Warm golden light filters through fishnet curtains Settling on my skin like gold dust Turned pomade. My metal rectangle window takes me on many trips, Stories of gods and the sons of mortal women Fighting over life Across the night sky Dance atop my eyelids Like little rain drops Do, Settling inside one's ears. with the pitter-patter of a world only gentle in its most obscure corners. The late-afternoon sun is a white hot brand I long for Floating lethargic against a light gray sky As I, glide lethargic through the Dull white office walls Where life is always a losing game. Freedom is only born at the end of a setting sun At the point where the sun Has just begun To decree that Accra's traffic slow down Seducing us with her most beautiful dress Woven of light and warm color, painting The earth below with unimaginable radiance. We long for what lies outside the borders of our holding pens Watch as we trickle out the mouth of the hope swallower Into the river of cars and bodies Walking home. But only when the sun is too far away to touch. Mother's home is another prison on a new moon. The late-afternoon sun stands, Waiting to mock us Domesticated animals as we crawl home. Published in Young African