The first time I saw God, I was eight years old.

I had seen him plastered on posters hanging on the walls, but not inches from my face so I could trace his straight nose and mustache. My breath cut off.


Son of God.

Three people in one person.

An agent/writer relationship is like choosing a lover or life partner, but writers fail to see that. They enter into the agreement with a sense of inferiority and fear of rejection. Like any relationship, this can lead to emotional abuse, wasted years and a screwed-up career. If you’re in the…

On Writing

After hunkering down for the better part of a year, I have finished my second novel.

I wrote the first draft four years ago. Then I left it alone, rewrote two, three times. I polished one more time before sharing with a trusted reader who is not a…

Breasts Strokes

The first time I became aware of my breasts as a problem for society, I was in middle school, bra-less, running up the stairs to my teacher’s flat. She watched me panting and grumbled, “Your chest just keeps expanding and expanding. When is the rest of your body…

So, after drawing inspiration from my writer friend Ayesha, I have a brand-new resolution: no internet, no looking at my phone first thing in the morning. No reading or responding to emails. I will get up, go to my study and write. Or I’ll sit on the couch and write…

Hello, Colonialism is Over!

In celebration of mother tongue, I dusted this old article from the archives:

I’m peeved. More than slightly. Africans, when will you stop this nonsensical self-imposed colonialism?

During my tenure as International Specialist for the U.S. Foreign Agricultural Service, some American teachers and I visited an…

The Man with the Dead P

About a week ago, I was napping when the phone’s ringing jerked me up. It was Auntie A, my 73-year-old landlady. Her voice was snappy, urgent: “Are you at home? Come to the gate, I need your support.”

I dragged my feet, annoyed at…

I was in a taxi driving by Osu cemetery in Accra when I saw three men fumble with the front of their trousers. They ambled to the cemetery wall and soon, various shades of yellow springs arched from their organs. They did this while chatting and laughing, the dearly departed be damned. That was ten years ago.

Today, while Ghanaians have internet in their homes and houses worthy of HGTV are springing up at the speed of binary fission, men still pull out their penises to urinate anywhere they please. They let go freely by the roadside, whether said road leads to the airport or runs by…

I, Witch

I became a witch when I visited a Ghanaian church in America. I had never been fond of “spiritual” churches where people saw visions, spoke in tongues and generally scared me. I grew up Methodist. The traditional style of worship suited me just fine, but I missed Ghana…

A Walk in the Burb

For the first time ever, in a suburb where cars whiz around curves and race to beat red lights, I walked to the library and bank. If I’d worn shorts and sneakers, jogging in place at intersections while waiting for the light to change, people…

Bisi Adjapon

Bisi Adjapon is the author of Of Women and Frogs, named top 15 books 2018. She has written for McSweneys, Washington Times. Brittle Paper and other journals

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