When She Speaks Your Life

I wake up some days with unwanted particles of the sense of inadequacy sticking to my skin like the residue of dreams I never invited into my mind, and I want to flick them off, but they cling stubbornly like they are coated with adhesive. This is one of those days. Sunday, 19th February 2017. There is no apparent trigger. Thoughts of “my writing is not good enough” and “I don’t know how to do life but everyone else does” penetrate my mind’s firewall. Sometimes my firewall fizzles out into a mere tower of smoke whose ability to resist intrusion is laughable at best.

Many Sundays, I do not have the strength to rekindle the flames. The weight of the beginning week’s work begins to settle and my heart gets heavy. I pick up my phone and complain to my best friend, vaguely wondering how tired he must be by now of hearing me complain about the same damn things over and over again. I wonder if he has learnt these encouraging accolades that he always types in response by rote. And unfortunately, I wonder if either of us even believes them anymore, or if we ever truly did.

Church today is a healing service. The Holy Spirit speaks to pastors, directly revealing burdens, illnesses and infirmities borne by members of the congregation. We pray. A man’s eyesight, corrupted by some type of diabetes, begins to be restored. He can now read the worship lyrics on the screen and the small print on a business card. We barely hear him say the words, interrupting him with cheers and applause. He has tears in his eyes as he reads, and why shouldn’t he, when he has been the grateful medium for the performance of a miracle?

He is here. The Holy Spirit. I can sense his presence. I never wail or fall down dramatically when I do. My experience of her is through sensations within my skin, in my spine, within organs of my body that do and do not exist. Transcendental peace. He is here and he is working. Does he want to speak to me?

Things calm down after the healing. The pastor’s daughter sits in front of me to the left. She is doodling in a notebook, practicing calligraphy that I can see as soon as she puts the book down. It is gorgeous and I wonder if she is responsible for the calligraphic art on the walls and in the bathroom as well. Envy rises, pulling forth an unnecessarily long and troublesome string of connected thoughts.

I know a girl. I met her here in college. She is art without effort. You can see it in the way she dresses and the objects she owns. You can see it in the way her hand moves; whatever she draws is beautiful, she has made her room beautiful, everything she makes is beautiful, and she is beautiful. An evil thought: I would be beautiful too, if I was as creative as her.

Why am I an inadequate artist? How come, when I am constantly told I am creative, I can neither see nor manifest the creativity everyone else says I possess? I think of my dislike for a story I am writing and my cluelessness about how to begin another story I want to write. I start to panic. I start to pray.

A fictional demon called Screwtape encourages the ineffective prayers of humans who, for example, after praying for the virtue of being charitable, then try to elicit feelings of charity within themselves. As if humans can generate virtue. As if humans can give themselves what only God can gift to us. But if humans were able to manufacture the answers to their own prayers, they wouldn’t need to pray often, would they?

And so my prayer changes. Creativity is a gift and a virtue I have been mistakenly trying to generate. Of what I gave myself none, I cannot give myself more. Let its giver write through me to produce the content I was purposefully designed to produce, at the quality I was designed to produce it. Let him speak the words and use me as his medium. Why worry when he will provide?

The service ends. There is pizza for lunch and I join the queue. A woman I have never seen before walks up to me and smiles. I think she is coming to join the line behind me, but she remains at my side. So she is here to talk to me. I am used to church members engaging in friendly conversation with strangers for the sake of community, and I assume that’s what she’s here for. But I am wrong and the first sign is how she doesn’t ask me my name. This is because she is not here to ask me to tell her who I am; she is here to assure me of what I should already know about myself.

She asks me if I’m a student.

Yes, I reply, and I tell her my college.

Am I new here? She has never seen me in church before.

Well, I’ve never seen her either. I reply no, I have actually been coming since near the end of last semester, alternating between the early morning service and the late morning service.

“What are you studying?”

“I haven’t declared my major yet. I’m kind of studying everything right now.”

She smiles. A few seconds of silence.

“You are very creative. You are an artist.” She says them like statements, even though they should really be questions, given that she has no idea who I am.

“How do you know that?” I inquire, slightly startled. I look down at my ordinary black-tee-and-trousers outfit, wondering how anything about my person as presented could possibly have given it away, when I had never considered my outward appearance to be anything like my idea of self-styled wacky artist. “Do I look like I am?”


“Then how did you know?”

She doesn’t answer.

“You just know?”

She smiles.

More moments of silence.

“You have a lot of passion. A lot of things you want to do as an artist.”

How do you know that?!” and I am nearly yelling now.

She smiles.

I am annoyed. Why won’t she answer my questions?

She asks me if she may pray over my hands. I am startled but I agree. I give her my hands, my favorite parts of my physical body, also the parts I curse and blame most often for causing my artistic inadequacy.

As I listen to her prayer, the words pass through my head as if my mind is a tube with two open-holed sides, but the meaning sticks, and I am freaking out. She is praying over my hands, over my artistry, and nearly repeating everything I prayed on my own a few minutes ago, back to me, back to God. She prays over my writing but does not know I am a writer. She prays over my drawing but does not know that I draw, that I wish I drew more often, that I envy artists, or how often I wish I was a better visual artist. She prays over the fruitfulness of any creative endeavor my hands deign to undertake, and I want to cry.

He is still here. The Holy Spirit. Working subtly, not in huge bangs nor in the deafening rush of a waterfall, but like a river whose reassuring trickling I am occasionally tuned in to hear. He heard my prayer. He prayed my prayer for me after he spoke my life. Perhaps he gave me that prayer in the first place.

Now that I have recovered somewhat from the shock of the moment, I just want to say: thank you.



Interview with Akotowaa

It just occurred to me that I can reblog this. So I shall!


Spoken word is a growing art-form in Sub-Saharan Africa, over the past few years the number of artists involved keeps growing at a high rate. There isn’t a week that passes without a show with spoken word artists on the bill. We can say people truly relate to spoken word since it relies heavily on content; whether political, religious, economical or those which plainly cause introspection to the listener. 

Akotowaa of Vision Inspired Music is one of the top artists in this field, recently releasing her debut, “Solitaire EP” which has received favourable reviews from critics as well as her listeners. The project has been played a little over 12k (twelve thousand) times, which is an incredible feat. Currently “I.W.I.T.P.” (which is an acronym for I Wasn’t In The Pictures) appears to be a fan-favorite, it has accumulated 5k plays which is more than any track on the…

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LOL so this liberal arts distin actually works eh?

If you know Akotowaa, like know me proper, it is no surprise that my anti-formal-education stance has been a huge part of my life and informed my worldview for literally years. I have been tired of formal education and its restrictions for a long time. I have watched several videos, including Prince EA’s spoken word poem, Suli Breaks’ spoken word problem, and Ken Robinson’s TED talk. I have written on it several times, including in my novella, Puppets. I spent a lot of my first semester of high school frickin’ interviewing teachers like I was doing actual research on what made formal education (not) work. A lot of this has largely been fueled by my own wars between self (artist) and society (that wants me to be “practical”).  And so I would say that I came into my liberal arts college with an already fairly liberal-arts-educationist mindset. But not everyone is like me. As obvious a fact of life as this is, it can sometimes be quite shocking to have it flung in your face and brought into active consciousness.

For my academic year, there had been 3 Ghanaians from Ghana that got into my college, of which I had been one. The other two were guys; we were all from different schools and didn’t know each other prior to acceptance. One of these guys took the initiative to ardently use all his resources, especially Facebook, to firstly discover who we were, and then organize a single meet-up during the summer so that college in the US would not be the first time we were meeting each other.

I often go off the first vibes I get from people, so I know who not to waste my time with if we can’t click. The boy who orchestrated the meet-up was fine; I knew we could be cool with each other kraa. And I was right because we pretty much have been from then on. The other one, though, I had a problem with. I had barely known him for more than 20 minutes before he began to tire me.

It is difficult for me to pinpoint tangible reasons to account for what I’m usually satisfied enough to pass off as “vibes”, but I suppose for the sake of lexical communication, I have to try. His education had influenced his mental frame to make it the exact opposite of my own conscious mental frame at the time. Note that education is both formal (he had gone to government schools, and I to private/international) and informal (he had been raised in some sort of conventional Ghanaian societal mindset, whereas I had been raised in an environment that at least had enough cracks in conventional culture for me to break out and stand on the outside).

He was the kind of person who would ascribe to the satirical (because it’s too painfully real to be considered purely humorous) joke that an [African] individual has 4 career options: Doctor, Lawyer, Engineer or Disgrace to Family. He was the type of person who would react with (un)conscious disdain or perhaps mere bafflement that I was considering majoring in something like English. (And true as heck, he did; I could see it in his expression when I mentioned it) He was the type of person to hold Ivy Leagues in the highest esteem like getting into one was a sure sign of undebatable brilliance. (I, on the other hand, am so ridiculously tired of even the idea of Ivy Leagues.) As a matter of fact, he had even been accepted into one, and I don’t think he mentioned that fewer than twice. He was the kind of person I simply would not have patience for even if I tried, and so the best way to maintain a healthy relationship between us was to limit our direct communication as much as possible – which I think I managed to do all of last semester, so yay. [I would describe other factors that led me to strengthen my resolve to limit interaction, but that would be both mean and revealing of much more than is necessary for the sake of this post.]

A few weeks ago, however, at the beginning of this second semester of our first year in college, I had a conversation with him which I kind of never expected to have with him – or anyone, for that matter, since I have so little faith in the effectiveness of school. The conversation struck up when I joined him for breakfast in a nearly-empty dining hall. (Why did I sit with someone I had been actively avoiding? I was in a good enough mood to decide that I could control my ugly superciliousness, I guess), and the conversation continued until we broke off near the dorms to our respective destinations.

He was telling me how, this semester, he was taking an Introduction to Psychology class, and was further interested in taking a sociology class, because it seemed like the material within these courses was relevant and fascinating. For such a STEM-oriented mind, these were huge things to admit, both to oneself and to another person. I didn’t realize in the moment how impacted he must have been during our past 5 months in America to say these things. To me, it was just like Well yeah, the study of minds and cultures is relevant to whomever it’s relevant to – why are you so excited? In fact, I’d already taken an Intro Psych class the previous semester, so already, I couldn’t see what the big deal was.

But this boy, who had lived for 21 years on this earth already, had come into college believing (and he confessed this himself, to me, that morning) that people who studied stuff like the humanities were just wasting their time and education; STEM was where the only important stuff was at. [I just want to clarify something, because I think some people believe that I’m anti-STEM. I am not anti-STEM; that would be idiotic. It is impossible for me not to see the necessity of people in society pursuing science, technology etc. in a 21st-century world. What I am truly against is people who have no affinity for STEM, including myself, being forced or persuaded to pursue academic/professional careers in those areas.] And so this boy was only now reaching an educationally liberal point of view that I’d been at for ages already. Why?

Because he took a class here whose content he probably might not have had access to, had he gone to a college that wasn’t our liberal arts college. What is special about the one we attend is a mandatory seminar class for all first-year students. There are about 30 options to choose from before you actually arrive at the school, and each class has a unique and academically unconventional subject focus. You stick with one for a whole semester and then you’re done. The class this boy chose was entitled “Education and its Discontents”, which sounds vaguely fascinating. I’d actually considered ranking that higher on my preference scale before I decided that I was far too tired of the topic to bother engaging with it especially coming freshly out of high school and needing a break from arguing the same points I’ve been arguing against my opposition for years – and there was sure to be some members of my opposition in the class. Case in point: my STEMmish countryman over here.

Now I obviously can’t go into great detail about what exactly the class covered, seeing how I didn’t take it myself, but from what I gathered, some TED talks were watched, perhaps even that famous Ken Robinson one. The matters of why people became so dissatisfied with the educational system were discussed. Formal education’s credibility and effectiveness were questioned. The history and evolution of the concept of school were explored, including the scholastic visions of ancient philosophers like Socrates, Plato and Aristotle. And, I am assuming, the value of a holistic education, such as that which liberal arts promises, was emphasized.

But I’m not here to talk about the content of a class I didn’t take. I am just here to express how truly, genuinely astounded I am that a college class could have had such real, fantastic influence on the kind of person it needed to have influence on. Do you know, I never expected school to be this effective at all. There’s a fascinating irony in school having been critically studied in school too, LOL. And even though the class probably didn’t indoctrinate/anti-indoctrinate the entirety of the content I’d have liked it to, it’s still impossible to ignore the fact that it has tangible potential to push people in (what I believe is) the right direction. So…there’s hope?

This doesn’t make me stop hating school though. I’m too stubborn for that. 🙂



About My Not-Quite-Ex (A LONG short story)

not-quite-exYo. So. The last story I wrote was Institutionalized Addicts, back in March 2016. That’s right; it’s been almost a whole YEAR. But, as I’ve declared 2017 my writing-intensive year, we should be seeing more short stories, hopefully.

If you’ve read any of my short stories before, please clear all expectations of what you expect this one to be like – or else you might be disappointed for no reason. Please and thank you.

Because this story is really long, I’ve put up a downloadable version on Dropbox, which you can download here.


About My Not-Quite-Ex

Loving her was like hopping onto the fastest, most terrifying-looking roller coaster in sight the second you entered an amusement park, while high on coke and with adrenaline already pumping from having just watched a really good thriller movie. Everything is just set up to make you lose your fucking mind, and I kid you not – I lost my fucking mind.

I mean, it’s not like I was aware of what was happening to me. I thought it was true love. Of course, now, I know it wasn’t even love at all. It was more like infatuation so engulfing, it was like I was under a hypnotic spell. Maybe she was a witch. (For such a wild, untamed, and dangerously talented character, magic couldn’t possibly have been entirely beyond her capabilities.) So I guess I lied in that first paragraph a little bit with the “loving her” part, but I liked the sentence so much that I couldn’t be bothered to change it. Now allow me to tell you about the first person on earth to drive me insane.

Between Lydia and I, for the duration of our relationship, there was hardly a moment of cool. Everything was always pure, destructive heat. She was the fire to my gasoline.

I remember the day we first met, the day she first talked to me. I was standing outside the dining hall, with my arms crossed and a pair of shades on, even though the night was black as my ebony skin by then. I was leaning against the wall, silent, while the other new kids around me socialized with each other. I was trying not to look socially awkward by using the nonchalant lean-against-the-wall and the shades as a cover-up for my inability to comprehend how total strangers could strike up meaningless conversations with other total strangers with such apparent ease. (Lydia told me at some point that my coping mechanism involved convincing myself that all their chatter was vapid and not worth joining in with anyway because it helped me deal with not feeling welcome to the conversations in the first place. She always explained me to myself in frustratingly accurate ways.) Consequently though, looking socially awkward was probably the only thing I managed to achieve with my gimmicks.

So there I was, silent and awkward against the wall, and then this girl seemed to materialize from the darkness like an apparition right in front of my sunglassed face, and casually AF, as if this wasn’t the first time we’d ever even seen each other, said, “You remind me of a strawberry.”

Can you imagine not falling in love with a person whose first words to you ever are “You remind me of a strawberry”?

You will think I am exaggerating when I say this, and you might continue to think this until you have the misfortune to experience her for yourself, but Lydia’s personality bore a striking resemblance to a natural disaster. It was a mighty wind, a tornado that swept you up so fast into its swirling chaos that you barely knew what was happening. Colours, sounds and scents meshed and you felt like you had transcended a realm, metamorphosed into some sort of superhero. Your senses deceived you into thinking they were hyperaware and more functional than ever before, when really, they were just overwhelmed and confused. And somehow, you were only vaguely aware that you’d lost your breath, remaining entirely oblivious until you actually began to asphyxiate. And asphyxiate I did, eventually.

From my lightning-quick response, though, you wouldn’t even have been able to tell that I’d just had the wind knocked out of me. That’s one thing about me: my mouth has always been the quickest part of my entire being, saving and condemning me within split seconds in any situation before my brain has even had a whisper in edgewise about the matter.

“You remind me of a strawberry,” she’d said.

“Must be because I’m sweet, juicy, alluring and an aphrodisiac,” I responded, immediately striking one of my atrocious impressions of a male model pose, with one palm cupping the back of my head and the other on my hip.

“Nah,” she said. “It’s probably because of the shape of your face. And the fact that you’re wearing red.”

How anticlimactic, I thought, even as my emotional temperature rose higher and higher. Everything about her personality worked in her favor. It all added to her unpredictability, the way she would go from outrageous to less outrageous when you expected her to level it up. Because when you thought about it, really, these were actually semi-logical reasons for someone to remind you of a strawberry. But then, she levelled up the outrageousness again.

“I’m going to call you Strawberry from now on,” she declared. “Bye, Strawberry.”

Then she disappeared into the dining hall, leaving me to process whatever the hell had just happened. (I kid you not: she called me “Strawberry” nearly exclusively for half a year.) This first encounter probably lasted about 20 seconds, or even less. But it was like someone turned on the stove under me and the heat could only go in one direction: higher. There was no way to turn me off.

The Catastrophic Crush must have begun right at that moment when she said those fateful words: “You remind me of a strawberry”. And like an avalanche, it was all downhill from there. But just as water takes a while to heat up, so may an avalanche begin with a flurry of pebbles rolling down a steep slope. The first changes within me weren’t major causes for concern. The Catastrophic Crush was like a background application running in my mind, constantly tuned in to Lydia. I began to experience the Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon. As soon as I was exposed to her once, I started involuntarily seeing her everywhere. I knew her name was Lydia before she ever told it to me. (Did she ever even tell it to me? She might never have.) She was a year older than me and a year ahead of me in school, which were just two of the many things in life with which she had a head-start on me. Between classes, I spotted her. I heard her name dropped in several conversations I was not meant to have been listening to. My eye would find her seemingly without searching in the midst of a crowded cafeteria. Lydia. Lydia. Lydia. She was my brain’s refrain. It was looking for her all the time and could never get enough.

The true story of how we became friends is still slightly fuzzy to me; all my memories are clouded by the smoke of the emotional heat, like old photographs burned almost past recognition in a destructive house fire. In retrospect, though, I can confirm that it was all Lydia’s work. She played life with a deliberate, impressively manipulative technique masquerading as innocent. She was always in the driver’s seat, no matter how often I thought I was steering.

Before heat starts being alarming and uncomfortable, it is warm, inviting and fuzzy. My warm stages were when I was certain I was in love with her and everything about her, down to her shoelaces.

Let me tell you about her shoelaces. She collected them; old, new, stray, bought, donated, plain, colorful, all kinds of laces. The story is that one day, she had gone through all the pairs of sneakers she’d owned since a child, and before her mother donated the shoes to an orphanage, she had removed their laces and begun to braid them together. (I don’t know how she expected the orphans to wear sneakers without shoelaces but hopefully the kids figured it out.) She ended up with a chain long enough to be used as a necklace. So she wore it as one. Then, for a year, she began to collect more, of any color and type whatsoever, and as soon as she had three of similar length, she would attach them to the pre-existing chain and braid them together.

“It’s a necklace made of shoelaces,” she told me when I asked about it. “A lace-necklace.”

“Why don’t you just call it The Neck-Lace?” I suggested with a wink and exaggerated emphasis on the word “lace”.

“That’s brilliant,” she declared.

And from that moment, it was christened The Neck-Lace.

By the time we ended, The Neck-Lace went around her neck several times like a scarf and she no longer bothered to tie the ends together, calling it cumbersome to have to mess with ties before and after every shower. It was her “visual signature”, making her immediately recognizable in the midst of crowds, even as it confounded everybody not only that such an object could exist, but that someone could possess them with such unrelenting devotion. She wore it every day, to school, to church, at home, on weekends. It almost made her Public Enemy Number 1 with the school authorities, but she was inexorable. The Neck-Lace was technically not against legitimate school rules, and she was quick to point out to the authorities that whatever problems they had with her shoelaces were not formal and objective, but personal and emotional, and they needed to deal with their issues as such. She got away with ten times the amount of rudeness I would ever have been able to. She was a rebel to the core, and this defiant, chin-up-to-danger attitude she possessed only added to her attractiveness. Her addictiveness.

Her essence felt like it could be inhaled. That’s what I was getting high as the moon off (until it brought me hella low). Her personality was the reason I lost my fucking mind. The strange Neck-Lace was just a small part of a mystique so deep it seemed bottomless. She was the kind of eccentric, exhilarating girl John Green writes YA novels about. Even I, whom she called her “best friend” for about 2 years, never could fully understand her. I don’t think it was possible for anyone to. To believe one has understood Lydia to the extent that they can even so much as predict her opinion on something is like being under the delusion that you hold the very same molecules of wind in your hands that passed you by ten minutes ago. But somehow she was the kind of changing that remained sort of the same throughout the changing process. Everything unexpected that Lydia did was still a Lydia-like thing to do. And I know this might not make a lot of sense to you but it does to me, so I don’t care. This feat was like a difficult and impressive magic trick she managed to master, seemingly without trying. She was complex, magical, and her existence had no boundaries. Ah, look. I’m talking like I’m in love with her again. And maybe I still feel like I am. She’s one of those people – when you’ve been close enough to them for long enough, the effect they’ve had on you never truly leaves you. They turn into permanent stains, like tattoos branded into your psychological makeup.

I fell hard because she was digging my pit. I would be sitting there, minding my own business – or pretending to – and then she’d show up with her classically bouncy step and her Neck-Lace, drop down into the seat opposite or beside me, nearly yelling what I supposed was her greeting: “Strawberry!” Later, she changed my official nickname. She called me several things, but the one that stuck the longest after “Strawberry” was “Bunny”. When I tried growing my facial hair out for as long as I could against school regulations, my moustache began to come in bristly and uneven, and it looked, according to Lydia, as if I had whiskers. Hence the nickname “Bunny”. (Come to think of it, I must really have been far, far gone, if I allowed someone to call me “Strawberry” or “Bunny” for any amount of time, especially when I couldn’t even stand being referred to as Marcus.)

When she called me, it wouldn’t even matter whether she said my name (which she always pronounced right) or a ridiculous nickname, because whenever she called me, she would make it seem like she was happier to see me than she was to see anyone else in the world. I fell even harder because I was ignited by the idea of being liked, being somebody’s favorite person, especially if that somebody was Lydia. As a weirdo, outcast, people-hater, constantly feeling rejected and unimpressed by the society around me, being actively sought out was a huge deal for me. I felt more important being sought out by Lydia than I had ever felt in my life. She made me feel good about myself. She would call me and my breath would catch, and it would take me a while to register that it was me being called, then I would remember to breathe again, and once it registered, I’d want her to call me again and again, because no one else sounded like that when they called me. Half the time, they couldn’t even get my actual name right.


I remember how she watched with rapt attention, her intelligent eyes switching back and forth between me and a classmate of mine, who had just referred to me as “Marcus”. When he had pronounced it, my fists had clenched as an automatic reflex, my eyes narrowed, and my throat constricted.

I forced out, “It’s Markos.”

“Marcus?” he repeated himself, with a daft expression I wanted so badly to slap off his face, and maybe make him bite his own tongue in the process. “Isn’t that what I said?”

“Not Marcus; Markos. With a ‘K-O’, not a ‘C-U’. It’s really not that difficult.” I was struggling to keep my cool.

His face scrunched up in what I could only interpret as disgust – illegitimate, I might add, because what right had he to be disgusted with my name?

“What kind of name is Markos?” he wanted to know.

“It’s my kind of name, and it’s the Greek equivalent of the Latin name Marcus, if that answers your unspoken question about where the ‘K-O-S’ came from.”

“Ah, so it’s the same thing, so that means if I call you Marcus, there’s no difference.”

He was begging for slaps now. And now, more than wanting to make him bite his tongue, I kind of wanted to knock out a tooth out as well. I had to grab on to the edge of the table to prevent myself from flying out of my chair in an uncontrollable rage.

“The difference,” I said slowly, with a false and forced calm, is that ‘Markos’ is my name, and ‘Marcus’ isn’t.”

“Can I just call you Mark?”

“You may not.”

“Whatever, bro. You’re weird.”

As he walked away, I internally debated whether it would be worth it to throw my cup at the back of his head.

Right after he was out of sight and hearing range, Lydia, who had silently and acutely observed and absorbed all of this, asked me calmly, as if I hadn’t nearly reached boiling point, “How was your day, Strawberry?”


Lydia told me, near The End, that I was a very angry person. Nobody, not even myself, knew what to do with all the anger and frustration in me. It made me wild, untamable and could also be the death of me. I hated her for saying it because that wasn’t something I wanted to hear or admit to myself. Ironically enough, being told the truth of my inherent anger made me angry. The sizzling started as soon as she said it, and perhaps with her witchcraft, she could see the metaphorical smoke coming out of my ears, and so she quickly made a joke out of the situation, attributing my unearthly anger to my name, Markos, which was associated with Mars, the Roman god of war. I was always angry, she explained, because my name wanted to make me a war god. This kind of bullshit, I did like to hear. Bullshit aside though, she was completely right. The word to describe me is flammable. There has always been something within me, just below the surface, waiting to explode, and the smallest flame could have set it off. Unfortunate, then, that Lydia was something several times more potent than a small flame.

To this day, I can’t even tell if she was really attractive or not. My 14-year-old self thought she was absolutely gorgeous. But then my brain was full of shit at 14. (Still is, anyway.) Looking back, I can’t say whether I just thought of her when I got hard, or I got hard because I thought of her, but either way, “Lydia” and erection occupied the same space and time where I was concerned on multiple occasions. Puberty was the worst possible time to meet a girl like that. You can’t meet a girl like Lydia when your hormones are raging out of control. I try to stay away from her still, just in case I see her and lose my fucking mind again, because I don’t trust myself anymore.

I wanted to kiss her all the time. Of course, I couldn’t do it at school, not just because of rules but because she wouldn’t let me. Which is not to say I didn’t at least try. Every opportunity I got, my hands were on her waist; lower down whenever I could manage it, which wasn’t often. And I know I sexualized our way-longer-than-average hugs, but how could I not, when I was on fire for her? The mistake I made was trying to convince myself that all the feelings were mutual, even though I knew deep down that they weren’t.

We weren’t dating. I knew we couldn’t date from the very beginning, back in the Strawberry days, when we had casual conversations that weren’t as deep and hot as our interactions grew to be in the two years following. She didn’t date because her psyche wouldn’t allow her to believe in the practicality of her dating anyone yet, or something like that. (She phrased it better, I swear.) That people around her always looked like they were wasting their time with people they didn’t even truly like, and after five months of flirting, would break up after less than three months of dating anyway. She said she had no time to waste on all that; she had important stuff to do. And what on earth was the point of getting into a romantic relationship with someone she knew she couldn’t marry in the long run? If there was a foreseeable, certain end in sight, she wouldn’t bother with the beginning (Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, if she ever foresaw The End with me.) “In any case,” she had said conclusively, “I don’t feel attraction towards anyone. I don’t think I ever have.” To be very honest, I don’t think I understood just about anything she said on this topic. I convinced myself it all made sense, though. Because even at those early stages, Lydia was an infallible genius in my eyes, and I hung on to every word that fell off her lips like I was desperately clinging for life; like without them, I’d fall into a bottomless abyss. And because I believed she was right, wanting to date her would have put me in the wrong. So I convinced myself that I didn’t want to ask her to be my girlfriend, and consequently, I never did.

If anything at all she said was true though, at the very least, the asexuality part certainly appeared to be. And so it baffles even me how I tried to tell myself she wanted me carnally, as much as I wanted her – or that she wanted me carnally at all. The first time I kissed her, nothing but our lips touched. She didn’t kiss me back, she just… let me do it. I couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss for a week; she looked like she’d gotten over it a second after it happened. Now that I think about it, whenever I replay the event in my mind, I see derisive amusement in her eyes. I’ve probably infused it into the memory myself as a way to justify hating her, but I think even then, she was probably aware, probably laughing at me for the effect she was having on me. She probably knew, all along, that she was playing me. That I was letting myself be played by her.

Subsequent times, she would always be the one to pull away, cutting me off when I made it very clear that I was half-crazed with wanting more, consumed with heat, smoking uncomfortably with desire. Eventually, she refused to let me kiss her at all, stopped letting me touch her entirely. The Chrife in her had come all the way out. She said I was “encouraging lust” and that it wouldn’t benefit either of us. And what about her, I wanted to know. But I think I already knew. She’d kind of told me before; before all of it even got so messy. None of it was lustful for her the way it was for me. She engaged in it all to humor me, until she got too bored to do it anymore. She wasn’t attracted to me; she wasn’t attracted to anyone. She never had been. She felt nothing when our bodies connected, when our lips collided. They meant nothing more to her than letting me have my fun at the playground, like a kid in nursery school – and perhaps, for her, an experimental game that was easy enough to turn off whenever she felt like it. I think that was wicked. For this, at least, I feel like my hatred of her is justified.

So she was never quite my girlfriend, no matter how much it seemed to the outside world that she was. It used to please me when she let people believe it, or insinuated that it was true. It was admittedly too much work to explain that our “best-friendship” (with some benefits for a while) was more complicated than even my brain could grasp. I resent it now. I wish everyone who called us or thought of us as a “power couple” could understand what a bloody mess our relationship really was.

Back then, it gave me a sense of power and pride, to be associated so closely with such an enigmatic, artistic celebrity figure. This is where I mention probably the most important thing about her identity to the outside world: she was a visual artist. Half her clothes had permanent stains of acrylic paint on them, including her school uniforms. (You can imagine how they complemented her Neck-Lace.) More often than not, she had a couple of paintbrushes and pencils stuck in her braided hair or unkempt Afro, and charcoal stuck in the fingernails of her still-elegant hands. By the time she was 16, her reputation as an artist had begun to rise faster than anyone could ever have anticipated.  Even among people that didn’t know her as personally as I did, Lydia was the image of a shockingly young, fierce, rebellious, talented, outspoken influence, and being Markos, the best-friend-that-everyone-assumed-was-her-boyfriend gave me a share of the power spotlight. I resent her for it now because I can’t look back at those times and see myself as her companion; the image of me as her fucking pet keeps getting in the way.

Now, boys and girls, pay close attention: if you ever meet a “Lydia” (or Lydia herself, since I’m not sure there’s anyone else on the planet like her), make sure you don’t fall in love with her. It will be an uphill battle and I’m not certain if it’s even possible to resist the temptation to fall, but at least try. Because if you fall, you will land in something too big for you to handle. She will burn you up, and while you’re smothered in cinders, she will walk out unscathed. She looks vulnerable when she wants to, and when she talks to you sweetly and intimately, you will think that she is softer than you, but in reality, she’s titanium and you’re nothing better than wood.

Our friendship – or whatever the hell it was – lasted nearly 3 years. More like 2½. I don’t think I will ever be fully able to explain how The End happened because I still don’t fully understand it myself. It definitely ended, I can say that – not fizzled away the way natural friendships do; ended, like the way a movie ends. No cliffhangers, but no resolution either. It’s just that the credits rolled, and you knew the story was over. It didn’t end with a big, dramatic, explosive disagreement either. There was nothing, really, to explode. The explosions were happening throughout the relationship, not at The End. The explosions were happening within her, and between us. She was the explosion, spontaneously combusting every second of every day. Through it all, I didn’t know I was on fire – but it ended when I was burned to a crisp.

I think Lydia loved me. Yeah, I think she really did. She said she did, and she wasn’t one to lie about these things. Just as her depression when she experienced it was as low as the realm of Hades, her capacity to love was as intense as the temperature of the sun. Her love for me was deeper and more genuine than I think I will ever experience again. Shame, since I don’t really want to ever see her again. It frustrates me now how I don’t know why she loved me until The End, why she loved me through my jealous hatred of her, why she probably still loves me even now. I wish she hated me back so I could feel like my hatred of her is warranted, but she never has and never will. It’s just another admirable quality of hers that will always mean another way I can never match up to her.

You may be wondering: if she loved me so much, and if I doted on her so much, why in hell’s name did we end? Well, the answer sounds kind of daft. And if our beginning was Lydia’s doing, our ending was my fault.

Being her “best friend” was like running next to a machine on a renewable power source. In the beginning, I could keep up easily, matching the machine step-for-step. But then, being human, I began to get tired and the machine did not. I had thought I was a machine as well. I had an over-esteemed image of myself which her apparent adoration of me had only augmented. So when I began to involuntarily slow down and she didn’t, when I began to huff and puff and she didn’t, when I lagged behind and she looked back as if to say, “Well, what are you doing all the way back there, Markos?”, that was all kindling for the hate-fire.

And it wasn’t just her overwhelming character that burned me out – it was what she was doing with her life as well. Blink once, and suddenly, she had won a local drawing competition. Blink twice, and suddenly, she had a painting being showcased in a new and expensive hotel. Blink three times, and suddenly she was hosting her own exhibition in a different hotel. You know how you see headlines of teenage prodigies on social media that make you think “So what the hell am I doing with my life?” Well, imagine being “best friends” with one of those bloody teenage prodigies. If you’re anything like me, your morale will fray until there’s nothing left. Your heart will turn black from bitterness and jealousy from all the times you ask, “What am I worth, next to someone like her?”

From being close to Lydia alone, I had lost my fucking mind. But from being close to her achievements? I had lost my fucking mind. I couldn’t contain my jealousy, so I exploded on multiple occasions for no apparent reason. My fuse became as short as a matchstick and I’d lose my temper at every opportunity. I cried a lot of angry tears, walked or got kicked out of a bunch of classes, ended up in the principal’s office and almost got suspended a couple of times. Nobody could explain the multitude of my explosions, least of all myself. And the only reason I can describe my actions with their triggers to you is, of course, because Lydia explained them all to me. I hate her for having come to understand me more than I could ever understand myself, and more than I could understand her in 20 years if I had that long with her. And I detest how she spoke the truth about me kindly, even when it hurt. Because all this means I can’t hate her properly.

So now that I knew my problems, and Lydia was still sweet about all of it, why did we still get to The End? Because I’m a little bitch, that’s why. I knew about my jealousy but couldn’t do a thing about it. It was a demon within me that was threatening to eat me up from the inside out. I knew her intensity was burning me, but I couldn’t make myself impervious to it. In short, I just couldn’t deal – with her, or with myself in relation to her, or with myself in general. I didn’t leave gracefully. I simply disappeared into a cloud of bravado, pretending to be stronger and more cocksure than I was (ha – as if that had ever done any good for me before), blocking her on instant message platforms so she could no longer bother me with the honest love and sweetness that I could neither comprehend nor reciprocate.

And you would think, because she loved me and I didn’t love her, that she would have come out worse from the situation than I did – but I was the one who walked out bruised and broken, with an excruciating identity crisis, while she, like a rubber ball, just returned to her original shape effortlessly. No matter the weight of the whatever or whomever was placed on it, it would not disfigure. Nothing happened to her which she couldn’t bounce back from with force. Lydia was a constant. I wasn’t like that. I’ve never been. And so I’m pretty sure that if I ever meet another Lydia, she is going to thoroughly destroy me. A wooden stick can’t magically re-grow its fallen off charred parts. And if I am burned any further, no force on earth will be able to bring me back.


Breaking Bars Broken Down

As a lexivist, I choose not to be apologetic about being more concerned with (read: borderline obsessed with) the meaning and words in songs more than anything else about them. Usually. There are certainly exceptions. However, most often, the lyrics are what define excellence for me, and from what I’ve seen, in this regard, I am in the minority. But who cares? I’m a writer first and a musician anywhere from second to tenth.

Now as someone primarily concerned with lyrical meaning, I cannot help but desire to expose and explain songs or projects that I find particularly meaningful for their lyrical content. Examples on my blog are The Magnificent Relevance of Motherfuckitude and The Spiritual Journey of Gallant. And now, I want to talk about one of the most lyrically important songs I have ever heard in my life, especially considering my own geographical and cultural contexts: Breaking Bars, by Tronomie.

Cover art by DeSouza Nelson

Aside from the fact that Tronomie is currently my best friend, whom I’d like to believe I know deeply well enough to write accurately about his intention, the thing that makes this post different from the ones about Motherfuckitude and Ology is that this is not an interpretation of the lyrics; it is an explanation. I understand the lyrics better than anyone other than Tronomie himself, precisely because I co-wrote them.

Before I go into lyrical meaning, I want to first acknowledge that this song sounds fantastic. Sonic quality alone. And if you want a better idea of why Breaking Bars’ sonic uniqueness is just about as relevant as its lyrics to the Ghanaian music society from people who seem to understand the sonic qualities of music several times better than I do, I suggest you listen to Episode 3 of Nkenten’s Decaf podcast, which talks extensively about the song and whatever industrial complexities surround it. (Aside: You can also listen to Episode 2 of the Decaf Podcast, The Lexivist Edition, which features yours truly!)

Now, on to my specialty area: the lyrics. (Which many people either seem neither to understand nor care that they don’t understand. And if you think this is salt…well, it just might be. LOL)

“Mirror, mirror

It’s been a while since the face in you was mine

Now all I see is a broken figure”

The lyrics begin with an awakening to self, or the consciousness within a persona/the singer/Tronomie that he is not doing something right.

“How long until I settle for ‘this is fine’?”

But a greater issue than the fact that the persona is no longer recognizable to himself is the fact that he can foresee a moment when he will no longer aspire to be better than he is – to conquer the true vice that makes him unrecognizable to himself in the mirror: mediocrity.

If you had no idea what the song was really about, at least you could follow the metaphor up to that point. Before we come in with our river metaphors, leave you baffled and potentially lose you entirely. And so, at this point, I would like to explain the actual meaning of the song.

The Christian artistic industry, especially the music one, in Ghana appears to be suffering from mediocrity with regards to content. Many are satisfied with merely scratching the surface of the religion, playing it safe in the name of approval from local audiences, content that as long as they mention Jesus’ name in their song, it automatically becomes great Christian music. Resultantly, they fail to address issues of prime concern in society which need to be tackled, but more than that, refuse to apply genius and creativity in the way they create their art – leading to an occasionally stunning difference in quality of what is considered “secular” music and what we accept as “Christian” music. While it is sometimes evident how much effort some secular artistes/rappers put into their songwriting internationally (note that international ≠ exclusively foreign, so save your breath if you wanted to attack me for that) is evidence of effort that is so often apparently missing from the works of Ghanaian Christian artistes who consciously or unconsciously know that whether their songs are trashy or not, they are likely to get coverage in the church context. (I’m talking about music specifically in this blog post, partially because I know that if I start going off on the Ghanaian Christian spoken word scene, this blog post won’t finish.)

What on earth does all this have to do with Breaking Bars? Well, you see, the Christian artiste who makes mediocre music, both lyrically and sonically, is exactly like the persona at the beginning of Breaking Bars, reversed; s/he hasn’t realized that his/her image is distorted, and has indeed settled, unknowingly for “this [mediocrity] is fine”. BUT

“Why should a river compromise if it reflects the sky?”

The persona – no, the Christian artiste – is the river. What is the sky? The sky is God. The Christian must reflect God the way a river reflects the sky. S/he cannot do that if there are a bunch of obstacles in his/her way – in this case, the obstacles are those of mediocrity. The idea of river and sky’s reflection is just a way to imperfectly (which metaphor can ever fully encapsulate a complex, real-world idea?) the concept of having a higher purpose or potential. The absolute highest thing a river can reflect is not the branch of a tree, nor a mountaintop, nor even a passing bird; it is the limitless sky. To be content with anything intermediary, less, is to be content with mediocrity, in the context of this song.

And again, here, we potentially lose you again with the confusing retention of the general river metaphor, while we swiftly change the dimensions of it.

“So I’m going to run on deeper,

Break the dam if the bars won’t let me by”

Where is the change? Well, it lies in how we have suddenly gone from looking at things in the upward direction (sky) to looking at them sideways. No longer are we talking about the river’s reflection, but now we are talking about its flow. The same way objects between river and sky stop the river from reflecting, so do the “bars” create a dam within the river, a stoppage that does not allow it to flow the way it should. The bar is mediocrity. And the goal is to break past it.

Then there’s another very rapid metaphor switch, sorry-not-sorry. The “bars” have transformed from river dam bars into prison bars. Either way, they are the unwanted obstruction. Now the bars of mediocrity are the ones that “hold the standards too low”. We are speaking again, of course, of the general standards of the Christian artistic industry. And so this persona/Tronomie sees an antidote as a course of action, to

“Rip every note,

Transcend what I’ve known”.

It’s somewhat metonymic. Ripping notes, singing excellently, stands in for also doing everything related to music creation or art creation excellently. Including writing lyrics. [This is where I am pleased to reveal my jon by mentioning that music is and/or lyrics are written in…bars. Hehehee!] So, fundamentally, this is the meaning of Breaking Bars. You could stop reading here because by now you should at least vaguely get it. But please continue reading because I am going to continue writing, as there are obviously more lyrics, and certainly more to say.

The second verse of the song more explicitly brings out the purpose of the song rather than just the meaning. The purpose of this song is to be a challenge to Christian artistes wherever, to step up their game when it comes to making excellent art.

“Step up, leader

If your speaker is connected to your mic

Your voice makes me listen, eager

But your message is disconnected from my mind”

If you have access to a platform, and an audience for anything that you do (e.g. If you have a working microphone and have a voice coming out through speakers that people are listening to), you are probably a leader of sorts, whether you know it or not. But now what is the point of the sweetest voice that claims to be doing the work of glorifying God but is really not saying anything that the audience’s minds can recognize as substantial content? If you have a platform, you might as well use it well.

“Silver spoon on a golden plate,

Do you only decorate?

Your guests will be starving for dinner

If you’re living your life behind your case.”

(Trust Tronomie to be there thinking about spoons when we’re talking about bars. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t already know that he was crazy but…LOL.)

How baffling that you can turn something so purposefully utilitarian (literally, utensils) into purposeless decorations. As an artist, you should not want to be a purposeless decoration – not when people are starving and you are the person that can be used to feed them. The “case” here is your comfort zone of mediocrity, of acceptability, of refusal to say or do anything that could disrupt the problematically silent status quo of Christian culture on issues that matter more than we give them credit for. This protective shield is another “bar” that must be broken. Christianity. Is. Not. Safe. You can’t even finish listing issues Christian culture, especially in Ghana, has too long been silent about. Examples that readily come to my mind are mental health, the de-contextualization of Scripture, and the very real struggle of going through doubt while still ascribing to the faith. I’m sure there are countless more you can name.

“Where is the mind God has given you?

Do you want to do better?

Do you want to say better?”

The minds that we have must be used. The Psalmist was an artiste who used his mind to create lyrical excellence. What is your excuse? To refuse usage of the mind in the capacity it was designed for is to transform it from purposefully utilitarian to purposelessly decorative.

And so as a whole, we tried to do with Breaking Bars what Breaking Bars is trying to challenge others to do. If the amount of deliberation, intentionality and effort that was put into trying to make this song transcend standards and expectations is any indication, I’d say we have reason to be at least a little bit proud of what Tronomie and everyone involved in the making of this song have managed to produce.

Lastly, I would like to emphasize that Breaking Bars is not a Gospel song. I have heard it referred to as such and I just can’t deal with it. What it is, plain as day, is a song written by a couple of Christians. It is a song. It is music. Aside from the fact that it simply does not fit the conventional “Gospel” category of music, there is also the (valid) argument that there really is no such thing as Christian music in the first place. And to illustrate, I shall pull up my favorite quote from rapper Lecrae’s Unashamed autobiography:

“There is no such thing as Christian rap and secular rap. Only people can become Christians. Music can’t accept Jesus into its heart. So I am not trying to make Christian music or secular music. I’m just making music. Hip-hop, like all music, is a good thing. I could use it for evil by filling it with violence and misogyny and profanity. Or I can use it to glorify God. Every song I write doesn’t have to have the Gospel spelled out or quote Scripture so that people will know I love Jesus. My goal is just to use my gifts to produce great art that tells the truth about the world. If I see the world through a biblical lens, the music will naturally paint a picture that serves people and honors God.” – Lecrae Moore



P.S.: The Genius.com lyrics to Breaking Bars can be found here.