Back to the Moon

Ekow Manuar
2 min readJun 18, 2023


He had every reason to be apprehensive. She sighed, then tried to pull him closer to herself. His arms were taut, his body rigid. Now that she was looking, his stomach was tubbier. Shoulders, rounder. She persisted in her tugging, caressing underneath his armpit, then rubbing his back. He gave in. As he always did. Always does. A half smile scratching his glum face. He was older than she was now. ‘Relativity, chale,’ she thought.

“Adwoa, when are you going back to the Moon?” he asked.

She wanted to say so many things but didn’t know how. She had tried to when she first went to the Moon. But he had complained during their inter-communication sessions that he felt patronised, belittled. And all the space in between them felt like nothing compared to the time it would be until she would be in his arms again. To give herself to him. And now she was here, and he couldn’t open himself to her.

“Let’s not talk about it. Do you remember when we first stood here? And you tried to kiss me, and I didn’t know what you were doing?”

He nodded sheepishly. She slid her hand behind his head. Her fingers cupping and massaging the rolls behind his neck. Each one for each year he had waited.

“The moon is as bright as it was then. It’s just that now, if you look hard enough you can see my work.” She lifted his chin and pointed to the moon. Glistening like an emerald rock. In a crater, little less than a speck, an unnatural obstruction corrupted the work of time.

“That’s where I grow the kontomire for the mission. Can you imagine? Each acre of moon rock cultivated by it and we get closer to a jump-off point into the world beyond. Everyone on Moon mission eats it with cocoyam! Isn’t God wonderful?”

He chuckled then shrugged, allowing himself to fall further to her caresses.

Eventually, his hand reached down to her stomach. Rubbing it, she felt a movement in her. It’s more than anything Earth can hold. This feeling. It deserved the galaxy. It deserved to be alien.



Ekow Manuar

The stories we tell have a life of their own and they work between the realm of what is real and how we conceive that reality.