had happened came crashing back into my mind all at once.

His eager voice began firing questions against my already broken heart.

“Where is the baby?”

“Is he sleeping?”

“Can I carry him?”

Finding the right words eluded me as he hopped around excitedly, waiting for the brother he had imagined for months. That was the burden.

The burden of explaining what happened.

The burden of facing my child’s innocent expectations with empty hands.

The burden of reporting back to work after maternity leave without a baby in my arms.

The burden of recovering from childbirth without a child to hold.

My body had not yet understood the loss. My breasts were heavy with milk prepared for a son who would never nurse. Whenever the pain became unbearable, my husband helped me use the breast pump to ease the pressure. Even that process was excruciating, not only physically, but emotionally. Every drop of milk reminded me of the beautiful son I had imagined at my breast, feeding, growing, blossoming. Instead, the milk flowed into emptiness.

And then came another burden, the burden of reflection. Reconnecting the dots. Searching desperately for a reason.

I remembered my earlier hospital visit. Deep within me, my mother’s instinct had been loud. Something felt wrong. I had wanted the doctor to induce labour earlier, but he insisted the baby would be delivered on a particular day. Perhaps medically he was trying to avoid unnecessary complications. Perhaps scientifically his decision made sense.

But in my heart, I kept wondering if the Holy Spirit had been speaking through my fears.Why was induction only done after my baby was gone? That question haunted me.

How do I say it?

Family members who had known I was due received our arrival with tears instead of celebration. There were no songs, no laughter, no ululation only embraces heavy with grief and words that struggled to find meaning.

Then came the questions.

Not from strangers.

From my own home.

After his first attempt, he processed everything and came back stronger. My four-year-old son stood before me, his eyes bright with expectation, searching behind me, around me… waiting to see the baby everyone had spoken about.

“Where is the baby?” he asked.

The question pierced deeper than anything I had endured in the delivery room.

I tried to speak, but the words would not come. How do you explain death to a child who only understands life? How do you tell him that the brother he had been waiting for, talking to, and dreaming about… would not be coming home?

He asked again.

And again.

Each question chipped away at the fragile strength I was trying to hold together.

Then, in a way only a child can, he grew quiet, processing, thinking, understanding in his own innocent language. And finally, he said:

“My brother has gone to heaven… but another one will come.” I froze.

In that moment, it felt as though the roles had reversed. The child was comforting the parent. His words, simple and unburdened, carried a depth I could not yet reach. They did not erase the pain, but they gave it somewhere to rest.

That was the beginning of my recovery. Not the end of the pain but the beginning of learning how to live with it.

The days that followed were filled with a strange mixture of presence and absence. Friends and family came, some sitting in silence, others offering prayers, others searching for the right words. Calls came in—voices filled with sympathy, pauses filled with things unsaid.

And then, gradually, they stopped coming. Life resumed.

To the outside world, it seemed as though everything had returned to normal within a few weeks. Conversations shifted. Laughter found its way back into rooms. Daily routines continued as though nothing had happened. But grief does not end when visitors stop coming. It lingers.

It hides in quiet moments in the space where a cry should have been, in the emptiness of arms that had prepared to hold, in the questions that never fully go away.

I found myself returning to the doctors’ words, turning them over in my mind, searching for something solid to hold onto. They had spoken of possibilities of cord complications, things that happen without warning, situations that even medicine cannot always prevent.

“Sometimes it happens.”

I questioned everything. I revisited every moment. I asked myself if I had missed a sign, ignored a feeling, delayed a response. But the answers never came. Only silence, and slowly, painfully, I began to understand that not every loss comes with an explanation.

Healing, I discovered, is not forgetting. It is learning to carry the memory without letting it break you.

My leave period, which was meant to be filled with bonding and joy, became a season of reflection and rebuilding. I had time to think, to cry, to pray, to question, and eventually, to begin accepting what my heart had resisted.

I leaned more into my faith, not because I understood, but because I needed something greater than my understanding to hold onto. I leaned into my marriage, recognising how deeply this loss had touched us both, even in the ways we expressed it differently.

I listened, truly listened to my son, whose innocent faith reminded me that hope, even when fragile, is still alive.

The burden of “How do I say it?” did not disappear. But over time, I found the words not perfect words, not easy words, but honest ones. Words that carry both love and loss. Words that remember a child who was born… and yet never cried.

I may never fully understand why it happened the way it did, but I have chosen to trust the One who sees what I cannot. What I lost, heaven gained, and what I thought was the end became the beginning of a deeper faith.

My arms may have been empty, but my life was spared. My heart was broken, but not destroyed. And so, I walk forward not without pain, but with purpose, holding on to the quiet assurance that God’s plans are never absent, even in His silence.

They said, “Sometimes it happens.”

But to me, this was not just something that happened.

This was my child. My journey. My breaking point and my rebuilding. I was supposed to bring home a baby. Instead, I brought home a story. Though it began in joy and passed through unbearable silence, it will not end in sorrow.

Because I am still here.
Still standing.
Still believing.

By: Augustine Opoku Agyemang

aoagyemang@gmail.com

BORN SLEEPING… HOW DO I SAY IT?

2026-05-05T09:53:36.661-07:00

13th May, 2016 began like any ordinary Friday, but for me, it shimmered with quiet anticipation. I stood before the mirror, one hand resting on my swollen belly, tracing the dark line that ran down its centre like a sacred path. My stomach, round and full, reflected both pain and promise. It reminded me of my first child… and whispered that the time was near.

I smiled to myself. Tomorrow was my antenatal visit, but something told me I might not make it. After dropping my son off at school, I noticed a slight mucous discharge. My heart leapt. ‘This is it’, I told myself. “Today is the day”.

Excitement bubbled through me, softening every ache. As if heaven had scripted it perfectly, it was also my mother-in-law’s birthday. What better gift could there be than a new life? A child born on her special day will be a living tribute to the love she has given this family.

I called my husband immediately, my voice trembling with joy. Though he worked outside Accra, his elder brother was ready to step in. Within moments, everything was set in motion.

The journey to the hospital felt like a celebration in motion. Every contraction was a reminder that I was closer to meeting my baby. I smiled through the pain, holding onto hope like a fragile treasure.

At the hospital, the midwife welcomed me warmly. Routine checks began, blood pressure, pulse… then she reached for the fetal monitor.

The midwife’s hand slowed. Then stopped. The soft, reassuring gallop that had filled the room moments ago vanished, leaving behind a silence so sharp it rang in my ears. She adjusted the probe. Nothing.

She pressed a little harder, tilting it, dragging it slowly across my belly as though the sound might be hiding just beneath the skin. Still nothing. A flicker passed over her face, gone almost instantly, but I had seen it.

“Let me just reposition,” she said, her voice steady, professional… but no longer warm. She tried again. Slower this time. More deliberate. The machine gave no response. The silence stretched too long. Another midwife, noticing the stillness, stepped closer. “Everything okay?”

The first didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes stayed fixed on the monitor. “I’m not getting a reading,” she said quietly. The second midwife moved in without hesitation. “Let me try.” They switched places with practised ease, like this was routine, but it didn’t feel routine. Not anymore.

She scanned quickly at first… then slowed… then went back over the same areas again, more carefully, more insistently.

“Sometimes they hide,” she murmured, almost to herself. She adjusted the angle. Waited but heard nothing.

She tried again and again. Each attempt shorter now. Tighter. Less hopeful. “Bring another Doppler,” she said, this time louder. A nurse appeared almost instantly, as if she had been waiting just outside. The new machine was set up in seconds, gel, wires, movement efficient, swift.

No one was explaining anything to me anymore. They started again. Searching, Listening, Waiting, but only heard Silence.

The room began to close in on me. The bright lights felt harsh now, unforgiving. My chest tightened, my heartbeat stumbling, loud and uneven, like it was trying to fill the space the machine could not.

“When last did you feel the baby move?” the first midwife asked. Her tone had softened but it carried weight now. “Not strongly,” I whispered. “Just… slight movements.”

A pause.

A look passed between them, quick, quiet, but heavy with meaning. No reassurance followed. No “it’s okay.” No smile. “Call the doctor,” the second midwife said.

And that was the moment it shifted from uncertainty… to something else I wasn’t ready to name.

In that moment, before he even arrived, something inside me shifted. A quiet dread settled deep within my bones. I was not ready to accept it but I could feel it creeping closer, like a shadow I could not outrun.

I turned inward and cried to God.

My Lord… why have You forsaken me?
You promised to be my shield and my protector.
Please… for the sake of my baby, cause a miracle.

My heart clung to that plea, desperate and trembling. And God listened.

I believe He did.

But His answer did not come the way I wanted. There was no sudden movement, no restored heartbeat, no rush of life returning. Instead, there was silence. Yet in that silence… there was a voice.

Not loud, not spoken in words, but it filled everything. It was heavier than sound, deeper than anything I had ever known. A quiet response that settled into my soul with a force I could not resist. And somehow, I understood though I did not accept.

Moments later, I lay still as the cold gel touched my belly. The ultrasound screen flickered to life. I searched it desperately, willing it to show me what I needed to see. Then the doctor spoke.

“Oh no…”

The words sliced through me. “What is it?” I asked, my voice already breaking. He hesitated, then said quietly, “There is no heartbeat.”

Time stopped.

No heartbeat? At 38 weeks? Just six days ago, everything had been perfect. My baby had been alive, strong… kicking with a rhythm I had come to know so well. I could feel him, his tiny movements mapping themselves across my body, his presence alive beneath my skin. At times, he pressed so firmly against my protruding belly it was as though he was leaving his fingerprints behind, stretching me from within. Other times, he moved with sudden bursts of energy, like a little boxer possessed by some unseen force, jabbing and rolling, reminding me he was there… reminding me he was alive.

And now nothing. “How? Why? Are you sure?” The questions poured out of me, tumbling over each other in panic, desperate for an answer that would undo what I had just heard. But there was no undoing. Only a stillness that grew heavier with every passing second.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “Sometimes it happens… it could be cord complications.” Sometimes it happens. How could something so devastating be reduced to something so ordinary?

The joy that had filled me only moments before drained away, replaced by a hollow, unbearable silence. My living, kicking baby… now lifeless within me. And suddenly, the life I had carried with such love had become a danger to my own body, a “toxic” that needed to be removed.

That night, my husband arrived, breathless from his long journey from the Volta Region. He had carried excitement with him across the miles, eager to witness the birth of his child, to finally hold the life we had both waited for. He had planned it quietly, a surprise for his wife and son, a moment of joy he imagined would light up our world.

Instead, he was met with silence.

I heard his voice from the corridor, strained and trembling, as though each word had to fight its way out: “But… how is my wife?” Even in his grief, he thought of me.

All these months, he had spoken to our baby from afar through phone calls, through whispered promises, through hope. He had imagined the day he would finally see him, hold him, welcome him into his arms. Now, those dreams hung in the air, unfinished. The preparations had scattered, like pieces of a story that would never be completed.

And yet, somewhere deep within the wreckage of it all, a fragile thread remained, the hope not of finding what was lost, but of somehow learning to live with the emptiness it left behind.

I was induced. The pain that followed was unlike anything I had ever known. Labour is always painful but this… this was different. There was no answering movement from within, no silent partnership between mother and child. I pushed alone.

Every contraction felt heavier, emptier. And yet, I had to go on. At exactly 1:30 a.m. on that fateful Saturday, with my husband beside me, I delivered my baby.

A boy. He was beautiful. A demi-god to behold. Full of soft, dark hair. Perfect in every way… except for the stillness. His eyes remained shut, as though he had chosen sleep over the world. His tiny mouth was slightly open, as if reaching for a breath that never came.

He was born sleeping. The room fell into a quiet that no cry could fill. I looked at him, my son, my joy, my sorrow and wondered how something so perfect could arrive wrapped in such pain.

And even now, I ask myself…

How do I say it?

In the end, I have come to understand that some stories are not measured by how they begin or end, but by how they change us. Mine is a story of joy interrupted, of silence where there should have been a cry, of love that had nowhere to go… yet still remains.

I carried life. I delivered love. And though I did not bring a baby home, I brought back something else, strength I did not know I had, faith I did not know I would need, and a deeper understanding that even in loss, life continues.

My child was born sleeping… but his story awakened something in me that will never sleep again.

…..To be continued with THE BURDEN OF “HOW DO I SAY IT?”

By Augustine Opoku Agyemang

aoagyemang@gmail.com

The Cry of Triumph

2026-05-02T15:26:52.889-07:00

It was time to write the BECE. For Asamoah, it carried no grandeur or excitement, only duty. In his village, dreams rarely stretched beyond necessity. The exam itself was not written nearby; students trekked miles each day to reach the centre. The journey became part of the examination, long, tiring, and uncertain.

On their way, however, the hardship often softened. Sometimes they would stop in the middle of vast cocoa farms, laughter breaking through the morning stillness, as they chased rats darting between the cocoa pods. It turned the long walk into something strangely joyful, an unexpected adventure where fatigue gave way to excitement, and even hunger was briefly forgotten in the hope of a small, shared victory. The innocent approach to life in the village was as calm as a lake at the foot of a mountain.

In that world, the “best” student often became a teacher not out of ambition, but limitation. Asamoah had no clear vision then. Yet something about his life felt quietly guided. Before the BECE results even came out, his path had already been decided. School was not the route. He would go to the city to learn a trade.

In the city, Accra opened his eyes to a different reality. It was fast, loud, and full of possibilities he had never imagined. For the first time, he saw young men who read fluently, spoke confidently, and carried themselves with certainty. Something stirred within him, a silent awareness that education might be the key to another kind of life.

Then the results came. They were poor. And just like that, the thought of school was buried again.

He entered an apprenticeship, where survival became his daily education. From dawn till night, he ran errands, often rewarded with food only after long hours of service. He was hardworking and respectful, traits rarely seen in young men in the city. Life was routine, exhausting, and uncertain. Yet even in that rhythm, something in him refused to fully settle.

Through reflection and exposure, he began to see life more realistically. But his options were limited by background and circumstance.

Then life shifted sharply.

A message arrived from the village that his mother was seriously ill. He returned without hesitation. What followed were days of waiting, fear, and fragile hope. He cared for her with everything he had, refusing to accept the truth that slowly approached. Just when he believed recovery was near, she died.

His world collapsed. Dreams shattered, not just because of loss, but because everything he had hoped to build was tied to her future. He had wanted to give her a better life, a happy life. Now that dream had no direction. He needed to rewrite his entire script. Her passing left a silence heavier than grief itself.

After the funeral, his aunt brought him back to Accra. There, at yet another turning point, he was asked a simple question. Apprenticeship or school? Without hesitation, he chose school.

He sat for an entrance exam, feeling as though the weight of his entire life rested on that moment. It was a chance to redeem himself, to chart a new path, though it already felt like a tall order. He knew the outcome before it was announced. He failed.

The rejection was painful, almost final. Laughter followed him again, familiar voices reminding him of his limits.

“You? School?” they mocked. “You cannot even read.”

For a moment, their words nearly became his reality.

But something inside him resisted.

“I still want to go to school,” he insisted.

That persistence forced a reconsideration. Reluctantly, he was admitted into Basic 7, far below his age and expectations. It was a reset wrapped in shame and struggle.

The classroom became a battlefield. English was a wall he could not climb. Words refused to come. Speaking felt like exposure. Silence often felt safer. But he stayed. He listened when he could not speak. He tried when he could not succeed. He failed again and again.

Yet slowly, things began to shift. Words started making sense. Sentences formed. Confidence, once broken, began to rebuild itself in fragments. Then came the change no one expected and Asamoah rose.

The boy who once struggled with every lesson became one of the best in his class. Discipline replaced doubt. Effort replaced fear. Teachers noticed. Students watched in disbelief. He was no longer trying to survive school. He was mastering it.

When he sat for the BECE again, the weight of his journey pressed heavily on him, but this time, he was not the same boy who once chased rats in cocoa farms just to ease the journey home. He carried every struggle, every loss, every humiliation, and every lesson within him.

The wait for results felt endless. When they finally came, silence filled the space around him. He had passed. Not barely. Not by chance. But triumphantly.

And in that moment, everything broke open: the pain, the struggle, the rejection, the loss, and the long road that once seemed meaningless.

From it all came a sound that no hardship could silence.

A cry.

Not of defeat.

But of triumph.

By Augustine Opoku Agyemang
aoagyemang@gmail.com

DESTINY OF KOLOKI

2026-04-28T07:56:29.700-07:00

When Koloki arrived in the world, she did so ahead of schedule, as though she had glanced at the calendar in the womb and thought, “Deadlines are for the average.” The nurses whispered. The doctors frowned with professional enthusiasm. Machines blinked like confused bystanders at a roadside argument.

“It’s a miracle,” one doctor said.
“It’s a complication,” another corrected.
“It’s a billing opportunity,” the hospital accountant concluded quietly.

She was rushed to N.I.C.U. a place where hope beeped in intervals, and every breath had a supervisor.

Her parents, caught between terror and hope, watched this tiny, determined creature glare back at the world with what could only be described as administrative disapproval. Koloki did not cry much. She observed. And in a society where babies were expected to cry first and think later, this was already suspicious.

From the beginning, Koloki was labelled, not named. Premature. Fragile. Special case. Prayer point. Community project.

Relatives arrived in shifts, each armed with a theory. “It is spiritual,” declared Auntie Baaba, who had once fasted for three days and, since then, considered herself a consultant between heaven and earth. “No, no, it is medical,” said Uncle Kwaku, who had watched half a documentary on neonatal care. “It is hereditary,” added a distant cousin, hoping to sound useful.

Koloki, barely the size of a loaf of bread, listened. If she could speak, she might have said, “You people are doing a group assignment with no coordination.” But she didn’t speak. She grew.

Against expectation, against prediction, and occasionally against medical advice, Koloki survived. Not only did she survive, but she flourished. Her cheeks filled out. Her eyes sparkled. She developed a smile so disarming it could cancel arguments mid-sentence.

Soon, the same society that had prepared condolence messages began preparing nicknames.

“She is a fighter!”
“She is chosen!”
“She is not ordinary!”

Koloki, now toddling, accepted all titles with the calm indifference of someone who had not applied for any of them. The midwives adored her, and she, in return, rewarded them with the only currency that mattered: gossip. Even at three, she had mastered the art of listening more than speaking, which made adults uncomfortable.

Yet her “special condition”, a vague phrase that expanded and contracted depending on who was speaking, followed her like a loyal but misunderstood dog. Doctors described it in careful English. Elders translated it into confident proverbs. Social media reduced it to dramatic captions.

Then she began school. At school, Koloki became a legend before she became a pupil.

“That’s the girl who almost didn’t make it.”
“That’s the miracle child.”
“That’s the one with… you know.”

Nobody knew.

Her teachers treated her like a delicate experiment. If she answered a question correctly, it was inspirational. If she got it wrong, it was understandable. Koloki quickly realised that expectations were negotiable and society preferred a good story to an accurate one. So she gave them stories when it suited her, and silence when it didn’t.

Years passed. Koloki grew into a striking woman, her presence impossible to ignore. She became a teacher in her community calm, articulate, and inconveniently intelligent. She taught children how to ask questions, a skill the society around her had carefully avoided developing.

But destiny, as narrated by others, refused to retire. Her beauty attracted many suitors. Her story attracted even more. Men admired her. Some adored her. A few even loved her quietly, cautiously, and always with a family meeting pending. Because admiration, it turned out, was cheaper than acceptance.

“She is wonderful,” one man would say.
“Yes, but…” his mother would reply, summoning generations of suspicion into a single syllable.

That but carried weight. It carried rumours. It carried unverified family histories. It carried the community’s favourite pastime: confident ignorance.

“They say children from that family…”
“I heard there is something…”
“It is better to be careful…”

Careful of what, nobody could explain. But caution, like tradition, did not require evidence, only repetition. And so Koloki became a paradox. Good enough to desire. Not safe enough to marry.

Men pursued her in private and abandoned her in public. They wrote her poetry in whispers and rejection in daylight. To them, she was a miracle worth experiencing but not a risk worth explaining to their families. Koloki noticed. Of course, she noticed.

One evening, after yet another polite rejection wrapped in cultural concern, she asked a suitor a simple question: “Tell me, is my condition contagious or is it your courage that is limited?” He did not answer. Society rarely does when confronted directly.

In time, Koloki stopped auditioning for acceptance. She focused instead on her work, her students, and her own understanding of a world that preferred myths over people. The same community that once called her “chosen” now watched her closely, waiting for either a wedding or a warning, whichever came first.

Koloki, however, had outgrown their script. Her destiny, she realised, was not in proving them wrong. It was in refusing to perform to their expectations at all.

And somewhere between miracle and misunderstanding, between admiration and avoidance, Koloki finally named herself something society had failed to do from the beginning.

Not special.
Not fragile.
Not a condition.

Just Koloki.

By Augustine Opoku Agyemang

aoagyemang@gmail.com

THE MAD WOMAN OF THE STORM

2026-04-21T02:40:00.000-07:00

The mad woman saw everything as if she were in a cinema. Scenes flickered before her eyes, past and present woven together like kente threads, but what she saw now was wrong. Sometimes she laughed, sometimes she wept, and often she spoke to people no one else could see.

But now, even in her wandering, she could feel it, the unease in the land. The entire village was shaken to its bones at the disdain with which the sacred symbol had been taken. It was not merely gold; it was the soul of the people, the living memory of their ancestors. Without it, the land itself felt hollow.

Word spread swiftly, carried on anxious tongues and fearful whispers. All the elders of the eight Akan clans were summoned: Aduana, Agona, Asakyiri, Asenie, Asona, Bretuo, Ekuona, and Oyoko. This was no ordinary matter; it was a crisis that touched the very roots of their identity.

The gong-gong beater, the town crier, had a busy day in the office. From dawn till dusk, his rhythmic call echoed through the village: “Yɛfrɛ mo! Yɛfrɛ mo! Let all who have ears hear! The elders summon you to the courtyard!”

The storm did not gather by chance. It crept in like a warning, the sky dimming, the wind whispering unrest as though the heavens had seen what the village had not yet understood.

Even the dark clouds gathering in the sky and the scary storm approaching did not deter them. One by one, wrapped in their cloths, leaning on carved staffs, the elders came. There was a loud silence in every household. Fires burned, but no one spoke above a whisper. Children sensed it too and clung to their mothers.

Across all generations, there was a thunderous murmuring, fear, speculation, and dread. Wednesday had come Dabone, Kɔda Pakuo, a day when the land itself was meant to rest. No digging, no disturbance of the earth. Yet now, it seemed the gods themselves were disturbed.

“The gods are angry,” the old woman whispered. Lightning tore across the sky. Thunder answered like drums of war. The clouds danced in fury, and the wind carried the scent of rain and warning.

The entire community prayed for mercy. At the shrine, the chief priest poured libation, his voice trembling as he called upon the ancestors: “Nananom, forgive your children. Show us where we have gone wrong.”

Yet the cowries spoke in riddles. And still, the mad woman roamed. She seemed not too bothered. After all, she was mad or so they believed. She danced in the rain as the first drops fell, her feet splashing in the red earth, her arms raised as though greeting the storm.

“They are watching the wrong part of the story!” she shouted, spinning. “Rewind it! Rewind it!” But no one listened. Later that evening, as the storm raged and the elders gathered under the great odum tree in the courtyard, the mad woman appeared again, soaked, but strangely composed.

“The film is not about strangers,” she said, her voice cutting through the storm. “It is about the one who knows the path to the shrine better than his own heartbeat.” The elders shifted uneasily. “The thief did not come from outside,” she said, her voice low but cutting through the charged air like a blade. “He sat among you. He greeted you. He poured libation with you.”

She paused, her eyes sweeping across the circle of elders, lingering as though reading secrets written on their foreheads.

“Sɛ aboa bɛka wo a, na ɛwɔ wo ntoma mu,” she intoned.

A hush fell, heavy, suffocating. “If the creature that will bite you comes,” she continued, “it is already hidden in your cloth.”

A gasp rippled through the gathering like wind through dry leaves.

“Speak clearly!” an elder barked, his staff striking the earth.

Slowly, deliberately, she raised her trembling hand and pointed toward the edge of the circle. Her finger trembled… lingered… and then settled.

“The goldsmith.”

The word fell like a stone into still water.

All eyes swung to Kwaku Badu of the Bretuo clan, the quiet craftsman whose hands coaxed beauty out of gold, whose silence had always been mistaken for humility.

Thunder cracked across the sky louder this time, more insistent, as though the heavens themselves demanded truth.

Kwaku staggered back, his face drained of colour. “It is a lie!” he cried, but his voice betrayed him, thin, fraying, already collapsing under its own weight.

The wind rose. The trees shuddered. The chief priest stepped forward, his presence firm as the earth beneath them. His voice carried the authority of ancestors.

“On Dabone,” he declared, “no lie stands before the gods.”

Another roll of thunder answered him.

“We will search.”

They went to his compound, rain soaking their cloths, lightning guiding their steps. Behind his hut, beneath the silk-cotton tree where the ground was forbidden to be disturbed, especially on such a sacred day, they dug.

And there it was. Wrapped in cloth. Hidden, yet gleaming. The sacred symbol. A cry rose not of relief, but of pain.

Kwaku fell to his knees, confessing as the rain washed his face. Greed had led him astray. He thought the sacred day would shield his actions, that no one would dare search the earth on Dabone. But the gods had seen.

And when the sacred symbol was found, the storm spent its fury and passed. The rain softened, washing the earth clean as though the land itself had been forgiven, as though truth had restored balance between the people and their gods.

The symbol was returned to the shrine before dawn. Libations were poured again, this time in gratitude. By morning, the storm had passed. The sky was clear, as though nothing had happened. But something had changed.

When the elders gathered once more, one question lingered. “And the mad woman?” They searched. She was gone. Some said she had walked into the forest at first light. Others claimed she was never mad at all, only chosen. She remained a mystery.

From that day, in that village, no voice was dismissed too quickly.

Sometimes, the one who dances in the storm is the only one who hears the gods clearly.

By Augustine Opoku Agyemang

aoagyemang@gmail.com

THE LAST RIDE FROM QUEENS HALL

2026-04-20T09:19:00.000-07:00

They poured out through the main gate in a rush of laughter and perfume, and I stood there, alert, eyes sharp, restless, hunting. Every movement, every curve, every glance captured and catalogued by the finest lenses I owned: my own restless gaze.

They shimmered under the lights, bold, radiant, dangerously beautiful. Fabrics clung, revealed, suggested. The night itself seemed brighter because of them. And yet, inside me, a storm brewed. My mind refused to stay still.

That one… not bad.
But…damnnnn…those curves…
And her… almost perfect. Almost. Just a little more…

My thoughts raced, reckless and unfiltered, chasing perfection as it owed me something.

After what felt like a thorough expedition, I reached a conclusion I wore like a badge of honour: Queens Hall, undisputed sanctuary of beauty. A discovery worthy of legend. I crowned myself, silently, the Great Archaeologist of Maidens. It amused me, even as a strange dissatisfaction lingered because one of them had slipped away.

Still, the night owed me nothing more… or so I thought. The parking lot had emptied into silence. Engines gone. Voices faded. It felt like the curtain call. I slid into my BMW, ready to surrender the night, when—

A hand, waving urgently and deliberately, halted everything in me.

I braked. She stepped forward, and everything in me stilled.

Even before she spoke, I knew this was different. Not just beauty. Something heavier. Magnetic.

I whispered a quiet, half-mocking prayer under my breath.
Heavenly Father… why tonight? Why now?

She leaned in slightly, exposing her cleavage.

And that was my undoing.

For a brief, dangerous second, reality loosened its grip on me. She wasn’t just striking, she was overwhelming. Effortless. Confident. The kind of presence that didn’t ask for attention it commanded it.

Before I could gather myself, she was already inside, claiming the front seat like it belonged to her. The air shifted. Warmer. Tighter.

I stole a glance, then another. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t shy away. If anything, her calm made it worse… or better.

Our eyes finally met. And something unspoken sparked, quick, electric, undeniable. Chemistry—raw and immediate.

Her voice, when it came, was soft but sure. It slipped into me, disarming, familiar in a way that made no sense.

I blinked. Hard. Was this real? The last time something like this happened… it had been a dream. One that lingered long after waking.

Now, sitting beside me, breathing the same air, it felt like that dream had found me again. Only this time, I wasn’t asleep.

Her voice settled into the car like a spell. “Are you going my way… or somewhere better?” she asked, a faint smile playing at the corner of her lips.

Better? The word echoed in my head like a dare. “I… I could,” I replied, my voice not quite my own. “Good,” she said, leaning back, completely at ease as if she had always belonged there.

I started the engine, but something felt… off.

The parking lot I had just accepted as empty now seemed endless. The lights stretched farther than they should. The silence was too thick. Even the hum of the engine sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else’s car.

“Where exactly are we going?” I asked.

She turned slowly, her eyes locking into mine, not soft this time, but intense… knowing. “Didn’t you say you were an explorer?” she whispered. “A discoverer of beauty?”

Stunned. Something about the way she said it wasn’t admiration. It was… accusation. I laughed nervously, trying to shake it off. “Just a joke.”

“Nothing about tonight is a joke,” she said. The temperature in the car dropped.

I blinked, and for a split second, just a flicker her reflection in the side mirror didn’t match the woman sitting beside me. It lingered a second too long… smiled a little too wide.

I snapped my head back to her. Normal again, or so it seemed.

“Drive,” she said softly. And I did without thinking twice.

The road ahead stretched into darkness, unfamiliar, even though I knew this campus like the back of my hand. Every turn felt wrong, yet I couldn’t stop. My hands gripped the steering wheel, but it no longer felt like I was in control.

Her presence grew heavier, closer, not touching but felt.

“You look at women like they’re things to be measured,” she murmured, almost gently. “Pieces to be judged. As if perfection is yours to define.”

My throat went dry. “I didn’t mean—”

“But you did,” she cut in, her voice still calm, still smooth… but colder now.

The car slowed on its own. The headlights flickered, then died. Thick darkness swallowed us. My heart pounded as I reached for the ignition but my hands wouldn’t move.

I was stuck. Trapped inside my own body.

Beside me, she shifted slightly. I could feel her presence more than see her now.

“You wanted an adventure,” she whispered, her voice no longer soft, now layered, echoing, almost… unreal. “This is what happens when desire loses its direction.” Lost my sense of reality as panic set in. “I… please, what’s happening?”

A soft laugh. Not cruel. Not kind. Just… inevitable.

“You forgot something,” she said. “The women you watch, judge, and desire… are human. Not fantasies built for your inspection.”

The darkness thickened. My thoughts spiralled. Every face I had scanned earlier rushed back, replayed, distorted, accusing.

“I didn’t—” I said, and she retorted, you did,” she said again. “And tonight, you don’t get to walk away so easily.” The air pressed in on me.

I tried to move. To speak. To wake up. Nothing.

This wasn’t just a moment. It was a loop. A trip I couldn’t escape.

Her final words came close to my ear, steady, final:

“Learn the difference between admiration… and objectification. Or the next time… you won’t come back at all.”

I woke up with a violent gasp. It was afternoon. Sunlight dimming. My car was parked exactly where I had started. Alone and no sign of her. No sign of anything. Just silence.

Then laughter in the distance. It was my friends arriving for our intended adventure. The night we had planned. I sat there longer than I should have, hands still tight on the wheel. Because now I understand something most never stop to think about: Not every adventure is worth taking.

And sometimes, the real trap isn’t who you meet in the night, but it’s who you become when you stop seeing clearly.

By Augustine Opoku Agyemang

aoagyemang@gmail.com

Okyeame Kwame returns with "Clap"

2026-04-13T01:33:00.000-07:00

Hiplife pioneer Okyeame Kwame returns with a fresh release, “Clap.” The award-winning artist, with over two decades in the industry, continues to defy the odds in a space where many rise overnight only to quickly fade away. Through persistence, reinvention, and creativity, he has maintained his relevance and influence across generations.

“Clap,” his latest offering, blends smooth reggae rhythms with polished vocals, delivering a timely message about celebrating the successes of others—regardless of their status or personal circumstances. It’s both reflective and uplifting, underscoring the importance of unity and appreciation in today’s fast-paced world.

Listen to the latest from the legend here: https://yve.lks.to/OkyeameKwame

By Augustine Opoku Agyemang

aoagyemang@gmail.com

A New Restlessness

2026-03-12T01:44:00.000-07:00

The food had gone cold, though neither of them had noticed when it happened.

Adwoa sat across the small dining table, one elbow resting lightly on its wooden edge, her fingers circling the rim of her glass. The ceiling fan turned lazily above them, stirring the warm evening air just enough to move the loose strands of hair along her neck.

Outside, children chased one another along the corridor of the apartment block, their laughter spilling through the open window like careless music.

Inside, the room held a different kind of quiet.

She had been watching him for several minutes.

At first she thought he was simply tired. Work often followed him home in fragments, half-finished thoughts, unresolved conversations, invisible deadlines clinging to his shoulders. But tonight something else lingered around him.

Joojo sat still, his fork resting untouched against his plate. His eyes were not on the food, nor on her, but somewhere further away, some interior distance she had come to recognise.

Adwoa leaned back slightly in her chair.

The faint light from the window traced the gentle curve of her shoulder. Above them, the ceiling fan turned lazily, stirring the thin fabric of her dress so it drifted lightly against her skin. In the shifting glow, the material revealed more than it concealed, the confidence of a body he had known for years, familiar yet never entirely ordinary.

Her breathing rose and fell slowly.

She let the silence stretch between them, unhurried, curious how long it would take him to notice the quiet invitation she had placed in the room.

At first he didn’t.

Joojo remained still, his fork resting against his plate, his thoughts wandering somewhere far beyond the small apartment. But then his eyes lifted. They settled on her.

For a moment, whatever hill he had been climbing inside his mind disappeared. His gaze lingered, taking in the movement of the fabric, the calm patience in her posture, the small knowing smile forming at the corner of her lips.

Something warm flickered across his face.

A memory, perhaps. Or a temptation.

Adwoa said nothing. She only held his gaze.

The children’s laughter outside spilled briefly through the corridor again, breaking the quiet like a passing breeze.

Joojo exhaled and shook his head slightly, as if pulling himself back from a pleasant distraction.

“You are visiting the hill,” she said softly, her voice calm but teasing, “without leaving the house.”

He blinked, startled by the accuracy.

Then he smiled faintly.

“Am I that obvious?”

“To me?” she replied.

“Always.”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the window where the city lights blinked like distant signals. “Do you remember what I told the stars?” he asked quietly. “That if my star was among them, tomorrow should be better?”

“Yes,” she replied without hesitation. He nodded slowly. “Tomorrow has been better,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “We have light. We have stability. I am respected at work. Our names are spoken without pity.” He paused.

“But better is not the same as fulfilled.” The word lingered between them. Fulfilled. It carried weight more dangerous than poverty, more unsettling than failure. Adwoa leaned forward, folding her hands on the table. Her voice softened. “What are you afraid of?”

He exhaled, long and deliberate, as though releasing a truth he had been holding too tightly. “I am afraid,” he admitted, “that I have mistaken progress for purpose.”

She did not interrupt. “I edit other people’s dreams,” he continued. “I polish their voices. I help them find clarity. I sit in meetings defending their originality. And when their books succeed, I celebrate with them.” His gaze dropped to his hands. “But mine… mine remains a whisper.”

The vulnerability in his voice was unfamiliar now. It carried no shame, only longing. “I thought,” he said, “that once I published my own book, the restlessness would disappear. That I would feel complete. But that book feels like a beginning I have not continued.”

Adwoa reached for his hand again, just as she had done in the early days when coins were scarce and fear was abundant. Her touch had not changed. “Then stop whispering,” she said gently. He looked up at her. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not? Because whispers are safe,” he replied. “Whispers do not threaten comfort. They do not risk embarrassment. They do not demand sacrifice.”He stood and walked toward the window. The city stretched beneath him steady, electric, indifferent. “When we were struggling,” he continued, “I had nothing to lose. Writing was survival. Dreaming was rebellion. Now… now I have something to protect.”

“Our peace?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Our comfort?”

“Yes.”

“Our reputation?”

He hesitated. “Yes.” Adwoa rose and joined him at the window. “Do you remember,” she said softly, “when you stood outside that clinic with empty pockets?” He nodded. “You were afraid then too.”

“That was different,” he said. “That was desperation.”

“And this?” she asked.

He searched for the word. “Exposure.” She studied him carefully. “You are not afraid of failing,” she said. “You are afraid of being seen trying.” Her words struck with gentle accuracy. He had spent years becoming competent, respected, dependable. To begin again to risk inadequacy in public felt like undoing that stability.

“I have built credibility,” he murmured. “What if I lose it chasing something uncertain?” Adwoa smiled faintly. “You once told me that trials introduce you to yourself. Perhaps this is another introduction.” He turned to her. “You are asking me to disrupt what we have built.”

“I am asking you to be honest about what is building inside you.” Silence filled the room again, but it was no longer heavy. It was clarifying. He realised then that his restlessness was not dissatisfaction. It was an invitation.

An invitation to stretch again. To risk again. To grow beyond competence into calling. He walked back to the table and sat down slowly. “When I mentor young writers,” he said, “I tell them not to dilute their voices for approval. I tell them the world does not need another echo.”

He looked at her, something steady returning to his eyes. “And yet I have become careful. Strategic. Measured.”

“There is wisdom in that,” she replied. “Yes,” he agreed. “But there is also fear.” He leaned forward now.

“I do not want to wake up ten years from now as a man who helped others shine but never dared to burn.”

Adwoa’s hand tightened around his. “Then burn,” she said simply. The word startled him. Not shine. Burn. It implied intensity. Risk. Consumption.

He felt something stir an old fire he had quieted in the name of stability.

“What if it fails?” he asked softly.

She smiled. “Then we will survive it. We have survived worse.”

The simplicity of that truth humbled him.

They had endured hunger. Illness. Rejection. Uncertainty. Pride swallowed in public. Comfort had not made them strong. Trials had.

He rose slowly, as if responding to a silent summons. “I think,” he said, “that the hill was never about stars.” Adwoa tilted her head.

“It was about perspective. I kept looking up for permission. Maybe I should be looking inward for responsibility.” He walked toward his desk.

The laptop waited. The blank page waited.

This time, he did not stare at it in hesitation. He began to type. Not cautiously. Not strategically. But honestly. And as the first paragraph formed, uneven but alive, he understood.

Restlessness is not the enemy of peace. It is the evidence of growth demanding expression.

By Augustine Opoku Agyemang

aoagyemang@gmail.com

JooJo: The Season of Growth

2026-03-07T05:41:00.000-08:00

Time, like the patient sculptor Joojo often spoke about, continued its quiet labour upon him, rubbing against his impatience, sanding down his pride, refining his instincts. It did not announce its work. It simply persisted.

At the publishing firm, his evolution was gradual but undeniable. What began as line edits and margin corrections became deeper involvement, structural revisions, author consultations, delicate negotiations between creativity and market reality. Soon, he was no longer merely correcting grammar; he was shaping voices.

His title changed: Commissioning Assistant. It sounded modest. But to Joojo, it felt like stewardship.

He began noticing things others overlooked. A metaphor buried beneath clumsy syntax. A powerful grandmother character hidden in an otherwise uneven manuscript. A village story dismissed for lacking “global appeal.” He had learned, through his own scars, that what the world calls small is often simply unheard.

“Too local,” senior editors would say. “Too emotional, not commercially viable.”

Joojo would nod respectfully, then return to his desk and read the manuscript again. He would call the writer in, sit across from them, and ask questions no one had asked him when he was beginning:

“What are you really trying to say?”

“Where did this story begin for you?”

“Who told you this voice wasn’t enough?”

Under his guidance, hesitant manuscripts gained spine. Rough drafts matured into confident narratives. And when a few of those once-dismissed stories found unexpected readership, the firm began to notice a pattern.

Joojo had an eye. No, he had memory. He remembered rejection. He remembered invisibility. And so he could see what others missed.

With recognition came reward. His salary improved incrementally, then meaningfully. The strain that once defined every grocery purchase softened. Meals became fuller not extravagant, but sufficient. Fresh fish replaced sardines some weeks. Meat was no longer a festival event.

The kerosene lamp—once a symbol of persistence was retired. Electricity flowed steadily through their new apartment, casting a reliable glow across cream-painted walls. The dilapidated wooden structure at the city’s edge was exchanged for a modest two-bedroom flat in a busier neighborhood. The roof no longer rattled with every ambitious wind.

Adwoa decorated the sitting room with simple curtains and framed a copy of his book’s first print page. She laughed more easily now. Her steps carried less fatigue.

Visitors began to use new words when describing Joojo.

“Established.”

“Promising.”

“Respected.”

These words sat comfortably on the outside of his life. But comfort, Joojo discovered, is a gentle anesthetic. At first, he welcomed it gratefully. After years of uncertainty, stability felt like mercy. He could plan months ahead. He could save modestly. He could walk into a room without calculating escape routes in his mind. Yet sometimes, late at night, he would wake abruptly. Not from nightmares of unpaid rent. Not from fear of illness, but from a strange, persistent unease.

He would sit upright in bed, the hum of the ceiling fan steady above him, and stare into the darkness that no longer felt hostile but questioning.

Adwoa would stir beside him. “What is it?” she would murmur. “Nothing,” he would reply. But it was not nothing. It was purpose tapping gently at the window of his spirit. By day, he helped other writers birth their stories. He celebrated their launches. He clapped during their readings. He negotiated their contracts. He championed their voices in meetings.

Yet his own manuscript, the one that had once poured from him like urgent rain, sat untouched on his laptop. Ideas visited him, then left unattended. Sentences formed in his mind during trotro rides, only to dissolve beneath deadlines and meetings.

He began to notice a pattern: he was busy, but not burning. Productive, but not pouring.

One evening, after returning from a celebratory dinner for a young author whose book had just won a regional prize, he stood by the window overlooking the city lights. The skyline shimmered in electric brilliance, so different from the scattered constellations he once studied from the hill.

Adwoa joined him. “You should be proud,” she said. “That was your discovery.” He nodded slowly. “I am.” But the word felt incomplete.

Pride without fullness. “Do you remember when we counted coins?” he asked quietly. She smiled faintly. “How could I forget?”

“I used to think that if I escaped that season, I would finally feel settled. That security would silence the questions.”

“And has it?” He hesitated. “No. The questions have changed.” He turned toward her, voice lower now.

“I was afraid of failing when I had nothing. Now I am afraid of settling when I have something.”

Adwoa studied him carefully. She had witnessed every version of this man: the ashamed graduate, the desperate husband, the determined editor, the published author. And now this one: The man confronting comfort.

“You are not restless because you lack,” she said gently. “You are restless because you have grown.” The words settled over him like quiet truth.

Growth had once meant survival. Then it meant stability. Now it meant alignment. That night, long after Adwoa had fallen asleep, Joojo opened his laptop. He did not begin writing. He simply stared at the blank document.

The cursor blinked steadily, patient, expectant. He realised then that poverty had tested his endurance. Success was testing his courage. It is difficult to dream when you are hungry. But it is equally difficult to risk when you are fed.

And somewhere within that realisation, Joojo understood: The Season of Growth was not about promotion or salary or relocation to a better neighbourhood. It was about a quieter question. Would he become comfortable polishing other people’s stars? Or would he dare to ignite his own again?

Outside, the city hummed in electric certainty.

Inside, a familiar wind began to rise.

By: Augustine Opoku Agyemang

aoagyemang@gmail.com

Chapter 4: Echoes from the Hill

2026-03-03T23:31:00.000-08:00

One Saturday morning, not long after his manuscript had begun finding readers, Joojo suggested they return to the hill, the sacred ground where his fears had once been louder than his faith. Adwoa agreed without hesitation. She understood that some places are not revisited for scenery, but for remembrance.

The climb felt different now. The same red earth clung to their sandals. The same thorny shrubs lined the path. Yet the weight in Joojo’s chest was lighter. Not absent, just matured. Below them, the city stretched in its familiar contradiction: ambition and exhaustion intertwined. Trotros rattled along dusty roads. Vendors arranged oranges in pyramids. Roofs of zinc and concrete shimmered under the rising sun.

“This place hasn’t changed,” Adwoa observed. “No,” Joojo replied. “But I have.” They reached the top.

The wind greeted them like an old confidant. For a moment, neither spoke. Silence here was not empty; it was layered—with memories of whispered prayers, quiet tears, and stubborn declarations of “Tomorrow.” Joojo finally turned to her.

“Do you remember what I whispered here that first night?” She smiled faintly. “Tomorrow.”

He nodded. “I was terrified that tomorrow would never arrive. That I would remain a footnote in other people’s stories. That my dreams would sink in a pool before reaching the ocean.” Adwoa’s laughter rose softly, carried by the wind. “But you kept swimming.” “Yes,” he said. “Though I did not always know how.”

He looked at the skyline the publishing office somewhere beyond those clustered buildings, the clinic that once threatened to take Adwoa from him, the narrow street where Kwame had reappeared like unexpected grace.

“Do you know what I have learned?” he asked. “That you talk too much when you become philosophical?” she teased. He chuckled, then grew serious. “I learned that trials are not interruptions. They are introductions. They introduce you to yourself.”

Adwoa studied him closely. “There was a time I believed survival was enough,” he continued. “But survival without growth is just prolonged fear. The hill did not change my circumstances. It changed my perspective. It taught me that darkness is not proof of abandonment. It is proof that something is waiting to shine.”

She slipped her hand into his. “And what is shining now?” she asked gently.

Joojo paused. “Not wealth. Not fame. But clarity. I no longer envy the stars. I understand them.” A young boy climbed past them then, breathless, determined. He stopped a few meters away, staring at the city with the same defiance Joojo once carried. Joojo watched him carefully.

Years ago, he had measured himself against the skyline and found himself lacking. Now he understood that greatness was not measured by visibility, but by endurance. He approached the boy.

“First time here?” he asked. The boy nodded. “I wanted to see how big it is. To know what I’m fighting.” Joojo smiled. “It is big,” he said. “But so are you.”

The boy frowned slightly, uncertain. “The city tests you,” Joojo continued. “But it also reveals you. Don’t fear the broken paths. They are shaping your steps.” The boy nodded slowly, as if storing the words for a later season.

As Joojo returned to Adwoa’s side, she looked at him knowingly. “You have become what you once searched for.” He shook his head gently. “No. I have simply stopped running from who I am.”

They began their descent. The path downward felt symbolic, not a fall from triumph, but a return to responsibility. The hill was an inspiration. The city was an application.

Halfway down, Joojo stopped once more. “I used to think becoming a star meant escaping this place,” he said. “Now I see it differently. A star does not abandon the night. It belongs to it.”

Adwoa squeezed his hand. “Then we belong here.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Until we are called elsewhere.”

They stepped back onto the familiar road the noise, the dust, the negotiations of daily survival greeting them again.

But Joojo no longer walked as a man begging tomorrow to arrive. He walked as a man building it. The trials had not ended. They would never end. New manuscripts would fail. New risks would threaten comfort. New seasons would test faith. Yet something irreversible had occurred within him.

He was no longer afraid of the darkness. Because he understood now A star does not shine despite the night. It shines because it chooses to. And this time, as they left the hill behind, Joojo did not whisper “Tomorrow.” He carried it.

By Augustine Opoku Agyemang

aoagyemang@gmail.com

Chapter 3: Trials of the Broken Path

2026-03-03T00:10:00.000-08:00

Weeks passed.

Joojo edited tirelessly. By day, he sifted through manuscripts in the modest office of the publishing firm, correcting grammar, shaping narratives, and coaxing raw talent into coherence. By night, he sat under the dim light of a kerosene lamp at home, revising drafts and reviewing submissions he had memorised from memory. Sometimes he fell asleep on his chair, the pen still clutched in his hand, ink smudged across his fingers.

The pay was small, barely enough to cover rent and food, but it was something. Every coin he brought home felt like a medal won in battle, each one a small victory over the past months of hopeless waiting.

And yet, life has a way of testing the most fragile victories.

One humid afternoon, Adwoa fell ill. At first, it was a mild fever, which she waved off with her characteristic resilience. But by evening, her condition worsened. Her forehead burned against his palm, her breaths shallow and rapid. Joojo’s stomach knotted with fear.

The clinic demanded payment upfront exactly as expected. Joojo emptied their savings. Every cedi, every coin he had hoarded for emergencies, gone. But it was still not enough. He stood outside the clinic that evening, the evening sky heavy with clouds and the distant hum of the city traffic, and felt the old darkness return.

“This is how it begins,” he muttered bitterly, his voice almost lost in the roar of passing trotros. “You swim in the ocean and drown in a pool.” He felt the same helplessness he had known when unemployment had first stalked him, when every rejection letter felt like a hammer striking his ribs. Despair, he realized, could wear the same face no matter the season. But just as the grip of hopelessness threatened to suffocate him, a familiar voice called his name.

“Joojo? Is that you?”

He turned. A man approached, tall and confident, dressed in a crisp shirt and trousers that spoke of steady work and comfortable life. It was Kwame his old university friend, once inseparable, now a distant success story whose laughter he remembered in lecture halls, whose ideas once seemed inseparable from his own.

For a moment, Joojo froze. Pride rose, stiff and stubborn. He did not want to beg. He did not want charity. Kwame studied him, eyes narrowing as he took in Joojo’s unshaven face, the worn shoes, the manuscripts tucked under his arm. Then, as though reading the years behind those tired eyes, he reached into his bag and handed Joojo a stack of bills.

Without ceremony or question, he said, “Pay me back when your star becomes visible.”

Joojo’s pride resisted. The words echoed in his mind: When your star becomes visible. He had whispered to stars on the hill, prayed under zinc roofs, imagined futures where he would rise. He had promised himself he would never bow to anyone, never owe anyone.

But Adwoa’s life mattered more than pride. He swallowed, his throat tight, and accepted the money. “Thank you,” he whispered, barely audible. Kwame clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t just thank me. Make it count.”

As Kwame walked away, leaving him under the flickering streetlights, Joojo felt a mix of shame and relief, humility and gratitude. The darkness had not won, not yet. But the fight, he realised, was far from over.

He carried the money, heavy not just with value, but with responsibility. Each step toward home felt like a promise: a promise to Adwoa, to himself, to the stars he had once counted, that no matter the trials, they would endure.

That night, as he returned to the tiny, rattling house, he sat beside Adwoa, placing the money in her hand, and whispered, “We’ll be alright.” Her eyes shone with trust he could not earn in a single day, and for the first time in weeks, Joojo believed it might be true. Because sometimes, even when the world tests you, help comes from unexpected hands and courage is simply choosing to rise anyway.

The night air inside their tiny home was heavy with the lingering scent of Adwoa’s medicine and the faint aroma of rice that had cooled untouched. Joojo sat beside her, counting the coins that Kwame had handed him, turning them over in his fingers as if they were the weights of fate itself.

Adwoa reached over, touching his hand. “You worry too much,” she said softly. “I am getting better. You’ve already fought half the battle.” Joojo shook his head. “It’s not enough to survive, Adwoa. I want us to thrive. Not just to make it another day, but to matter. To be remembered for more than struggle.” Her eyes widened slightly. “And you think that’s too much?” “No,” he admitted. “It just feels impossible sometimes.”

The following morning, he returned to the publishing firm with renewed resolve. The manuscripts Kwame’s gift had allowed him to save from unpaid bills now rested in his bag. Each one was a potential story but more than that, they were proof that he could endure, that he could shape something meaningful out of fragments.

He handed them to the manager, who looked at him with the same measured scepticism as before.

“Good,” the man said. “I see effort. Keep this up, and you’ll have a permanent role here. But know this: you will be tested further. Talent alone doesn’t survive hardship.”

Joojo nodded, feeling a strange warmth in his chest. He remembered Ama Ata Aidoo’s heroines, women who bore burdens heavier than theirs yet refused to be erased. And he thought of Ayi Kwei Armah, whose words were carved from the darkness of corruption and despair. Perhaps this, he realised, was his own story being written not in ink alone, but in resilience.

Weeks turned into months. Joojo’s skill at editing sharpened. He began to notice the flaws in the manuscripts immediately, correcting the writers’ hesitations, smoothing their sentences, guiding their voices. Each manuscript that left his desk carried a touch of his dedication.

The pay remained modest, but now he could afford small luxuries: fresh tomatoes for stew, a new kerosene lamp that didn’t flicker, even a small fan for the relentless Ghanaian heat. Each addition to their home felt like a quiet celebration, though no one would call it a triumph yet.

More importantly, Adwoa’s health stabilised. Her laughter returned, filling the home with warmth that even the tin roof could not contain. Nights were spent talking about dreams, not worries. She would prod him to read aloud the sections he had edited, and he would listen to her critique with humility and joy. Their shared struggle had transformed into a shared purpose.

By Augustine Opoku Agyemang

Chapter 2: Joojo and the Weight of Tomorrow

2026-03-02T07:50:00.000-08:00

The next morning, Joojo rose before dawn.

The sky above the city was still a deep indigo, the kind that reminded him of lines from Kofi Awoonor where sorrow and hope often shared the same breath. For a moment, he lay still beside Adwoa, listening to the quiet rhythm of her sleep. The roof was calm. The wind had withdrawn its complaints.

Something inside him had shifted.

Hope had not solved his problems but it had rearranged his courage.

He rose gently and reached for his only well-ironed shirt. The collar was slightly frayed, but he had pressed it carefully the night before, smoothing each crease as if preparing armor for battle. Today was not just another day of wandering. He had heard of an opening at a small publishing firm in the city.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t multinational. But it dealt in stories. And stories were the only wealth he truly understood.

As he washed from a basin of cold water, he remembered how, in university, he had once recited passages from Ayi Kwei Armah with conviction especially from The Beautiful Ones Are Not Yet Born. He used to argue that corruption was not only political but spiritual. Now he wondered whether unemployment could also corrupt a man’s confidence the same way.

Behind him, Adwoa stirred. “You’re leaving before the sun,” she murmured. “I want to arrive before excuses,” he replied softly. She smiled. “Then go.”

The streets were waking when he stepped out. Traders arranged tomatoes in red pyramids and displayed in various items. A trotro conductor shouted destinations with rhythmic urgency. The scent of koose frying in hot oil drifted into the air.

Joojo walked steadily. He passed a bookstore he used to visit during his student days. In the display window were novels by Ama Ata Aidoo, her bold explorations of love and independence staring back at him. He remembered reading Changes and debating whether modern marriage could survive economic imbalance. Now he was living that debate.

Further down the road, he noticed a poster announcing a literary event featuring emerging Ghanaian writers. Names he did not recognise. Voices he had not yet read. “Perhaps,” he thought, “I am not the only one waiting to be discovered.”

Near a busy intersection, he saw two former classmates stepping out of a sleek car. Their laughter was easy. Their suits expensive. One of them had once struggled to analyze Efua Sutherland’s plays in class. Now he spoke confidently into a smartphone, discussing contracts.

For a fleeting moment, Joojo’s steps slowed. University had once leveled them all. Life had not. But he kept walking.

The publishing firm occupied the second floor of an old commercial building near the central market. The signboard was modest, the paint slightly faded. It was not the kind of place that boasted glass elevators or polished marble floors. But through its open windows came the smell of paper, dust, and ink. That smell steadied him.

Inside, the receptionist looked up briefly and handed him a form to fill out. He wrote carefully, his handwriting neat from years of copying lecture notes and passages from Prof. Martin Owusu and other contemporary Ghanaian writers he admired.

He took a seat. An hour passed. He watched staff members move in and out of offices carrying stacks of manuscripts. He wondered about the unseen labor behind every published book the invisible hands that shaped sentences before they met the world.

Finally, a door opened. “Mr. Joojo?” He stood immediately and entered. The manager’s office was practical and uncluttered. Manuscripts were stacked high, some tied with twine. A framed photograph of a literary conference hung on the wall.

“You studied literature?” the manager asked skeptically. “Yes, sir.”

“University graduate?” “Yes, sir.”

“And you’ve been unemployed for how long?”

The question was sharp but not unkind. Joojo paused. Shame flickered but did not settle. “Long enough to know I don’t want to be any longer.” The manager leaned back, studying him as though he were a paragraph that required editing.

“Many graduates love to quote,” the man said. “Very few know how to refine.” He reached for a pile of manuscripts and dropped them onto the desk with a heavy thud.

“These are submissions. Some are promising. Some are confused. If you can identify the difference and improve what can be improved, we will talk.” He slid the stack across the table.

“Edit these. Cut mercilessly where necessary. Respect the writer, but protect the reader.”

Joojo looked down at the manuscripts. Stories waiting to be sharpened. Voices waiting to be heard. Perhaps the next Awoonor. Perhaps the next Aidoo. Perhaps someone entirely new.

His fingers trembled not from fear, but from possibility. He gathered the papers carefully. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

As he stepped back into the busy corridor, the building felt different. Not because it had changed but because he had. For years, he had admired great Ghanaian writers who turned struggle into literature. Today, for the first time, he felt that perhaps his own struggle was not a detour from purpose. Perhaps it was preparation.

Outside, the sun had risen fully over the city. And Joojo walked home not as a man begging for opportunity, but as a man carrying it in his arms.

By: Augustine Opoku Agyemang

Chapter 1 - JOOJO’S Home: The Dowry of Determination

2026-02-27T06:38:00.000-08:00

The wind on the hill grew colder, brushing against Joojo’s cheeks as if nature itself was urging him to rise. He took one last look at the scattered diamonds in the sky and whispered, “Tomorrow.”

Then he descended.

The path down the hill was uneven, scattered with loose stones and stubborn weeds that clung to the soil like unresolved worries. The city lights blinked in the distance, bright, indifferent, alive. Somewhere beyond those lights, people were laughing over warm dinners, arguing over television programs, planning vacations. Somewhere, life was generous.

Joojo adjusted his worn sandals and kept walking.

The “house” stood at the edge of the city like an afterthought. Its wooden frame leaned slightly to one side, as though exhausted from standing too long. The zinc roof rattled at the mercy of every ambitious wind, composing a restless symphony each night. The door creaked when pushed, protesting like an old man disturbed from sleep.

Yet inside that fragile shell lived something sturdier than concrete love.

Adwoa sat on a low stool, her back resting against the wall. A kerosene lamp flickered beside her, casting gentle shadows that danced across her face. She was humming an old hymn her mother used to sing while cooking. The room smelled faintly of boiled rice and salted fish.

She looked up as he entered. “You’ve gone to count your friends again?” she teased gently. Joojo forced a smile and closed the door behind him. “They’re too many tonight. I couldn’t finish.”

She studied his face carefully. Marriage had given her the ability to read his silence. The tightness in his jaw. The way his shoulders sagged before he spoke. The way his eyes avoided hers when disappointment was heavy.

“The hill didn’t betray you, did it?” she asked softly.

He walked over and sat beside her on the thin mattress they used as both bed and couch. “No,” he replied. “It reminded me that stars only shine when it is dark.”

Adwoa reached for his hand. Her fingers were warm despite the chill that slipped through the cracks in the walls. “Then shine, Joojo.” Her faith unsettled him. It was too pure for the harsh arithmetic of life. Too fearless for unpaid rent. Too hopeful for an empty pantry.

He pulled her closer, resting his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For what?” “For bringing you here. For this life. For the hunger you pretend not to feel.”

She leaned back slightly, searching his face as though he had spoken a foreign language. “Is that what you think?” she asked. He looked away.

Earlier that day, he had walked from office to office with his folder of certificates tucked neatly under his arm. University transcripts. Recommendation letters. Awards. All the proof that he had once been promising. All the evidence that he had once been admired.

At each reception desk, the story had been the same. “We’ll call you.” But they never did.

Meanwhile, Adwoa raised in comfort, accustomed to tiled floors and steady electricity now fetched water from a communal tap and washed clothes by hand. She smiled through it. She joked through it. She loved through it. And that frightened him more than poverty itself.

She laughed softly now, the kind of laugh that humbles despair. “I married a man, not a mansion.” Joojo’s throat tightened. “You had options,” he insisted. “Men with cars. Men with secure jobs. Men whose mothers would never question your choice.”

“Yes,” she agreed calmly. “And you chose this.” He gestured around the room—the cracked wall, the patched roof, the single pot in the corner. “No,” she corrected gently. “I chose you.”

Silence settled between them, but it was not empty. It was thoughtful.

The wind rattled the roof again. Adwoa stood and walked to the small cooking area. She uncovered a pot and served the rice into two enamel bowls. The portion was modest. She handed one to him.

“Eat,” she said. He hesitated. “Have you eaten?” She raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like someone who hasn’t?” He almost smiled. Almost.

They ate slowly. Each mouthful measured. Outside, a stray dog barked. A baby cried in a neighbouring room. Somewhere, a radio played a highlife tune that faded in and out like a tired memory.

Halfway through the meal, Joojo set his bowl down.

“Today, one of the managers didn’t even look at my certificates,” he said quietly. “He just looked at my shoes.” Adwoa swallowed before answering. “And what did your shoes say?”

“That I cannot afford polish.” She shook her head. “No. They said you walked there instead of sitting idle.” He looked at her, startled by the firmness in her voice. “Joojo,” she continued, “do you know why I am not afraid?” He waited. “Because I have seen you at your lowest, and you still speak of tomorrow.”

The word lingered in the air between them.

Tomorrow.

He had whispered it to the stars barely an hour ago. “What if tomorrow delays?” he asked. “Then we wait,” she replied simply. “Together.” Her certainty felt reckless. But it also felt anchoring.

The lamp flickered violently as the kerosene thinned. The shadows on the wall stretched longer. Joojo rose and stepped outside briefly. The night was deep, but the sky was clear. He could still see a handful of stars from where he stood.

He thought of the men who measured worth by possessions. Of families who equated success with visible comfort. Of his own pride that had nearly crushed him under its weight. Then he thought of the woman inside who had traded certainty for companionship without complaint.

He returned indoors and closed the door gently. “Adwoa,” he said, his voice steadier now. “Yes?” “Tomorrow, I will go again.” “To count the stars?” she asked playfully. “To knock on doors.”

She nodded. “Good.” “And if they don’t open?” She blew out the lamp, plunging the room into darkness softened only by moonlight sneaking through the cracks. “Then we build our own door,” she said.

They lay side by side on the thin mattress. The cold crept in, but so did warmth, shared breath, shared resolve. In the dark, Joojo realised something he had not understood on the hill:

The stars did not shine to compete with the night. They shone because shining was their nature. Perhaps dignity was the same. Perhaps love was the same.

The roof rattled again, but this time it sounded less like complaint and more like applause. And in that dilapidated structure at the edge of the city, two people slept not defeated, not triumphant but determined.

Tomorrow would come. And when it did, Joojo would rise again.

By Augustine Opoku Agyemang

NIGHT AFTER ARRIVAL

2024-09-10T05:58:00.000-07:00

It was around 12:45 am. The welcoming silence of the night was good for slumber. The calm breeze slaps gently on the leaves, giving it a low whistling sound. In all this, I was enjoying my sleep when the shrewd voice of Spiky my dog barking woke me up. I said to myself “As usual this might be one of the dogs in the neighborhood trespassing”.

Meanwhile, the barking continued prompting me to look through my windows. Nothing odd was noticed. Well, the new environment has unusual forces around, I debated as I went back to bed.

I heard Spiky barking fiercely again so I decided to go out and check what was happening only to be greeted by a nice-looking gentleman in a kaftan. Still, before I could say jack, he pulled out a sharp knife and within a twinkle of an eye I had vanished into the hall and locked the door behind me. Screening thief! Thief!... Only to be woken up by my wife. That's when I realized it was a dream.

Funny enough, I realized that the neighbourhood had light except mine. I came out around 2:00 am, climbed to the rooftop with my dog and realized why she was barking. My electrical cables connecting to the house about three buildings away were dangling on the pole closer to my house. Thieves have removed it. That's about three coils of cables. My only prayer is that the good Lord forgives them and steers them onto the right path.

By: Augustine Opoku Agyemang

Tonight is for "THE CROWS"

2023-05-27T06:47:00.005-07:00

The much anticipated play "THE CROWS" in honor of the late Bill Marshall will be staged for the first time in so many years tonight on May 27, 2023. It promised to be one of the intriguing plays of our time, full of suspense, packed with conflict that mirrors events in our environment. Don't miss out!!!

Papa Kwasi Nduom outlines eight point criteria for selecting Presidential and Parliamentary candidates

2023-05-23T09:00:00.001-07:00

The renowned business magnate and a politician Dr. Papa Kwasi Nduom has outlined eight point criteria for selecting Presidential and Parliamentary candidates for the 2024 elections in Ghana. He believes that it is crucial at this stage to get things right. The candidates who eventually win the 2024 elections can either make the country great and strong or make the country and its people poorer.

According to Nduom, the electorate must take the following criteria into consideration to elect candidates who:

1. Will tolerate the opinions of other citizens and let them feel relevant in the governance process of the country.
2. Will work to amend the constitution to allow the citizens to elect their own Metropolitan, Municipal and District Chief Executives(MMDCEs); and also ensure that no one can serve as a minister of state and a member of parliament at the same time.
3. Will commit to completing projects started by previous administrations.
4. Will review the financial sector reforms including the restoration of the licenses which were wrongfully revoked.
5. Will ensure that Ghanaians take the commanding heights of the country’s financial sector which includes banking, investment management and insurance.
6. Will insist on the reduction of the size of government to 40 ministers.
7. Will support using the state’s purchasing power to promote and support indigenous businesses and also let Ghanaians take control of the country’s natural resources.
8. Will see to the compulsory education of all citizens from the kindergarten to high school.
I am waiting to hear from the presidential and parliamentary candidates; which ones of them support this agenda?

By Augustine Opoku Agyemang

aoagyemang@gmail.com

"FAR AWAY" BY ABIANA FT. FAMEYE

2023-05-19T11:39:00.004-07:00

” Far Away" is a beautiful highlife song by Abiana featuring Fameye. The award-winning Ghanaian musician is noted for her vocal dexterity and Far Away is one of her master piece that affirms this. Abiana emerged as the the Best Female Vocalist during the 2021 Vodafone Ghana Music Awards.

Far Away is a song that will not keep you far away from the promised love. A deep message of love reassuring ourselves that we will be there for each other. Abiana's soulful voice interspersed with Fameye's smooth verse blend perfectly together to create a beautiful piece of music. You can not miss the rhythmic features of an African song. Watch out for this track.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fp6Ph9ekKOg

By Augustine Opoku Agyemang

aoagyemang@gmail.com

HONOURING BILL MARSHALL BY EYRAM EVANS ADORKOR & ADJETEY ANANG OF NAFTI

2023-04-18T03:23:00.004-07:00

A playwright and director, Eyram Evans Adorkor, along with Adjetey Anang, an EMY award winner in Africa 2022 and a renowned actor, honours a long-serving NAFTI Director Bill Marshall. He was also a renowned author, an accomplished dramatist writing plays for radio and television, a novelist and an academician. This is a man who spearheaded the growth and development of creative minds in the film industry in the country.

From left Bill, Adjetey Anang & Adorkor

As filmmakers, dramatists, and Faculty members at the UniMAC-NAFTI Campus, Eyram Evans Adorkor and Adjetey Anang recognizes the enormous contribution the Late Bill Marshall made to the creative arts in Ghana and have decided to honour him by staging one of his plays, "The Crows".

About “The Crows”

Bill Marshall metaphorically uses the CROWS to symbolize the parochial interest of politicians and individuals in society who are ever ready to exploit the weak and the vulnerable. “If you see a crow first thing in the morning, sitting on top of your house crying in the morning like that, it means there is a danger”. The CROWS explore critical societal, cultural and political values. Rev. Ntiamoah returns from exile after seven years only to be greeted with scandals involving his family and another trusted family. Unfolding before his own eyes reveals a deep-seated ambition of political figures who pretend to be friends but deeply are the CROWS, patching on your roof and ready to devour you. On the other side of the coin, Rev. Ntiamoah’s wife leaves a sour taste in the mouth of her husband as she welcomes him home with a child for another man.

Adjetey Anang stars in this play honouring Bill Marshall, Xorlali Ofori-Parku, Reginald 'Spice' Ankrah, Catherine Elsie Amoah, Adwoa Anima, Dorcas Elorm Nimo, Augustine Enninful, and Michael Anaman are also featured.

The play opens to the public at the E.T. S Drama Studio-UG. Legon, on the 27th and 28th of May, 2023, between 6 p.m. and 8:30 p.m.

By Augustine Opoku Agyemang

aoagyemang@gmail.com

Akrobeto and some members of the Film Industry paid a courtesy call on the Minister of Education

2023-04-14T01:37:00.004-07:00

On Wednesday, April 12, 2023, a delegation from a cross section of the Film industry led by the renowned Actor Akwasi Boadi, popularly known as Akrobeto paid a courtesy call on the Minister of Education Hon. Dr. Yaw Osei Adutwum with the hope of contributing to the Education Transformation Agenda in Ghana.

The delegation also included Okyeame Kwame, Koo Ofori, Samuel Nyamekye of Miracle Films, Director Jones, as well as Mikky Osei Berko, who joined by Zoom.

The group expressed their willingness to contribute to the development of the education sector through films and promised to produce films that not only entertain but also educate the masses on various societal issues.

Hon. Dr. Yaw Osei Adutwum also took advantage to highlight the importance of using films as a tool for education and urged the film producers to ensure that the films they produce will tell the untold stories of Ghana and inspire greatness in children.

He reiterated the to need have all hands on deck approach in educating the next generation of our future leaders. "I believe with a collaborative effort between the movie industry and the education sector, we will transform and raise the nation through films".

By: Augustine Opoku Agyemang

aoagyemang@gmail.com