Self-portrait as an Old Soul 

Rhoda Akua Ameyaa

A narration… 

We waded through history with whistles and humming that rose from the downpour of love. 

We watched morning from our horizon cloth 

itself with the winds that carried away our names each day. 

Only some time ago that resembles a yesterday in my mind, we followed the fumbling feet of crows as they perched on the branches of the young Odums and the wawas. Our catapults were as innocent as our feet, 

and we meandered through the newly-made farms that blinked in glory as the early days of a peculiar grace. 

Days were what we didn’t count. 

We dwelt in our mothers’ bosoms, and at night when demons surveyed our homelands, we were 

the only eyes that met the minds between Change and Rebel. We laid down, sleep-deprived, waiting for a future that woefully smiled at our innocent, endearing minds. 

We were friends—one of yesterday and the other of today.

I remember our teeth that knew no fluorides 

and our hands that knew no sin besides killing the innocent but wicked birds that ate my 

father’s corn farm away. And, until time pounced on us, we were those that always settled with the innocent and free.