every time (i think) we pray for our country, we carry the burden(s) of those whom we’ve entrusted power to—we carry them like thorny wooden crosses on the rugged tablets of hearts, & ask for forgiveness for being an honorable people. & oftentimes we do this knowing not what it means to live in a breathless country where nothing is anything but our tearful fears for ourselves as a sovereign people. yes. we do (i believe), proudly. almost always—we forget our pains, we visit the tombs we believe carry the relics of our heroes & mourn them, we beat our breasts & chant never again over & over again & lay wreaths while we hold our breaths in our ceremonial gowns with guns in our trembling hands. we do these, always. & it’s beautiful because when we do, it’s love instructing our very nature as good people of this country to honour those who we see in our dreams almost daily, crying for our help. sometimes we question ourselves for being faithful for our nearly distracted future but behind those fears, we keep praying—praying to ourselves, praying for ourselves & praying from our doubts while we hope. our innocent country weeps. true. she does, in the voice of our fathers & that of unborn generations. but we also pray with her & for her, daily, weekly, monthly, yearly— silently—shamefully but willingly & meaningfully& hopefully, for her healing.

Samuel Atsitsre is a writer and poet. He loves art and nature and enjoys writing about them. Sam currently lives in Accra, Ghana, where he writes about the/his country and the everyday Ghanaian life. His work has appeared in To grow in two bodies anthology.