My Only Daavi (Verse 4)

IMG-20161006-WA0007.jpgMy heart pounced like the beat in one of Shatta Wale’s track, yet my legs kept moving forward, following my Dzigbordor to her grandmother’s house. She swung and wiggled her waist like a pregnant wasp that I didn’t have an option than to follow. When we got to our destination, her grandmother was preparing food and looked at me with the side of one eye. My state at the time was psychopathologic. But then it wasn’t a spell. I have been under a self-inflicted mental exaggeration of a fabricated folklore handed down from one generation to the other. When I first introduced her to my parents, they were like “Eh, an Ewe girl? You will cross the Volta in your own canoe.” My friends were the worst, aswear down. They said “So you, you no dey fear gbala eh? You no go come house again oo.” I have consistently looked for self-satisfying reasons that will affirm my long-held thought of mysterious happenings in Ewe land. So right now as I was offered water in a calabash to drink all came back to me in colour. For example, when she got up at midnight that she had to leave, it was because her grandmother was sick and her mother had travelled to Togo to trade so there was no one at home. Her grandmother’s head that I saw mysteriously appear from under the bed was actually a shattered frame of her photograph and all the voices I heard was because I had made up my mind to look for something against her. Right now I have been awoken from my slumber and have found out that all is a lie. Later she sat on me on a lazy chair and I enjoyed the moment. The food was ready and I was called to come and enjoy it. I have recovered from my hallucinations and settled with some apklɛ and fetridetsi alongside chilled pito in a calabash as she gave me a sexy look while she played with her hair. And please the Gas I said ‘her hair’ not ‘er air’…lol. Oh and about the black parrot and the monkey with a dimple, it was an imagination I added to this story to make it a bit mystical.

I was about to putting my oversized morsel in my mouth when a young man appeared and introduced himself to me. He said “My name is Kofi Gadegbeku, great-grandson of Togbe Tsali.” I swallowed hard.

It is truth that tribalism exists in Ghana and only the blind will refuse to see this. Say NO to tribalism. We are One Ghana.

Call her Dzigbordi. I mean she could crack her waist like plantain chips without it breaking. She was my true ewe girl. The abgadza which she learnt as a child from her village at Nogokpo made her flexible like soft eraser so it was easy for her to do such gbungbuncha kind of things when the lights go out.

The End.

A verse by Kotey.

Thank you for reading.

Good morning.

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