To the teacher who made me hate mathematics

Dear Sir,

I was just a child who wanted to learn and who enjoyed school because my curious mind was being fed. I wake up early with the excitement of going to school to learn and play with my peers, until there is a quick and painful awakening of what awaits me early in the morning during your lessons.
I was not very fascinated by numbers but I wanted to find out what I could accomplish with them nonetheless but the sound of your cane descending on our backs early in the morning put fear in the center of my brain and I could not think of any other thing apart from the pain that was synonymous with your subject. I remember all the meanness as if it was yesterday and I don’t know if you just derived pleasure from inflicting
pain or it was just a teaching method gone badly.
As I write this I am struggling to remember your name that is how much I fear you sir, so much so that I dread to even remember your name. Every morning in school was torture for me as there was what is known as early morning “mental” (any Ghanaian student knows the caning that goes with that word). It was supposed to be a morning brain teaser before the main lessons but it soon turn into a caning bazaar.
The pain you inflicted was supposed to make force us to take the learning of mathematics more seriously but it ended up filling my whole being with dread and hatred for all things numbers and for years I struggle to deal with numbers. The choices of courses later in life were determined by the absence of numbers because I did not feel worthy of numbers.
My friend and I who constantly got canned every morning came up with ways to cheat (something I was not proud of) so we would not have a sour back to take home. As you would instruct us to exchange our exercise books with the person next to us and mark each other’s work, the two of us would quickly exchange our blank exercise books and write out the correct answers for each other as you wrote them out on the board. This was our only chance of escaping the consistent forced relationship we had with your cane.
I am not totally blaming you for my natural weakness with numbers but you did little to encourage me to find some fascination with numbers.
Today, I have come to terms with the fact that I am just not good with the formulas and rules that go with numbers and I will rather read books and analysis characters or write poetry, but I do wonder what my relationship with numbers would have been had you not forcefully broken us up.


Daily Prompt: All or Nothing

All or Nothing?
“Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.” — Sylvia Plath

Which do you find more dangerous: wanting nothing, or wanting everything?
I responded to todays daily prompt with a short poem below

You yes you
You feel bad for me because I want everything
But at least I want something and the world knows
You yes you
Don’t pity me because I crave for more than I should
At least my intentions are clear
But you yes you
What do you want?
Your intentions are not clear and you are invisible
Because you lack the strength to want something

I am my blog

When I decided to start a blog, it was a battle between sticking to poetry which is my niche or mix different genre of writing. I realized there is so much to write about and I might not always want to express myself in poetry so I decided to mix things up. I didn’t want to concern myself too much on what basically to stick to because I was excited I am finally going to be able to share my poetry and different perspective with others.
Some people would like us to believe or are able to separate their “SELF” from their writing but I am a firm believer that you can’t be a good writer without giving at least a little of yourself away. Most of the time and by that I mean all the time, my writing (especially my poetry) is provoked my very own emotions and experiences and therefore it is hard for me to write without giving a piece of myself away to my readers. My poetry is full of little “hidden” life stories of myself.
All I am trying to say is that I am what I write basically and I am happy to be able to share part of me with others near me and across the globe.
When I say I am my blog these are the reasons why:

1. Not very consistent: those who have visited or who follow my blog would realize it has undergone series of changes from its name to the general appearance and that is me right there, I find it difficult to stick to a particular pattern and therefore I am constantly trying to put a new feel or appearance to either my house, appearance, writing etc. I always belief things can be improved upon. This has its short falls because it makes me appear as someone who can’t make up her mind or decide on what she wants.

2. My emotions are on a roller costa: my poetry is especially an indicator of how constantly my emotions change. One moment I am writing a very sad poem at other times I am trying to capture the magic of life or my experiences. Click on any of my writings and you will know immediately how I was feeling at the time.

3. Some post have no likes: we all have posts we have invested so much time to write and yet no body “likes” them and so there are days when I am not a very likeable person. It could be because I come across as cheeky or too brutal with my utterances. Whatever the reasons maybe my blog and I have those days when we are just not likeable period!

4. Love for pictures: I believe that where words have failed pictures have triumphed because a picture can speak louder much more than words. I love to take pictures and thanks to selfies it is now cool to self-indulge in pictures. On my blog I try to add pictures to most of my writings so that the visuals can help communicate what I am trying to say as well as give people the freedom to interpret my work the way they understand it.

5. Love for culture: I am from Ghana and as much as my country has a lot of challenges I still love my country and the diverse culture. My blog brings part of my culture to people who know little or have no idea about it at all. I share my culture through my writing. My blog has a feel of the Ghanaian culture to it.
So there you have it, anytime you visit my blog feel at home and know that I am sharing a piece of me with you.

Christmas is dead

Image found on google by Diane Pernet

Image by Diane Pernet

There was something magical about November leading up to December
I remember vividly how the earth smelled differently
The sounds of life was entirely different with the season
Kids seem to be perpetually running and excited
The earth is bursting with renewed energy and just for this period
We seem to genuinely care for each other
We could not wait for the harmattan to usher in Christmas
We dreaded the cold yet we liked the feeling
But alas Christmas is dead
Kids are not enthused about it anymore
The earth holds no special appeal
And December seem to tease us by dragging on
Christmas is dead and I am mourning for my unborn kids

Oh you are waiting for validation?

You are waiting for validation
from a confuse world
You didn’t get enough of that
when your mother decided
You were worth keeping and
worth all the morning sickness
Oh you are waiting for validation
from a judgmental world
You didn’t get enough of that when
your mother gave you that smile
the moment they put you in her arms
and she forgot all the labor pain
When for several years she watched
over you and her eyes sparkled with love
if even she never told you she loved you
Oh you still seek validation from
people who never saw how you gave
Off your best and how you warm all the hearts you meet
Sorry you want validation from people who don’t know you

I see you found your pen again

You sit and bleed words on a paper
Your pen painted beautiful pictures
We got used to the man behind the ink

Then she came and whisked you away
You were totally lost in her allure
You could not ignore the sun around her
The joy she brought killed your words
Happiness could not make your ink bleed

We found you dusting your desk the other day
You look at the empty space with nostalgia
As pen and paper sat waiting for their master
The pain she left in your heart needs a shrine
Were your hands will pay homage to LOVE

This poem was inspired by a friend (@phoenixgarincha) of mine who loves to write and after he did not write for several months he suddenly wrote a poem about the pain of loving. My friend if you see this give me a reply.

Ode to broken women

We lay calmly like a river
It is hard to believe just like
The river we are made up of
droplets and shattered souls
You can’t fathom the elasticity
Of our pain bearing souls
it is in this despair that strength
emerges to lift up our chain so
we may carry our burden more
we are broken women yet
our smiles are complete
our love is wholesome
our womb creates humanity
our strengthen is resilient