Scars as a Metaphor of the Past – Fiction by Ghanaian Writer, Bright Aboagye

Inspired by for the one who sits and counts his scars by Akal Mohan published in Akowdee Magazine

You’re sitting in the corner of a small, fuzzy bar in Osu. The room smells of old wood, mixed with a variety of spices from the night indomie vendor outside. It is lit with sweaty bodies all carrying one common thing —lust.

However, to you, it’s a quiet home for drowning the contours of your pain without interruption. Maybe the continuous sounds of Kidi, Davido and Tiwa Savage are your escapist anthems.

You find yourself stroking the scars on your arm and its prickliness which is a physical reminder of the past you carry with you and that sometimes, feels too heavy to bear.

The first scar, the jagged line on your left forearm, drags you back to a night that’s become almost blurry though the pain remains too realistic to ever forget.

It was supposed to be just another night. The sun had set over the Gulf of Guinea, casting its usual warm glow on the old colonial buildings of Accra. The sun shone saw bright that the hotness of the night had a meaning. The cold of the night was lost to the heat during the day.

And that night, you lost something far more valuable than the crisp cedis you tossed into the hands of fate.

You remember it now—the Labadi Beach Casino and how packed it was. Inside was thick with smoke and desperation, the scent of men like you who were chasing hope in the roll of dice or the turn of a card. Those cards felt heavy in your hands and they carried the prophecy of the future you were about to gamble away.

And within a blink of an eye, it was all gone—your money, your hope, your sense of self and everything you had. The scar on your arm is a permanent souvenir of that rage, the way you slammed your fist on the table, the broken bottle that lashed out in anger and the fight you got in with the security men who tried to throw you out. It’s a mark that speaks of loss—of more than just money.

You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding and lower your hand, letting the anger slip away, if only for a moment for the pain to never come.

You take another gulp of your gin, the breeze spreading through your body. As you rise to leave, you glance back at the corner where you’ve spent so many nights tracing the lines of your pain. Tonight feels different—tonight, there’s a hint of something you thought was gone for good.

Hope.

Stepping out into the cool night of Osu, with the sounds of the city all around, you look up and notice a star, faint and it’s shining through the sky. And in that second, you hear something in the sky—a call that feels like your father’s.

“May the light find you again.”

You close your eyes, feeling the cool breeze on your face, and for the first time in a long while, you start to believe that maybe—just maybe—it will find you again.

You take a sip of your gin, the burn of it— a harsh brush against your tongue that awakens your taste. Beneath the sleeve of your worn-out kente shirt, the second scar itches. You scratch it absentmindedly, trying to soothe the itch that seems to come from somewhere that you can never find to calm down.
This one is tied to a sorrow that never leaves you—the day your father died.
He was a man of few words, but his presence had always grounded you. You think of the old house in Kumasi, the smell of roasting plantains in the air, and the rare sound of his deep laughter that could make everything feel right.

His death was sudden and unexpected.

A heart attack, they said. But you’ve always wondered if it wasn’t something more, something heavier that finally pulled him deep into the earth.

His passing left a blank space in your world and you have tried to fill that void with anything that you thought would numb the pain. You turned to the streets, to the dark corners of Accra where you could lose yourself in the haze of alcohol and drugs. But the pain remained; it stayed forever into your very being, as persistent as the itch that lay under your skin.

You reach for your drink again, but your hand trembles, spilling a few drops onto the table. You wipe them away with your sleeve, but the stain was glued, just like the visions of your agony that won’t fade. You drum your fingers on the table, trying to push away the thoughts, but they keep coming, like waves crashing against the shore —incessant and malignant.

And then there’s the third scar, the one you can’t quite reach but feel deeply. It’s lodged somewhere in your chest, pressing down on your heart. It’s the scar left by vengeance and by a desire so strong that it has consumed you; it has gnawed at your soul until you barely recognize yourself.

You think of the man who caused your father’s death—not the heart attack, but the slow, deliberate way he drained the life from him. His face flashes before you, that smug smile, the way he laughed as he took everything your father had worked for. You want to reach out, to grab him by the throat, to make him feel the same pain that has haunted you for so long. Your fist clenches, ready to strike the table—but something stops you.

Something dawns on you. Maybe it’s a trace of the faith you once had or perhaps, the repetition of your father’s voice which is reminding you of the man you used to be.

“Vengeance isn’t yours,” it tells you, quiet with such commanding force.

“Let it go.”

You pause, your fist hovering in the air and slowly, that tense feeling hanging in your heart begins to release.