“Every miracle is only a man
saying I will watch another moon show us
that the night is never truly dark.
For this is the way to finding the light.”
—Romeo Oriogun, ‘Sacrament of Bodies’
3rd June 2024, Somewhere in Lashibi, Accra, Ghana
11:37pm
I stab a smile into the glass mirror. I take the plastic bottle, green with mouthwash, and pour its content into my mouth. I close my eyes. I forget myself and swallow a sip like holy communion to cleanse my throat of bad memories from the day. This is my daily routine. But not tonight. Tonight, I smile into the glass mirror and pull some cash from my pockets and count the notes like a cashier in a shop. 20, 40, 60,… I stare at the twenty cedis that wants to fold itself into a total of eighty cedis. I stare at a green stain on the blue note. It is invisible but I can see it—semen—ever so clearly because I cleaned it myself earlier after the man dropped it on the tiled floor. He’d grinned at me when I picked it up. Like a special after show event, he watched and grinned as I wiped his semen from the note. If you had swallowed it earlier, it wouldn’t need cleaning, he’d scoffed. I make that memory into a book and return to the previous page—the business of counting: 80, 100, 120, 140, 160, 180, 200. I fold the notes into cubes and stick them in twos into the hole at the top of a cylindrical wooden box. The silence in its fall sings like the voice of a brother standing in front of the casket of his sister. I run my hand across the box. I touch a memory. I touch my sister’s name. This is her saving’s box. I watch the top of the box. The sticker on it says, Application Fees.
20th February 2022, Somewhere in Lashibi, Accra, Ghana
12:33pm
Ma, ɛn ha dwen, yɛ bɛ tua, my sister makes plea to a woman in her late fifties holding some documents. The woman reminds my sister again about the timeliness to which rent ought to be paid. Ayo! Before the due date o…, the woman hands over the documents to my sister. A mask covers my sister’s face. I cannot tell it so well, but I only assume she is smiling. She returns to me with a smile. Finally, fresh start, she says. She jabs me with her shoulders. I smile back.
20th February 2022, Somewhere in Nungua-Teshie, Accra, Ghana
4:12pm
I haul bags heavy with clothes out of the room. Two women share old tales with my sister, who is holding up a blue dress. Which of ona like this one? She lifts the dress towards the two women. They scamper for the dress like chickens on rice. The woman in jeans overall loses the race. The other laughs, holding the dress like a medal. She shows it to the other woman, sticking out her tongue, and then blows air. They both laugh. The woman in jeans overall walks over to me. She smiles as she places her hands on the bag I’m holding. My sister yells. Hey, hey, hey, leave am make him pack the things finish. Na only ona know love? The rhetoric flung in air; it doesn’t sting. The woman in jeans overall giggles and places a kiss on my cheeks, and says, jealousy nai go kill ona. We all laugh.
4:21pm
Did they send a message yet? The woman in jeans overall asks. A biker vrooms away from us. The engine makes a rave of the air. I shake my head. I said have you received an email yet? The woman in jeans overall taps my shoulder. No Esi, not yet, I say. But I read online that these abroad schools usually respond somewhere late February or afterwards. I raise the bags onto the truck. I check for its balance in the truck with a shake. The bags pass the rigidity test. I no understand why you no go just stay for my side, the woman in jeans overall mumbles. I look at her. Wetyn go happen when client come around? I share my reasons inside my head. I take her petite body into my arms and print a kiss on her forehead. We seal our understanding with a hug.
15th March 2022, Somewhere in Lashibi, Accra, Ghana
9:32pm
I scroll through my phone. An e-book. A vibration ripples through my hands. I trace it with my eyes and land on an email icon at the top of my screen. A name foreign like snow in Accra takes me. Calmly, I fall on another wording: MFA Admissions Decisions. My heart falls like a body inside ocean water. I float to the surface with expectation as I open the mail.
Dear Listowel,
I am writing to inform you that based on your strong academic record and fine recommendations, you are among the select number of applicants on the waitlist for admission to our MFA in Creative Writing for Fall 2024. We had a strong pool this year and were forced to make many difficult decisions in determining our eight MFA offers.
Should you be admitted to the program, your admission offer would come with a stipend of $18,486.40 with the Bohemian Fellowship providing an additional $500 and the Rascals Fellowship another $500, for a total compensation of $19,486.40 in the first year. During your second year, your stipend will increase accordingly, to $24,900 and you will serve as instructor of record for two courses each semester, or four courses total. Typically, three of those courses are in first-year composition and one in Introduction to Creative Writing.
9:34pm
I scream into my pillow. I look at the mail like a crystal ball showing my future. I go to my Calculator app and convert the foreign currency into Ghanaian Cedis, searching for how much sense it carries. I hold the pillow to my chest and bite its edges like a lover teasing a lover’s lip. I scream again into the pillow.
9:47pm
Emojis and stickers fall into my message interface. My phone dings incessantly, I picture Esi in front of me dancing like the emojis and stickers she’s sending. Fkhdkishahaonshsoenvgsjfrt, she breaks the emoticons with a varied form of excitement. I picture her rolling on the floor. Oh my Gosh! The next message reads. I picture her stitching my body with kisses. It’s not done yet, I wrote, holding my excitement like a dam holds a river. Being waitlisted is really tricky, I click send. Still. I’m so happy, she responds instantly. I’m so proud of you baby, the next message reads. Elena and Damon from The Vampire Diaries sharing a kiss, the next sticker displays.
11:22pm
Like God saying let there be light, my sister pushes into the room. The smell of cigarettes and booze come with her. She slumps into the sofa. Outside dry like mad. Economy don fuck everything up, she hisses. How far? I walk to the fridge. I draw a sachet of water and hand it to her. She places it on her head. Dem don send me message, I tell her. She hoists herself from the sofa. You don find job? She drinks from the sachet. No no, e be the school I apply to for Masters, I take my phone from my pocket. I hand it to her, see the message.
30th April 2022, Somewhere in Lashibi, Accra, Ghana
6:07pm
New Email. A foreign name is now natural in my mind. MFA Final Decision.
7:57pm
A darkness like a loch swallows my body. Before I feel completely drowned, I send a message to Esi. Dem no pick me. The School.
8:01pm
My phone dings. Flicker of light inside the darkness that takes me. Wetyn happen? I get Client right now. I go call you when I finish, says the message from Esi.
11th August 2022, Somewhere in Osu, Accra, Ghana
2:00am
I walk towards Esi under the silence of the night and bright neon streetlights. How far? I ask her. Small small, she says, you don close? I nod my head. A migraine pulls through. My throat stands dry like a used towel. E no easy to make calls twelve hours straight o, I force the words out of my throat. I think of my Lebanese boss listening to see how I interact with a prospective client. In the end saf, you no go see better money, I think of the application fees for another MFA Program. They’re very competitive, so you have to apply for more than one school, a post, Applying for an MFA Program said. How your sister dey? She asks. I sigh. Ona still dey quarrel? I shake my head. If for say we dey quarrel, we no go fi stay for under one roof, I lie.
11th August 2022, Somewhere in Lashibi, Accra, Ghana
7:33am
The smell of fried eggs buries the air. My sister hands me a plate of kenkey and shito with a smile. I grunt. You still dey vex? Mtchew, she hisses. She places the plate on the floor beside me.
7:49am
If I have to fuck all the men in Accra to keep you away from selling your body to this life, my sister declares, I will. She digs into the plate of kenkey with her hands. She digs and digs like a miner searching for gold. After the school you go, then you go go do hookup? She finally swallows something from the plate. Ɛwɔ fie ha? She shakes her head like an angered parent would, Daabi! Her appetite falls with her words. I want to ask her to weigh how heavy it is for me to watch her sell herself for us. Half of my head is eaten by thoughts about her years of late nights, drunken days and long showers, but that conversation will sour the already soured moment, so I stay silent. She takes the plate to the kitchen sink and turns into a temporary statue peering outside a window.
13th December 2022, Somewhere in Nungua-Teshie, Accra, Ghana.
11:09am
I alight from a trotro with a head heavy with worry and a hairstyle too rascal for a job in the eyes of several HR Managers in several job interviews. Why you no cut your hair? My sister’s words pierce into the heft of my head. I don’t have $100 bro, a message from a friend follows suit. Lolol, make I borrow you $90 make you take go do school application? Another follows. Wetyn b MFA? Another follows. Right now, I only have $40, Esi’s voice like a pulley takes the weight from my head ever so slightly.
11:49am
Esi’s single room apartment. The air smokes in the smell of naphthalene balls, air fresheners and steam from the chicken light soup meal Esi magics on the gas cylinder. You’re burning, she welcomed me with a hug. Burning with worry, I made an attempt at a joke. Esi walks in and hands me a hot bowl. I sneeze. I slurp from the bowl. I take refuge in her body as we lay on her bed.
6:57pm
Esi’s single room apartment. I have held Esi so tight her clothes have become an adhesive between us. Are you sure about this? She asks. I take her phone and look at the photo of the man. Let’s get naughty. MMF threesome. I pay handsomely, his post read. I think of the past few months. A mirror displays the countless masturbations my body has made under the whip of a bad day. Job applications I have sent into the dark holes of several company emails. Waiting for a thud, something that looks like a receival or even a rejection letter. How an acceptance message from a Journal for a poem I wrote on manhood filled me with light. Can you send us a bio? They’d asked. All I wanted my bio to do was simply say, He is human. He wants happiness. My first paid published work. I wanted more of that light. I think of March 15th. I think of the effortless joys of that night. I don’t think I can survive another year in this place, a thought dives into my head. I need the money, I say, the deadline for the application is in two days. I shut my sister’s chiding from my head. Yes, let’s do it.
4th June 2024, Somewhere in Lashibi, Accra, Ghana
00:04am
After the mirror and the box, I take a bath. I open the music player on my phone and double-click on the home tab. My ritual of cleansing memory continued. I clear the erogenic queue of songs. No client but myself for the night. I click on another playlist—Come Talk To Me—and press play. Goldspot’s title song begins my self-care. I return to my Messages app, click on the new message icon, and type into the empty message box: I’m doing well. Please call me. I click send. A pop-up displays on my phone; the cost of my last message. I return to the main interface and click on a name on the list: Sister. It opens. A plethora of grey-boxed messages: Please call me, in varied forms. It stretches like clothes tied for a trip to heaven, without any breaking. A one-sided message box.
00:12am
I will myself as I go through my social media and skim through several posts. Someone wrote, Glad to have a poem in this issue, please read. Another responded, Congratulations. Another followed, Congratulations. Several posts, several congratulations like an unending ritual. On another message app, I click on the first thing that meets my eye, Writer’s Group. Several Poems and several emojis attached to them as reactions. I read through and fall on a long text, a comment on a poem. I smile at the name of the sender and click on it. Another interface meets me. Anytime, any place, I’ll give you a recommendation, from the left the last message reads. I type into the message box, Gratitude, and click send, then return to other unread messages. Esi I’ll be there soon. +233 24 656 5778 Can we hook up tomorrow? I scroll towards the phone’s home interface. I click on a Jobs/Career app, scroll through available vacancies. Like previous nights in the past months since the last job I sent an application to without any feedback, nothing fits. I press the phone’s power button.
00:47am
I stare at a wall beside my bed. A4 Sheets stare back at me. The letters on it are fading and mostly invisible. But they stare back at me as bright as the first time I placed them on the wall.
[ ] MFA Final Decisions, Fall 2022
Dear Listowel,
It is with regret that we write today to inform you that we have filled all lines in our MFA poetry program and will not be accepting anymore students this academic cycle. We wish you the best in your future endeavors.
Signed,
Director of Writer's Program
[ ] MFA Admissions Decisions, Fall 2023
Dear Listowel,
We regret to inform you that we will not be going forward with your application. We had a vast number of applicants this year. Whilst we wished we could give as many offers as possible, sadly, we cannot. Do reach out to the Graduate Admissions Office for further inquiries. We wish you the absolute best in your future endeavors.
Signed,
Director of Graduate Studies
The Weight Of The Sky (April 2023)
if this is not okay, let me know, she says. but i dwell in the nimbus
of nonchalance, my reprimand like a beggar's to the coin of her
hand on my thigh. our accents clashes like the old gods would
over worship. the way her hands rests on my skin, her caress
like little prayers in the clit of worship, you would think it belonged
there—i have just found you, please i don't want to lose you.
and this would be absolute. because, here inside this car,
we have known each other as much as a bartender knows the story
before pouring a drink. you have to make the client comfortable
around you, she says. the divine customer service of a muslin
is as a hand in mouth, desire wetting and warming a finger into paradies.
to fly, a bird's wings must hold memory of the weight of the sky. amen.
Paper Dolls
'It's not that I like to sell myself cheap,' she told
me one night, smoke rings mugging her.
'It is just that I have to keep busy, you see,
because idle hands is the devil's workshop.’
—Chris Abani
[ ] MA Admissions, Fall 2024
Dear Listowel,
It is my pleasure to inform you that the Department of English at the University of [ ] is recommending you for our MA program beginning Fall 2024. Congratulations.
You should receive information in the next few weeks from the Admissions Office about your acceptance, detailing registration procedures and fees payment structures.
If you choose to accept admission to the Master of English program, you will also receive information from our department by mid-June regarding academic advising and our department’s graduate student orientation that is held the week before the fall term begins
I hope to receive a decision from you regarding acceptance of admission to the MA program soon. You may let us know your decision at any time by sending an email to me.
Signed,
English Graduate Studies Program Director
Letter to man trapped inside a Plummet, May 2024
Dear Listowel,
You almost made it this year. See the Process of the Promise. See the Growth. An MFA Program with full funding will change your life. You're too close to give up now. Remember, you're always too close to give up now.
Love,
Man somewhere far from the Plummet
01:03am
The music takes a short morendo, a vibration. I pick my phone. A text message icon arrests me. I tap on it. Sister meets my eye. I’m glad you’re well. I stare at it with a head full of rain.
About the Author:
I Echo is the pen name of Ghanaian-Nigerian writer Chris Baah who writes predominantly from Accra, Ghana. His works mostly revolve around masculinity, love, and connections. Dreaming of exploring the world, new cultures and new conversations, he hopes he can save the world by saving himself. He’s on X as @AyeEcho
*Feature image by Arisa Chattasa on Unsplash
Isele Magazine 