There are two figures approaching a dimly lit room. One presses his ear against the door while another perches against the wall opposite the room, a cigar planted firmly in his mouth, lips snarled, gait coy. Loud sounds pour in from the room they peer at, awash with pure desire consuming the souls hidden within; such fervent desire yet willowish grace, like houseflies dancing fiercely to an ivory moon – unsyncopated, wide eyed and full of wonder. Figure without the cigar offers a tight-lipped smile and whispers to his colleague, I tell you. I am yet to know of a desire that totally engulfs like this. I swear these kids are on fire these days! Cigar pops out of the other’s mouth and he bawls out laughing; deep, chesty bear sounds that arrest the rip-roaring sounds pouring in from the room. Tight-lipped smiling figure places a finger on his lips. Shhhh. You’re blowing our cover already now, you perv! The other figure’s laughter retreats to a giggle and they scuttle off down the corridor.
In this gathering, I am adorned in sapphire, in this christening, where the air tastes like slobbers of harmattan, I soak in the sunlight streaming through the shutters as I draw near the center to cuddle hope. Hope is a 30-pound baby that keeps pinching at my arm, its eyes inviting, its smile coy. But I will adopt it, though its bulky frame seems a burden, a museum of quaint artefacts, dainty, yet only meant to be feasted on by longing eyes, never experienced in the vicissitudes of life. Then hope becomes full-fleshed, mature and follows me to the dancing square every night as I smack my pain into the deepest recesses of amnesia and we tug at each other, swaying to the music of the wind and the heat and musk. You kiss God in the haze and I pull you aside beside the counter, muttering, After all these years, you’d think I’d feel lighter from so much dancing but these memories of trauma, never seep out of skin. I still feel every ache, every grief, every heartbreak, every trauma. Hope stifles a laugh. Pain is gutting but healing is always possible, though trapped in the pit of time. Clutching me at the neck for dear life, she pulls me closer, onwards as we suffocate in a sea of wonder, on an evening trail of ebony and hut and skin. As we dance, I stare at this ethereal creature, and begin to see a forest creep out underneath her lips, seedlings and saplings and root springing forth violently, singing wild songs about the blessing of the future for humans that take time to process through pain.
David Agyei-Yeboah is a young creative from Accra, Ghana that believes in expressing gutting raw energy onto plain paper. He believes art is sacred and should be expressed with utmost care, beauty and craftsmanship. He has work published/forthcoming on GUEST, Ethel Journal of Writing and Art, Tampered Press, Icefloe Press, Praxis Magazine for Arts and Literature, African Writer Magazine, The Kalahari Review, Journal of the Writers Project of Ghana (JWPG) & Contemporary Ghanaian Writers Series (CGWS). An alumnus of the Tampered Press Poetry Workshop with Ladan Osman and Koleka Putuma, he was long-listed for The Totally Free Best of the Bottom Drawer Global Writing Prize 2021.
