The evolution of perspective, the chronicling of journeys, and a series of overwhelming thoughts.


Under the shade of the giant

neem tree in our front yard,

the ones with the vines and

red flowers climbing on it,

I sit cross legged with her across from me.


She teaches me mancala.

I being much to young to understand,

I take the smooth seeds,

hold them up to my ear,

and shake them to see what I can hear.


Small gnarled hands would reach 

down and move the seeds around the twelve

rounds cups, smooth, worn down,

golden brown wood. 

An adinkra carved into it. 


Kind eyes gaze as stories are told.

A life raised in an arid north,

as I listen, inquire, over the tapping 

of smooth brown



A song in Twi

Me ketekete gyata

Her little lion


The evening comes and cues 

buzzing in our ears.

She guides the seed to one side,

floods the board in two and scoops in up.

A routine.


Followed by an orange light 

we are guided inside

only to be met with the scent

of red clay. Red clay, mangos, and

an open window; a siren for tomorrow.

Olivia GreenComment