A random tale by Kweku Abeeku.
You may think I’m referring to the lands of the black,
but in truth, I speak of a blue-green-painted structure—three decades old—
nestled in the heart of Mankessim.
Not one of the town’s historic tourist sites.
But a different kind of landmark.
A place that operates quietly, secretly—
an empire, a cartel.
A sanctuary of sin that hides in plain sight.
By day,
Ebibiman sleeps.
It is just another structure—fading paint, tired corners—ignored by most,
except for the women who line its front with wares,
and the mates who echo “Accra, Accra, Accra!” like a ritual chant behind it.
Parents warn their children,
“Don’t walk there at night.”
And when husbands disappear too long,
wives come circling—not for gossip, but for truth.
Because here, secrets have a door,
and it swings both ways.
And the kaya girl,
that same girl who is invisible under the sun,
becomes mistress under the moon.
Not because she changed—
but because the world did.
At night,
Ebibiman awakens.
Not with music or noise, but with tension—
like a heart about to confess.
The corridors glow with blue light,
and from worn-out handbags,
candles emerge like holy offerings.
Prices aren’t spoken—they are shown.
A long candle means longer pleasure.
A short one burns fast.
Time melts with wax.
And sometimes, so does life.
She once told me—
of a man, high-profile, respected,
who chose the biggest candle greedily.
But midway through the act,
he fell—
body collapsing under weight he wasn’t built to carry.
“He died on top of me,” she said.
“With wax still dripping.”
You don’t see her face at night.
Not clearly.
The blue light softens the edges,
and the flicker of candle flames masks the truth.
She becomes a silhouette—
a shape for someone’s fantasy,
a vessel for forgotten vows.
And that’s how they like it.
Because seeing her clearly would mean facing the truth:
that the woman they ignore at Makola,
the one they shove past at Asabi Market,
is the same woman they now beg to burn a candle for them.
They do not want her name.
Only her body.
Only her silence.
And when it’s over,
they leave as if they were never there—
but she remembers.
She remembers their wedding rings,
their trembling hands,
and their shame disguised as desire.