I want Accra

i want rush hour traffic
as far as the eye can see

i want waakye
yes, as much as i can eat

i want circle
and fraud boys who “just want to help you”

i want trotros
and all the tetanus they bring

i want taxis
and lonely drivers who try to talk to me

i want ubers
and their gps-illiterate drivers

i want radios
and hosts who shout at each other

i want the mall
and high school kids who flock there in troops

i want purple
so i can eat wings, drink and forget home-training

i want coffee shops
with one-percenters being one-percenters

i want to be me
in an Accra that lets me be

you tell me… you don’t know… three

you tell me to cheer up
you don’t know i’d need a chisel
and about three whole days
to carve into my face
the smile you wish to see

you tell me to get over it
you don’t know i’d need a pen
and about three lifetimes
to write away my pain
and be okay again

you tell me to let it out
you don’t know i’d need my space
and about three boxes of tissues
to cry out all these tears
and find joy if i can

you tell me to pull it together
you don’t know i’d need a needle
and three miles of yarn
to stitch my open wounds
and pray to God they heal