La Semaine

French is a romantic and poetic language I appreciate. While my French is rudimentary the power of the translator cannot be understated. Please enjoy.

Je suis Kosi,
Je m’appelle sage et doux,
Le serviteur des anciens.

Je m’appelle Adzo,
Je suis entraînee et zéléé,
La bête noire des femmes paresseuse.

Ils m’appellent Komla,
La vie du festival,
Assistant du conteur.

Mon nom est Aku,
Amoureux de la bonne nourriture,
Et l’écouteur des ragots de bonne.

Yaa est mon nom,
Le secret des dieux,
Servante de la terre.

Je m’appelle Kofi,
Tous les cultivateurs me connaissant,
Et leurs poules ne sont pas sûrs de mon pot.

Je suis Ami,
Timide et la fierté de la terre,
Le chef a lex yeux car moi seul.

Nous sommes les fils du soleil,
Les filles de la lune,
Et dan nos coeurs et nous esprits se trouve le berceaude la pensée,
L’element vital de la culture.

© Sena Kodjokuma 2015


The Things I Am

I am,
Self assured bastard,
Ready to believe the world will twist in my favor.

Lily livered,
Yellow bellied,
Cringing at the first sign of danger,
To save my mottled skin.

Ready to believe in love,
Not the faux sob-tales on tv,
But on the rollercoaster ride hitched to life.

Intelligent enough to see what is,
All the time,
Even when my heart breaks.

Stupid enough,
To believe,
In Jesus,
And not to acknowledge the great accuser,
That bringer of light,

Crazy enough to take risks,
Without actually knowing where the deep end is sometimes.

Picky enough to push away jollof with fish,
And knowing when the boys have had enough of FIFA to go home,
Slipping the sheet of paper in the exams room,
In return for a favor of future glory.

Bullish enough to be arrogant,
Or cocky,
Or just plain craven.

Lonely enough,
To fill my head,
With delusions,
Stirred by real people.

Liquid enough,
That I can be poured into a bowl of friends,
To be frozen into shape.

Makes me beautiful,
A perfectly structured chaos,
Even when I have a rift a mile deep running through me.

Flinging crap out of my way,
And containing crap
Without flinching.

My favorite weapon,
It brings down friend and foe alike,
Ends the suffering,
Its blade needs no whetting.

Prone to blabbing,
Spilling secrets,
And sowing discord to reap friendship.

Pissing my pants yellow,
In panic,
Because the coloreds dyed the whites.

Full of tensile zeal,
Brittle and ready to break,
Snapping under pressure.

So I can take a beating,
And not bruise,
Though it hurts like hell.

Always trying to catch my reflection,
Even in a dusty window pane.

Blunt and crude,
To what might be good and wrong,
But what could be bad and right all at once.

Owning a tongue with a Midas touch,
Gold is but cold sustenance.

A liar,
Lumbering and slow,
Trying to cover my tracks in broad daylight,
While my soiled linen waits in the marketplace.

These things I am,
Define one thing.
And will not endear me to you,
Because they remind you of one thing,
You are also as tainted and flawed,
Mirrors of each other,
We are but human.

© Sena Kodjokuma 2014