Posted in Poetry, Short Stories

How To Break A Heart

did not
mean to
your heart. They
only wanted
back from
sharing shelter
with yours. They
only meant to
words sowed
inside you.
did not
mean to
your heart. They
only wanted
to leave
you wholly
alone as they
found you.
didn’t know
that’s how to
a heart.

Hi there. A happy Tuesday. I hope your week is going great. Mine is but will be better as soon as I let you on on this. I’m going to start a new poem series on here from first Monday in March and a brand new novel also from first Wednesday of March. We’re talking March 5th and 7th. The poem series is titled On the Road. I thought of it because of the You series and I thought it’ll be great. We’ll have other poems besides that as well once in a while. the novel is When Love Stays, the second in the series I’m about to find a name for. When Love Stays continues with most of our favourite characters from When Love Finds You. Let’s meet here tomorrow for a short story and enjoy your day. And oh, it’ll be so nice to spread the news to your friends for me.

©M’afua Awo Twumwaah 2018.

Posted in Fiction, Short Stories

This Christmas

The morning was silent. Like a child who has been scolded for trying to indulge in adults’ conversation. As Frances crept off her bed, her eyes shut, and opened her blinds, she could relate totally to both — the silent morning, the scolded child. She sighed and allowed herself breathe. The way she has not for many many days. Continue reading “This Christmas”

Posted in Fiction, Short Stories

What A Boy Means

A child’s innocence and adoration for a superhero met; Daisy’s eyes was on her father’s. She hopped across the parking lot and with a jump, landed by her dad’s SUV. It was Saturday. The sky was exceptionally clear it glistened in contact with her full ready eyes. It should be drizzling everyday this time of the year – August. She could pull her socks up to her knee. But she didn’t mind that it was appropriately sunny rather. She loved whatever the sky showed with her Papa here.

“My little pumpkin.”

George lifted and whirled his first child about till they both were too dizzy to go another round.

“My big daddy.”

Daisy rubbed her eyes to clear the circles off her vision then she grinned, showing her missing front tooth.

“You hopped all the way here.” George opened the front door. Daisy climbed in. He took his place by the steering wheel. “I can tell you wanted to come meet daddy quick.”

She smiled wider. George razed his fingers through her hair, shook them up and left it messy. It was a ritual. It was hard to remember she is a girl when he’s wanted a boy so bad. He drove off.

“Ma didn’ come?”

“No honey.”

George took the left from the school entrance.

“She is sick.” He glanced at her sad face. “So we’re off to the West Hills Mall to buy us some…”

“…chips and chiken and us-crim.”

Daisy’s face lit up in a flash. George couldn’t hold his laughter. It’s deepness filled the car and cracked Daisy up. It always did.

George increased his speed. He looked at Daisy, who now was busy with her tablet. It had all the versions of Angry Birds he found on play store.

Every second alone with Daisy and having such a good father-daughter moment like this, he wondered what May will do to this happiness. His crave for a son was still there. Very strong. It wouldn’t be suppressed. It got worse since they found out Juliana was already 3 weeks pregnant. He can pray for a boy every night without tire. And that’s what rather scares him unto his knees; what a boy will mean.


©M’afua Awo Twumwaah 2017. 

Posted in Fiction, Short Stories

The Happy Bare Chest

The night sky overhead watched her. She crossed her feet and pulled the blanket over them. Here in the cold, nothing mattered more than the sky filled with stars and the city lights that shone with them miles away from her. Staying up with them into the wee night had a magic with it. Inside, she could feel a billion eyes staring back at her from every light. And from them, she could almost hear a choir of silky voices singing to her, telling her they care. So, nothing mattered. Not even the sense of loss of weight on her chest. She didn’t bother to look at them. To look at her bare chest. To feel pity for herself and fall over into a ball of angry desperate emotions. She’s over that. She breathed in heavily and raised her head to the skies. They weren’t happy tonight. They weren’t anything close to blue. Maybe they were mourning a fallen star or just in a bad mood. Perhaps they have moods too.

She frowned. What if the bad mood is when they keep back rain and allow the mean Ghanaian sun to scorch the already dried black backs laboring for one meal. Or is that when it allows the rain through its gates over and above how much water the broken gutters decorating most streets in Accra can escort to safety. But she knew it was just sky. Sky full of clouds and stars and who knows what scientists will find next month or what they’d never find out till God calls it a wrap. Who knows.

Who knows. That was her magic when she wasn’t fine and fit to lift her head up to the sky. Her magic before she met the sky. The phrase saved her life. Not entirely. But it did save her mind from flittering to dark worlds some of her new friends didn’t make it back from. She said who knows to herself a hundred times over in a single day. Who knows slid off her lips while she filled forms, accepted diagnoses, failed chemo, gave up on lumpectomy and called her dead mother over her grave to tell her the worst bad news. Her daughter filled with life and breasts, breasts she was teased for for half a decade, won’t be back by her silent grave with them. Walking back into the hospital meant she would walk out without them. Double Modified Radical Mastectomy will make sure of it.

She walked back in nonetheless. She remembers nothing of the cutting away. She remembers everything after. Anesthesia worked in the surgery room and left her to face the pain alone in the outside. The day she stubbornly insisted and drove herself away from the second home she unwilling checked herself into, she had forgotten who she was now. She had till a young lady adjacent her in traffic reminded her. Her two pupils were attached to her chest. She followed the eyes to see why they’ve got guest and there was her bare chest. The tears fell and she sped home. There, the walls don’t talk. They only stare back. They don’t wander why you won’t fill up bare chest with materials foreign to your breast area. Even your own skin. Foreign materials that make them look more feminine. And they don’t ask you questions of what now. They don’t ask what you’ll do with the many years left after the twenty-five you’ve seen. They don’t ask what your plans are about trapping a man who’d love you past filled chests he could have drifted to sleep lying on. They are silent observers. Whatever eyes they have don’t talk. They don’t ask whether you’re truly alright. Even after you’ve answered till your throat dries with a Yes. They don’t wander why you’re happy with a bare chest. Why you are a happy bare chest.

But she’s learnt you don’t live happily with walls only. She had to feed. She went back to talking eyes and starred in conversations she’d rather not be even a listener of. Life moved on. She moved too. She carried her limbs past days and months and years of loneliness that’s blacker than dark. She carried her chest through smiles and laughter and visits. And she lived five years on. She’s also learnt the magic of skies and words can fail. She’s learnt permanent magic comes from loving a man who’s otherworldly for most and forgetting men who can’t love hard flat female chests. She smiled as the balcony embraced the new day. The day after #pinkoctober dies and women like her wait for another year to receive love from strangers. She smiled and folded her blankets readying to sleep chest down. Because when life gives you a bare chest, you forget about breasts you wished away many many times but miss terribly now and you school your heart on happiness. You fight not just to own your chest the way you prefer. You become happy with your bare chest. You become the happy bare chest.

© M’afua Awo Twumwaah 2017.

Posted in Fiction, Short Stories

The Eve of Christmas

The queen of First April is back with another exciting story. We met her, Kwaw and the stars of Tale Of Whys. You should read those two first if you’re new to them. Happy reading!

My husband, Kwaw just drove off with Oge to the Mall. Ama was insisting she needs herb spices to make her Jollof the way she, and all of us, love it. The guys didn’t argue, they just drove off. Marriage is teaching me that, this, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach thing contains some truth.

At the back of the house, the forever-will-be newlyweds of our church, Tracy and Calvin are getting the place ready for the Church’s eve of Christmas party. Kwaw, pastoring the church and being the fun guy he is, the church has parties for almost every special day we can name.

I, of course, am seated in the children’s playroom from across our bedroom, watching our little John and Ini; Oge and Ama’s daughter sleeping. And rubbing my hands over my swollen abdomen as often as I can believe I’m pregnant with our first child after nine years of marriage. I wish I could tell that story but my pen ink seems to be running out and the one I’m writing is far more exciting and equally miraculous.

By the way God’s doing something new with the weather here in Accra this year around Christmas – the harmattan hasn’t been granted permission to set in fully and yet there’s enough breeze to stand the hot smile of the sun. If influenced by a tooth fairy movie I just watched, still while watching over the kids play 😊😊, I’d have told you the breeze around here could make you fly. But I’m not going to because I’m not under any such influence.

So I can hear Calvin and Tracy giggling and I guess kissing and then laughing back there. I’m not a sneak but I can’t get my ears and eyes off these two. I can imagine how far their emotions have travelled, today being their first anniversary. Well, technically my eyes can’t see them at the moment. These are one of the couples in our church, myself and Kwaw’s age who got married last year. They are the least likely to be paired as a couple should we have asked the church to do us the matchmaking honour.

Maybe, precisely this – that they were the most unlikely to end up together and especially considering they’re both in their late thirties – is why my joy for them streams into excitement each time I consider how unique God allows every love story to be.

I’m sniffing. OK. You aren’t allowed to tear miss, you don’t want to mess up the pages you’re writing in, wake up the sleeping angels or upset the living wish being knitted in my womb.

Calvin Duah and Tracy Stevens were unarguably worlds apart before their courtship and marriage. We use to joke that they were like the cat and the fowl.

Aside: the guys are back. I can already smell the Jollof about to go down.

Calvin Duah is a good friend of my husband. They were in the engineering department together, for a semester, till Kwaw decided to pursue psychology. After we got married, we met him at a banking hall one day. For your information, banking halls in Ghana are good places to start looking (you know what I mean. And I have Oge and Ama as proof of that) or to reconnect with an old lost friend. In fact in Ghana, every public space is a good place for communal interactions. They quickly hit it off and Calvin started churching with us. He had been looking for a home church after pinning for himself a good job at GE oil and gas and moved to Accra. Calvin struck me from day one as a very handsome but shy and independent guy. From courting Kwaw a year and being almost a year into marriage at the time we met him, I knew finding someone to call babe may take forever for him. I started praying the Lord will grant me the privilege of matchmaking him someday. You see I had helped my mum match-make my big sister and from then on, I was convinced I was born to do this, you know, besides being a pastor’s wife and journaling (as I’m doing now) like crazy. That day arrived three years ago, February 2013, when Tracy joined our church with her family and her dear mum won’t stop talking in women’s meetings about her fear of Tracy never finding a man good enough.

Continue reading “The Eve of Christmas”