The Other Girl’s Sunday

Poetry by Henrietta Enam Quarshie

It was Sunday, the day of the Lord
The unwritten rule; church.
They stood outside on the gravel by their metal buckets.
They washed their bellies thoroughly and splashed some water around.
They giggled and ran to hide when they saw the boys approach.
At Sunday school they sat in groups.
Friends scrambled to sit by each other.
She mostly found herself alone.
Her siblings who were her only friends did not belong in this group.
The fear of being made fun of became real.
She gathered her oversized dress between her laps and bit down on her lower lip.
Auntie Mary called her to say her Bible verse.
The other children sniggered in amusement at her oversized outfit.
She felt out of place and her cheeks burned hot and her palms were sweaty.
Is this what Jesus wants me to go through?
She thought He loved ALL children.
Did He love her?
She prayed He didn’t love mean children who made fun of others.
Was it a sin when she prayed like that?


It was Sunday, the day of the Lord
The unwritten rule; church
We stand outside on the gravel by our metal buckets.
We wash our bellies thoroughly and splash some water around.
We giggle and run to hide when we see the boys approach
At Sunday school we sit in groups.
Friends scramble to sit by each other.
I mostly find myself alone.
My siblings who are my only friends do not belong in this group.
The fear of being made fun of becomes real.
I gather my big dress between my laps and bite down on my lower lip.
Auntie Mary calls me to say my bible verse.
The other children snigger in amusement at my oversized outfit.
I feel out of place, my cheeks burn hot and my palms are sweaty.
Is this what Jesus wants me to go through?
I thought he loved ALL children.
Does he love me?
I pray he doesn’t love mean children who make fun of others.
Is it a sin when I pray like that?



Beneath that old tree behind our backyard
We sat and made our hair dirty with the dust
We played and giggled, oh were we carefree!
We molded and kneaded mud into tiny objects.
Now we’re all grown up
We wish we could mold our days just like that
The other day we saw Aku and a boy we could not identify
They leaned against the big old tree.
She giggled as he nibbled at her long neck
We took another turn and went back where we came from
That big old tree, we had carved our names on its thick bark,
Etching our memories there
Life is bound to happen
But we pray, oh we pray;
May we always have each other.

Henrietta Enam Quarshie is a fifth year medical student at the University of Health and Allied Sciences. Ghana, Ho. She loves God, poetry, dogs, ice cream, pizza and coke.


About Tampered Press

Tampered press started out as a conversation on creating more platform and visibility for writers and visual artists in Ghana and Africa. While blackness has become more noticeable now than in the past, and more space is gradually being created at the table 

black as an identity is heavily nuanced and has to be dissected and carefully documented. African artists in particular have fewer platforms. Our experiences, mannerisms and culture often have similarities, but our style, design, creation and content are different.