Before the Rain

at Kaneshie,

traffic was not moving.

A trotro mate was arguing with a passenger about change

and the woman selling bofrot kept shouting “last one, last one!”

though her sieve was still half full.

​

Aunty Lydia’s customer who adjusted the huge pan on the kayayoo’s head

cleaned the runny nose of her baby

with the tip of her faded tie & dye cloth

that clings her to her bony back

while she holds another weight a lifeless-looking doll with an eye lost

​

Then thunder spoke—lazy and deep—

like an uncle calling from the porch

Everyone paused for a heartbeat but her.

​

When the first drops came,

the market women dashed under kiosks,

their hair wrapped in black polythene bags like their goods

We watched it fall—

the streets, the dust,

the wind rearranging everything.

​

You can always tell who grew in the village

by how they smile at rain

An old man beside me said to me,

explaining why a kayayoo has got bigger problems than getting wet

​

But when the downpour thickened,

she tilted the pan slightly

So, the water would not drip on her crying baby,

And looked up—

As if daring the sky to try harder.

​

For a moment,

you could almost believe

the rain was falling only for her.

​

The Face of My Hometown Road

Amaniampong compliments my looks—

says my face resembles the road

that leads to my hometown, Asikuma.

​

The red dust puts powder on your face,

suppose the weather meets a good morning

and the sun tries her hardest

not to make the cart-pusher’s throat crave a river—

though her best is never enough.

​

The pimples are the uneven contours of the road,

and the gutters on my face

have more depth than Rawlings’ chain—

the potholes the last government swore to fill.

​

Dust settles where it isn’t invited.

You walk out with a morning face

and return with blush on your cheeks,

dye on your brows and lashes,

and you’re almost always mistaken for someone else.

​

The busied kids running with catapults to school

will call you Ofri.

So, the street hawkers wear enormous hats

and elongated socks

just to save their buyers from the illusion.

​

When it rains cats and dogs,

you remember that schoolboy

with the fifty-pesewa-coin ringworms

and houseflies parading his head

like goats at a village funeral—

eczema spreading like daytime gossip across his face.

​

It is nothing exciting to write home about,

he meant.

But when will the face of a black man like me

gain enough melanin?

​

When will the weight of a village chalewote,

with a half-life of five years,

kiss the smoothness of an asphalt road?

​

Through the Door

the cold,

white-painted room

sends shivers down my spine.

The smell of pool chlorine

from the seldom-mopped floors,

and the view of neatly laid bedspreads,

makes me want to throw up—

the air charged with a familiar stench

like coffee mixed with mouthwash,

or an ex’s slept-on pillow.

​

The ill-looking faces of strangers

all around make my stomach

twist.

I notice metal utensils

and think how out of place they seem.

​

A black nurse enters,

asks if I am safe at home.

I ask if she could walk me to the bathroom—

for the third time.

Her face stays neutral,

as if my existence doesn’t piss her off.

​

She keeps asking if I’m okay—

as if my mother hadn’t died

of undiagnosed congestive heart,

as if the last doctor hadn’t disbelieved

I’d survive my second child

simply because I am a sickle-cell carrier

and have had two C-sections.

 As if I weren’t tired

of keeping this appointment,

unwilling to hear “come back in two weeks.”

​

To a routine I’m refusing to keep.