Debbienho !

Because nobody knows, I state here that I am a sucker for creativity. I am also a sucker for picking recognized verses, giving them a modern twist and making them incredibly dope, like a spoken word artist got his hands—and voice—on it, but managing to maintain the original meaning. Someone did that! *insert WhatsApp dancing woman emoji here* Now, I’m not a big fan of Tumblr blogs, because they are more pictorial than lexical. But I am enamoured with Eyram ’ s . (Is it enamoured by or enamoured with? Eish.) By all means, spare five minutes to visit it —you’ll need only five minutes to take in all the content, to be honest. But it’s five minutes excellently spent. * Cooking He spied the grass he clutched. They had taken special care in cooking school explaining this herb. One blade dropped in sauce released a burst of flavour. Three blades in a steaming cup would cure insomnia. Four blades meant eternal sleep. His stew’s blandness reminded him of what it missed. He

Some my role model bi who may or may not have had first class says I can’t not hype things. It’s not my fault la. I discovered Frayed Jacket,  and if you haven’t been there, it’s only because you haven’t had the data, and you’re forgiven. Monsieur Frayed writes with a candidness that’s almost uncomfortable. I suppose it’s because some of us like to live in a one-dimensional space, in some pink bubble, oblivious to what goes on within the blurred lines. And he doesn’t. And he writes it, raw and true, and painfully relatable. Reminds me of something I read about how writers must embrace pain and ugliness instead of running away from it. Oh, and he’s a really good writer. Makes you wonder how much longer you’re going to have to live before you get to where he’s at. * P.S. The following is definitely a musical if you read it with Christopher Plummer’s voice in the back of your mind. Or Joey B. Or, somebody. The following is also what happens when you’re neither a poet nor com

Foreword: With no forewarning, or accompanying apology, the elements have introduced me to a plethora of amazing writers. I kid you not when I say I discover new ones every day. Regardless of the painful realization that they make me self-conscious, doubt the purpose of my existence, and cower in a corner beneath a rock, with no desire for sunlight, I’ll post the link of one before I start my blog posts, at least till I run out (or forget)—and I doubt I’ll run out. So…  Grey Mural . I’ve spoken to him like, twice, and the first time I just accosted him outright, with: ‘Why are you so intelligent?’ I may have added a please; I’m polite like that. And, always in character, he gave me an intelligent answer.  Check him out.  He’s too wise. It’s almost annoying. Without the almost. On our side of the table,  everyone  had nicknames. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t the girls’ fault. The boys, mainly (because I want to give them a level of anonymity, let me use their ini

In a land of meals, and a time of edicts, the possibility-of-life in the funereal-parlour-called-a-dining-area lies on the table of weird people. Their name? The X-Men! Yes la. These people were definitely in my dining hall! Our table was called C13, but I’m too much on a roll to go back and clean that. I wonder why that intro sounds familiar… Yes, C13, the Anne Shirley to Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert, the Annie to the uptight Will Stacks, the Oh among the Boov. (In retrospect, we were not the weirdest lot in the school. There were those we called the Maca Witches. There was a table assigned to them—or a table was supposed to have been assigned to them—and every once in awhile there would be a spontaneous burst of coquettish laughter from where they sat—or were supposed to be sitting. The whole hall, the Republic of Ghana, and the city of Anfield, would look up from half-heartedly chasing kidney beans on our plates to see what had the ladies in titters. Excep

Dining time in boarding school was an exercise in nervousness. For those who went to dbee boarding schools, and those who were too dbee to even go to boarding school, the dining area looked something like this. There were columns of tables, “table” being two long, sturdy, unattractive worktops smacked together to make a longer table. On the long side of each individual table (yes, that’s a lot of tables) sat a bench. Sixteen of us would sit at each dining table (to think that I’ve only just started), on those backless benches (oh, the horror). Oh, it was NOTHING like this. Necessity is the mother of invention, though, so some of us improvised by leaning on the backs of those who sat behind us. It wasn’t entirely comforting but it was better than…okay, truth be told, it wasn’t better than anything. And we’d be there, sitting, drinking tea, or porridge, or eating yam, staring—or not—at the person opposite us, or at the table, or around the dining hall, or at our idle h

Over the weekend my baby felt neglected. So we went out on a date. It’s been a millennium since I drew anything, so it had to be something really simple. My favourite artist said all good artists draw by layering. I think that means adding layer after layer (after layer) before going to details. (I always do details first. What would he do if we met? The agony!)   I decided to go with that, although, because he said all good artists, if I hadn’t heeded him, nothing would’ve changed with the rotation of the earth. So I went with it. Very conservatively. She seems cross. What did I do? Details are coming to Kofikrom. (If you notice the change of light, it’s because I took a break to watch Gavrilova clinch her first WTA title. [Yasss!] If you don’t notice a change of light, continue eh.) (My nieces want me to buy them a tennis racket. Each. Reason? They don’t have. I didn’t have a tennis racket at either of their age

When you start taking yourself seriously enough to consider honing the drivel your hands occasionally produce into something worthy of going through some publishing mill or other, you start reading writers. No longer do you think of a book in terms of The Other Side of Midnight, or Only Time Will Tell . You simply call them a Sidney Sheldon, or a Jeffrey Archer, pairing author with style, one fast-paced, sharp, with humour so cruel it’s bordering on crude, possibly agnostic, strongly feminist; the other sentimental, deliberate, wordy,  evil because of his sadistic cliff hangers. All I am saying, is I’ve been reading. and that's okay! In my four hundred odd years of existing (I’m not sure I can call it living, since I haven’t bungee jumped yet, and that’s the FIRST thing on my bucket list, which, I am reminded, I should write soon), I’ve been privileged to suddenly discover a gem of a book where I thought there was only rubble. And what great pieces they’ve been

It really has. I’ve got free Wi-Fi so let me slip this in before they catch me. I miss lectures. I don’t miss the teacher talking, or showing slides. (The memories I get of that one? How we used to squint at the tiny blinking dots projected on the whiteboard, and ask, ‘What’s that?’ because yes, we always sat at the back.) And I don’t mean I miss lectures like I miss going to them. In a four-day lecture week, I was in class like twice. (Which was still better than a lot of people I know. I only ever saw Ellis in school during exams, so.) I miss how we used to sit. Next to the window. Back. Left side. Nanciaga (and the Boss Martin) sat in front of me. She’s a fine girl so like every twenty seconds some boy would stop by the window and try to win over the heart that Sanchez had been holding since the first semester of Level 300. She had some coercive powers, so she could cajole notes out of their pockets and next thing we know, Nanciaga’s imbibing something with fizz and