1. VINYE by

Take heed of your choices, Vinye,

Take heed with your temper

Papa Legba is no fool

His lessons come with pepper

Beware the road you take

Beware the water that seems inviting

You will realize too late your mistake

And your quest end with a clap of lightning

Do not let your heart waver

Do not let your soul tremble

Nyame does not abandon his children

So must you not abandon your temple

Understand the limits of your being

The potential of your whole

Be not dissuaded by the dust in your path

For the earth remembers your home

2. THE AKAN TRIBE OF KUMASI by

When I think about the Akan tribe, it reminds me of the stories of my people from generations past. These stories always make me feel proud of where I come from and the rich culture that has been passed down to us by our ancestors. I remember reading and listening to many stories about the Akan tribe, their traditions, wars, festivals, and the bravery of our leaders.

I picture myself in Bonwire, a place well known for its beautiful kente weaving, sitting peacefully under the big mango tree with my grandmother, Ama Gyasi. The cool breeze blows gently, and the sound of birds singing in the distance makes the moment feel special. My grandmother loves telling us stories every evening, and I always sit close to her because I never want to miss a single word.

She tells us stories about the old days, about the festivals we celebrate every month, and about the customs of the Akan people. She explains how our festivals bring families together and remind us to honor our ancestors who fought for us and protected our land. As I listen to her, I can almost see the people dressed in colorful kente cloth, dancing to the sound of drums and singing songs of joy.

One story that always stays in my mind is the story of the great warrior queen, Yaa Asantewaa. My grandmother speaks of her with so much respect and pride. She tells me that Yaa Asantewaa was a brave queen mother who stood up against the British when they tried to take the Golden Stool from the Akan people.

The Golden Stool was more than just a stool. To us, it was the pride of the Akan people, a symbol of our identity, power, and heritage. My grandmother always says that the Golden Stool carries the spirit and soul of our people.

When the British tried to steal it for themselves, Queen Yaa Asantewaa refused to let that happen. She gathered a strong army of brave warriors and encouraged them to fight for their people. She told them never to give up because the Golden Stool was the identity of the Akan people and must be protected at all costs.

The Akans fought the British for two long years. According to my grandmother, the war was full of courage, sacrifice, and determination. Even though our people fought bravely, they unfortunately lost to the British. Queen Yaa Asantewaa, the queen mother of Ejisu, and some of her family members were taken captive and sent into exile in the Seychelles Islands.

Even though the war was lost, the bravery of Queen Yaa Asantewaa can never be forgotten. Her courage still inspires me today and reminds me that the Akan people are strong, proud, and united.

Whenever I remember these stories, I feel connected to my roots and proud to be part of a people with such a powerful history. The story of the Akan tribe is not just a story of the past, but a story that continues to live in our hearts and in future generations.

3. AN ODE TO MAMI WATA by

mami wata ,mami wata

‎ I hear your cries ,

   It makes you weep,

  Your daughers drown  your cries but ,

   watch you with scorn and disgust ,

  Storms their eyes ,thrash like the sea ,

‎The pain twists you deeply ,

‎ Digging into your heart ,

‎

The humans wound your heart ,

‎Your daughter have deserted you ,

‎Called you names ,

‎ Cast you like lots ,

‎twisting and turning ,

‎ A dagger in your chest,

‎Your screams bubble from the rivers of volta ,

‎ Your daughters are seen as monsters,

‎ Hunted ,fared and drove off,

‎ Like a wounded animal you're ignored,

‎

‎Youre labeled as a monster ,a demon of old

‎ No wonder why your heart is made of stone ,

‎Your calls forever  loopimg ,

Never truly heard.

‎

‎ you were highly feared and worshiped,

‎ You praised and loved Humans ,

‎treated  you like a god,

Sat on a throne of gold  and shells ,

Breast adorned with shells and shiver ,

Your companion a snake curled around your neck ,

You are the ocean ,

Wild deep dangerous and unstoppable ,

The wrath in your eyes like a boat overturbed ,

Your beauty so enternal ,magestic  like sun,

The salt in your blood and veins ,

‎your heart made of stone ,

Skin of pure ebony ,eyes of flint

‎

‎queen mother ,queen mother ,

‎Mother supreme ,

‎your daughter hunger for you ,

Your voice commands storms and soothes your daughers cries ,

‎the foreign religion sucks on our lives

‎Revered ,feared,worshiped

‎now hated ,insulted and shackled

‎Now you're only

Crying to your daughers

‎who wear the white man's cross and unraveled their priestly robes

‎singing praises to a god ,not the ancestors

‎Cleaning white paint ,

‎ shunning all things our culture

‎libation replaced with havss together

‎nsmes anglicized

‎

‎Youre  angered by your sisters being dragged into ships

‎crying out to you

‎Made to become strangers in another man land

‎names erased ,stripped and replaced

‎back  bare, and clawed ,breasts dangling

‎their screams fill the air .

‎

‎But daughter ,I am here ,

‎I hear your cries as you flood the shores,

‎The sea heaped with trash ,

The waters turning brown ,

‎the fishes swallowed by awful nets ,

‎The storms raging over the seas ,

‎The  bodies being washed ashore ,

‎Oh mami wata ,your heart has been broken once more ,

‎what  roots do we have when we sever our ties to one before us ,

‎what taboos do  we have,

Protect the sea the only wish she has.

4. WHEN THE DRUM BREATHES AND THE SEA GIVES IDENTITY by

We were the city on the hill

We called other cities to hail

And Lahe was the name of the hill

We were envied for our guardian

Tsaatsi the drum

Dare not call our guardian a drum

Tsaatsi was a voice

A guiding light with great force

The eyes and ears of the land

It forewarned and predestined at hand

Dare not call our guardian wood and hide

An ancient fallen odetree struck by lightning

Was what our ancestors carved this drum with yet so frightening

The skin of a royal leopard stretched over it so tightening

Only Dzaase the chief priest could beat it when the need be and not unceasingly

Before war, "Let’s ask tsastsi"

Before cultivating," let’s ask tsaatsi"

Before building," let’s ask tsaatsi"

And we never failed with tsaatsi

But we got proud. 

“Why should we listen to a drum? 

Our spears are sharp. Our hearts are strong. We’ve never miss, we never lose"

We raided without its blessing

We seek without its sight

We fought without its hand

We listened without it ears

Tsaatsi was abandoned

And when the enemy came

And when everything we had almost got stripped away

And when we were defenseless

we ran to beat the drum

We remembered Tsaatsi once again

We ran to what we abandoned for help

It was silent

We beat harder

Yet we met silence

We beat harder

The hide tore

It began to drip, as red as palm oil

Tsaatsi was bleeding

Tsaatsi died because we stopped needing it

So mind how you discard and disregard those who truly care for you

We fled Lahe with pieces of broken hide in our hands

Because sometimes all you have left of those who cared are their memories

We that were hailed now became refugees with drum-skin in our throats

Who would take the blame?

"Tsaatsi gbo, wɔ tse" - the drum is broken, but we live

That’s what we tell ourselves when we pour libation today

That’s what we whisper to keep from choking and motivate to live

Our story didn’t end there

So if you feel you’ve fallen

Rise back up on your feet

We followed the Volta down, down, 

To where the river kisses the sea at Ada

What did we do to the sea?

The sea Swallowed our canoes

The sea returned our nets back empty

Are we to starve here?

We have no home

We cried

"You have no name here." A whispered

We have no identity

The sea did not know us

Once again a great ancestor took a bold move

A move that realigned our history and identity

Nene Kɔli, the fisherman who read water, 

Walked calmly and bravely into the waves

If the sea swallowed our canoes how much more human?

Fear was the only thing we could call

Water to his chest yet he kept going further

Water to his chin, a proud sea raider

Water to his lips, he said a prayer

He opened his mouth to Nyongmo, our God  and Mother Earth

“If you will not give us fish, 

give us a name. 

Let the water know who we are.” 

The tide came rushing fearfully

Did not drown him thankfully

It rather filled his mouth with salt radically

And when it pulled back gently

He spoke one word into the deep satisfactorily…

"Ada"

"I am here"

From that day, the sea answered. 

Every high tide says it back…

"Ada, Ada, you are here"

The fishes were now gifts in abundance

The canoes floated with getting swallowed

But here’s the price: 

Every Ada child gets salt on the tongue at birth

It explains a key component of our naming ceremony

So we never forget who we are

If you deny your name, 

The tide will not know you when you drown

When the drum bleeds

When the sea gives identity

Remember us

I am Lahe’s daughter

I am Ada’s son

I carry broken hide in my left hand, 

salt in my mouth, 

We are the Dangbes. 

5. IT HAPPENS by (@Giovannifree on Wattpad)

Ken had always been the one with the answers. In Junior High, his hand shot up before teachers finished asking questions. Math, science, literature-he devoured textbooks like novels, and his classmates knew him as the quiet genius who made the rest of them look average.

Then came the headaches.

At first, he ignored them. Late nights studying, too much screen time, stress over final exams. But when he collapsed during a physics mock test, his left hand trembling uncontrollably, the world tilted. An MRI later, the neurosurgeon used words like cerebellar tumor and resection and recovery timeline. Ken's mother cried. His father gripped the hospital railing until his knuckles went white.

The surgery succeeded, but success came with a price. Ken's cerebellum-the brain's maestro of coordination and balance-had been damaged. He relearned how to walk, how to hold a pen, how to pour water without spilling. By the time Senior High began, he could pass for normal, but his handwriting was slower, his gait slightly unsteady, his energy a finite resource that drained by noon.

What hurt most was the silence. Former friends waved from a distance but rarely sat beside him. Teachers praised his resilience while secretly lowering expectations. And the girls-bright, ambitious girls who once sought his help with calculus-now glanced at him with something close to pity.

In Senior High's second year, a girl named Priya asked to study with him. She was sharp, funny, and never rushed him through sentences. For three months, Ken felt almost whole. They held hands once, under a lab table during a chemistry video. His heart pounded. Then Priya gently pulled away. "You're amazing, Ken," she said later, "but I can't be your caregiver. I'm sorry."

He hadn't asked her to be. But he understood. Late nights were dangerous for him-fatigue triggered tremors. Spontaneous outings meant checking for stairs, railings, uneven ground. He couldn't drive. Some days he woke up fine; other days, his fingers refused to grip a coffee mug. That wasn't a boyfriend. That was a responsibility.

University was lonelier. He majored in biomedical engineering-a quiet rebellion against the tumor that had tried to unmake him. His grades returned to top-tier, but social life remained a foreign language. A few women showed interest. One, a poet named Mira, told him his scars made him beautiful. Another, a pre-med student, said she understood his condition "scientifically." Both left when they realized "recovering" didn't mean "recovered."

By his third year, Ken had stopped hoping. Not out of bitterness, but clarity. He mapped his energy like a budget-studies, therapy exercises, sleep. Romance demanded withdrawals he couldn't afford. The anxiety of disclosure, the exhaustion of explaining, the inevitable moment when a partner realized love wouldn't fix his neurology. He had survived something that should have killed him. He would not apologize for the shape of his survival.

One evening, sitting on the university rooftop with the city lights blinking below, Ken made his decision final. No dating. No relationships. He would build a life of purpose-research, maybe, into pediatric brain tumors. He would be an uncle to his sister's future children. He would travel carefully, live quietly, and find joy in laboratories and libraries.

It wasn't sad, he realized. It was a different kind of intelligence. Knowing what you cannot hold without breaking-that was wisdom too.

Below, the campus buzzed with couples laughing, arguing, falling in love. Ken smiled, turned toward the stairs, and walked down slowly, one deliberate step at a time.

6. THE RIVER THE GODS LOVE by

Oh, the tales that spilled from the lips of my Ewe parents. These stories carried like inheritance, repeated until they settled in my bones. There is a reason we respect the earth the way we do. In my land, no one dares to defile what breathes life, especially the river.

The biggest of them all… oh, it is grand. It is a river that carves through the eastern spine of our country, gathering waters as it moves in it's basin restless and watchful until it empties itself into the wide, waiting mouth of the sea.

It wasn't always this way. There was a time when our people forgot respect.

They defiled the river until its waters turned a sickly brown. It no longer nourished — it killed. Waste was poured into it without thought, human filth emptied into the belly of a weeping goddess.

At the center of it all was Togbe Segbefia, the chief of the village that lay along its banks. He did nothing. He allowed the people to feed the river their rot, their carelessness… their sins and so it continued  day-after-day until the land began to answer.

The crops of Sogakope withered. Illness crept through the village. Food grew scarce, so scarce that ribs began to show, and sickness carried away the children before their time. Libations were poured, sacrifices made, diviners summoned from distant lands and still, nothing changed.

Fear turned to anger. The courtyard filled with unrest, voices demanding Segbefia step down. Fear clung to him like a second skin.

Then, suddenly — the doors burst open.

A guard dragged in a man clad in tattered cloth and forced him to his knees, his body slick with sweat. "I have come from afar," the man rasped. "I bear a message for Togbe Segbefia."

"Then speak," Segbefia said coldly. "Before I have you thrown from these heights."

"Togbe, the river that borders Sogakope is no ordinary river. It is the river the gods love. It has been fed with filth, and now the gods punish you for poisoning its soul. The goddess seeks vengeance against he who defiled her." He swallowed hard. "The gods demand that you be destooled… or that you offer the life of your last-born son as sacrifice to appease the gods."

Rage took Segbefia. "Take him away. Lock him up for speaking such blasphemy."More messengers came. Each one was silenced. Each one imprisoned. Until one night, the river spoke in dreams.

Segbefia saw a wave rising from the horizon; towering, immense, like a living wall. At its base stood an elephant, feeding peacefully on the shore. The wave came without sound and swallowed it whole. He woke with a start, heart hammering against his chest. The image refused to leave him.

The next morning, he walked into the council of elders and spoke words no one expected to hear."I wish to be destooled."

The news spread like harmattan fire. Joy etched itself onto every face. The new chief who was enstooled did not speak of mercy. He spoke of law — any hand that fed the river filth would answer for it with their life. The people obeyed, not only out of fear, but because they had seen what forgetting cost them.

Slowly, the river remembered itself. The brown thinned. The water began to run clear, catching light the way it must have in the beginning. The crops rose again,  steadily, the way life returns when it is finally allowed to. Women came back to the banks with reverence in their hands. Fishermen cast their nets and the nets came back full.

The earth had not forgotten what was done to it, but it forgave.

And so the river flows still  restless and watchful, the way it has always been until it empties itself into the wide, waiting mouth of the sea.

We do not defile it. We do not dare.

The Volta River… The River The Gods Love.

7. LOST TRIBES: PATH OF THE TESSA by Solomon Dotcher (James Huntd)

This is the lost history of the Ga-Adangbe. This history is largely unknown and is dismissed by the outside world as conjecture but I will do my best to provide written and verbal evidence from chiefs, priests and the bible.

Departure of the tribes of Israel

2 Kings 17:6

"In the ninth year of Hoshea, the king of Assyria took Samaria, and carried Israel away into Assyria, and placed them in Halah and in Habor by the river of Gozan, and in the cities of the Medes."

10 lost Tribes, 2 Remnants of Israel

Ezra 1:5

"Then the heads of the fathers' houses of Judah and Benjamin and the priests and the levites, with all whose spirits God had moved, arose to go up and rebuild the house of the lord which is in Jerusalem."

Population Count

Ezra 2:64

The whole assembly together was 42,360. (No. of people who returned after exile.)

2 Samuel 24:9

"And Jacob gave the sum of the number of people unto the king and there were in Israel 800,000 valiant men that drew the sword And the men of judah were 500,000 men."

(Before exile of Israel) (Total of 1.3 million)

(Angel of the lord then reduced them by 70,000 in 3 days later)

Scattering of the 10 Tribes

Zachariah 7:14

"But I scattered them with a whirlwind among all nations whom they knew not. Thus the land was desolate after them."

Ga-Adangbe Traditional Leaders who believe this

King Tackie Teiko Tsuru II (The current Ga Mantse)

Dr Nii Armah Josiah-Aryeh (Legal Scholar & Leader)

The Nai Wulomo (Chief Priest of Gas) past & present.

Gborbu Wulomo (Overlord of Gadangme)

Journey Through the Kingdoms

After the exile of Dan and Gad, remnants would have to travel a long journey till they finally settle in the coast of West Africa. A journey that had taken approximately 2000 years according to history. Enough time for them to undergo cultural assimilation with other tribes and kingdoms and the change of natural skin color to a darker tone as they enter the tropics.

1. The Banishment and Migration (722 BC)

This is the historical date when the King of Assyria banished the ten tribes to Assyria. After this the tribes of Gad and Dan disappear from biblical records. When crossing through Egypt around this time they would enter the Kingdom of Kush and this can be linked to their leaders name Ayi Kushi. Moving through this region from approx. 500 BC – 1000 AD. Also crossing Ethiopia and Sahel.

2. 300 year settlement (1000 AD – 1300 AD)

This is where they settled in Ile-Ife (Nigeria). Interacting with the Yoruba and assimilating language and some customs. Due to expansion of tribes and wars they had to move west continuing their migration.

3. Arrival in Ghana (1300 AD – 1400 AD)

Led by King Ayi Kushi they crossed the Volta River and established their first Major Kingdom near Accra. The location would later be known as Ayawaso.

Lesser gods

Among the people the spiritual world is seen in a heirachy where, Ataa Naa Nyongmo (the supreme being) is at the top. Below are the DzemaWodzi (the gods of the world), who are lesser deities or spirits serving as intermediaries between humans and the creator. Some priests call them territorial spirits or even angels.

1. Sea deities

Nai -> Sea god

Ashi Akle -> Sea goddess (daughter of Nai)

2. War and Protective Deities

Sakumo -> Actually two gods (siblings) of river and war.

Gborbu -> War deity of the Nungua people.

3. Lagoon deities

Korle -> Lagoon goddess

Klote -> Lagoon god

Kpeshi -> Lagoon deity

Lakpa -> Lagoon God

Sango -> Lagoon deity

God's View of Lesser gods

Psalm 82 describes how God judges among the gods. He is angry with them for judging unjustly and showing partiality to wicked. He orders them to defend the poor and fatherless and do justice to the needy. And to all those who do not obey he says in Psalm 82: 6-7.

"I said, 'You are gods' and all of you are children of the Most High. But you shall die like men and fall like one of the princes."

Deut 10:17

"For the LORD your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, the great God, mighty and awesome, who shows no partiality nor takes a bribe."

1 Kings 22:20-21

"And the Lord said, 'Who will persuade Ahab to go up, that he may fall at Ramoth Gilead?'... 21 Then a spirit came up and stood before the LORD and said, 'I will persuade him.'"

Deut 32:8-9 (Septuagint translation)

"When the Most High divided the nations, when he separated the sons of Adam, he set the bounds of the nations according to the number of angels of God. 9 And His people Jacob became the portion of the Lord, Israel was the line of his inheritance."

Corruption of Territorial Spirits

As already discussed God's plan was for these angels to be judges and links to him for all nations, to bring them to the path of righteousness. He took over Israel as his. But as seen in Psalm 82 they failed by accepting praise (creating idolatry worldwide), being unjust, helping wicked, and neglecting their role and allowing human sacrifices. They were judged by God in Psalm 82: 6-7 and severely punished. And now finally when Jesus died and rose again all authority in heaven and on earth was given to him in Matthew 28:18. Thus all lesser gods now have no authority to rule over the nations of the world.

Colossians 2:15

"And having disarmed the powers and authorities, he made a public spectacle of them, triumphing over them by the cross."

The legend of the Lion and the Te-Sa

The King Ayi Kushi was described as the lion who led the people in the migration from Nigeria to the coastal plains. He was the king who finally led them here and is said to also be a spiritual leader having divine powers. The Te-Sa was said to be a divine moving stone which is believed to originate from Israel. It is said that this was given by the creator to guide them to their correct location.

Te meaning stone and Sa meaning prepared. This luminous stone would stop for the people to rest and led them till it reached their destination and became immovable.

Other Names for the Stone:

Te-Nyongmo -> Divine stone

Shika Te -> Golden stone

Te-Oshila -> Messenger stone

Festival Celebration

At some point in time the people were subject to a harsh famine that ended in a heavy rainstorm. Thus the people began the Homowo festival to show mark the joyous occasion and hoot at hunger. Libation is poured and mud is smeared on doors. Ga leaders and scholars point to this as a similarity to the smearing of blood on doors by the jews in Israel during the Passover festival.

8. BEAUTY OF BATTLE by

Rubles and golden fables,

Blood pours from the warriors stables,

Gye Nyame,

The King’s crest is trampled,

Twediampon delights In the incense of our burning huts.

From Mother’s heart to the feasting crows,

Nananom will see their sons,

Gye Nyame,

And the ripened blood were all in vain,

baseless oaths – where are there gods who held their own against our own?

Silence for strangers, They’ve made guests of the foreigners,

Whom is to rise and Whom is to cry,

Gye Nyame, who shall say,

brother is gone, and the comedic wine-tapper is gone,

The Earth is shaken and my feet has been taken,

If A thousand goes a thousand will be brought,

But Akua is gone – and my love was for one.

9. KWADASO by (@dee_publisher on Wattpad)

For over centuries, people fail to understand why the Ashantis detest change. It takes away our history, it takes away our culture and most importantly, it takes away the meaningfulness of certain occurrences.

Change is inevitable alright, the world evolves as years pass us by. But I don’t think the great America will wake up one day and announce to its people that Queens is no longer called Queens, all because it doesn’t really represent its hood nature or that Miami is no longer called Miami, because it doesn’t align with the beach, the water, you’re just a gen z, have no research abilities, which brings us to my final statement. You’re just ignorant.

The world is open to different minds and different opinions, but I stand on my toes when I say the name “Kwadaso Estate” does not need to be changed, all in the name of it don’t sound sophisticated like the cantonments and Ridge condos.

These are not just places with unique names, these are histories, culture, something to explain our way of life, differences in ethnicity and yet we are one people.

Kwadaso was once before, a place covered with water, the only thing that divided the upper town of Kwadaso from the Estate part was a river. Before getting to Kwadaso Estate, you’d first cross the bridge.

Young girls fetched water for their mothers by the river, but not without singing songs of praises to the river deity, Abena. Two teenage girls visited the river one morning and found a calabash on the bridge. They uttered the exact phrase in Twi, “Kora Da So” which means, there’s a calabash on it.

Hence, originating the name of the town. It is not only a historic moment. It gives meaning to the event. Just like Queens, New York was named after Queen Catherine of Braganza. Erasing the name is erasing over three centuries of history. Not forgetting hip-hop acts benefit greatly from its name. For instance, rapper Nicki Minaj is known as the Queen from Queens, capitalizing off her roots.

Names of these locations can only be changed when the name honors someone with a controversial legacy. Like the Kotoka International Airport which was recently changed to Accra International Airport. It’s understandable since it’s named after someone that staged a coup d’état and failed.

These naming and their histories most times serve as a good marketing strategy for tourism, if the place is properly taken care for. For instance, Miami, Florida.

Miami is a place best known for family getaways, it’s known for its beaches, it’s known for relaxation and fun. Miami comes from Mayaimi, a native American tribe meaning “big water”. The eventually adopted the name, Miami River.

Miami is worth millions in tourism, its beaches and nightlife alone gave it a brand, not forgetting rappers like Rick Ross, Yung Miami and Jt capitalizing off it with the famous 305 line. Miami’s brand has been also incorporated in video games like grand theft.

So imagine erasing a name like Miami, erasing history, it just won’t feel the same, not the brand, not the cultural excellence.

With Kwadaso currently, that’s not the case. The river has been wasted; it has been lost. We only have what it once was, to hold unto. Let’s protect whatever is left of it. Kwadaso Estate is a lovely place with elite schools.

10. ANANSE'S YEARS by

DAZED

ARNOLD

Eyes open. Vision Hazy.

What Where

Mumbles. Swats a Few insects and shakes off Some dried fallen leaves. Stands

What in God’s name

Camera pans out. His wife and thre kids sprawled over a forest floor around him. Unconscious.

Franctic. Confused. Jumps beside each with his finger shot to their neck pulses

Thank God.

He taps shakes shouts in an effort to wake them to no avail

He huddles them together in a bed of leaves

Not beside the trees. Damn insects would rip them apart

He Swats an ant on his neck. Stomp on more on the ground.

He walks of into the forest

….

Night falls.

MEIR

Wakes with  a startle. Confused. Scans the environment. Twins are playing. Franticaly runs to them.

Wheres your father where’s Jude

JUDE

Over here mum

Carries firewood to a pile and runs to hug mother

ARNOLD

We went looking for firewood

MEIR

Still frantic eyes darting everywhere all at once.

JUDE

Mom are you o….

MEIR

Yes dear. Go play with the twins

She runs up to her husband. Body shaking holding back tears

Arnie, Arnie

She tries to steady her shaking body on his calm physique

What in the Heavens is going on Arnie

ARNOLD

Holds her and whispers

Stay calm. The kids see us. We’ve got to handle this.

MEIR

Shouts hysterically

WHERE…

, Arnold shushes her she turns and the kids are staring worried

ARNOLD

smiles

Jude leave the twins come set up the campfire site

Walks wife further back

MEIR

Whispers

What are we doing here Arnie

ARNOLD

I don’t know

…….

A FLASH FREEZE SPREADS ACROSS THE TUNDRA. CLIMATE AT ITS HARSHEST EVER.

ARNOLD DIES EARLY FROM WOUND INFECTION IN HIS ARM.

TWINS RAY & JOE  BOTH CONTRACT PNEUMONIA AND DIE FROM HIGH FEVER.

THEIR MOTHER GOES OFF INTO THE WOODS ONE NIGHT IN SEARCH OF FOOD AND NEVER RETURNS. JUDE HEARD THE CRIES OF WOLVES THAT NIGHT SOO REQUIRED NO FURTHER EXPLANATION.

He journeyed further on and till he fell… succumbing to exhaustion.

…. 4 YEARS AFTER THE DAZED

A YEAR LATER….

MEIR

Shakes husband whispering

Arnold Arnold

ARNOLD

He wakes instantly and turns focus to his wifes distress, a strange and visibly dying man

Who are you?

Fiercely but quietly, taking a worried glance at his kids

MAN

Childs….

He cries uncontrollably

Why childs why childs demon childs why demon

He muttered In a raspy voice with a hint of an accent curling into a ball

ARNOLD

Leave… if you intend harm

MEIR

Leave… begone

Hurls a rock at the man whiles thrusting a stick in his direction

MAN

Die soon demon die soon

He scrries away frantically from the disturbed wife

ARNOLD

Grabs wife

STOP youll wake them

MEIR

Pushes him off

Hes one of the creatures hes dangerous

ARNOLD

They never spoke Hes human

MEIR

Screams

LOOK AT HIM

Looks back at children still fast asleep

He could be a cannibal …or worse

ARNOLD

Stares at the man huddled beneath a tree whimpering

Hes seems a survivor

MEIR

Or a killer… psychopath… mentally deranged… Arnie, weve been through enough, scare him off before the kids see him

ARNOLD

Scared? Meir youre right… hes scared just as we are…. Not like the bneasts weve seen… they knew no fear…. They fear not their hell

A thud

The man collapsed

Arnold runs to check him

Hes breathing

MEIR

KILL HIM

She shrieks, the children are staring, she breaks down in tears

…..

3 YEARS AFTER THE TRUTH

After a couple of years Arnold finds out that he’s growing up into an old man and will not be fit for fighting and defending predators from the family, hunting for food, and building up campfires so he tells Jude his eldest son of the other two twins, Raymond and Josephine, to train on the particular week he didn’t know was going to be his last.

……

THE TRUTH

TWO YEARS AFTER DAZED….

RAYMOND

Runs to man and mother

Come STRANGER is telling stories

Laughs

JOSEPHINE

Were dancing

JUDE

I don’t like it

Challenge is open for MAY now. Submit to wattgh1@gmail.com . For more details on the anthology please refer to our previous article. And to join our WhatsApp community, join or subscriber chat. Stay connected and engaged for more news and updates. VOLUME II coming soon.

This month focuses on culture and traditions. Write a prose or poetry depicting Ghanaian

• myths

• legends

• folklore

• and folktales you know of.

Rep your ethnic group and be as authentic as you can to your roots. Stay grounded to a cultural plot or theme, but you can also take liberties in storytelling.

• Can be written in any genre.

• Deadline: April 30th

• Word count: 500 maximum

• Submit as a word document to our email wattgh1@gmail.com

• Collaborating with all entries.

Yɛ nananom once said,

That amidst the cries of a land,

were the voices of men,

brittle like dried leaves, whispering surrender.

The invaders had rooted their feet,

clutching for gold and marking their conquest.

With no God, no hope, there was but one

whose heart still burned.

​Many moons and many suns,

there was only silence, despair, and contempt.

Then, she stood.

A mountain in a wrap of ntoma,

her heels striking the earth like the thunder of the Atumpan.

​And then they looked.

They looked for a man in animal skin,

A weapon in hand

and the mark of courage upon his face.

But what they found, much to their quiet dismay,

was an Almighty in a hand-woven dress.

She did not need the weight of a crown

Or the weight of their chorused hope.

"A woman’s hand," they mocked, "is for a cradle."

"A woman’s hand," she scoffed, "is for the blade."

​She stepped into the dust, where the invaders

flaunted their plundered goods.

Asaase Yaa rose to welcome her,

Her kente trailing like a river of fire-

a tapestry of proverbs and tales etched in the very threads.

They saw her cloth, but missed the steel beneath

They saw a woman, but missed the God within

She was the storm.

She was the sacred fire, not even the wind could douse.

A single step, the laws rewrote

A black emblem of a thousand wails 

and a thousand hopes.

​She moved with no roar, but a quiet grace and gaze

that ignited the simmering hope.

She struck with a spark, that turned the cowards into lions.

​The earth shook, Asaase suyiɛ,

Blood spilt- a resistance so great

that the stone fortresses could not hold.

The invaders, once rooted, were swept like chaff

before the patterned fury of her spirit.

When the smoke cleared and the silence returned,

they found no man in leather or shield.

No woman with a cradle,

only the quiet rustle of kente ntoma in the wind,

and a nation reborn at the hem of a dress.

​

By Miss Hughes.

“If you have ever been underestimated because you were quiet, this is your reminder— silence is not weakness”

They always saw the dress first.

Soft. Simple. Nothing loud about it.

Nothing that warned them.

So they decided who I was before I even spoke.

I never corrected them.

I didn’t need to.

The office was always loud. People talking over each other, trying to be noticed, trying to prove they mattered. It was almost predictable. The same voices, the same confidence, the same need to be seen.

I stayed quiet.

Not because I had nothing to say.

But because I understood something they didn’t.

Power doesn’t need noise.

It just needs timing.

They overlooked me easily. Left me out of decisions. Dismissed my presence without even realizing it. I became used to it, not because I accepted it, but because I understood it.

At first, people expected a reaction.

They never got one.

Because while they were busy being seen, I was paying attention.

Learning. Noticing. Preparing.

So when the work came real work, not just talk everything shifted.

It was the kind of responsibility people avoid when it actually matters. Tight deadlines. High pressure. No room for mistakes. The kind that exposes people for who they really are.

No one wanted it.

So it came to me.

Not because they trusted me.

But because they didn’t think it mattered who handled it.

That was their second mistake.

I didn’t argue.

I didn’t hesitate.

I just started.

While they rushed, I stayed steady.

While they guessed, I was certain.

While they panicked, I stayed in control.

I saw what they missed. Fixed what they ignored. Finished what they left incomplete. I gave it structure, clarity, direction

everything it lacked before it reached me.

I didn’t announce it.

I didn’t need to.

The results spoke before I ever had to.

And suddenly, everything changed.

The same people who overlooked me started paying attention. Not out of curiosity, but caution. Their tone shifted. Their eyes stayed longer. Their assumptions disappeared.

Because they finally saw it.

Not the dress.

Not the silence.

Me.

I never needed to raise my voice.

I never needed to fight for space.

I never needed to prove anything.

My work did that for me.

What they thought was weakness was control.

What they thought was silence was discipline.

What they thought was softness was strength.

Nothing about me changed.

I was still calm. Still quiet. Still composed.

But now, it meant something different.

Now, it meant power.

The kind that doesn’t ask to be seen.

The kind that doesn’t need permission.

The kind that is simply there, whether you notice it or not. The power of a woman.

And once they saw it…

They couldn’t unsee it.

That is because power was never about being the loudest in the room, it’s about knowing who you are even when no one else does.

“For those that felt overlooked because they were silent— this is what power looks like “

By Afua Nyarko

In Abonse, the people call Awo a blessed woman. She always woke up before the first rooster crowed, when the sky was still in its deep blue hue. Her cloth was always tied neatly around her waist as she goes to the coal pot in the corner room, the scent of fresh stew and boiling yam filled the courtyard before the sun rose. She always got her four children ready for school on time. Her husband goes to work as usual. It’s been like this for fifteen years. Outsiders always said Awo carried peace in her hands. But was that true?

When the lights are off at night and all are asleep on their mattresses, something rises. First, it was only whispers.

You are tired.

Why did you leave me?

You’re selfish!

These whispers lived deep in her head; beneath the smiles she stitched onto her face each morning. Awo ignored them. After all, good wives don’t complain and a good mother endures. But the whispers grew, and they began crawling into her dreams.

In one dream, Awo stood in the forest beyond their cocoa farms, where the elders said spirits wandered. The trees were tall and watching. And there, between the shadows, stood another woman. She wore Awo's face but her eyes were purely dark.

“You left me here. Why?” the woman said softly.

Awo would wake up trembling after that, her heart beating like the village drum at a funeral. As usual, she prays it away and goes about her day. But does that stop it? Days and weeks pass, her husband and children expect more from her. The farm work grew harder too, still Awo kept smiling.

One midnight, during the Harmattan, the whispers returned, not in her head, but behind her. Awo turned and saw the woman from the forest, standing in the doorway. She still looked exactly like her, except taller. Her wrapped cloth moved like smoke around her legs.

“You buried me. What did I ever do to deserve that?” the woman said.

Awo’s voice shook. “Who… who are you?”

The woman grinned slowly. “I am the part of you that stopped breathing.” The lights flickered, shadows crawled along the walls like living things.

“You gave everything to them,” the woman continued, stepping closer. “Your laughter. Your strength. Your soul. You sacrificed yourself just like that… and for what?”

Awo backed away until her legs hit the wall. “But now, something must feed on what’s left.” Her reflection reached out its cold fingers and touched Awo’s face before she could shout.

“And I’m hungry.”

Then silence.

What happened to Awo was unknown. The household slept peacefully. But by morning, the villagers still saw the same woman tying her cloth and lighting the cooking fire. Still smiling. But sometimes, when the wind passed through Abonse at night, the elders swore they heard two voices whispering in Awo’s house. One gentle. One angry.

The first person who saw her was the butcher.

She stood at the end of the empty street just before midnight, wearing a long black dress that brushed the dusty ground. Her face was pale, almost glowing under the weak streetlight.

“Are you lost?” the butcher asked.

The woman smiled.

“Not at all,” she said softly. “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

The next morning, the butcher was found dead in his shop.

No wounds.

No blood.

Just a look of frozen terror on his face.

People whispered that his heart must have stopped. Old men said maybe he had angered God somehow.

But the woman in the black dress kept appearing.

At the market.

At the church.

At the edge of the village well.

Everywhere she went, something strange followed.

Milk spoiled within minutes.

Dogs whimpered and hid.

Babies cried the moment she passed.

Yet when anyone asked who she was, she only answered with the same quiet words.

“I’m here to remind you.”

Of what?

No one knew.

Until the disappearances began.

First it was a drunk man who often beat his wife. Then a thief who had stolen from half the village. Then the corrupt chief who had taken land from poor families.

One by one, they were found dead.

No injuries.

No explanation.

Only terror carved into their faces.

The villagers grew afraid.

Some said she was a witch.

Others said she was a demon.

So one night, the bravest men gathered with torches and knives.

When the woman appeared near the church, they surrounded her.

“Tell us what you are!” one man shouted.

The woman looked at them calmly.

“I told you,” she said.

“I’m here to remind you.”

Thunder rolled across the sky.

The wind suddenly stopped.

The torches flickered violently.

“Remind us of what?” the chief’s son demanded.

The woman slowly lifted her head.

Her eyes were no longer human.

They glowed like burning stars.

“Judgment.”

The ground trembled.

For a moment, the men saw something impossible.

Behind the woman’s shadow on the church wall stretched something enormous....vast wings, curling horns, and a shape too powerful for human understanding.

Some dropped their weapons.

Some fell to their knees.

But the woman only smiled.

“You prayed for the Almighty,” she whispered.

“You begged for justice.”

Her dress moved like dark smoke around her feet.

“Well… here I am.”

The next morning, the woman in the dress was gone.

But the men who had surrounded her were never seen again.

And from that day on, whenever thunder rolled across the village, people locked their doors and prayed quietly.

Because sometimes…

The Almighty does not come as a king.

Sometimes,

She comes in a dress.

I learned early how to be strong.

Or at least, how to pretend.

At school, I was the smallest among my peers. I never quite understood why I was different, but they made sure I felt it. I was constantly bullied—laughed at, ridiculed for things I could not change. We wore the same uniforms, the same shoes, carried the same bags… yet somehow, I was still not like them.

Even my teachers joined in the mockery.

I became confused.

Why was I different?

Why was I never enough?

Slowly, something inside me began to break.

I felt alone… deeply alone. My parents were not there to listen, to understand, or even to notice. So I stopped caring. I stopped caring about everything...myself, my siblings… everything.

In a typical African home, a child of seven should be running around, carefree, lost in laughter and innocence.

But that was never my story.

Instead, I carried silence.

But silence, I learned, has a voice.

And mine found its way onto paper.

I began to pour out everything...every pain, every confusion, every tear I could not show the world. I wrote about strong people. I wrote about broken people who somehow found the strength to rebuild themselves.

Without realizing it, I was writing myself back to life.

Word by word…

Line by line…

I began to heal.

And somewhere in the middle of all that pain, I changed.

That little, broken seven-year-old girl did not disappear.

She transformed.

Today, I am no longer the girl they laughed at.

I am no longer the silence they ignored.

I am a voice.

A voice that speaks for the unheard.

A voice that stitches together broken souls.

A voice that turns pain into power.

They once saw a girl in an oversized uniform, lost and insignificant.

But they never saw what she was becoming.

Not just a girl.

Not just a writer.

I became something more.

I became strength.

I became healing.

I became power…

I became the Almighty in a dress.

But they had never truly looked at Ama Serwaa.

Ama Serwaa was a seamstress. Every morning before the sun rose, she tied a bright cloth around her waist, wore her favorite blue dress, and opened the wooden door of her little shop near the dusty roadside. Her sewing machine hummed like a quiet song as she worked.

To most people, she was just “the woman who sews dresses.”

What they didn’t see was the strength hidden in her gentle smile.

Years earlier, Ama Serwaa had lost her husband. The grief nearly broke her, and for months the house felt empty and silent. Yet she rose every morning, tied her headscarf, and kept going. She stitched school uniforms for children whose parents could not pay. She repaired torn clothes for old women who came with only gratitude. She fed a hungry boy who often sat outside her shop pretending not to be starving.

Her hands moved with patience and care, as if every stitch carried a quiet prayer.

One afternoon, a terrible storm swept through Adom. The winds howled, rain flooded the roads, and several homes collapsed. People ran through the streets in panic, unsure what to do.

Ama Serwaa did not panic.

She stepped out of her shop in the same blue dress she wore every day and began helping people gather the children. She turned her tiny shop into a shelter. Her sewing table became a place for bandaging wounds. Her cooking pot fed families who had lost everything.

All night she moved from person to person, comforting, organizing, and encouraging everyone to keep hope.

By morning, the storm had passed. The town was quiet, but something had changed.

People began to notice what had always been there.

They noticed the woman who had never stopped giving.

They noticed the courage that spoke softly but carried everyone forward.

The chief himself came to thank her. “Ama Serwaa,” he said, “yesterday you led this town when no one else could.”

Ama Serwaa simply smiled and wiped her hands on her dress.

“I only did what needed to be done,” she replied.

But the people of Adom now understood something important: power does not always shout. Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it works quietly, mending what is broken.

And sometimes, the strongest person in the room is a woman in a simple dress, carrying the kind of strength that can hold an entire community together.

From that day on, whenever people spoke about true power in Adom, they did not picture a suit or a throne.

They remembered Ama Serwaa.

The Almighty in a dress.

Author Bio

Priscilla Boakye is a storyteller who loves creating powerful and imaginative narratives. She enjoys writing stories that highlight courage, resilience, and the quiet strength found in everyday people. She is also the author of The Lost Ice Kingdom: Guardians of the Seasons.

i. Trick

I tell you.

Maybe I was drugged, crazy, or dreaming.

But it definitely happened!

Even Tevin told me; "Elikem, your eyes were playing tricks on you!"

I have never been closer to oblivion than I was that day.

ii. Explorer

Remember your invite to me for the graduation after-party trip to Anomabu Beach Resort on March 26, 2025?

In my shared room were your mate Georgette, Freda, and Jill from RMU. Jill was exceptional. We basically became paddies. I , her damsel in distress, and she the Almighty in a dress.

We tried their fried rice and octopus with grilled chicken , admired their lobby's highly polished wood pillars and Ashanti stools, with mini libraries on African history. We passed by the arcade and gift shop and enjoyed the Wi-Fi. She found me the perfect spot, perfect view, and extra pasties with sobolo, asana, or pineapple-ginger juice. In our exploration, she was Boots, Backpack, and Map; I was short-sighted Dora.

Subscribe now

iii. Deal

"The sun's setting, let's head back," Elikem said, relaxed. Jill pulled her up with a sigh. "Right. Off we go!" "Too bad the day's almost over – we should definitely return here this time next year," suggested Elikem. "Deal!" Jill agreed.

iv. Silhouette

It was in the dead of the night when I stirred to use the washroom. The silence and calm, the low rumbles of the sea, the moon light filtering in... where's Jill? Her bedsheet was a neatly laid baby blue.

Just as I was about to slip back into slumber, my eyes widened as the door creaked open, followed by Jill's silhouette. She gave a tired stretch and... off with her head! I barely held back a scream! She might've heard me gasp; my heart lurched as she stepped closer and lowered her arm – her head dangling by the hair, face inches from mine. I felt her heavy stare boring into me, her light breath on my nose, as I stayed calm with eyes closed, trying not to break into a cold sweat. My days of remaining calm while screaming internally finally paid off!

It was like the calm before the storm – silence.

v. Log

I overslept. Why wouldn't I? I was trapped in a rare nightmare. Everyone had already left by the time I woke up. My hand trembled as I read a text from Jill:

Eli! Gotta go... You sleep like a log btw

My bus is in . Remember our promise to meet same time next year, I will come find youu!

I gulped saliva down my dry throat – I think I had a fever. Darn malaria!

Share

vi. Jolt

This week marks a year since that time, that's why I'm telling you this. Help me , I'm actually scared! The migraine and nightmares aren't helping. Yes I've blocked her , but I recently received an sms :

Where are you?

We agreed!

You promised!

Elikem 👀

vii. Knock

As she showed you the sms , her phone pinged and a new message popped up :

I will find you

Now Elikem couldn't take it anymore and collapsed. Luckily, you caught her, preventing injury.

Your heart jolted at the sudden urgent knocking on the door.

– then silence. You were both at a family holiday stayover.

2:49 am.

Ama Serwaa learned to listen before she learned to speak.

In her grandmother’s compound in Kumasi, stories lived in the air like smoke from the evening fire. They rose and curled into the sky, carrying the voices of women long gone—queens, mothers, daughters—women who had fought, loved, lost, and endured.

“Never forget,” her grandmother would whisper, her fingers tracing invisible symbols in the air, “a woman who knows her story can never be erased.”

Ama held onto those words like a secret.

But in Accra, stories were different.

They were shorter. Louder. Emptier.

No one spoke of Yaa Asantewaa. No one cared for the quiet strength of village women who woke before dawn and carried families on their backs like sacred burdens. Here, girls were taught to be seen, not remembered.

So Ama became quiet.

She tucked her voice into the pages of an old notebook, writing only when the world was asleep. Her ink became her rebellion. Her silence became her strength.

One night, as harmattan winds whispered through her window, she saw it.

A writing challenge.

Theme: Ghanaian heritage in a feminine setting.

Subscribe now

Her chest tightened.

This was not just a challenge.

This was a calling.

But fear came quickly.

Who are you to tell these stories?

Who will listen?

Ama almost closed the page.

Then the lights went out.

Darkness swallowed the room, and for a moment, she was no longer in Accra.

She was back in Kumasi.

Back by the fire.

Back to her grandmother’s voice.

“A woman who knows her story can never be erased.”

Ama struck a match. The flame flickered to life, small but stubborn.

Like her.

She sat down and began to write.

She wrote of a girl born into silence but raised on stories. A girl who carried the voices of her ancestors in her chest. A girl who refused to let modern noise bury ancient truth.

She wrote until the match burned out.

Until her fingers were stained with ink.

Until her fear had nowhere left to hide.

The next morning, she sent her story.

No hesitation.

No apology.

Just truth.

Days later, her phone buzzed.

Her heart nearly stopped as she read the message.

Your story has been selected.

Ama didn’t scream.

She didn’t cry.

She simply sat there, breathing, as something inside her settled into place.

For the first time, she understood what her grandmother meant.

Stories were not just memories.

They were survival.

That night, under a sky dusted with stars, Ama opened a new page.

Because she was no longer just a girl who listened to stories.

She was a woman who told them.

And this time—

The world would listen.

And somewhere, carried on the wind, her grandmother’s laughter followed her, soft and proud, like a blessing she would never lose.

This month focuses on women's day, especially so in honour of all the beautiful women and ladies in WATTGH. This is for you 🧡🇬🇭

In Collaboration with the

Naija Book Lovers club

Prompt theme

We are to write on the topic "The Almighty in a Dress" and make sure your character is a woman. That's what the prompt is about.

The challenge is Genre on a Roll.

This means the prompt is open to all forms of genres

Poetry/ General Fiction/ Non Fiction/ New Adult/ Horror.

So we are urging you to try something different as opposed to previous works(if you have submitted any).

• Challenge is open to both male and females

• Sub themes can include:

1. Ghanian/African cultural heritage in a feminine setting (In celebration of Ghana Month)

2. Passion for literary arts in a female setting (In celebration of Writer's Day)

• Kindly specify the genre of your piece

GENRE ON THE ROLL

1. POEM

2. GENERAL FICTION

3. NON FICTION

4. NEW ADULT

5. HORROR

• Also add your Instagram handle for a collab post and tags

• Pieces will be published on Substack as well.

• 5 days remaining.

Deadline: March 25th

Word count: 500 maximum

Submit as a word document in our dms or through our email wattgh1@gmail.com.

Here's a brief history on our motherland.

THE DAY IN QUESTION

In 1947, the newly formed United Gold Coast Convention led by "The Big Six" called for "self-government within the shortest possible time" following the 1946 Gold Coast legislative election. Kwame Nkrumah, a Ghanaian nationalist who led Ghana from 1957 to 1966 as the country's first prime minister and president, formed the Convention People's Party in 1949 with the motto "self-government now". The party initiated a "positive action" campaign involving non-violent protests, strikes and non-cooperation with the British authorities. Nkrumah was arrested and sentenced to one year imprisonment during this time. In the Gold Coast's 1951 general election, he was elected to Parliament and was released from prison. He became prime minister in 1952 and began a policy of Africanization. [citation needed]

HISTORY WRITTEN

At midnight on 6 March 1957, the Gold Coast, Ashanti, the Northern Territories, and British Togoland were unified as one single independent dominion within the British Commonwealth under the name Ghana. This was done under the Ghana Independence Act 1957. The current flag of Ghana, consisting of the colours red, gold, green, and a black star, dates back to this unification. On 1 July 1960, following the Ghanaian constitutional referendum and Ghanaian presidential election, Nkrumah declared Ghana a republic and assumed the presidency. 6 March is the nation's Independence Day, and 1 July is celebrated as Republic Day.

A NEW DAY

Nkrumah led an authoritarian regime in Ghana, as he repressed political opposition and conducted elections that were not free and fair. In 1964, a constitutional amendment made Ghana a one-party state, with Nkrumah as president for life of both the nation and its party. Nkrumah was the first African head of state to promote the concept of Pan-Africanism, which he had been introduced to during his studies at Lincoln University, Pennsylvania in the United States, at the time when Marcus Garvey was known for his "Back to Africa Movement". He merged the teachings of Garvey, Martin Luther King Jr. and the naturalised Ghanaian scholar W. E. B. Du Bois into the formation of 1960s Ghana. Osagyefo Dr. Kwame Nkrumah, as he became known, played an instrumental part in the founding of the Non-Aligned Movement, and in establishing the Kwame Nkrumah Ideological Institute to teach his ideologies of communism and socialism.

His life achievements were recognised by Ghanaians during his centenary birthday celebration, and the day was instituted as a public holiday in Ghana (Founders' Day).

SOURCE: WIKIPEDIA

🇬🇭 HAPPY 1ST YEAR ANNIVERSARY WATTGHANA

Here's a brief history on our community.

HISTORY

WattpadGhana founded by Aang151Rron is the main community for Ghanaian Wattpaders- both writers and readers.

WATTGH is the amalgamation of three other communities that began on Wattpad a couple of years back.

* GHANAREADS (G.A.O.W.)

GhanaReads run by Emmalicious101 is the most recent one of the three.

https://www.wattpad.com/user/GhanaReads?utm_medium=link&utm_source=android&utm_content=share_profile

* GHANAAWARDS (2020)

AWARDS2020 run by both Angel_lobelia and iammegasare

https://www.wattpad.com/user/AWARDS2020?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_profile&wp_page=user_details&wp_uname=Aang151Rron

* PROJECTGHANA (2019)

ProjectGhana founded by lovedtodream with Piesie2001 as one of the admins.

https://www.wattpad.com/user/ProjectGhana?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_profile&wp_page=user_details&wp_uname=Aang151Rron

WHAT IS? WATTGH

MISSION & VISION STATEMENT FOR WATTGH

Vision Statement

To become the leading digital hub where African voices thrive, showcasing the diversity, creativity, and richness of African storytelling to the world.

Mission Statement

Our mission is to:

* Provide a supportive platform for African writers to create, share, and grow their craft.

* Promote authentic African stories that reflect our cultures, histories, and future aspirations.

* Foster collaboration, mentorship, and networking among African writers across the continent and diaspora.

* Amplify African literature globally by leveraging Wattpad’s reach and digital storytelling power.

Core Values

* Authenticity – We honor genuine African voices and encourage writers to tell stories rooted in their realities, cultures, and imaginations.

* Creativity – We celebrate innovation in storytelling and empower writers to experiment with diverse genres, styles, and perspectives.

* Inclusivity – We welcome writers from all backgrounds, regions, and experiences, ensuring every voice has a place in our community.

* Collaboration – We thrive on mentorship, peer support, and knowledge-sharing, helping each other grow as storytellers.

* Excellence – We aim to cultivate high standards in writing, editing, and storytelling, inspiring members to constantly improve.

* Cultural Pride – We take pride in our African identity and use storytelling as a tool to preserve, promote, and celebrate our heritage.

* Global Impact – We believe African stories deserve to be read worldwide and strive to amplify our narratives across borders.

MEDIA PLATFORMS

* Whatsapp

* Instagram

* Discord

* Substack

* Tiktok(pending...)

MOTTO

“Our Stories, Our Voice, Our Future.”

WE ARE ... :

... Writing Ghana into the World.

... One Continent, Endless Stories.

... Telling Ghana, One Story at a Time.

... Voices of Africa, Echoing Globally.

... Where African Stories Find Their Power.

WATTGH :

* GhanaReads- Book Club (Reading & Reviewing)

* GhanaAwards- Awards Platform (Events)

* ProjectGhana- Building and Training

Writers (Social Media Promotion/ Editing/ Graphic Design/ Publishing)

THE VALS DAY ANTHOLOGY

1. CRAVINGS & COMMITMENT: THE WAAKYE THEORY

2. LOVE IS MINE

3. BLOODY VALENTINE: THE VALENTINE KILLER

4. ONLY YOU DEAREST

5. THE DAY LOVE TAUGHT ME SENSE

6. EMBRACING THE MIRRORS OF REFLECTION

7. MEDA WO ASE, MY LOVE

8. LOVE'S BUMPY RIDE

9. TRUTH

10. LOVE IS A KINGDOM

11. ECHOES OF THE LOST by

12. HERE IT IS by @bi_nut123 (on Wattpad)

13. PAPER FLOWERS FOR YOU by @miss_eddie (on Wattpad)

14. VALENTINES SEASON WRAPPED UP

1. C&C:AWT by

• CRAVINGS AND COMMITMENT by Evangeline is a sombre story that layers the meaning of friendship and attachment through its narrative. The idea is very fresh and original having the main characters navigate their uncertainty and complication through both thought and feeling. There is a certain wisdom and philosophy portrayed between the two which achieves what the writer intended in the long run. It's well paced and has a simple tone to it. Overall, THE WAAKYE THEORY set the mood from beginning till end

• 8.5/10

• This is a mature, nuanced exploration of love. The waakye metaphor is brilliant. Also the ending is restrained and beautiful.

• 4.8 / 5

2. LIM by

• LOVE IS MINE by Foria reflects self-love and expands on it in much detail. Expressing this love into every corner of the writers life- her birthplace, motherland, culture and beliefs. The idea is of womanhood and strength. Simple but not. The poem conveys every aspect to have meaning in her love. The reader whether male or female is given much insight on what love truly means to a woman as the writer tries her best to relate herself vastly. The poem has a rhythmic flow and perfect imagery. Not too complicated but fits just right. Overall the poetry fits the theme just fine

• 8.5/10

• Exceptional. This is a powerful interpretation of love. It carries weight. Cultural Grounding , It feels distinctly Ghanaian without being forced.

• 4.9 / 5

3. BV:TVK by

• BLOODY VALENTINE by Einstein Asante has no theme of love used in its story telling. Its rather set on Valentines as the time of events unfolds. The idea is rather original in that sense putting a horrific twist on a usual thriller trope. The narrative uses suspense and fear to grip its reader. The story seemed rushed at the end. Drawing up its conclusion and sudden halt. The structure however is very coherent and the writing was phenomenal. Overall, it was a great piece that strayed off at certain points and yet delivered something interesting.

• 7.5/10

• This piece fits the “Love” challenge theme in a dark, unconventional way. It interprets love through irony and horror, which is creative and bold. I love it...It’s ambitious and intellectually structured. It need to be revised for Minor grammar fixes, Remove repetition, Reduce slightly dramatic phrasing in a few areas, Smooth dialogue punctuation. If the anthology tone allows dark fiction, this is one of the strongest entries so far. This is definitely a top contender for: Best Story...Or overall winner (depending on others)

• 4.5 / 5

4. OYD by

• ONLY YOU DEAREST by Abena Sadia. The theme of this story portrays a toxic relationship of betrayal, lies and manipulation in the disguise of love. The story has a few noticable errors in grammar and spelling in certain areas and requires some proofreading. The narrative invokes a plethora of emotions in its controversy and themes. Overall the story was good but lengthy crossing beyond the word count. A lot could have been cut out and given the story a necessary pacing within the specified range.

• 7/10

• This is very clearly a romantic love story. It reads like a Wattpad-style serialized romance which fits WattGh culture, but would need tightening for publication. It’s compelling but more genre-commercial than literary.

• 4.0 / 5

5. TDLTMS by

• THE DAY LOVE TAUGHT ME SENSE by Yaa Aduhene. Reflection and realization are the themes that carry this story. The narrator tells of her finding her relationship fake through her first encounter of truth and her eyes open to self love. The piece is relatable and well paced. Overall it delves into a category that understands the negatives and positives of a Valentines occasion.

• 6.5/10

• Excellent alignment. This piece feels real. These are strong, memorable lines. It captures a very Ghanaian experience. The pizza + ₵5 delivery moment is painfully specific. That specificity makes it powerful. It’s not abstract poetry. It’s lived experience storytelling.

• 4.8/5

6. ETMOR by

• There’s philosophical ambition here. I love it. Final Score:

• 4.6 / 5

7. MWA,ML by

• ME DA WO ASE by Deborah Usak. The theme reflects Ghana and the writers love for the nation. The piece is very moving and portrays a sense of patriotism. The pacing is average and the language is simple. Overall more could have been derived from such a piece. The theme felt underutilised.

• 4/10

• Exceptional, It fits the Valentine challenge perfectly but in a grounded, culturally rich way. Nothing feels forced. It feels lived. It feels Ghanaian without explanation.That line: “even before cocoa learned how to spell sweetness.” That is very strong imagery. Final Score:

• 4.95 / 5

8. LBR by

• LOVE'S BUMPY RIDE by Ama Priscilla reflects the love of a newlywed couple on a romantic trip. The story oversimplifies its narrative, dialogue and structure giving it a certain cliche feel. The story is choked full of emojis making it difficult to discern whether the piece was written as a text or friendly letter. The pacing is really fast with no descriptions leaving the story a bare structure of what could have been really interesting if fleshed out properly. Overall the author barely tried to meet the word count which was a waste of potential.

• 3.5/10

• Excellent alignment with the Love challenge theme, The story is warm and feel-good. For anthology publication, I would recommend Removing emojis.

• 4.3 / 5

9. T by @jackieloveswriting (on Substack)

• TRUTH by Jacklyn is a piece that seeks to uncover the meaning behind the concept of love. It seeks to oppose the feeling as unreal and puts in place some reasonable thought. The idea is not as original as one would hope. In some ways unclear at what specific the writer tries to portray. Overall, the poem would have gained more depth and meaning had it strifed for at least half of the 1000 word count mark.

• 5/10

• The piece clearly explores love in its raw, imperfect, sacrificial form. The concept love as sacrifice and imperfection is solid but not entirely fresh. Still, some imagery stands out; “Expose me to your drunken solace / I’ll be your soberness” Those are strong metaphor attempts. There are several grammatical and spelling errors. This is stronger than the simpler romantic poems

• 3.6 / 5

I0. LIAK by

• LOVE IS A KINGDOM by Peter Leon is a poetry piece that seeks to describe love in a metaphoric sense. The idea is fresh as the poet goes into detail relating the two variables. It conveys the narrative as something one struck with love would say to their other. Overall it didn't reach the word count needed.

• 4.5/10

• It clearly fits the Valentine/love challenge. However, the emotional depth is not fully developed. It feels more like a lyrical sketch than a deeply immersive piece. It’s romantic and sincere, but not as strong as the others

• 3.4 / 5

Why him?

Why me?

Why like this?

It was just a nightmare, right? That’s what I told myself at first. It had to be. There were too many other ways the story could have gone. You could’ve rejected me gently and we would’ve laughed about it years later. You could’ve fallen in love with someone else without ever knowing how deeply I felt about you. You could’ve moved away, chased some scholarship across the country, and we would’ve texted until the distance thinned us out. You could’ve ignored me on purpose because you knew I liked you and didn’t want to complicate things. We could’ve drifted naturally. We could’ve fought. We could’ve stopped talking for a while and found our way back. You could’ve gotten busy. I could’ve gotten brave. We could’ve had a thousand awkward almost-confessions.

Anything could have happened.

Anything but this.

Now I stand in the sun at your grave, the light too bright for a day like this. I’m wearing your favorite color. My hair is loose, just the way you liked it—“free,” you used to say, tucking a strand behind my ear like you had a right to. I hold a paper rose I cut and folded myself, because you always complained about real flowers. “They smell like funerals,” you’d say, wrinkling your nose. You hated the texture of petals, the artificial sweetness. So I bring you paper instead. Something quiet. Something that won’t overwhelm you.

My shoulders are slumped. My knees feel like they might give out. My throat is tight and my eyes are red, but I can’t cry—not fully. You used to say you hated when I looked gloomy. “Don’t be sad,” you’d tell me, nudging my arm. “You look better when you’re smiling.” So I stand here trying to be strong for you, even now, even when you can’t see me.

Regret sits on me like a weight. A thousand different possibilities spin in my head like constellations I can almost trace but never reach.

What if I had been early enough to stop it?

What if I’d called sooner?

What if I’d asked one more question instead of talking about myself?

What if I had noticed the silence behind your laughter?

What if I wasn’t so consumed with my feelings that I forgot to ask about yours?

Would that have saved you?

Would that have sustained you?

What if I had been stronger—strong enough for both of us?

My chest hurts in a way that feels physical, like someone reached in and stole my breath. The world keeps spinning as if nothing catastrophic has happened. People walk past the cemetery gates. Cars drive by. Somewhere, someone laughs. The universe expands. Stars burn. And I stand here feeling like the earth has cracked open and I can see straight through it—see the blood beneath the surface, oozing from fractures I never knew existed.

Was life always this unbearable?

Was it always this sharp?

Did everyone else know and just never say it out loud?

I replay that day in fragments. Sirens. The metallic smell in the air. My own voice shaking. I remember praying—to someone I wasn’t even sure existed. I had never been the praying type, but suddenly I was bargaining with the sky. Take anything, I whispered. Take years off my life. Take my pride. Take my future. Just don’t take him.

Why didn’t I call the ambulance earlier?

Why didn’t I see it coming?

Why didn’t I force you to talk?

Why didn’t I knock harder?

Why did I only pray when I should have acted?

I remember your mother’s hollow eyes an hour later—like something inside her had gone silent. I remember your father’s dark eye bags from the last time we’d met, exhaustion etched into his skin. And your sister—God, your sister—her screams still echo in my ears. Desperate, useless, raw. The kind of grief that doesn’t care who’s watching.

Your funeral was crowded. People came in black clothes and heavy perfume. Sympathy was offered in both genuine whispers and rehearsed tones. Condolences passed from hand to hand like folded tissues. But none of it brought you back.

Your mother sat still, pale and rigid. Her fingers only twitched when your name was mentioned. She cried once. Just once. I kept wondering—was that what a mother’s grief looked like? Or had she simply run out of tears? Maybe she knew what I’m still learning: that tears don’t resurrect the dead.

You were everything. A son. A brother. A friend. A classmate. A leader when you felt like it, a follower when you didn’t care. An adorable menace. A dreamer. A boy who wanted to go to Harvard and build something extraordinary. A boy who made binary jokes and called them romantic.

And you left.

You left a note for your family: Please stay alive for me.

A week later, I found our book—the one we used to fill with nonsense and secrets and future plans. On the last page, in your messy handwriting, you wrote:

Hannah did good. I just don’t want her to change while I’m gone… Please don’t change.

Clay, I never changed.

I’m still here. Still in the neighborhood. Still your alive neighbor. I still visit the orphanage every Friday. I still feed the pups at Mrs. Grey’s pet house. They’ve grown so fast. Odert got adopted by a kind woman last month—you would’ve pretended not to care, but you would’ve asked about him later.

I still watch the aurora borealis videos on cold nights, even though we’ve never seen it in person. I saw a shooting star recently. At first, I wished for you to come back. But even I know wishes don’t rewrite graves. So I wished for something smaller—that you’re safe wherever you are. That when I finally join you, you won’t hate me for letting you go. That you won’t leave me again. That you’ll accept my feelings and pretend to play hard to get, just to tease me. That you’re happy. That you’re at peace.

Tomorrow, I’m going to the mall with your mom and your sister. We’re stopping by Tiffany’s—the ice cream place you loved. They just introduced a new flavor: Volcanic Pistachio Eclipse—deep roasted Sicilian pistachio swirled with dark honey caramel, shards of salted praline, and a ribbon of white chocolate lava running through it. You would’ve overordered. You always did. You’d try to act composed, but you’d stain your lips green and deny it. I’d wipe it off with a tissue while you blushed and rolled your eyes. Then you’d feed me a spoonful mid-protest and grin like you’d won something.

We would’ve laughed. We would’ve been ridiculous. Sugar-high and pretending to be responsible adults.

I hiccup when I laugh too hard. You used to call it adorable.

The school started a suicide awareness campaign in your name. Your locker is occupied now, but your shadow lingers. There’s a new basketball team—they beat the Tigers last month. Preston punched a wall and let out the ugliest cry I’ve ever heard. If you were here, I would’ve laughed at him with you.

Sometimes, when it gets too heavy, I cry alone. I think about how I thought we were close, but maybe I never truly knew how much you were hurting. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

It should’ve been me.

You deserved to live. To go to Harvard. To build your future. To fall in love with someone brave enough to tell you how she felt. To have children who inherited your ridiculous grin. To grow old. To exist fully.

Fourteenth of February will never feel the same. Love feels like knives and sirens now. Like flashing red lights and blood on cold floors.

Did you think about us?

About me?

Did you hesitate?

Did you hope someone would burst in and stop you?

I want to be angry. I want to slap you for leaving. I want to scream at you for not telling me. I want to wrap my arms around you and never let go. I want to hear you say everything you never got the chance to say.

It’s been a year and a half.

Harvard is brutal. You were supposed to be here with me, complaining about problem sets in computer science. You were supposed to send me “I love you” in binary and call it romantic. You were supposed to sit beside me in lecture halls and whisper dumb jokes.

Instead, I sit alone.

My chest feels hollow, like my heart is just a machine now—pumping blood without meaning.

I wanted us to exist. I wanted us to be something real. Even if you never knew. Even if you knew and were pretending not to.

A rose has grown at your grave. Right in the center. I tell myself it’s karma for someone who hated flowers. Or maybe it’s proof that something beautiful can still grow from devastation.

Here’s the 545th rose, Clay. I’m still counting. I don’t know what number I’ll stop at.

I love you.

I always will.

Written by

@miss_eddie (on Wattpad)

‎From the moon and the stars ,you're the one who is above

‎ from the oceans to the sky ,I'll never leave you

‎ from the heavens and the earth I'll rage war for you

‎deep with me grows a burning furnace of fire ,growing wildrr for you

‎ Only you can quench this thirst

‎youre my safety net ,never let me fall

You're like warmth of Apollo on a warm summer day

Your beauty is as striking as thunder

And your kisses as as genuine as the flowers of Persephone and lovebloons like aprodrithe

Written by

@bi_nut123 (on Wattpad)

It is all that I have.

I have searched so many years,

Only to get stopped in my ways.

It is hard to look at you, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that I have.

The days are quieter,

The nights are louder.

Unhealthy as it is,

I still have your things at ease.

It is hard to look at you, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that I have.

Lately, I stare at the wall,

Hoping you walk right through the door.

Many say I’m insane, that all I do is in vain,

Yet I trust you will return.

It is hard to look at you, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that I have.

It must be my fault.

Some say I feel like a cult.

I don’t know. I can’t say.

But please don’t leave—stay.

It is hard to look at you, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that I have.

No one understands.

They know not where I land.

Pain wraps around me;

It is a knife they cannot see.

It is hard to look at you, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that I have.

Days I pray for him,

To see me worth the swim.

Nights I stare at the ceiling,

Knowing it is worth the feeling.

It is hard to look at you, my love.

Yet I cannot help—you are all that I have.

~ ~

How painful for my lover.

You must need my comfort.

You must need my presence.

How painful for my lover.

It is hard to look away, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that is left.

I long for you.

I reach for you.

I died for you.

Why are you not here yet?

It is hard to look away, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that is left.

My eyes have set.

Yours must be next.

That is what they say in paradise,

So why does it all seem to be lies?

It is hard to look away, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that is left.

Must I yell?

What is in your shell?

Come to me.

Let me see.

It is hard to look away, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that is left.

My soul hurts.

My bones melt.

It feels you are not listening

To all that I spew with meaning.

It is hard to look away, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that is left.

Drown yourself.

Don’t worry—it’s safe.

I am here. It is scary,

But don’t be weary.

It is hard to look away, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that is left.

Is it good, breathing without me?

Are you able to sleep?

Do you cry?

I hope you die.

It is hard to look away, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that is left.

Your body sways,

While mine lays.

Do you think of me?

I do of you—lonely as it is at sea.

It is hard to look away, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that is left.

Is this our end?

Is this what was planned?

Must I look up always?

And you down sideways?

It is hard to look away, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that is left.

I am not satisfied.

Not until you are crucified.

Join me, my love—

Is that not all you have?

It is hard to look away, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that is left.

Crawl? No.

War? So.

I am tired, but rest is not required;

It is denied for the demised.

It is hard to look away, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that is left.

The rain falls,

Just as my tears draw.

Do you see me burn

In the flames you refuse to tame?

It is hard to look at you, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that I have.

Days move on, weeks lay on,

But my heart still yearns for yours.

Is this normal?

Am I insane yet?

It is hard to look at you, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all I have.

My love, I am hurting.

My love, help me heal.

Do you need to see me bleeding?

Will you come back then, my love?

It is hard to look at you, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that I have.

I hate you a little.

You left a mark I cannot erase.

I aubade daily like we used to,

Hoping the tune calls you back.

It is hard to look at you, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all I have.

Is this my curse?

Is it your revenge?

I promise not to take all the covers,

Just remove this dark cloud over me.

It is hard to look at you, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that I have.

Where are you?

Come now!

Why will you not answer me?

I will drag you here!

It is hard to look away, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that is left.

How long do you wish for this?

Every hour my palm itches.

It means you are coming,

But I cannot see you!

It is hard to look away, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that is left.

Are you there, my love?

It seems not.

Do you not see that forget-me-not?

You do—yet you forget me.

It is hard to look away, my love,

Yet I cannot help—you are all that is left.

~ ~

Every night, my love,

I still see you.

Then die for me.

Let us breathe death into our love.

I feel you nowhere,

Yet smell you everywhere.

My scent is not enough!

Come! He will return for you!

Is this our end?

Is this what was planned?

Do not let go, my love.

Do you hear me?

Come for me!

Let us be together even in death!

Let us ravish it.

My love? No!

Come back!

Do not go!

Please save me!

Do not leave!

I cannot bare it

Please!

No!

I don’t think that we were ever really not compatible.

We had the most loving and most unanticipated love story of all times.

In a place where love is a kingdom,

Soft as the dawn, vast as the sea,

No walls, no chains just whispers of grace between you and I,

there is a throne where the heart roams free.

Imagine us like two shadows, one flame,

Dancing where the stars align,

No need for words, no need for names,

Just the pulse of your hand in mine.

In the kingdom of love, I find my soul and spirit. You look like a dream, like you came from above.

Tryna find my way to you because of my everlasting love.

The kingdom was never land or crown,

But the quiet space where you choose me,

And the love that pulls no one down.

A discovered emotion holding fundamentals of heart

Whispering truth that has set us apart

And now that I know

Let me be the spark to ignite it

A love so rare

An affection with care

A communication without fears

And you not hiding any tears

I want to be your confinement

I want to help in your refinement

Tell me what you fear

Expose me to your darkness

Because I’m willing to be that ray of light

Expose me to your drunken solace

I’ll be your soberness

Expose me to that dagger stabbing unceasingly

I’ll be that bandage and stitches

They call out love to be perfect

Buy you taught me it’s a refect

They call out love to be simple

But you taught me it’s a rumple

Others speak of love so simple and perfect

But the reality is it’s a beautiful mess of emotions

No one talks about loosing yourselves in depth

Just so you find your soul in that loves breath

And among the chaos you’ll be serenity and strength

No one talks of that true love where you put your happiness before those you love

Even if it means watching the love of your life in the arms of the other just because it makes them happy

My thesis is, love is not all cuddles and sexual interactions

It’s pain yet a sacrifice

It’s hurt yet a foundation of joy

It carries struggles yet comes with warmth

And true love is the willingness to undergo all these and still look me in the eyes and whisper "I love you "

I’m no poet but a speaker of the truth and my dear you’re worth rewriting the stars for.

Written by

@jackieloveswriting (on Wattpad)

Their Valentine's Day adventure to Akwapim Hills was turning into a bumpy ride – literally. But nothing could dampen their love. As sunset painted the cocoa farms gold, Kwame pulled over by a palm-lined stream.

"Akosua, my heart beats for you," he whispered, handing her a chocolate heart 🍫

😊 Akosua's eyes sparkled like the stars starting to twinkle above. "Kwame, you're my adventure," she whispered back, as he led her to a blanket spread under a giant silk cotton tree 🌳.

As they shared chocolates and laughter, rain suddenly drummed on the leaves – a tropical downpour! Kwame pulled Akosua close. "Guess we're having an indoor picnic now, Mrs. Mensah!" 😄

Trapped in their cozy cocoon, they swapped stories of their courtship. Kwame confessed he proposed at this very spot 💭. Akosua teased him for being predictable – yet romantic 😊.

The storm passed, leaving a rainbow 🌈 over Akwapim Hills. Hand in hand, they watched the night fall on their secret place.

😊 As they gazed at the stars, a familiar voice called out, "Kwame! Akosua!" 🌟. It was Nana Akufo, their village elder, hiking up with a basket. "I saw the car was stuck, so I brought food!" 🍲

Turns out, Nana Akufo had a reason to find them: the village was planning a surprise reception for the newlyweds 😮. The hills erupted in cheers as the community gathered, lanterns aglow ✨.

Kwame and Akosua were overwhelmed – their adventure turned into a bigger celebration 💖. Nana Akufo smiled, "Love's journey is full of surprises."

😊 Kwame and Akosua danced under starlight, surrounded by their community 🌟. As drums faded and laughter lingered, they whispered promises – their love as timeless as the Akwapim Hills 💖.

Happy Valentine's Day to Kwame and Akosua 🎉!

The end.

Like harmattan arrives with a secret,

soft, dusty, and carrying whispers through Makola market,

Women haggle over tomatoes,

But our kind of love is the thing truly being bargained for.

I have felt love and seen love everywhere around us,

long before cocoa learned how to spell sweetness.

Even though I saw it in my mother’s hands,

Yet, I’ve never seen a conquest like ours,

It lasts in Kaneshie bus stop,

where a trotro mate holds the door,

a second longer so his pregnant wife could climb in without shame.

This is how we love —

not always in roses,

but in roasted corn split in two

beside a roadside fire in Osu.

Still, today, Accra blushes because of us,

Vendors voices line Oxford Street with teddy bears

bigger than the rent of a single room

But that’s not what I hear, all I hear is,

“Baby, you are my everything,”

Even when your friends laugh behind you.

I am standing under this Independence Arch of my own heart,

Waiting patiently for you.

Because loving you is not soft like imported silk.

It feels more like kente —

woven with intense romance

That will forever be bright with history,

strong enough to carry generations.

You are the reason why there’s a drumbeat under my ribs,

A talking drum spelling my name in code.

When you laugh,

even the Atlantic at Labadi slows down to listen.

They think Valentine’s is about gifts —

but I have already given you my best thing:

The way I say your name

like prayer beads rolling through my fingers.

The way my future rearranges itself

to make space for your footsteps.

If tomorrow comes with no chocolate,

no roses,

no pictures filtered for strangers,

still meet me

where the streetlights flicker in Tema at dusk,

where the air smells like salt and second chances.

Bring only your hands.

I will bring mine.

And together we will prove

that love in Ghana

is not borrowed,

not seasonal,

not for display —

but something grown deep in red earth,

watered by sacrifice,

and harvested

every time two hearts say,

Meda wo ase for choosing me.

Written by