Aesop is here to stay

In May of this year I moved to

I loved my new address, but it was more suited to my gift company, and I decided to move again, to where my words would be better suited. To home.

Aesop Studios is my other company which delves into writing, creativity and the like. But after Aesop there’s no more moving.

Aesop Writing Studio (the Website) here to stay, and so are my words and my works.

Looking forward to seeing you over there 🙂


I have moved: SignaturebyMansa

Hi everyone!

Akuawrites doesn’t write here anymore 🙂

I moved to a new website, where I still publish my stories. I have new features including children’s stories.

Come visit and let me know what you think!



Photo Credit: James Barnor



don’t set your standards so high

that in reaching it, as Icarus, I will burn-


Ahuof3 baby rose.

you’re art-


bathed in chocolate

blessed with ethereal cocoa brown eyes

that make me feel and imagine inappropriate things

curves and hills and valleys, on a pedestal- like Mountain Kilimanjaro

issa trap

issa lie

wo killi me

but I wont die.



don’t be that girl

who will play with me-

and give me hope

and snatch it back, nope.


as always-I am the backup plan

locked in a closet on Venus-the forgotten one

the one that will always be there when asimesi leaves

and Kwame cancels

and Atukwei doesn’t show up


you come back, smelling of Kwaku’s cologne

and you come back, wearing Asihene’s shirt

and you come back, swearing you’re done with them

and you go back- expectant and filled to the brim with love-as I



don’t place your standards so high

that in reaching it, as Icarus, I will burn-


I hope you don’t mind

that your friend, Aku, keeps me company while as usual I wait for you


have you noticed, that Aku is very beautiful?


The Umbrella


She had known him for approximately twenty-three minutes, and she was already imagining being his wife. A smile played on her lips as she unabashedly stared at him and took in his features. He had the most mesmerizing eyes she’d ever seen.

At first she’d thought they were contacts but she realized those eyes were for real. It was as if they’d initially decided to be coal black, but had changed their mind last minute and settled for that ethereal shade of honey. They were the kind of eyes that could speak volumes, that could burn with their gaze, that could probably undress you, and make you feel all woozy inside. If her children had these eyes they would be lucky on this earth. Were those his eyelashes? They looked like they’d been mascaraed. She stifled a giggle. She was being silly.

She was late to work; she was supposed to be thinking about how annoyed her boss would be when she got there. But here she was drooling about a stranger. She wanted to sit by him and tell him about herself. She wanted to tell him she was Ebuka, but everyone called her Buks. She wanted to tell him how she replaced her father’s surname with her mother’s maiden one when he left them for a scrawny looking cocotte. She wanted to tell him about that time in Primary 4 when a boy had teased her about the diastema in her front teeth and she’d peed in his water bottle and watched him take the first salty sip.
She wanted to tell him how her jollof game was so strong even the married men in her office would offer her money to make some for them every morning. She wanted to tell him even though she was not the most punctual person on earth, she would be punctual to their wedding. She giggled again.

She was and would always be the most terrible flirt on the face of the earth.
He turned to look at her as if her gaze had been bothering him for a while. She smiled. He looked surprised for a moment, then nodded. A strange expression had crept on his face. She would later understand that expression. “Hello”, she attempted. He would have replied, even with that pained expression.
He got a phone call. His eyes travelled to his phone, and he spoke rapidly in Hausa. When she was in Primary six, a visiting cousin had forcibly taught Ebuka and her little sister Ebiere how to speak Hausa. And she had never appreciated it; she only used it to insult those who could not speak it. Till now.

I’m done. I will be there soon.” He said, his voice shaking.
How long? 28 minutes. I know. I’m sorry. I was afraid.
In a bus. What’s wrong with a bus, Daare? Huh? Already! I’m coming.”
He cursed, disconnecting, and then he abruptly got up in the moving bus and ordered the bus conductor to stop. He shoved some money in the conductor’s hands and got down.
She frowned, stung. That was mean. It was only when she looked down at where he sat again that she realized he’d dropped his umbrella. She reached for it. Perhaps it could lead her to him again. Perhaps he’d done it on purpose. She got down five minutes later, enduring pitying looks from passengers who seemed to want to say something.

Only one old lady said, “All the best. I hope you find him. For all you know you could be getting married a year today.” A couple of people snickered. She rolled her eyes and got out of the bus. She would find him. She would.

She was too engrossed with her lost love to acknowledge her boss’ displeasure at her lateness. She just rushed to her seat and brought out the black umbrella from her bag. It was rather plain. Even as she stared at it she knew how futile it would be to find him. She shook her head sadly, thinking how desperate she must have looked in the bus. She sighed, frustrated.

She still held the umbrella, realizing it was a tad heavier than it was supposed to be. Maybe he’d left it for her on purpose? She let out a pained chuckle and tried to remove the taut cover from the umbrella. It wouldn’t come off. She frowned. There was something in the umbrella. Something hard. With difficulty, she pried the black cover from the umbrella itself, and then gasped as she realized what it was. It was not really about what it was that shocked her. It was about what was on it.
There were two thin knives, undoubtedly very sharp. The dried, red substance on it was a dark brown. She stilled and smelled it. Congealed blood. Then she opened the umbrella, and as she expected, a crumpled paper fell. It was a photograph, she realized. She knew this man in the photo, she thought, her eyes narrowing. She looked at the back of the photograph. C.J.W.D., it said. Beneath that was Handled, written in a barely legible handwriting. She didn’t understand it. She knew the man in the picture, she’d seen him somewhere. She kept thinking about it the knives and the photograph. She wondered about it. What was it that had been handled? And then she found her answer.
It was the breaking news that evening. One of the most prominent Chief Justices had been murdered in his home. He’d been bound to a chair, stabbed several times and finally strangled to death. He’d been found hours after the murder, and as such he was in rigor mortis. She was shaking. That was the Chief Justice in the picture. He’d been so familiar because she’d seen him several times on the television. Chief Justice Walaam Dulana. Handled, it’d said at the back.
It had to be the man with the beautiful eyes, she kept thinking. She could feel it. He’d not left the umbrella for her to find him. He’d mistakenly dropped it. That explained his nervousness that day. He couldn’t sit still. He’d been afraid.

She couldn’t tell Nna, her mother, or Ebiere who was busily studying for exam. So that night she thought and wondered and reasoned. The next morning she was at the bus station earlier than she’d ever been. The black umbrella was hidden in one of her father’s farming boots. She kept thinking it was a terrible mistake. One part of her wanted her to throw the umbrella away and pretend she’d never seen it. The other part wanted her to go to the police station and file a report. She was deep in thought as she walked to the bus station. She nearly yelped in surprise.

Beautiful eyes. There he was, this time with two heavily muscled men. They were talking to one of the drivers. Ebuka caught snippets of the conversation. “…left the umbrella.” “……black, no fancy designs now…” Did you see…?” “…it is very important…” “Ask your passengers…”
“….handsome reward…” “You see, Abidemi, you see your stupidity?”

She was breathing heavily. She reached for her bag and her hands snatched the knockoff Burberry scarf she always took to work. She used it cover her hair and face like a Muslim veil and tried to nonchalantly pass in front of them and sit in the bus. This she did easily. She saw from the car the men chiding Beautiful eyes about how stupid he’d been to leave it. He was no longer Beautiful Eyes. He had a name. Abidemi. He was probably an amateur contract killer and had been so nervous he’d mistakenly dropped his murder weapon in the bus. She heard the driver make several announcements. A passenger had left a very important umbrella in one of the buses the day before. If anyone knew where it was or who had picked it they had to return it for a handsome reward. Before, when Ebuka heard ‘handsome reward’ she’d laughed and wondered unless a reward was a man packaged nicely, there was nothing handsome about it. Now she cowered in fright. She should return it. But as she got down from the bus she knew she wouldn’t.
The news was filled with gory images of the dead Chief Justice in the days that followed. The police were asking for leads. The Chief Justice had been handling a delicate case, they said, and they thought it was linked to the murder. There were no suspects yet, they said. On the third day she was stopped by an old lady. “Hey, weren’t you the one we saw on Monday, trying to catch that man’s attention?” Ebuka’s eyes widened in surprise. “I thought you were the one. I saw him just yesterday. He was asking about the umbrella he’d dropped. I told him you took it, with the hope of finding him”, the old lady winked at her.

“No, no, no. you didn’t”. Ebuka cried. “Why not? Are you married?” the old lady asked, peering at her left fingers. Ebuka shook her head and fled. She called Nna, who said she was away for a funeral and she’d be back soon. She told Nna not to come home that week. “I’ve done something bad, and some people are looking for me. Please don’t come home now. They could harm you.” She disconnected even as her mother ranted on about what Ebuka could have possibly done. Ebuka called her little sister too.

Then she went home and packed a couple of stuff, with the infamous umbrella and left hurriedly. She couldn’t stay there, they would find her. She took a taxi to her sister’s school. Ebiere was surprised to see her. “I need your help”, Ebuka whispered. She left out most of the most important details as she told her sister. Ebiere combed her long hair. She was skilled with hair. “How short, Buks?”
“Very short.”
In less than an hour, her long hair had been chopped, with a few tendrils on her face. She wore a cap over it. “When they come, you tell them you don’t know where I am. And you should not, under any circumstances see them alone.”
Ebiere nodded, nervous. “Are you sure this is the best decision?”
Ebuka shrugged. “It is the right decision.”

Five hours later she sat in front of the Inspector General of Police, with the umbrella on his desk. She told him about Abidemi, about Daare, and about the Hausa. She described Abidemi in perfect detail, and of the two muscled men.
The trio was arrested not long after her revelation. She saw Abidemi Beautiful Eyes on the news. She felt none of the wooziness the first day she’d seen him. She felt a mixture of disgust and fear. Late that morning, Ebiere texted her that their house had been burnt to ashes. She was scared and could not go anywhere.

Ebuka’s hands were shaking as she read the message over and over again. She’d chosen the right path, and that meant war.


It’s been a while, my loves! (Actually, its been four months🙈)
I’ve been craving for piping hot pancakes and custard disguised with milk (Don’t judge me:) and daydreaming about getting A Igoni Barrett’s Black Ass and Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible to read but now I have finally been jolted into reality. 

For a while I’ve been in between that place where I want to write but my characters just won’t talk to me…and where I decide I must write and I smile at my laptop and rather choose to watch some movie or just snuggle under my covers and go to sleep.
That stops today. I’m going to Vidya’s to explore and buy those books (!) and then I will dedicate my weekends to indulging in other people’s words. 💃💃💃Then I will write again and again and again, knowing that my creative juices  have been stirred.

In the meantime I have posted a short story. Read, enjoy, and comment if you must. But most importantly, don’t just crave and daydream like me. Whatever it is you’ve been wanting to do, just go do it man. Just do it!

About the Story

The Birthday Pies is what a friend of mine would have described as a ‘little story’. I wrote it for younger readers, but it wouldn’t hurt for my readers to enjoy it too. The tailored one for my readers will be ready by the end of April, and that’s a promise. Bisous!💋

The Birthday Pies


It was exactly eight days to Maawe’s tenth birthday and she was thrilled. Celebrating your birthday in Class 5A was no joke. You wouldn’t lift a finger that day, or for that matter that week if you had a large following. Your friends would get your lunch for you and run all your little errands for you. It was exhilarating.
A birthday also meant she would get to talk to her class crush, Tate Sarpong. She couldn’t stop thinking about it. She’d wear her almost new navy blue loafers with bows; she’d made sure she ironed her school uniform well (with no creases whatsoever), and she’d let her mother braid her hair into pretty medium sized corn rows.

Her mother was excited too. Her father, after being unemployed for six years had finally gotten a job and now there was enough money to go around. Her father had bought her big brother in the university a laptop, and her other sister some new dresses for church. Maawe knew this meant one thing; she’d get something pretty amazing for her birthday. Yet two days later, her mother came to her room and told her that her father had given her some money for Maawe. She was going to bake the best pies for her and her class!
“Plus, of course some beverages! I’m sure some will be left to get you something small”.
Maawe, instead of looking as excited as her mother, stared at her in dismay. “You-You’ll bring pies to my class?”
“Yes! These will be my best pies ever”, Ma said.
Maawe’s excitement died down. She didn’t want Ma to come to her school. The month before her school had held a PTA meeting. Her mother had been out of town and so hadn’t made it. Her classmates’ parents, who had introduced themselves at the gathering as lawyers and doctors and engineers and bankers, had also come in luxurious and flashy cars.
Maawe had been amazed and then jealous of their apparent wealth. Her father’s weathered old car had finally given up the ghost.
“And my father is unemployed, and my mother is just a pie seller”, she’d told herself.
No, she didn’t want her mother to come to her school.
“What’s wrong Maawe?” her mother asked.

The young girl shrugged. “Oh I just don’t want you to worry yourself Ma. We’re a class of forty students! You wouldn’t waste your time with forty pies, would you?” she said, trying not to cringe at
her lie.

Ma laughed. “Maawe darling, I’ve been baking over three hundred pies daily. Forty is just a piece of cake.”
“Okay then can you let Mrs. Benson bring it, so you don’t worry yourself?” she asked.
Mrs Benson, their neighbour, drove a sleek matte black Benz. If she brought the pies, hopefully her classmates would assume that was her mother…

Ma looked confused. “Maawe, is it that you want something special for your birthday so that I don’t make the pies?”
Maawe nodded. It was better this way, than for Ma to guess she just wasn’t needed at school.

“Yes Ma. I really wanted some new dresses for church.”

“Oh. Alright then”, Ma said. “New clothes for you, no pies for your class. But I will wake up early to make your favourite, jollof and grilled tilapia. Does that sound good?” Ma asked, giving her a hug.
Maawe nodded, but couldn’t shake away the shameful and guilty feeling of lying to her mother.

The night before her birthday it rained heavily, and so when Maawe woke up the next morning it was freezing cold. Ma had already heated water for her to bath, and her school uniform had been freshly pressed and in place of her navy blue shoes was beautiful red ones, and this would be her first birthday present.

Maawe squealed in surprise. The whole family sang for her, and her big brother told her she could watch a movie on his laptop when she returned. Breakfast was porridge with bread and boiled eggs, and her lunch, the jollof, was dished out just before she rushed out to catch the school bus. Maawe was excited, but she still couldn’t shake away the dull feeling of lying to her mother.

As expected, her classmates gave her the royal treatment, and Tate said he liked her red shoes. Maawe beamed; this day would go down as one of her best days in her life.
Just before the English class ended, Mrs Anaman, their teacher, said she had a surprise for someone. Maawe watched in wonder as her mother entered, holding a large tray of pies. Her brother and father were bringing in crates of Coca Cola and Sprite, and Fanta. Maawe did not know whether to laugh or cry. What was this? She tried to smile as they all sang a happy birthday to her, and Ma started sharing the pies.

“You’ll still get your three dresses”, she whispered to Maawe, grinning.
Maawe nodded, and so tense and distracted was she that she did not even realize the pies were delicious. Her mother had made extra for all the teachers. Her family left shortly after, in a taxi. The whole day they went on about Maawe’s mother’s pies, and Maawe silently willed for the bell to ring so she could go home. She hadn’t impressed her friends and classmates.

Last year Afia Hesse’s parents brought everyone personalized ‘Afia is ten’ T shirts and handkerchiefs, and after that brought a lovely chocolate cake which they served with ice cream. She’d just given out some measly pies with drinks! She tried not to scowl on her way home. Her ‘perfect day’ had been spoilt.

Later that night as she relaxed in her brother’s bed watching a movie, her mother knocked and entered. She sat at the side of the bed.
“Maawe you did not seem too happy to see me today”, she went straight to the subject.
The young girl was too ashamed to deny it.
“At first I told myself, my daughter really seems to want new clothes, and so I’ll add up to the birthday money and do both. I made a hundred pies, Maawe, so your friends could have more than enough and your teachers could help themselves as well
And yet when I came you looked so unhappy”.
“Ma, I-“, Maawe tried to cut in, but her mother shook her head. Maawe’s tummy curled into knots.
“You didn’t want me to come did you?”
Maawe shook her head.
“Are you ashamed because I bake and sell pies?”

Maawe looked away. “Maawe would you rather I stole to allow you enjoy some lavish lifestyle?”
“No Ma! I didn’t say that. It’s just my friends gave out nice gifts for their birthdays, and cake, and ice cream, and…” her voice trailed off.
“Your mother could only bring pies. Did your friends’ parents also get to sit with the headmistress, and discuss business opportunities just because the teachers told her about how good the pies were and had her eat some? Were they told to bring different dishes the next time so if they were equally as good she’d be hired as the matron of the school?”
“Ma! That is great!” Maawe’s eyes widened in surprise.
Mrs Johnson, the impossible to please headmistress loved her mother’s pies?
“What’s great about that if your own daughter supposed to be your greatest fan in the school doesn’t even want you there?”
Maawe’s eyes were welled with tears.
“Ma I’m sorry.”
“See these scars and marks?” Ma asked, showing Maawe her hands. The little girl had never noticed it. “This one was when I mistakenly cut myself with a knife when I was cutting up the pies to be baked. That one was when I tripped over a cooking utensil and fell.

This one was when some hot oil on fire spilled and landed on my elbow….”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“I did this job and several others especially when your father was unemployed, just to keep our heads above water. To keep you and your sister and brother in school. This job has paid your school fees and books and sustained you. So you should never look down on it,” Ma told her.
Maawe felt terrible. The tears, free to flow now, trickled down her eyes. “I’m so sorry Ma. Please forgive me.”
And Ma did. She enveloped Maawe into a hug, and for a few minutes they just hang there, quiet.
Then as they smiled at each other, Ma asked, “So this Mrs. Johnson how is she like?”
“Well let’s just say if she was pepper, she’d be the hottest kind”, Maawe started, and mother and daughter burst out into laughter. “I’ll tell her”, Ma threatened playfully. And as they made plans on what Ma had to make to woo her headmistress Maawe thought about how silly she’d been.
“I love you Ma”, she burst out in the middle of their conversation.
“I love you more, Maawe”, Ma said, and leaned over for another hug.

And right there, Maawe knew she’d got the perfect ending to her birthday.

Merry Christmas to my readers!


It has been a while. I have been busy  cooking a myriad of enthralling stories in my cauldron. I’ve posted two to whet your appetite for 2016.

Aah, 2015. Such an interesting year. I loved most parts of it anyway. I learned a lot. I constantly challenged myself and it is really paying off in some aspects of my life. And oh, I became a minimalist. The less is more lifestyle. Eliminating the unnecessary. Focusing on the barest essentials, and boy, does it feel good!

I hope you have a wonderful Christmas, and an unforgettable 2016 (in a good way, of course). Thank you for reading my stories for all these years, the comments and the feedback always means a lot to me. New readers, Welcome to A Cornucopia of Good ideas and stories!♡

Enjoy Purgatory and 5480!