Walking through the glaring heat

It's different on a sunday


the smells are different,


the sounds are different,


the people are the same.



It's different on a sunday


less lively,


less of a big city.


but the people are the same.



It's different on a sunday


the multitude of churches resound with the songs and prayers of the people


African songs, and african prayers


for african people



It's different on a sunday


Even the smell of open sewers


the incessant honking of free taxis


and the playful yells of "obruni, obruni"


seem to have faded with the people



It's different on a sunday


A much quieter city


A reminisence to a time


not too long ago


when Osu was indeed a village on the outskirts


And not the city full of people it has become today



It's different on a sunday


different in so many ways.



yet in so many more it is all the same


the humid heat,


so oppresive to my scandinavian sensibilities


is relentless, unpausing,


but also infinitely beautiful in its overwhelming power



in so may ways it is all the same


wherever i turn, i am met by the intense smiles of the people



the jestful, communicative body-language


reminds me of the richness of the culture



the wooden shacks,


next to the splendid colonial mansions,


and the multitude of signs


directing me to the multitude of internet cafes


remind me of the complexity of yesterday


the complexity of the today


and the complexity of tomorrow



but mostly of the lines:


"If your mind can conceive it


and your heart can believe it,


then you can achieve it"





It's different on a sunday


yet in so may ways it is all the same


wherever i turn, i am met by the intense smiles of the people