A vile, cancerous, grotesque sore eats at the walls of our proud, societal stomach; we bleed, we vomit blood. We are sick…
Ayana’s worn feet scrape the dusty-muddy concrete pavements of Makola, of Accra Central.
Ayana’s tortured, clumsy sole angers a pavement tile; it spits and quakes and spins on an invisible pivot.
Ayana, the beautiful flower with huge, dough-y eyes yelps, in a tortured, mangled space of frightful familiarity, of fearful futility; of unfettered, unbearable. PAIN!
Then the angry pavement tile gives way and Ayana’s emaciated, life-mutilated skeleton dives into that pit of a gutter.
Ayana, the beautiful flower with huge, dough-y eyes yelps, in a tortured, mangled space of frightful familiarity, of fearful futility; of unfettered, unbearable… PAIN:
Ayana propels her broken self back up, back into this BROKEN world…
Ayana slithers along the dusty-muddy concrete pavements of Makola, of Accra Central.
The filthy, bacteria-infested granules of sand claw at Ayana’s knees, they eat into her bloody, red, muddy sores.
A woman click-clacks, briskly by and her market basket slaps Ayana’s head;
Ayana’s bleeding knees fail her;
She falls flat on her stomach; the ghost of her tattered blouse, which her dead mother bought for her ten years ago, cannot prevent the dusty-muddy concrete pavements of Makola, of Accra Central…
Ayana, in an embarrassed frenzy, prostrates herself, burying her beautiful-petalled-face and the lids of her huge, dough-y eyes in a damp, sticky heap of yesterday’s market-rubbish that the garbage truck hasn’t collected yet.
Ayana surrenders herself to this tortured, mangled space of frightful familiarity, of fearful futility; of unfettered, unbearable. PAIN…!
It’s 4.15pm, now.
The skies threaten to sneeze tonight.
Misty moments are supposed to nourish beautiful flowers and to rejuvenate our gasoline-charged breaths; to hose down the dusty-muddy concrete pavements of Makola, of Accra Central…
Yet, this Ayana can only dread the thought of a soaked piece of cardboard, another night of mal-nourish-ment, or no nourishment at all.
And in the morning, the robotic SUV’s, the racy jaguars and the peeling trotros of Makola, of Accra Central, will splash this Ayana, this beautiful flower with huge, dough-y eyes, with new-muddy-water, washing the blood from her bones, in utter oblivion.
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By:Apiokor Ashon– Poet/ Performance Poet/ Versatile Creative