When the ordinances between the African bridge & heaven are violated

If it were my native, I’d call upon the breath of my father who art in his abode. I’d raise my hands to the whims of the winds, & say— “this is your son, in whom you’re well pleased. Let me be.” But this, in this, I cannot seem to re-write what I undoubtedly rephrased years ago. So, when I recall those memories, it’s like it all ended in tears or, maybe, I haven’t yet lived to see the reward of my beginning.

Like divinity has taught us in the holy books, there was an ascension. Whether or not the account was recorded in the East, is what I don’t know. Was there a bridge that connected those of righteous deeds to heaven & those of evil to hell? But I know, it’d be weird to think there was a bridge to climb up there—but, what if there was? Like in Papa’s tales during the cold evenings, how he manages to conjure very touching songs of praise & sometimes, even doom to the antagonists.

There’s this tale he told where he quoted a proverb that, “the one who breeds fowls never lacks eggs.” But now, I’ve broken my eggs trying to climb this African bridge, I guess. As you made it very clear how important it is to take it step by step, & keep the ordinances. & not be in haste—I kept those words, never flaunted them & hoped for someday, heaven, where you are. But today, I write a poem. One which tells us the bridge that connects an African hustle & heaven has ordinances—& I violated them; I broke its oath.

While I write this poem, I wouldn’t mind if I begin with Africa or heaven. All I know is there’s a bridge which is strong, but also, broken—London bridge has fallen down? When I climb & begin to feel like giving up, I find no spot to hook my eyes & so, I descend. & when I descend, I take the short root & gain ascendancy. But, the bridge isn’t a clear path to heaven. Or, maybe, I’m climbing on to nothing but just air; & missing the steps. If I’m not missing, then why do heaven’s gate keeper send me back? For anything, I thought I had heaps of eggs ready to be delivered to our nation—but, all are burst! One remains—the toil to hell. & when you come back to me, don’t tell me that’s what happens when the ordinances between the African bridge & heaven are violated.

blessed are the steadfast;
they shall be given a free pass to heaven—with no african bridge.

now. crawled if i could
i walked if i could. even danced & hopped.
in my own way,
i tried to take a step further, beyond these clouds
i climb with care. as there was humour
nothing but just air.

air that carries you nowhere
in those tales, father told them
with a chorus in the cold of our day
everlasting & sweet—
the golden bridge of ours has proven its real self
& maybe, i haven’t violated.

i haven’t yet seen the reward of my beginning.
so i’ll pray & pray. till there’s mercy
this is your son, in whom you’re well pleased.
& then, i’ll be.

Issue 2—Transit—Artmostterrific Publications

Hello Everyone,

As I narrated in my very last literary breakdown—my commitment, consistency and hardwork—off being regular and in content-wise, inconsistent on my blog that there are quite a few submissions I made elsewhere and committed to blog about them all when they’re finally published.

The wait is over! The much awaited Issue 2Transit—is live! And guess what, I’m featured in there! I’m so thrilled to announce the publication of two poems of mine in the 2nd Issue of the Artmostterrific.

Many thanks to Aremu Adebisi (Antagonist) & his team for accepting “When you reap what you sow, it’s accounted as faithfully yours” & “the voice that crawled under my left breast has left me in wonder,” and for putting such a great piece of work (Prose, Poem & Artwork) from undergrads all over the continent together, it’s a massive win for Africa & the world!

I’m recognized under the pseudonym—Kwabena Benyin—please, feel free to dive in & read me here.

Also, you get the opportunity to connect with about 29 pieces, from 29 incredible & brilliant writers all over the continent. You must really hop in there!

Thanks for the support & the check-ins.❤️


how a womb breaks into triple laughter

—a birth trilogy

when the first birth was called for summon
there was a solemn dirge crawling into earth.

the collision amongst blessed occupants;
hear the volumes of fracture
from a shameful womb.

hearts, twisted to pounce out in yellow blood.
then, all of a sudden, few maternal strengths—

swimming like an oligo-worm,
across the paths where are sighs meet.

the second birth reclaimed succession of the first.

now. solemn dirges swallowed in the fullness of earth.
a clash between the oligo head & the white shell—

we refuse to call it a kiss. because,
a shell leaves a worm’s tail to wallow in the mire;
revealing delicate secrets of one side.

blowing whims of sacred laughter. but, unheard.
heaven’s written this tale for the last rains.

on the third. there were ripples of laughter.

oligo surfaced with form & without void
a lineage. where a womb’s curse is uttered with hallelujah choruses.

this time, a womb sings laughter in triplets;

the first unsung, the second unheard,
—& the third breaks into a triple laughter.

the elegy

it’s a solemn trumpeting in the clouds

songs absent of the current waves around. gone are the deepest sorrows of a child

with an elegy condoned without a bit of apathy, her heartbeat beholds the echoes of a love-deed,

a child who mourns like an adult in uniformity

—taking a sole lead of the artful elegy

crafting and playing aloud in the hollows of a “fontomfrom”

at a capacity able to consume the native tongues; of our drum

a night perceived bright away with no wonder

one considered a myth in the diaries of the famous Aminata

sitting ajar in a vengeful feast—

with no amount of sleets to surrender a please

an absurd expense in an artful pattern

of which I refuse to take; an ease

beautiful choruses blown into flutes; let ’em

an unusual array in a churn devoid of a Salem

in accordance to the abyss of a natural elegy;

plaited on an artistic day

Who is Benyin?

Who is Benyin?
Benyin is the ever-young one,
he rubs love in tenderness
Magnificent in his good thoughts
His smiles are weaved in the arms of hearts
Benyin’s teeth spits out wells of happys and kinds


Who is Benyin?
Benyin is bright as a morning star
In the noon he says he’s splendorous in sorrows
But at nights he waits for the calm in patience
He says he is best;
because he is excellent in himself


Who is Benyin?
Benyin with meek voice, will give you tickles
When he sings, the wind and breeze submit in all glory
He stems a well collected conducts and character
In him is all roots of humbleness


Who is Benyin?
Benyin’s has big eyes which glows
as one nourished in an angel’s calabash
He is nurtured, well comported
He is interesting—
he will caress your laughter in ripples
this is Benyin


at the first of a tangible creation

While she was far off but luck’ ly born

untainted beneath a rocky song

Where sacred muses are often gone,

amidst the float of a huge evaporation

Desperately left far away in wonder;

where hopes are often a forlorn

Native voices brimming towards my heart

singing hallelujah choruses like a dirge

While she brings a pitied self unto surface

Down below the manger,

a deity search’ th a will to dominate

A golden folklore the world disdain

the roaring sound; a clarion call:

of the native “Oboadeɛ,” down across the mango lane

—declaring the nitty-gritties of

the mystical Salamatu

her little brother sees no harm in cold sin

A purity unto apathy from complete insanity;

then, —twilight befalls a queen’s diadem

a sane is absent of a stink in a sound degree;

A state you’d never know in this territory

The world hails the fall of a new deity:

they’re forgone the clutter ills of the ever first woman

Her neighborhood receives quite a good damnation

—a curse the might of a sea can’t fit; even

Salamatu was a mystical deity surfaced

box of triumph

when i looked with one eye,

i clashed without essence in eternity

triumph that exceeds the bitter seasons ever seen

our home faces the hollows of this thrilling part


mighty men of valour,

cause a wine within our bellies—

there’s a box roaming about the corners of triumph

gather feathers and bless us with a sigh of honey;

that blows across the tablets of our hearts


we’ve seen enough of the wicked audiences

can we now make the mouth of a filthy one sattle?

recall the exact same beautiful seasons,

without stains of concoctions about them?


let our wombs hold an appointment with a glorious month

an omen shall cause a shake in a sanctum

there shall be a flourish above the abnormal:

stains will be wiped—

with the potency of a little breathe


the box of triumph rest within these walls

but our houses are tilted,

to slip into the abyss of those old memories

but we deserve a new period as this;

to sing the heroes within and uplift a year


It sounds comfortable with every humour

To be raided along a beautifully written talk

A rhythmic breeze of quite a good rumour

Tell the wind, inform the mother of all omens

… that their lies resound as good as a flute


The tainted word has surfaced with eagerness

Our wails shall no longer be made of fear extremity

Enough of the dark moon with the groom

Your bride has mounted heavy lights upon wisdom

We take no passion in your wicked daring citation


You hold peace like common filth in your arms

Where you eschew your doom whiteness with nothing

The colour of the sun is disfigured in violence

A red colour holds enough fire to knock you out with prudence

Enough, enough of the politricking and let us our eternal oneness


You’ve made enough of the fairly foul tales

Now your grace has reach a peak

The hope of sweet scented petals

Allow holiness into the first place of birth

The young soul has suffered your poetry of politics


at the beginning there was a sound
in the deepest place of my heart

beholding first — a little thirst i expound
as i yearn wholly to be churned in parts

inner worms sing like choirs in holy psalms
heavy warm-breezes saturates my palms

my lungs made burden’d in calms
a process pertains one to be in halfs

while i wait for that change in despair
a stomach rumbles with a vivid stir

shattered side by side and below
flattered in yonder with a taste to go

scorned by time with a twist of joints
a little metamorphosis to trigger;
                                           — in my loins

atlas i’m made anew in a whole view

Continue reading “Metamorphosis”

river of wellness

i have this sudden relief.

it consumes my failures

& lifts my successes.

at an utmost level of the day-dreamer’s speech,

a cloud of wellness desist the mighty

influence of my favorite incapabilities

an excellent of trueness residing

& boiling heavily within me like a rapid

flow of the young river.

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