Hi, my name is Alvin
and this is my story,
I was often maimed by those words,
ruthless words, words with no mercy,
words that came with the stench of social murdered
I was butchered alive like a cow
for the beef of their satisfaction,
a mighty story full of laughs, waiting to be
anxiously read by those who couldn’t mind their own business!

I wouldn’t say the put words in my mouth
I would say they poisoned my personality
with the cyanide gaseousness of ruthless rumours,
rumours concocted by wolves,
wolves, with the fur of sobiborism, outright wickedness

day by day, I looked destroyed
my will to stand up, contaminated by the
impurity of that immortal disgrace of which I survived,
I am very lucky to survive that!

weekly! I saw my spleen, guts and intestines
sold out to the world to be devoured by rats!
pillagers, incumberances to my existence

I lived in a witch camp,
I wouldn’t call it a neighbourhood if I were you,
a dreadfull spiral of retribution to drown in,
those are the exact words for it,
every single second I had missiles of criticism
flying down the castle of my self esteem, my life
which they, in their own verbal way and vulgarity
of privacy or abuse of privacy, successfully bombarded

Life picked me like a pawn,
migrated me to a place of sovereignty
where I could eternally rest.

I am Alvin, and this is my story,
a true story of the down-trodden.
                                                              By Kakraba Afful