Good Chicken


Now the key to good chicken
Is spice
Collected in right proportions
Spread lusciously over the skin
Provoked with a tinge of lemon
Encased in firm wrapping
For as long as
That chicken will take

But good chicken
Still gotta be cooked
Take it over hot flames
Not too hot
Nobody likes singed chicken skin
Cook it good but not too long
Dry chicken is a bore
Keep it moist and luxurious

Now this recipe here
Age old and perfect
Keep to it
And you’ll love your chicken
Ever so soft and tasty
Don’t forget a tinge
We’ll a little more
Of salt

Fuck it good chicken
Is just what it is
Good and ready for unwrapping
Cook it right out of the pack
If it tastes like gutter
Then it wasn’t good
And no spice
Will bring that goodness back


Apologies to my colon

I apologise
For the late night spicy food
The hurriedly chewed
Caramelised almond nuts
The tomato skin
That missed the blender

I apologise
It’s not like this
Isn’t a mutually shared pain
Here sitting on tippy toes
Toes curled in
Hand massaging some
Semblance of sooth into you

I apologise
My fingers still burn lightly
From yesterday’s pepper
I can only imagine
What you’re going through
But these spices are unavoidable

I apologise
And you need to toughen up
I’ll still have the spice
But not so late a time
About the tomato skin
Who doesn’t love a good salad huh

I apologise
Tomorrow we’ll be back here
Sitting on tippy toes
Toes curled inwards
Spine twisted to abate pain
For just a moment
Then it’ll be over

Mr Kordiabɛ’s House (cont.)

Kordiabɛ took pride in managing his new home. He cleaned the gutters, cleared the weeds and swept everyday. Sometimes he sat under the ‘aluguntugun‘ tree wondering what will compel a man to abandon such a magnificent structure. But just for a minute or two. It is not his place to wonder at another man’s fooli – erm – sorry – decisons. It wasnt his place to wonder at another’s decisions.

He’d visited the welder a few days ago to get the estimate for a nice gate for the house. It’s not like he wants to lock someone’s house and keep oo. Like that hustler ‘borga‘ thought, the cheap bastard. Just that he’d planted foods that need protection from the wayward goats. He looked up at the electricity cables going into the next house and thought for a few seconds. He needs to find a way to illuminate his house. Darkness can be very deceptive. That is how that rat of a man sneaked into the bedroom downstairs one night. It took ‘sheer takashi‘ to get rid of him.

Right so cables it is. Nobody encroaches on a house with electricity supply. A few metres long and it will get him at least two lines out of his neighbour’s three. It’s not that he’s a power thief or anything o. But the hassle he will go through to get power directly from ECG is just too much. Afterall he’s a temporary occupant. No need amassing electricity bills for his ‘borga’ to come pay. They won’t even notice the tap. He will only use it for lights to fend off the rats in human form and maybe a radio. That’s all.

Mr Kordiabɛ’s House

He lived in a ‘shwɛ su mame’ partially completed house at Kasoa, Akweley junction. He was lucky this time. The ‘borga’ whose building he lived in this time had roofed the 5 bedroom house and even added sliding windows. Unlike his previous ‘borga’ who was quite the ungrateful bastard when he found him in his unroofed house.

All he’d done was save up some money for aluminum sheets and roofed a third of the building. That’s to the paranoid man’s benefit! And yet, he bamboozled his way into his own home with 3 macho men. All for frail Kordiabɛ; accusing him of encroachment, intent to confiscate, all sorts of hurtful words.

That hustler ‘borga’ should have been grateful he’d saved him cost of roofing a part of his unplastered house. But this new house is fine! See it’s not everyone who is a proper ‘borga’. There are ‘borgas’ and then there are ‘borgas’.

He walked around the house with his arms firmly clasped behind his back, chest out, inspecting everything. He’d planted some pepper, okra, tomato, yam, watermelon and a few other foods on the one plot left around the house. He nodded his head as he inspected the rest of the compound. Indeed there are ‘borgas’ and there are ‘borgas’.

This Is Nothing But Everything

When I haven’t written for a while
And I’m thinking of revamping
Maybe specialising
In something I’m passionate for

When writing just for the fun of it
Seemed like a chore
I hate chores
Unless it uplifts my spirit

When I start asking The Why
Why did the inspiration stop?
Maybe it wasn’t seen
Why I stopped seeing inspiration in life

So this is not a poem
This is not a story
This is me, reading through old work
Asking where is she?

So open up her eyes
That she will see again
Colours, laughter, anger
Sadness, clowning, air

That I’ll take a deep
Intake of life’s breath
That one draw inspires me
Puts that fire in my belly again