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Clara Burgess

Ode To Ghana

To the hottest place I have ever been, the sweat that dripped down my
chin while eating the scalding hot food, full of spices, enhanc
ing the Ravor so it burned my tongue

To the dusty dirt roads that took me to school, cries of Obroni echoing
in the distance and stands full of ekutu and coconut begging
me to stop on the way to class

To the radio station overplaying Backstreet Boys music, and Asamoah
Gyan's hip life songs blaring from the wooden storefronts
along the streets

To the white oval eyes of women cooking kelewele and kenkey in the
evening, the fires from the stoves shining on their faces as they
glowed in the night

To the castles, the looming walls of history rising up beside the ocean,
remembrance and sadness, a reminder and a haunting

To the women pounding fufu in the morning as the children, dripping
bags of oatmeal hanging from their lips, walk to school in seas

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