My Thoughts: Woman, Eat Me Whole

Woman, Eat Me Whole is Ama Asantewa Diaka’s second book of poetry, following (and including some poems from) her APBF chapbook, You Too Will Know Me. The book is organized in four sections, each named after one word in the book’s title. Indeed, the book seems designed for consumption foremost by a female reader—but don’t let that scare you away if you’re not a woman. There is value in this collection for a reader of any gender.

On the topic of poems we’ve seen before: Over the past few years, I have engaged more deeply with Poetra Asantewa than with Ama Asantewa Diaka. That is to say, I’ve heard her work far more than I’ve read it. And so it’s interesting to see some of the poems that I know well in audio form translated back into the written word, including “A Good Day for Redemption (Dear Nalorm)”, “Love Yourself”, “That-which-must-not-be-named” (otherwise known as “F-word” on The Anatomy of a Paradox) and “Masked Commoners”. The lines and layers of meaning that jump out to me as I read aren’t the same ones that do when I hear the poems aloud.

There is something about the composition of these poems that make me feel as though Diaka is a prose writer masquerading—quite effectively—as a poet. Many of her poems tell stories almost as effectively as flash fiction. Chunks of lines would work equally well as prosaic sentences, as some stanzas would as paragraphs. This lends a consistency to her voice as a writer. Between this and her choice of themes, I feel that if you spend enough time with this collection, you will have unconsciously learned how to recognize a Diaka poem anywhere.

Despite the energy of the lyrical composition, you’d be hard pressed to mistake the form for prose, in most cases. The poems that do not follow the more typical blocking of poetry include some delightful experimentation, especially “Ordinary Speak”, which is written in the form of an official doctor’s report, and “@mAnsPlainA”, written in the form of a Twitter thread.

I have also never seen somebody remix a poem, much less their own poem, which made “V for Pink” and “V for Pink (remix)” novel experiences for me. Several lines in the original poem are shocking; the speaker strings you along on a theme and then yanks you abruptly to the side. After several re-reads, you think you finally understand certain lines, only for the entire poem to be rearranged in the remix, and the same lines that slapped you on your left cheek the first time boomerang around to give you a whack on the right—or upside the head, just to spice things up. If you ask me, there is not a line in that pair of poems that means just one thing.

Thematically, Woman, Eat Me Whole is as consistent as Diaka’s voice. It’s no surprise that womanhood—especially Black womanhood and Ghanaian womanhood—is such a prevalent theme. It has colored just about every body of work Diaka has ever produced, whether written or spoken. Naturally, the first section of the book, “Woman,” is the longest, even as the theme continues to shine boldly in the subsequent three sections. Also familiar are the themes of chronic pain and spirituality/Christianity/faith. The former is often in relation to the female body, and the latter is often used scandalously, reverently, or in a clever combination of both.

Two of my favorite poems fall under the themes of wealth and privilege: “Our utopias are different” and “New-roses”. Both poems invite the reader to be simultaneously empathetic about what a lack of wealth can do, and critical about what an abundance of it can lead to, with a nuance I think should be included in more conversations on the topic. Speaking of those themes, I am convinced that these two poems—“Our utopias are different” and “Our father who art in heaven”—are deeply in conversation with each other, as far apart as they are in the book. They succinctly capture the ways different types of people envy each other’s versions of struggle, again with an impressive nuance.

Someone close to me commented that the title of the collection sounds like something one might say during sex. This added an extra layer of humor to the fact that the first poem in the “Eat” section—“Take, Eat”—evokes the connotation of “eat” that is peculiar to Ghanaians in the sense of, for example, “Me I dey eat.” As if this is not enough, there are the extra layers of cheekiness that come from a poem so loaded with innuendo being equally loaded with imagery of Holy Communion, and that the poem is apparently addressed to the parent of the speaker’s lover. Let’s just say, it is as easy to imagine a Ghanaian boy’s mother receiving these words as it is to imagine snow falling in the heart of Accra.

“Eat” is the book’s shortest section, but its theme meanders over several interpretations: eating as a form of swallowing down loss, pain, words; eating as a metaphor for affluence, sex, love. Another of my favorite poems, “my love is a warm pot of soup”, is in this section. It is a sensual and passionate love poem, simultaneously awkward (a unibrow as a metaphor for two people’s attraction? Wild), supremely confident, and provocative. It is precisely the sort of poem I would love to recite to my lover.

The third section, “Me,” includes the highest number of my favorite poems in any section: “the awesome in Me”, “New-roses”, and “Anatomy of a Body”. The third is a love letter to oneself and feels like an affirmation I should be reciting every morning and evening. The running thread of this section is a striving for hope and self-love in the midst of pain, guilt, insecurity, and life coming at you fast from all directions of time: past, present, and future. I love it when a work of art finds a way to face somber reality and yet fiercely resist the despondency it inspires.

For some reason, the running thread in the last section, “Whole,” seems to be Ghana (and often, more specifically, Accra), with a few exceptions. “Bloom”, a lovely love poem to Accra, is dedicated to individuals going about their daily lives, flirting, sharing, working, and staying alive. I am amused by how it follows two poems about the country’s and the city’s erasure of women, respectively. “w-i-p” is an ode to the varied messages found on the rear windows of tro-tros. My melancholic junkie in me found another favorite in “Saturday Evening WhatsApp Message,” which poignantly captures the tension of being a writer in pain who writes about pain. My favorite line in that poem:

“I want to be resilient forever. I am happy when I overcome.”

Overall, Woman, Eat Me Whole is a collection well worth owning, for poetry enthusiasts and casual readers alike. However, I have to say that between “No Panties” (one of Poetra’s earliest recorded works from the Motherfuckitude EP) and the first part of “Letter to Afua” (one of the last poems in Woman, Eat Me Whole), those of us who consider ourselves fans of her art might have to start asking some serious questions about whether Ama Asantewa Diaka actually wears panties.


It’s Made in Ghana, and It’s Lit!

Hello there!


My friends have published a book! A real, actual, physical book, can you believe it? I’m so proud of Rodney Assan and Fui Can-TamakloeMade in Ghana is an anthology of short stories of Ghana, by Ghanaians, for Ghanaians – and whomever else.

Oh… and did I mention I wrote a foreword for it? (I don’t care what you think, I’m a published author now, because I have two paragraphs in someone else’s book ayyyyy!)

I’m just here to tell you to get the book! If you’re in Accra, it’s physically available at Vidya Bookstore, Osu. It’s also available online for purchase at I assume you can also contact the boys individually to get a copy if you want to.


So yeah, man. Get it, consume it, read it, drink it, love it, buy one for your bestie, your mother, your girlfriend, your grandpa, your schoolteacher, your pastor and anyone else you can think of, let’s goooo!


You Should Read #OutburstbyAA by @AkosuaAtuah

Interesting things happen when Ghanaian fathers find themselves together in one room. It is common knowledge how extremely unfashionable it is to brag about yourself to others. Bragging about your children, however, is a completely different matter.

I met Akosua Atuah between July and August of 2016; our fathers had met a couple of weeks prior and it just so happened that one had a daughter who, come December, would release a spoken word EP (me) and the other had a daughter who, come December, would release a poetry anthology (Akosua). And clearly, these men thought, for the sake of networking, two emerging college-age poetesses, by force or fire, had to meet. I won’t lie, the enthusiasm with which my father kept sending me screenshots of Akosua’s Tumblr, consistently asking me if I’d called her yet, since he first gave me her number, kind of scared me. Eventually I did text her though, and we had brunch together, and then sat in East Legon traffic while jamming to Kanye West before she dropped me home.

The thing that most surprised me after I met Akosua Atuah, and followed/liked her on every social media platform I could find her on, was how I’d never heard of her before. Not only because she was in what most people would call “my circles,” but because everything I read of hers showed that she was an absolutely fantastic writer. It was more than obvious that she paid careful attention to her words and her craft, and was clearly particular about her aesthetic. Looking at her Tumblr was a humbling experience; the layout and photography on her Instagram was incredibly impressive. She was a poet who paid attention to her poetry in its entirety, not just the lyrics. I had a lot to learn from her. While in the car with her that one time, she told me she needed a new writing journal, and whereas most people might have found her exclusive pickiness about what kind of journal she wanted, it was only more confirmation for me for what I’d already seen of her personality: she could not be pleased with “just anything” (when it comes to journals, notebooks and pens, I’m the same way). I showed her where I got my favorite ones and we passed through – Acrilex, by the way – before she took me home. I say these things about her personality first because it made her book make so much more sense to me.

To begin with Outburst: The Things We Don’t Say, the anthology she eventually released in December, speaking entirely superficially, the book is beautiful. In fact, it is gorgeous. Everyone to whom I have shown it can barely help but comment on this fact first. The whole thing reeks of deliberate design, and anybody who picks it up can appreciate this before even reading a single poem. I daresay this book has the most stunning presentation I have ever seen of any book by a Ghanaian – and it has one of the most stunning presentations I have ever seen, period. (And yes, I do take into account that I have a bias towards both minimalism and black-and-white.) The purposeful design extends beyond the cover. As you turn the pages, you will notice the deliberate, careful structure of the poetry, noticing the spaces between words, the patterns of the lengths of the lines, the necessity of varying the alignment of the text and the conscious placement of photographs specifically shot for the anthology. (Speaking of those pictures, they evoke a slight twinge of jealousy, because at least from afar, it seems like the models and photographers are composed of a support system dedicated to helping Akosua succeed.)

Source: Akosua Atuah’s Facebook page (

On the content itself: Only about three or four poems into the book, I was already smiling like an idiot, the voice in my head screaming, “Yes! Yes! Yes, this is what I’ve always wanted to read!” It’s probably why I took so long to actually finish it. I had to keep pausing to recover, both from my excitement and from its profundity.

First, on how it’s written: Akosua Atuah is not pretentious. Pretentious poetry suffocates me – even, and especially, when I write it myself – but the poems in this book were saying exactly what they were saying, not saying them in a way that was intended to deliberately impress or confuse. You must know what I mean, for there are so many people out here trying to sound deep and consequently showing very little evidence of authenticity or comprehendability. (I feel evil for saying this, but it is what it is.) But I think the key to Akosua’s very real style is in her Author’s Preface at the beginning of the book:

“I thought it had to be dramatic with sound effects and imagery, but then I noticed that sometimes, the best advice is in the things we don’t say.”

She was not here to flash and blind her readers. She was here to tell the truth according to her experience, and on behalf of several others, because “it is important for them to know that somewhere, somehow, someone else has the same feeling.” I admit there were a few poems I was, nevertheless, unable to understand, but I know it was not because they were badly written; in fact, it’s a good thing when poetry invites you back for a rereading, either because what they said resonated so well that you must visit again and again, or because you need several opportunities to fully appreciate the meaning within the words. I think for me, each poem was one or the other.

On the content itself: There was a lot. So much, I wonder how she managed to fit it all in a single book. But most of it was about grief, struggle and sadness. There is a reason for this: most of the content of this book was at least loosely triggered by the passing away of Akosua Atuah’s mother, at the age of thirteen. A girl barely a teenager, losing her parent and left to navigate life, womanhood and her own response to the death of an instrumental loved one is sure to produce some sort of chaos within her, and confusion as to how to manifest it. It is highly unlikely that she would find the most appropriate way immediately, in the midst of the processing, and the consequence, I suppose, is that it will all build up, like a disaster waiting to happen, and then BOOM – an Outburst. For the most part, that is what this book is. I can’t think – after all the pain and acting out – of a better or healthier way to explode.

I admire the boldness with which the first few poems set the tone. From “The Balm”, a quote that proves Akosua is a lexivist whether she knows it or not:

“My poems and its prose are for the ones that hold power in the flick of their wrists,

yet are too afraid to use it. The ones that have thunder in the midst of their

voices so much so that life stops for a second to grasp that solid piece of history.”

And right after that, there’s “Writer’s Task,” which is just so many things that I honestly feel that it deserves its own blog post. That’s the one that tells you all the things you shouldn’t expect the book to exclusively be about.

“…They will ask you,

and again, “why not write about the war or the fact that your land is facing many economic problems?”

And a couple of stanzas later:

“You tell them that you don’t need to write about those,

not because they aren’t of importance

but because that is all we hear.”

STANDING OVATION! I could have stopped reading the book there, and that would have been it. That poem did two of the bravest things a Ghanaian poet can do:

  1. Decide not to write about what “everyone else” is writing about, the way they are writing about it, the way they expect it to be written.
  2. Write what one genuinely feels one must write, how one feels one must write it, in order to be true to oneself.

Again, several things I can learn from Akosua Atuah, but I’m young and I have time.

Speaking of being true to oneself, you can see aspects of Akosua’s identity oozing through the pages, boldly, in defiance of whomever will refuse to accept her as she is. I am talking about how she talks about being an African woman, an African woman in America as seen by Africans back home, being African in general, being a woman in general, being a Christian – and goodness knows how dreadfully unpopular any of these things can be at any given time.

It is a book full of poems that allow themselves to be desolate with no happy endings sometimes – which is perfectly fine. It is a book full of affirmations that do not give desolation any chance to rear its head sometimes – which is perfectly fine. It is also a book full of poems that carve spaces for both at once, sometimes, which is great.

One impressive thing is how Akosua not only explores womanhood in her poems – several poets do that – but I notice and am extremely impressed by her poems that touch on manhood as well. “Man Made” is one of those poems (side note: it brought to mind a Sophia Thakur TED talk called “My boyfriend isn’t allowed to cry unfortunately”), and it asks the necessary questions of humanity and gender, this thing called “toxic masculinity”:

“So I asked them, “what is it about society shoving strength

down a man’s throat? Does crying or grieving or simply

feeling emotion make him less of a man?”

Or what about “A Stranger’s Words to Fathers.” which is just the surface exploration of the rift between father and daughter that I can unfortunately relate so well to? Or “Father’s love” which highlights the comfort of a caring father when one is in the pits of despair? But I have to say that my favorite is “Love him” because, my goodness, that poem is several levels of beautiful:

“Love a man that carries Christ in his

back pocket and always pulls

him out when you’re lost.”

I was only about halfway through with the book, when, one day, when depression rendered me completely unproductive and incapable of leaving my room, I just finished all the rest of the book in one sitting. It left me very pleasantly exhausted. It carried me through the sadness; poetry can do that for you. During and since reading, one of the quotes that sustains me is:

“Remind your melancholy that it will always be that muse that allows you to draw a blossoming flower through dark times.”

To say the least about how I feel about this book, I am impressed. And although I barely know Akosua, I am so, so proud of her and this milestone she has achieved for herself and, whether or not she knows it, all of us aspiring young writers. Look at what she achieved before she even graduated from college.

Support the art, the industry, support Akosua Atuah. Purchase her book. It is not something you will regret. The book needs to be read.


Update: Following from the number of people who have asked me where it is available in Ghana, I know now that it is for sale at LifeForms Gh, which is on the same street as MetroTV. I also know that Akosua is working on getting more stores in Ghana involved. When she does, I will update this post again.