Home is fun. I always pretend.
Here, work beckons.
One of the reasons I never liked paying a visit.

The cozy sitting room with lonely couches that always craved my touch and the dusty chandeliers that keeps watch over the screeding on the walls. They never moved an inch..

In a flash, Mama’s wrinkled voice cuts across my thoughts and my fingers run through the broom, fast loosing its grip on me.


There is never peace in here. Mornings through evenings, my name sits on everyone’s lips.

So, I found a friend in the kitchen feeding her curiosity each time she hallows.

Through the clattering of ceramic utensils to broken appliances, this was an employment opportunity without pay.

Doing the dishes became my new hobby as I continually unleashed my grievance on crusty pots that had refused to let go of old meals.

My weak points were burning plantain. I kept smashing points


The holidays were getting longer as I travel through laundry each tiring hour.

The perfect timing for dirty clothes.

I count the pile, and all I find is – a stack of unfinished talks, dirty handshakes, empty pockets, filthy palms that found its lazy prints through faded shirts.

All I do here is wash


Do you know what colour pretence wears on rainy mornings?

What’s the point checking your calendar when you can’t distinguish between Sunday being the first or last day of the week

Either ways, on such mornings where you snore away your time

As there was no light to press the crumpled ball gown you want to show off to the Lord

Salvation is personal, so I sit back to complete what I started.

God wiil understand. He surely would


The roster reminds me of house chores.

This is becoming a permanent routine.

The rickety car that sleeps outside embracing the warmth of the cold night.

I feel the pain in its dry throat as I drag my bucket closer.

A scoop of soapy water scrubs the hell out of its dusty frame.

It sparkles, I heave a sigh of relief.

Minutes later, white patches adorn it.

However, I was made to repeat my washing lessons.

I hiss


I scoop food angrily on a plate. My favorite dish. Unfortunately I can’t finish it, so I brush it aside.

Every morsel seems to be crumbling under my breath. It had a horrible taste. My first attempt at fried rice.

I could separate every color that stuck to the plate. The oil swam from one angle to the other.

Mama’s stinging whip interrupts me from dreamland and I was forced to bite large chunks of semi- raw chicken and cold food.

I munch my way through the fracas.

Excess. I scream


I wasn’t a good girl. Yes but I tried my best.

Everyone on my mom’s list hears about my behaviour.

The aproko neighbours and village people.

Each party brings a list of punishment.

So, I was placed on probation at home pending when I was forgiven.

No! Home is never an option.


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *