Out of green lappah i crawl
Uphill I waddle my buttocks
Defeating my cripple tales
Grandpa’s leather in thirty-two
But, Ramota’s kept frown is caught

Yet, I shall breast these hills
Clutching to my heart every steps
A clink I will not buy for your face
So weep not for bean-cake
Not even palm-oil droplet shall I propitiate
Like you, on this boulder i suck
The nipples of the breast
So, let your ferocity melt in your loins
For I am a market of mysteries

For I am a market of anvils
You all must know
Is an anthem beyond myths
My name in upper case lick class bottom
Yet, in timbre and calibre i lay my words
I am a market of mysteries
I sell untaught sewn words
So, melt the tang of your exasperation hill
Put barbiturate on the gargoyle of your corrosive face
Sundiata Mari Jata is a conundrum of grace
Nestled in the nest of the anthills
The frowns say will explain God’s riddle.



Born in Ikorodu-Lagos, Nigeria in the early 90’s. Bolaji Akinwande Akintola like other lovers of books is a voracious reader. A former editor Campus Magazine, and politically vibrant person and a teacher of History, rising poet and a member of Poetry Club International.




(A Future; A Soul, Murderers)

in the quiteness of
our relinquishing
distances, we shall
feel the colourful
embraces of
our forebearers.

we shall. shall see
distances of
sleeping plains
carved out
from vigilant sweat.

we shall feel
thinly bubbles
of beliefs that
washes glaring eyes
of cold Rivers.

i know the choruses
of midnight Owls
the dance of
Bragoro teenagers
the sounds that
sounded sumptuous
memories of
days-lonely gone
into the earth.

But I tell you:
no matter how
clean the anus is,
the smell is
always scattered
epistles of cubic diagonals..

until his death, his book
“Antelopes Can Sing”
was a starring milked watermelon that caused Professor Osimesi
of Rivergods to
bleed of masticated
jaw Ejaculation.

Time he wrote:
were as numbered
as the virginity
of a stubborn

© Nana Arhin Tsiwah

Son In Lost Cowries


Son In Lost Cowries

the Harmattan
shall clamp
me into her

do not weep
into a broken
of wonder
when you read
from a bloated
sheet of blood

that a big locust
me before
the evening
grew grey.

i have wandered
through cold tears
on the surface
of twilight

i have seen
the unmentioned place
where the sea
pockets her soul
on the lips of

do not purge
your duct
when you finally
dream a cow
devoured me

for i have paid
to the insolent winds
the pains
of the castrated

© Nana Arhin Tsiwah

*Torn slippers~


*Torn slippers~
(For a daughter captured by mocking-Dwarfs)

my daughter,
slippery leaf that
waddles the sole of
the River canoe. death
won’t swallow me into
its marshy stomach!
fear won’t break me
into its xylophagic
crawling temple.

this still tear that
hills my chin and faults
the hinge of my chest,
is not of your departed
mother’s hymen
but of your Road
that is patched
under the
hunter’s sole.

© Nana Arhin Tsiwah




In 1864, she was set unto a battlefield. A field of blood composition. Like an essay, she scribbled with pain; the labour of a child. She was covered with the moon, grey and darkness comforted her soul. Her voice, feigning under a square breast, she was halfway to the grave.

In 1866, when her child had gathered writing in the bones, she mirrored tears of her past. Tears borne out of shredded earth. Her past united with the soul.

In 1868, she lost the battle of hope to a lifeless second leg. It has germinated maggots and scorned fluids. Her child as cold as an exhausted cucumber, laid beside her. Flooded by pains, seduced by worries; her lament flushed into infertile soil. Roots mucked, shoots muted and aeration tanned. She was the rag that the cooking pot hated. Life to her, was only a snail’s dance.

In 1870, when she finally battled life without wages and deserted by her family; it was written on her combed lips, “death awaits”. When death had eventually risen out of the sea, roamed and aroused into fierce rage; sheets sprinkled and hearts lessened. Death was wicked. He was a mocker. He was a woe. Until he touched her by the duct, feeling her rotten leg and sandwiched whiskered child; it knew pity and shed tears.

In 1899, she was finally laid to rest. The earth sung, birds worshipped and rains quivered. With her son now a man, he wrote on her beautifully dead engraved face an epitaph.

“She was with us,
this soul of darkness,
was with us.
she who united the
agony of death
into beautiful life quotes.
she who gave death
what life took from her,
her songs, her cries
are these wreath of roses spread across
her smiling soul.”

©Nana Arhin Tsiwah

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(echoes of our oblivion)

Barricaded, the drums have lost its traveling pathway in our ears
the palace have lost their ancient proverbial voices
blanksheets and chapters of void stories
swallowed and pricked by salsa shoes in bikinis
the aroma of wise-men caged in a barrel of the ‘wisest’
in dreams we have seen minds peaked beyond
the lizard no longer eats locusts but leaves
frogs and toads swim no more in ponds but brewed waters of the calabash
calamity has befallen the hunter in the forest;
his gun stolen by dwarves, gun-powder caught by webs
as darkness drains the seeds of light from the hut.

Our minds have slipped under the skirt of light
illusions have betrayed our trust from seeing the miracle of the moon
obliteration have kept her sternest eyes on us
we sit by the streams of thoughts
washing and bathing the dirth on our fingers
and all we keep doing is drinking and drinking
to the jollification of contemporary feet
that dance dust into the eyes.

Green leaves wither without symphonies of the harmattan
a mighty nation ones stood on this mountain
beauty filled its quarters, plentiful fueled its cheeks
dreams were birthed, courage was an endowment
but when the storms of strangers waved their hands against its mud walls,
doom filled the caps and laid low nudity for embrace.

We have walked past the shadows of faith,
seen to seem the fate of another on our shoulders
we bear not the traits of our ancestors
salvation (the hyena coercing the lambs) is but a supremacy calling
whimpers of anthills buried within the heart of centipedes
creeping servants climb down memorial tunnel
sliding and escaping through a tiny hole of death.

The drums; the rains, the sun have all kissed shame
the birds, the lingiust, the spider have all embraced guilt
our fathers, mothers and children have all been encompassed by ringworm prevarication
in our vibrating dilemma of recollection,
moonlight beamed from a hide on a carved wood
the palms have no wounds, no cracked mounds
with the prayers of our ancestors reincarnate itself no more
lies bagged in sacks have deprived our only seedling of truth
we have substituted spirituality with pietism
married diabolic omen over symbolistic sanity
but do we ever sit to ponder over what shall be of our seeds
when the wind of coldness blow through our homes?

The rhythms of the drums, have leaked through our colander ears
we back-turn and see no drummer
reality have eluded the mighty nation
chains of the flutist roamed in our buckled minds
the survival in the forest is not for the fittest
so is for the rise of a fallen wiseman
by the fire-side, the drums have ceased their whispers
soon the last of our blood shall be drained
to feed vultures and appease malices of cockroaches.

Nana Arhin Tsiwah
(The Village Thinker)
© All Copyrights Reserved, 2015 ….. 27/05/15′

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-—Our priest—-


-—Our priest—-

His forehead kissed the sky
And it became blue
As another tongue
Communed to his lips

O’ spirits
Spirits that sit on thunder
Spirits that spit clouds
Vomit not your anger

His head bowed
Like the frond of the palm
O’ spirits, spirits of this void filled land
Cast not your bile
To barren our cocoyam farms

He raises the ‘Kura’
Cracks his lips into two rivers
One flood with kola saliva
And the other opened the eyes of the herbs

Blind not your hearts
From the fate of these bones
For asamando shares no joy
To the blindness of innocence…

Nana Arhin Tsiwah
© All copyrights reserved, 2015



I am the voice of the shadows of Nkrumah
I sing of a new song
I sing of a song which breaches the norms of symphony
I sing of a song which ruptures the ethics of lyrics
I sing of a song which speaks in thousands of volume
A song which personifies a nation
A song which edifies a people
A song which embodies a continent
A song which swallowed up the crude elements of colonisation
A song which lingers in the liver of independence

He stood firmly in his terms
Stage craft still braced to his chest
An old belly of Nkroful beget him
At the spring of Gold Coast in 1909
Like the Messiah,
Not even the whistles of the birds told of his coming

Born Francis Kofi Nwia Ngonloma
His destiny however, was chained to the keys of freedom
At a new name which he held on to the power of change
Kwame Nkrumah just like Paul of Saul

His heart was sewn on the desire for change
A patron’s change and not mere change
A change to fulfill a call of Africas’ salvation
From the hands of colonialism and imperialism
At dawn, his heart beat could be heard loud in no mortal hearing
His blood boiled for tenacious change
Kofi and also a Kwame?
But how strange people didn’t realise the mystique surrounding him

Kwame Nkrumah,
Kwame Nkrumah,
The lone star from Gold Coast stretching into Ghana
That black star standing rooted in the freedom of Africa
A man with a lion’s heart
A man who kneweth no oppressors rule
A man born of the light,’ and might for a better course only fate could tell

Let me keep my rhythms in his pipeline
Stake wishes of him to his zeal
Apply loyal methodic to his philosophies
Adhere to the lines of his visions
Let me stay glued to his aspirations
I sing of Nkrumah
I sing of you O’ Nkrumah

The voice of a toddler singing in the forest
Sing of you
O’ Nkrumah

To the elements of colonialism he was a toddler
The elders of his days deemed him a token ink
Taunted him when his visions contradicted theirs
He saw a light way ahead of him that only ‘few’ could see
He saw a nation standing on the shoulders of freedom and independence
He saw a people being unified according to the pigmentation of their skin colour

He grew fierce like a naked fire in the desert
Blazed his own ideals and ideologies
Two years after his dilemma was yoked out of him
He formed his own ideological grouping
He passed through the eyes of torture
His visions were staged to it collapse
Yet his intrepidity shoved over the wink shadowing his beliefs

He was like the eagle in full flight: supersonic -speed
Leading government business under the pool of self-government
He led the orchestra of freedom fighting
He kept fighting and fighting and fighting and fighting
Until there was nothing more of a danger to fight
He led a people of unequal thoughts to gain independence

On 6th March, 1957
A new nation Ghana was born out of him
Independence which was not gained on silver platter
Independence which sapped away his passion in no shame
Making him become the first Prime Minister
And President of a newly independent nation sub of the Saharan in 1960

He brought on himself glory that restored
hope in millions
He placed himself as a symbol of hope for others
His voice was heard like a shepherd calling out for his missing sheep
He made a small nation to become
A beacon of hope for other nations

Kwame Nkrumah of blessed memory,
O’ Kwame Nkrumah of blessed memory,
Kwame Nkrumah of history repeating itself,
Kwame Nkrumah of true patriotism, 
Kwame Nkrumah of true nationalism,
I sing of you today,
I sing of you today…

Let me continue singing
Let time not sweep my vocal cord of it angelic prowess
Let not my tongue leave me at the suburb of this compose
Let the stars up and in above lead me to the brighter side of craftiness
Help me sing,
O’ Heavens help me to sing
Help me sing of the great man who made our dark path bright
Let me sing of Nkrumah
Let me sing of the man who shall taste the eminence of generations to generations
O’ Kwame Nkrumah
I sing of you today

a village thinker
Walking silently in the forest of ‘Oduma’
Producing thoughts of you under the big ‘oyina’
Sing with the voice of the gods to your name

Nkrumah spoke like a soothsayer
His speeches crept into the heart of his enemies like a sharp axe
Slaying their bitterness into shreds
His charm and charisma were something even gods desired
His organizational ability, it was like the contagion of the ‘harmattan’
An infectious wind blowing through the nasals of the nose
His visions were contagion
His personality, a striking thunder
His inspiration, a powerful lightning
His ideals, a rare potency to ever step on the face of ‘Asase Efua’
He was a gem in a million
A human in true rainbow colours

1966 was his bleakest day
His enemies combed him to his unaware fate
A putsch on gun lips smoked him
His visions were cast into the shadows
His aspirations obfuscated in the face of his enemies
Evil boiling high in the minds of men
At the deep of the heart lies their evil cradle
To topple and stifle his enviable efforts
But a man of true legacies;
is like a fountain of monumental fate
And, not even the storms of time can drain them into nothingness

I sing of you today
I sing of Nkrumah
I sing of a ‘man’ and not just mere ‘man’
I sing of a man whose life is written in golden letters at the heart of history,
I sing of the Osagyefo
I sing of Kwame Nkrumah
I sing from a well of seasoned historical archives
Of the finest wisdom brewed from palm wine, and ‘pito’
To a man who set himself as a standard for Africa’s light
I sing of these words that
“Our independence is meaningless, unless it is linked with the total liberation of all African states”

Freedom, was his name
Freedom, is his name
Freedom, shall forever be his name
Independence, Independence of a people shall be his name
And from hence I sing from the echoing entomb of his words that
“The African must be capable to manage his own affairs”
He must be free from all forms of racial and neo-colonial tendencies
I sing of Nkrumah unto a mission of Pan-Africanism consciousness

A village thinker
Still standing under the village shadows of the big ‘oyina’
Singing of you O’ Nkrumah
O’ beloved son of the land
Nkrumah, I sing of you today
I sing of you with my palm wine in my hands in a powerful calabash
Standing at the ‘ekuratia’ singing of you

Let the spirits receive your love
Let the ancestors hear my voice
Report my song, report my stories to you today
I sing of you Nkrumah
Nkrumah of beloved memory,
Kwame Nkrumah of blessed memory,
Kwame Nkumah of Ghana,
Nkrumah the black star of Africa
I sing of you on the coast of this silent sea lying at bay at Ogua

I sing of you today
I sing of you Nkrumah
O’ great man who lived for our yesterday, today and tomorrow
I sing of you,
I sing of you
that our ancestors
shall whisper our silent voices to you
across this lonely hills of my dreams
I sing of you…
I sing of you…

The Village Thinker © 2014
All copyrights reserved
Nana Arhin Tsiwah

That culture may flourish——


Born on an angry morning,
the weeping of a woman,
she was a mother;
a mother of twelve.

Her womb was my home,
her soul my blood,
in her spirit was my life,
written on pieces of coagulation.

From birth,
inside the little hut,
of red clay from the river bank;
a black feather was found along
the dungeons of my teeth.

I am told,
I am culture itself,
bridegroom of loyalty,
a stream pool of unity,
a future dream of supremacy,
the swish I saw solemnised.

Bleeding thoughts of me,
under the shrine’s shelter,
where kola dances with solar;
and as they did–
my royalty remains at my ankle,
and along the beads around my calf.

The Village Thinker © 2014

‘W)nsom w)nsom’— Collective Efforts


W)nsom, w)nsom
For it is collectiveness that we stand
The day has already ridden to far land
Mpaninfo) se, “s3 anomaa any3 ne buo a, ebu tra nek)n”
As I lick my little burden off
The pride of our culture laid to rust 
Nothing beautiful seen among our pride
All written in lines of lies beyond means
“s3 y3reyi apay3 a, na 3no nkyer3s3 takyer3ma nante asaase aniwa mu”
The law was created, —likewise men manifested.

All we do in our prime is walk unconcerned
Whilst our last days look blur upon the waters
A clean pair of hands far fetched
The destiny of our people neglected
Along the shores of wishing to be soaked
Tears welling up in the eyes of our people
Hunger tearing up their bellies at night
“Y3ts s3 3k)m de y3n nanso wo ne whan nK)ka s3 patio ani y3 ap)twe ap)twee”
This beautiful nation is ours
She is fast greying beyond boundaries 
And all our leaders keep doing is nothing
Which they call something
and O’ all is but mediocrity
“Ampa s3 k)k)sakyi di ap)nkyer3ni ani a, nano na 3soro”
Thousand minutes of traversing this journey not maximized
The castles hanging up in us not whistled
This still grey of us is too early.

W)nsom, w)nsom
the land is bare
The people are still lying dormant
Hoping that the top layer would be peeled
And you hide in your chamber
Calling on the clouds to pour on you luxuries
The stench of the open is swallowing our noses
Mosquito bites ripping our hearts apart
O’ such a shame, such a fate
So adamantly ignored for that someone expected
We wallow, and roll all over in bed
“Nanso kuntu w) h) yi, d3nky3mbo) renpronsuo”
The fly of our veins, brimming the sleeve of our clave
I surrender not to the tramples
Like a child awoken to humour by ghosts
“Tetefo) se, 3y3 den na ap)nkyer3ni ho te mfifiri?”
When our agreement on sheet is seen folding beneath craze datum. 

If I sing and preach like the thunderstorms
Of angry birds in the graveyard
And whistle like vultures in paradise of carcasses
With no slim shade of me representing true saving
And I keep it all dried, and still hide in dirty sleeves
Expecting the man of the helm to descend to me
I am nothing worth near patriotism
“W)nsom w)nsom 3ne nipa”
Firis3 3bu travel woa, 3no nkyer3s3 p3s3menkomenya w) ndase3″
I am a fictional jointed soul
Roaming with my fate above boundless traces
I speak not because I have to
But I speak because I need to
Times of our nation,
Hours of our sad condition,
All calling for the loyal writes of our lives
Think as I think,
Reason as I also take to reason
“Na s3 y3n adwen a, daakye mfofo b3dane y3n kwae3”

The Village Thinker © 2014