pours water

down his throat.

ALARMED

The drums signal

the end

of yet another mournful nightfall,

and the beginning of

the same somber sun.

But this morning,

something is noticeably different,

bleaker.

They gag us again,

before they drag us out

in the rainfall

line us up by height

then march us back

to the courtyard

where my brother’s life

was snatched away.

THERE WILL BE NO CELEBRATION

no remembering Kwasi

the way we would have

no music

no singing

no dancing

no praying

no eating

no drinking

no laughing

no hugging

no healing

no hoping

no knowing

that Kwasi’s soul

will rest

in peace

here

inside the barbarous gates

behind the big wall

of Lower Kwanta.

AS WE SINGLE FILE

out of the courtyard

over the ground

that holds my brother’s blood,

near three giggling kids

chasing a grasscutter,

out the towering gates,

past a herd of goats,

around a group of men

cutting timber,

across the river,

away from home

toward some unknown,

I swear

to the ancestors

that when Papa comes for me

when I am free

I will find a way

to avenge

Kwasi’s murder

for my maame

for my family

for the whole

of Upper Kwanta.

This, I know.

NIGHTFALL

We only stop

to rest

because our four imprisoners

have speared

a fat, wild grasscutter,

then sat

to stuff

their faces

with its cooked bushmeat,

before freeing our mouths

and dozing off

with their loaded death weapons

still in their clutches

still pointing

at us.

FREEDOM

In the middle

of this nightmare

that is trying to bury us,

that has us becoming

silent and detached,

like our minds

have abandoned us,

I finally know

what I want

as a gift

for my born day.

So, I bow my head

say a prayer

and hope

that the ancestors

and Nana Mosi

are listening.

THE REMEMBERING

Next to the fading fire

our snoring kidnappers started,

we feed

on the leftovers,

pinches of tough meat.

I think of Ebo

and the traps

he likes to set

for grasscutters

and the profits

he splits with me

from their sales.

I wish to be arguing

with my brother

over a bowl

of Maame’s boiled plantains.

What I would even give

right now

for Esi’s unpleasant cooking

and chiding

from my sisters.

Owu interrupts,

brings me back

to the now,

to the dread,

asks if I have

a story to tell—as if

that is normal, as if

a fireside tale right now

would make it so—and I think of

Nana Mosi.

THERE WAS EVEN A TIME

many seasons ago

when a young girl

named Ama

was about to marry

the richest, smartest boy

in the village.

On the day

of the ceremony

his family presented

their dowry to hers

in the form

of one goat.

The bride’s parents

were furious.

THIS IS RUBBISH! screamed the father. Where are the

cowrie shells, the cloth, gold?

The mother was so angered,

she fainted,