Sunday 15th September



One day here, one day there, me ho mfa me. I do not

know what has happened to the man I married,

where he has gone. We live in a house without words.

Loving him, it is plenty hard work, and there is a hole

where our future is supposed to be. I feel cold

about what has burned. Ekua and Kweku are gone,

scattered, like the wind, the sunsets, wɔyɛ mmerɛw –

no fire, no purple – and in this house,

the bitter brew of silence is hard to digest. Abeg,

believe me. Over barramundi and chablis, after church,

I had to keep reminding myself I am a child of the wind.

Just like you said. Remember when we used to race,

and I would always win? And you would say run, Steph,

run? Run like the wind? That is it. Like the Harmattan wind.

I want to know what it feels like to break free

from the hope that is always trying to choke me.