DZIDZOR

 

I have a story to tell. I must tell my story. My tale is a sad one embellished in the juicy stupidity and ignorance of a young me. It is said that he who laughs last, laughs the best and good things come to those that wait; but it is not always so. I am living proof of that assessment. I am an epitome of a soulless man wandering this earth for the next available force to snatch up and destroy.

There was this girl I admired so much. So much that I would readily make the ultimate sacrifice for her any day and anytime of my sorry existence. From far away, I could tell she admired me too and would readily accept my proposal. But fear and cowardice stood guard over me every second of everyday. They stretched their poisoned swords towards me and cautioned me not to take a step farther. And being an ignorant fool, I thought I had time and that love would surely take me one day into the compounds of Dzidzor, my love.

One might be tempted to be content with the proceedings of my story. Do not be! As this tale is not that of a happy ending. For he who drinks a calabash full of the locally distilled akpeteshie; with a smile on his face is a hypocrite and a liar. A fool like I was, I believed I had time to make myself a befitting gentleman, worthy of asking my Dzidzor’s hand in marriage.

For this, I embarked on a journey to my mother’s village, to find myself a good job so I can make enough money to offer my love the happy life she deserves; one befitting a princess. After six months of hard work, I had made enough to return home to fulfill my ambitions. My mother had died three months after I got to her hometown. I was grieving, but I had the memory of my Dzidzor to give me comfort.

I began my two-week journey back to my father’s village. Fourteen days until I saw Dzidzor again. Fourteen days until I could call her mine. A week into my journey, I saw Dzidzor on a dusty footpath leading to my village. She had a few of her clothes tied up in her favorite wrapper. She told me she was fed up with waiting for me and so she set out on this journey to ask me to come back home, and that she wanted nothing from me; nothing, except my love and devotion. You should have seen my excitement when this news came to me. I was surprised she knew the reason why I had left the village, since I told no one the reason for my journey. But why tempt fate and ruin such a good fortune? We celebrated our love on our way home. We made love. We were happy. We were in love.

When we got to the outskirts of our village, we were greeted by a mighty stench. A smell that was foul enough to drive flies away. But Dzidzor asked me to go pluck a mango fruit she had seen about five hundred meters back. She said she had a sudden craving for one. I happily set out to pluck this fruit for my love. When I returned, Dzidzor was nowhere to be found. I searched for hours and decided to go into the village to look for her. Perhaps I spent too much time plucking the mango. Perhaps she waited for me at home.

The village was empty, buildings were destroyed, the palace was torched, bodies lay everywhere. Apparently, there had been a war shortly after my departure to my mother’s village; and all the townspeople were killed. Women and children were not spared. The head of the chief of our village was on a spike in front of the torched palace.

I quickly ran to Dzidzor’s hut, and there she was, as beautiful as ever. Even in death, her smile consoled me in many ways.

No! She can’t be dead. No! I had been with a ghost this past seven days. No! Death has stolen from me the essence of my very existence. ‘Blewu lorlornye. Baba!’ This is my story; and it’s a sad one indeed.

Kofi Dzogbewu

​LIFELESS STORYTELLERS

This is a piece of writing in response to Poetra Asantewa’s “Coroner”

(A Response to Poetra Asantewa’s “Coroner”)

Death beckons on us all at the climax of purposely arranged circumstances

Whiles Life sits idly by and mocks our struggle against fate

I have investigated by inquest hundreds of deaths not due to natural causes

Some sad. Some pitiful

Some occurring with a bang –

and some of them so pitiful, you can’t help but give in to laughter

I spend all my days hiding from the commotions of the living

I prefer to hang around the silent corpses and dead essences of once promising humans

The stories these lifeless bodies tell are so full of life, its poetry.

Yesterday, the body lying on my table told so good a story, I broke out in tears

The seeming delicacy had within its splitted hollows an artistically woven autobiography of a life lived in solitude, love and music. 

The dimensions of her story branched out in colorful embers of vicious membranes laced with tunes from a flute of African descent

Others have told tales of heartbreaks and migraines and depression smothered by injustice and tribulation that the mind can’t begin to imagine

They told stories of young humans getting caught in a web of pointless affairs and insignificant hurts of yore.

They spoke of modern butterflies plagued with curses of ancient moths and whispers of the dead.

These lifeless storytellers all have their stories spiraling in an abyss of guilt, regret, torture, shame and a lot of unanswered questions; except my dearest Afreh 

My favorite storyteller – Afreh nuamah – narrated her tale in acoustic tunes of contentment

She had a steady stream of happiness in her life story

This, she acquired through defying society and chasing after her own happiness

She sung tales of gigglish love affairs and tickling streams of pleasure ……
Dear voice seeking answers, you define your own storyline in your own handwriting

And even I, your coroner, cannot tell you your story

I can only read them within the splitted catacombs of your lifeless body.
Image source: https://goo.gl/images/Qh7sa5

STORY UNTOLD

I see a manwandering the earth from one corner to the other. 
He is drenched in abject misery with eyes as red as a wench’s blood

He wears no sandals
and flies are feasting on his leg wounds.
His ankle is cracked;
and within those cracks, a story begs to be told.

I see a man
Baptized in pure agony
Petrified by the sight of all other men.
He says nothing to any man;
His eyes blink more than the flapping of a tsetse fly’s wings
and his lips are drier than bread.
His clothes are tattered and torn;
but they contained a story yet to be told.

I see a man,
made ugly and sinister by experience and life.
A man with nothing in his heart;
I doubt he has any at all.
He moves from one location to another
Searching for something; something important.
As to what it is, I can’t tell.
‘Hello sir, how do you do?’ I asked.
He looked at me surprised, and replied, ‘how do you do son?’
That said he smiled his way into death
taking with him the story untold.

 

EUTHANASIA


Look at him. He is a sore sight to behold. The once promising eaglet has become something lesser than a chick. Who knew that his life could turn out this bad? Fifteen years. That is all it took. Fifteen years was all it took for life to grind Ekow in its treacherous mill of misfortune and hardship; spewing him out as a polished blend of disgrace and disappointment.
When his life blossomed over a decade ago, he SOAKED his dreams in a calabash of goodwill and hard work. Hoping that his hard work would pay off, he tilled the land of his success and irrigated it with confidence and determination as he waited for the fertile seeds of prosperity to impregnate his lands with a bumper harvest. But far from his expectations, life had something else in store for him.
Several years later, he WASHED his regrets and mistakes in a pool of hopefulness. His mistakes are his alone and nobody else’s. His mistake of believing in life and thinking his goodness and hard work would be joined together in holy matrimony; leading to the birth of his gates of success. It is his mistake for putting his faith in a god he had never seen, but believed in his heart was alive – a god he thought would fight on his behalf. But he was done feeling sorry for himself. All his mistakes and regrets, he had thrown into a pool of hopefulness.
So he DRIED his embarrassment on a line of solitude. Confining himself in the shadows; cooking up plans on how to get back on life’s better side. He abandoned his embarrassment in the scorching heat of the sun; so as to drain it of all its potency.
He IRONED what was left of his crumpled pride and set out to fertilize that which was once known as an eaglet; with the hopes of turning it into an eagle. He worked hard. He left no stone unturned and beckoned on success with his vigor. Months turned to years; and years birthed out depression.
Yesterday, he FOLDED his ambitions and dumped them in a rusted box; never to be opened again. Soon, the final product from life’s mill was there for all to see in its full glory and wretched regalia.
Today, he HANGED his shame on life’s line. He hoists it up high like a warlord’s banner. His shame has been substituted for his name….
Now, see him bending to pick up a loaf of bread from the floor. Pity! He needs help. He needs to be delivered from this torture of a life he has been living. He needs to be saved. But his misery is not one that could be managed. He needs to be plucked out of his misery. What he needs is the merciful kindness of EUTHANASIA.