Tales from Nubia

We Were There Some (Part 3)

2011-10-10T09:15:00.006Z

When they finally released me, it was around midnight. I was tired, hungry and weak. And I was scared too. Scared because the bell had long gone for ‘lights-out’ and I feared some senior-on-duty might find me and punish me. It was dark outside and as I made my way back to my house, I could hear the continuous chirping of crickets and see the patterns the fireflies made in the air as they flew around me. As beautifully as they looked, I couldn’t find enough strength to appreciate them. My whole body ached from the massive beatings I’d received and I longed for my bed.

There were four houses in the school. They stood side by side each other and were separated by large lawns and walkways. On these lawns, we often dried washed clothing, bed sheets, footwear, backpacks, foam covers, borrowed t-shirts and sometimes, ‘coloured clothing’. They were called ‘coloured’ because they were forbidden. That is to say, they were not listed on the school’s prospectus. The school had prescribed attire for students to wear at every time of the day. In the mornings, during classes, everyone was required to wear their school uniforms Form One or to Form Five students wore cream shirts and Khaki shorts to match while the Lower Six and Upper Six students were entitled to deep blue shirts and Khaki trousers.

After classes, each student was required to wear their house uniforms. These house uniforms were colour-coded according to the four houses. We wore our house uniforms with disdain because they were made from a silky-like material, which was very uncomfortable to wear in the heat. What made the situation worse was the fact that each student was entitled to one, just one set of house uniforms! So we resorted to smuggling. By this, we would comply with all the rules regarding ‘coloured clothing’ on the first day of each school term. Usually, the various housemasters would inspect every bag and box that accompanied students to school. They did this to identify students who hid unauthorized clothing in their belongings.

So we devised a strategy. We would not bring coloured clothing to school at all on the first day of the term. By doing so, anyone would think that was the end of the story. How wrong they were. You see, at the beginning of the term, we would go through the motions – we will report to the school administration block, pay our fees at the finance office, our bags would be inspected and nothing would be found. The housemaster, thinking all was well and good, would check us into our rooms and all would be set for an event-free term. What the housemasters did not know was that most students never brought coloured clothing to school. We knew better than that. Instead, we would go on to receive countless consignments of coloured clothing smuggled into the school by friends, cousins, so-called aunties and uncles and a host of others who came to the school on visiting days.

The lawns had become a place for drying our clothing because the increasing number of students year-on-year meant that the few drying lines in the school could not service everybody. We loved to do that because we didn’t need holding pegs to hang our clothing on the lawns. But they came at a cost. The lawns were large and bare; there were no demarcations and definitely, no space allocations, everyone could dry their stuff anywhere they wanted. And unfortunately, that meant, anybody could deliberately or accidentally collect any dried item at anytime from anywhere without any confrontation or suspicion from anyone. This happened every weekend without fail. On one occasion, one student was robbed of all his belongings in a single day. He had gone to collect his washed and dried clothes from the lawn and found to his dismay that none of the items there belonged to him! He swore that he had dried his clothes right there, much to the surprise of everyone gathered around him. They knew he was right, they just couldn’t tell how it all happened. Yet the practice continued; we dried our stuff there everyday with renewed energy and surprising vigor.

I walked on towards Quarcoo House, my hall of residence; tired and weary; I couldn’t wait to get into my bed. But when I got to a few metres away from my House, I stopped. I was contemplating the thought of climbing up to my room or slipping into the Sick Bay. Somehow, I felt that if got into the room at that time of the day, the senior students would punish me. It was acceptable for seniors to stay late in the night and study. The rule only applied to seniors because it was generally agreed that since they were closest to sitting for the ‘O’ and ‘A’ Level exams, it made sense to give them liberty so long as that liberty was directed at their studies.

So, the ‘Lights Out’ period did not apply to all seniors; Fivers and Sixers alike. And how some abused this privilege! In fact, it became common knowledge among junior students that if by some very unfortunate circumstance, a junior happens to be awake at any time after ‘lights out’, he’d be meat for the hungry seniors! They would ‘fry’ him; employing all sorts of ridiculous drills till he begs for mercy. So as I stood there that night, my whole body weary as a result of the day’s encounter, I dreaded the thought of them using me as a stress-relieving sport. I decided against the obvious and chose instead, to walk to the Sick Bay and pass the night. It had been an overly eventful day.

We Were There Some (Part 2)

2011-07-19T16:56:00.002Z

I stood there for a while and then a surprising thing happened. I heard a knock on the door; someone was knocking on the door from the inside of the room! I hesitated, not knowing what to do. I heard the knock again. Then, slowly, the door opened to reveal a short but stout looking person standing in the doorway. He wore only his school shorts and had a short but neatly sharpened pencil tucked in between his fingers. His shorts were a little low partially revealing his briefs and his face showed he’d been disturbed. Instantly, I started trembling – he was Kawawa!

‘Didn’t you hear the knock? He said calmly but firmly.

‘The knock…what knock? I stammered, much to his delight.

‘When you hear a knock on your door, what do you do? He asked, using his hands for emphasis.

‘You, you…err…you respond Snr. I managed to say, my hands at my back.

‘So, why didn’t you respond? I couldn’t say a word; there was nothing to say. He dragged me inside the room and asked me to kneel on the floor. There were two of them in the room; the other was lying on one of the beds.

Kawawa turned to him just when we got in and began:

‘Pozoo, see this boy…someone knocks on his door and he hasn’t the audacity to even respond!

‘Oh, but you paa’ Pozoo said, looking straight into my eyes, ‘Why, you no respond? He added.

At this stage, intimidation was getting the better part of me so I just knelt there, unable to find my voice. Pozoo sat up on the bed and began shaking his head. Then he got down and I quickly recognized that he had a limp in his left leg. As he headed out of the room, he kept muttering to himself:

‘there’s no mercy for the cripple, no mercy for the cripple’.

After Pozoo’s exit, I was left alone with Kawawa. He sat behind a desk and buried his head in a textbook. In the distance I could hear music coming from a small transistor radio that was hanging from the fluorescent tube above his head. They had managed to illegally connect the radio to the wiring on the roof and tried as much I could, I could not figure out how they did it. The tune on the radio was, Telefon Nkomo, a popular high-life tune in those days. He occasionally nodded to the song in momentary forgetfulness and then quickly went back to reading his book the moment he remembered he was supposed to be learning. I knelt there and tried as much as possible not to catch his eye; in my struggle to avoid his eyes, i thought of Snr. Abele and his re-assuring words. I could still hear him say: 'nothing will happen to you...' how right I was not to have believed him.

After a while, I wanted to ask Kawawa if I could take my leave. I declined upon second thoughts. Soon, he decided it was time to take his nap. He ordered me to get under one of the beds while he got on to another and slept. Everything became quiet afterwards. As I lay under that bed, the stench from the smelly sheets that covered the bed filled the air around me. Dust and cobwebs covered my whole body and I silently prayed for the ordeal to end. It didn’t; it got worse. Soon, I felt what seemed like multiple hands pulling at me from every side. Some were pulling my legs, my hands, hair and so on. I felt I was being torn apart; I began to scream. Then I went out of breath and began to wheeze; it was getting increasingly difficult for me to hang on to life it seemed, I was being whizzed out of my reality into another. Then suddenly, I woke up! I had been dreaming.

Then i felt someone pulling me from under the bed with both hands; I felt like resisting but before I knew it, I was out of there. Drowsily, I struggled to get up. Kawawa was standing over me;

‘my friend, do you think this is your bedroom? He shouted.

I sat up rubbing my eyes and looking around me. It didn’t take time for me to come to terms with where I was. Quickly, he pointed to a bucket of water right by him and ordered me to carry and follow him. As I struggled to get up, I heard him at the door:

“You dey come or not?

I didn’t respond. He walked back to where I was, dipped his sponge into the bucket of water I was carrying and smacked my face with it! That really woke me up and instinctively; I spat out drops of water that had entered into my mouth. I didn’t know the direction to which I spat because my eyes were closed when I did but it appeared I had spat right into Kawawa’s face! In his anger, he kicked me at the side of my body containing my ribs, and I dropped the bucket of water. Loudly, it met the floor face down and splashed water everywhere. I held my side and sank to the floor with a scream. He didn’t stop; he got closer and began kicking me. He was angry and I had just begun warming up my anger. I resolved there and then to stand up to him if he struck again. But Kawawa was not ready to let me be so he struck again. By now, Pozoo, together with some other seniors had entered the room. They just stood there and looked on. One of them tried to stop him but he wouldn’t budge. Then at last, something made him stop.

I don’t know how or when it happened but suddenly, i found myself up on my feet and with my left hand, I hit Kawawa very hard on the chin! He stumbled backwards, almost falling. Then, he began to charge straight at me! I didn’t want to fight him; I knew the school rules did not permit that. I was a junior; I would create enmity between my seniors and me if I fought him but he had bitten more than he could chew. Everyone feared him and it was obvious that he had taken that for granted. I did fear him but not anymore. I was angry and my anger was driving me to do the unthinkable.

As he inched closer, I could see venom in his eyes; the veins on his neck had become so visible they looked like a master craftsman had carved them. He held my neck with both hands and began to dig his nails into my flesh. I screamed in anger and kicked him in the stomach. He let go off me and sank to the floor. Then they came flooding into the room - the Sixth Formers on the floor came rushing into Kawawa’s room. They came with belts, canes and other like weapons, ready to crush Kawawa’s attacker. They forced me to the ground and began to test the strength of their weapons all over my body…

We Were There Some

2011-06-02T13:14:00.003Z

eluctantly I descended the staircase; I wouldn’t have but I had to. I had begged to be let off but he didn’t budge. There was a bland unrelenting look on his face and he kept stroking the countable strands of hair that hung from his flat chest. He was tall, dark and lanky. A prominent Afro adorned his big head and he chewed on a suspicious looking twig as he kept looking down at me. Much as I begged to be let off, he insisted, i had to go.

‘Snr. Abele; please not to Okwabi House please. Not Senior Kawawa’ I begged.

But my resistance seemed to strengthen his resolve. He would hear none of that and he was definitely making me go no matter what I said. He was very clear about that.

‘Nothing will happen to you…’ he said over and over again.

I did not believe him and he knew it. Behind him, there was an inscription on the wall; it was made with smoke from a candle. I could recognize it because I had assisted a senior in making one the very first week I entered the school. I considered it an achievement because first year students were not allowed to make inscriptions on the walls until they got to the fifth form. It was a kind of unofficial law that operated among the general student body. This activity was reserved for the seniors and the reason was because every candle-smoke inscription was supposed to be a ‘sign-off’. It was a sort of reminder that someone ever passed through the school. The Upper Sixers or the Sixth Formers took it for granted. They would mark the walls with all kinds of inscriptions at will. And sometimes, they took this infamous activity to the extreme – they would write on the walls of the Science Lab, School Library, teachers’ flats and then one day, they wrote on the revered headmaster’s bungalow!

How they got into the headmaster’s compound was a wonder. There were all kinds of stories that circulated among the junior students about how they did this. Some said a local jujuman was responsible for making them disappear and reappear at will. Others told of a concoction that supposedly put the night watchman who was a known drunk to sleep. This concoction it was rumoured, was mixed with local strong liquor known as apio and given to the night watchman before every operation.

The headmaster’s bungalow was nicknamed, Acropolis because it boasted of an uncommon colonial architecture that was just as strange as it was imposing. On the front door was a bold inscription that read: 1939. The Acropolis was hedged all round with thorn bush and a small avenue of hedges ushered many a visitor into the main compound. Students seldom entered the compound. They dared not. A large unfriendly dog always lurked in the bushes; it had a characteristic loud bark and fierce growl that promptly reminded everyone about straying and its devastating consequences. From the outside, the building looked impregnable but not anymore as we soon learnt. Somehow, some students managed to defy all odds and triumphantly made their mark on the famous Acropolis! Like determined soldiers, they had laid siege for a long time and had suddenly broken through to return victoriously in unforgettable fashion. Their mark read: FOX TRIBE REPRESENTING!

The following day, morning assembly took a different turn. The headmaster or Headee as he was popularly called, stormed the assembly hall with rage. When it was time for him to speak, he ignored all protocol. He did not greet; he did not smile. He simply stood on the podium and stared into our faces. He was motionless for a while and within that time, you could almost hear a pin drop. It was as if a mortifying mist had suddenly descended on everyone. We knew there was something wrong but we could not tell what it was.

Then he gently removed his spectacles and placed them on the wooden upright. He lessened the tension a bit with his movements and a mild murmur almost arose. Then he brought it to an immediate halt with his loud words!

“Foxes, foxes! That’s what you all are! He shouted animatedly.

We were taken aback. His words were sudden and harsh. And as the feeling of astonishment spread across the hall, someone at the back started laughing hysterically! From where I stood, I could not see him but I learnt later that the laughter had come from one of the Sixth Formers. It didn’t take long; suddenly the whole hall was reeling with laughter! Such was the effect on everyone in the hall that soon the teachers sitting on the podium joined in the laughter albeit cautiously. He turned momentarily towards his colleagues behind him; they all froze. He continued, this time, looking very menacing.

“Who or what is fox? Which among you foxes had the guts to write on my wall? He growled. Everybody was silent.

“Produce that fox now, produce him now or…”

“Or what? Somebody shouted from among us.

If the hall was quiet before this came, it became even quieter. I felt fidgety; I hoped that something would quickly interrupt the deafening silence so I could calm down. I shook a little; ‘when would this end’, I thought. That day, there were no classes for all of us. We descended straight from the Assembly Hall to the Hockey pitch and there, threw our hands in several directions with the aid of machetes at the tall grass that surrounded us. We ate lunch at suppertime.

The inscription on the wall right behind Abele read: ‘Risky waz hier som’.

‘Who was Risky? I asked him, hoping to change the subject even if for a short while. The question seemed to have taken him unawares; he stopped momentarily and stared at me.

‘Risky? You know Risky?

I pointed to the inscription right behind him. As he turned to look at the mouldy wall behind him, it then came to him that i could see the inscription very clearly from where I knelt. He suddenly went into frenzy.

‘Risky oo Risky! Risky Melo oo Melo! He shouted.

He was suddenly overcome with emotion that stemmed from a very unusual feeling of nostalgia and he continued like that for a few minutes. Then he kissed the palm of his right hand and placed it on the inscription on the wall. I felt relieved. Maybe this would make him forget what he’d asked me to do and finally release me. I was wrong. With a snap of his fingers, he swiftly dismissed me from his presence and told me not to return till I’ve delivered his message to Snr. Kawawa. As i left the room that afternoon, I wondered what a strange and unusual person he was.

The walk to Ghartey House was a very long one. The thought of meeting the notorious Snr. Kawawa terrified me. He was known for making life unbearable for junior students. On one occasion during general assembly, I remember the Snr. Housemaster mentioning his name seven times for seven different offences. There was always one tale or the other about him from the Ghartey House juniors. They feared him more than anyone else. As I approached Ghartey House, I wished I were dreaming. Should I turn back and run for dear life? That would be the beginning of great sorrow for me; Abele would never forgive me for going against him. So with great effort, I knocked on Kawawa’s door. There was no answer. I knocked again. Still no one answered... (To be continued)

Funeral Procession

2010-11-15T00:21:00.002Z

In drones and in sorrow they file past.
Right before them, eternity calls.
With their hearts they long to heed.
With their minds, they gently turn away.

(13th Nov. 2010)

Musings From Yesteryear

2010-09-07T17:09:00.001Z

They were glorious those days! The days when we were young and innocent, nothing mattered to us and we didn’t take anything too serious. Life passed by slowly and we did not even take notice. There were no phones, no Internet and sometimes, no light. Apart from play, life was spent behind the books. The books gave us much joy and sometimes, they became a thorn in our flesh. For instance, to be asked to memorise and recite Tennyson’s ‘Twenty Froggies’ could be real torture or fun depending on the mode in which it came. When memorising that poem became a punishment for failing to sweep or dust the furniture in the morning, it was painful and unnerving. However, when it took the form of a feat to be accomplished for a reward, a reward like a packet of ‘alewa’ or ‘black and white’ toffees, it became as much enjoyable as playing in the sand.

In the neighbourhood where we lived, there was a constant struggle to keep one’s balance everyday - the balance between reading and playing! We lived in a four-storey building next to a very famous slum somewhere in Accra. There was a playground in the compound where we lived, there were lots of playthings to keep all happy and lots of children to play with. But somehow, all that didn’t satisfy us. We always watched in envy, the children in the slums; how they ran around and did all sorts of adventurous things. They visited the rubbish heap anytime they wanted, they played football with their bare feet whenever they wanted and were even entitled to a sunbath or two everyday. They had a certain freedom we didn’t have and we always longed to be like them and do the things they did. Our desire was so strong that we always found it queer when they came around and peeped at us through the walls anytime we played. We always wondered what they found interesting about the life we lived. What kind of joy could one find in an enclosed playing space like ours?

Occasionally, when some of them dared to enter our compound, we would use their presence as an excuse to move out into their space. And oh the stories we told! In one instance, I overheard myself telling my mum I had followed one of them because I found his skin colour so dark I had followed him to be sure he hadn’t used some charcoal concoction on his skin! After I had said that, I couldn’t believe myself and in my mother’s disbelief, she exclaimed:

“You didn’t say that did you?

“No.” was the curt reply.

That evening, supper was not mentioned in the many discussions my mother had with me. And that was not the last time it had happened. It’s great to be young, it really is. Apart from our romance with the slum dwellers, one other thing captured our imaginations and always left us wanting more. It was the television and it was not a colour set. Ours was an old Zenith brand set that had lived in our house for four generations. I think there was some kind of arrangement between my father, his father, his father’s father and his father’s father’s father concerning this TV set. And he will always repeat, in fact, give a lecture every time one of us tried to harass the set. At first glance, no one would give this particular set a dog’s chance. It looked like the ones we used to see at the repairer’s corner. It was way past its prime but certainly not useless and as old as it was, it could boast of a perfect record of stable pictures and a massive viewership from our neighbours.

In those days, TV had only one channel! GBC TV was then indeed the station of the nation. At that time, it was absurd for anyone to conduct a survey to find out which TV channel was the most viewed, if it wasn’t GBC, forget it! And boy did they live up to it! It was on GBC that I first beheld the form and felt the sensation that was associated with the revered Diego Maradona. Up until that time, I had always thought of him as a tall, bulky fellow but alas he was not! It was on GBC that I first encountered the brilliant Charleston Heston and Yul Brynner pitched against each other in their most celebrated ‘TEN COMMANDMENTS’ by Cecil de Mille. On this channel, the then young Kofi Middleton Mends captivated my imagination with his rather cool headedness in the film, ‘NO TEARS FOR ANANSE’. Here, I was also introduced to the legendary Agya Koo Nimo as he dazzled our ears in his rendition of ‘Naa Densua’ and ‘Mahamadu’.

On this same platform, our beautiful women from the Ashanti Region used to fascinate us with their ‘Adowa Gospel’ songs (haven’t heard or seen them in a long while!). And there were some great advertising in those days too. I remember such spicy taglines as ‘We are the lifeline to your deadline’ from the then EMS, ‘Omo washes brightest and it shows’ from Lever Brothers and the rest. And then there were such classic phrases like ‘the protectors are-ee here!’ for The Great African Insurance Company, ‘Nana Apaa Refrigeration and Air condition services’ and the ever-popular look that appears on Prof. Martin Owusu’s face in that SIC commercial! Classic, simply classic!

And oh how we used to memorise the program schedule for the days. I could tell what programs would be on GBC every single day! School holidays were really cherished; we would be made to read from morning till late afternoon and then we’ll go sit behind the ‘tele’ as we wait for programs to start. There was this circular multi-coloured pattern that would appear prior to 5pm accompanied by some lively music. The appearance of that pattern and the music meant that TV would start broadcasting soon. Somehow, the sight of that pattern brought us so much joy; it was an indication that soon our wait would be over. And when finally, the GBC montage appears and the presenter begins to speak, it felt like celebrating your birthday on Christmas day.

The programs were varied and interesting. I remember how we would silently pray for ‘Talking Point’ to be over so we can settle down for our favourite ‘Osofo Dadzie’. And while watching ‘Osofo Dadzie’, we would suddenly go quiet when Osofo began his characteristic ‘final admonition’ – it meant the program was about to end. I also remember Adult Education in Dagbani with so much relish. I loved that soulful song that always preceded it and then of course who wouldn’t remember Football Made in Germany, Expedition to the Animal Kingdom, The Old Fox, Thursday Theatre, Time With NAFTI, Contemplations with Vincent Asiseh, Weekend Rendezvous, Sports Beat, Music For You with Mike Agyekum, Songs Of Praise, This Week, Agrimag, Derrick, Hobby Time, Transtel, Dr. WHO and the unpopular twin programs - Reflections and Close Down.

The Feature Film slot on GBC introduced me to so many legendary motion picture characters. One of the most fascinating for me was Oliver Reed in his depiction of the character, Ivan Dragomiloff in the movie, “The Assassination Bureau”. Such was his incredible talent and strong personality that I wanted to be like him. Later in life, I fell in love with him all over again when I saw him act as ‘Proximo’ in the movie; ‘Gladiator’. There was Tom Baker too, the legendary hero of the popular Dr. Who series which captivated our young minds and was often the reason why so many of my friends feigned all sorts of illnesses on Sunday mornings – a convenient excuse to keep them from being in church. Captain Planet was great but sadly, with all the education on keeping the environment clean and recycling that he sought to promote, Accra is still in a near squalid state.

It was on GBC that I saw great Ghanaian Musicians like, Snr. Eddie Donkor, Obuoba J.A. Adofo, Akwasi Ampofo Agyei, Nana Kwame Ampadu, Ramblers, S.K. Oppong, Kakaiku, E.K. Nyame, Alhaji K. Frimpong, Yamoah’s Band, Amakye Dede, Ben Brako, and so many more for the first time. And how can I forget charming personalities like the ever-present Beatrice Aidoo, the crisp and soft-spoken, Daniel Adjei, the commanding presence of Anthony Kumah, the agility of the then sports presenter, Kwabena Adjepong and the rather unusual ‘Poncho’. It was on GBC that I was introduced to documentaries on Ghana’s independence, in these documentaries, I saw how shiny Nkrumah’s forehead was and for the first time, his charismatic personality was witnessed in motion. I can’t forget the good old Bob Cole and the classic, ‘I TOLD YOU SO’, Kwaw Ansah’s masterpieces: HERITAGE AFRICA and LOVE BREWED IN THE AFRICAN POT, AFRICAN TIMBER, DZA GBELE (Till Death), ZENABU, OGBOO (courtesy of Sidiku Buari) and on and on and on…oh my, I’m already in tears. What memories…

Ah ghanA mmA!

2010-07-27T15:49:00.002Z

Look around a bit more closely, open your ears and observe Ghanaians as they talk, laugh, cry and express their emotions. You will find that our society is one big exclamation mark! Take these for example: when we are so sad we feel like crying, we say, ‘ah’; when we are extremely impressed with someone or something, we say ‘ah’. When we eat something and really enjoy it, we say ‘ah’, when we feel cheated or feel someone has pulled a fast one on us, we say ‘ah’. When we are shown so much love, we say ‘ah’, when we are irritated, we say ‘ah’. When we enjoy the breeze, we say ‘ah’; when we look upon something or someone beautiful, we say ‘ah’.

When we are shocked, we say ‘ah’, when we are ecstatic, we say ‘ah’. From our everyday conversations, interactions and activities, the ‘ah’ exclamation can always be heard in diverse ways, running, walking and jumping in-between. And the sound of it is not always the same. The ‘ah’ expression in anger is loud, sharp and crisp! And when you hear the ‘ah’ expression from a satisfied Ghanaian, it is soft, warm and travels with some deep sense of meaning that lasts forever. Now listen to the ‘ah’ expression from a sorely irritated Ghanaian and you will find that it is strong, coarse and pungent. It catches you when you least expect it leaving a sour taste in your mouth. And if you are a first-time visitor to the country, don’t be too surprised if you hear this expression at every turn. In order not to get confused, just take note of the pitch and the rhythm with which they are expressed; in doing so, take particular note of the demeanour of the person expressing it and when you are done, you can walk up confidently to a bystander and say something like, ‘well sir, a gentleman I just met wriggled his wrists at me and kept shouting ‘ah’ all the time. What does that ‘ah’ mean?

Now, a critical look at Ghanaian names confirms this fact. I’ll show you why; take a look at these: AvemegA, AsamoA, AzumA, NanA, NkrumA, AmankwA, VorsA, AtiA, AppiA, AbenA, AkosuA, AdwoA, MensA, MansA, DankwA, AsabeA, NaA, BabA, HamA, AnowA, DuA, AgbokA, AmissA, DebrA, DansoA, AnsA. Do you find that the ‘ah’ exclamation runs through all of them? It is interesting to note that this exclamatory aspect of our society and our essence as Ghanaians has permeated everything including our names! Every name ends with an exclamation and here too, the varying rhythms and sounds define their right pronunciations.

And if you think 26 names are not enough to hang on to this claim, well how about AbekA, AdamA, AdizA, AdjeiwaA, AdomA, YaA, AndA, AliA, AmissA, AnimA, AnobeA, AnyA, ArabA, ArmA, YankA, AttakorA, AwuA, SowA, DwamenA, BentumA, BinkA, BoamA, BraimA, InusA, CobblA, KwabenA, KumasA, MensA… i’m getting tired Ah!

How slow things must have been

2010-07-13T11:59:00.001Z

Why is everything running so fast these days? In fact, I cannot think of anything that does not have speed woven into it these days. Back then; we used to write letters with great satisfaction. We knew it would take about four days for to be delivered but we did not care. It would take about another three days to receive a reply if one is lucky but that gave us some kind of joy. It was called the joy of anticipation. I remember my secondary school days – we would conveniently mob the letter boy (much to his inconvenience) every time he comes around hoping that some sweetheart somewhere had been kind enough to send us a one-page letter – often written out boldly on a scented letter pad (if the sender is from a Girls’ School) or on a not-so white ‘official’ paper if the sender is from a Boys’ School. Our letter boy was a very interesting sight; it was believed that earlier in his growing up process, he stopped growing upwards. His growth then took a more wider and horizontal turn giving him a ball-like look and the tendency to look up all the time when people talked to him. It was always a sorry sight to see all of us crowded around him, asking all sorts of questions at the same time.

I remember there was so much joy in receiving a letter, reading it and smelling the paper and the ink that was used. The whole letter writing process was an art, often beginning with a lovely thought and then gradually making its way through paper selection, licking postage stamps incessantly and finally ending with the sight of your full name, school address and room number on a mildly crumpled envelope capable of making you the happiest of persons for a whole week! Today, letters and just about everything that goes through the post office is called snail mail! Ask me the last time I entered the post office and I would be ashamed to admit that the answer will not even be a ‘no’; it will be an emphatic ‘I DON’T REMEMBER!’ How slow I must have been then…or was i?

Today, there is fast food, quick searches as opposed to the then long and laborious library research in those days. There’s instant banking, instant news, instant everything. Even court trials have become fast-tracked! Interesting? Wait till you hear this; the very language we speak has become much too slow for the fast-track nature of today’s world and so language is becoming shorter and shorter and faster to communicate! If you send a text message with every word typed in full plus the right punctuation marks, you would be considered old fashioned and not up to date. Text messaging has developed its unique language. You type ‘pls’ when you want to say ‘please’. You type ‘l8r’ when you want to say ‘later’ and so on.

And then this text language evolved into what has become the glorified and more frightening chat language. Hardly will you find any chat message devoid of words (are they words?) like ‘LOL’, ‘TTYL’, ‘OMG’ and the rest. I remember the first time I ever saw the word ‘LOL’ I innocently interpreted it to mean, ‘Lots Of Love’. I was wrong. It meant, ‘Laugh Out Loud’. When I first saw, ‘OMG’ I thought it meant, ‘On My Guard’; it meant, ‘Oh My Gosh’! And i keep asking myself whether I would ever be able to keep up with this. It seems everyday brings with it, new constructions and inventions of this language. Recently, I came across ‘LOOL’; I thought it was a mistake, it wasn’t, it meant ‘Laughing Out Outrageously Loud’! And then there’s ‘SMH’ which means, ‘Shaking My Head’; I must admit, the first time I saw it I thought it meant ‘Somebody Help’. Here are a few more:

ROFL: Rolling On The Floor Laughing

AFAIK: As Far As I Know

CID: Consider It Done

GAL: Get A Life

GBTW: Get Back To Work…etc.

And here are a few that I have laboured to construct for your use (please remember to mention your source anytime you use them).

SUN: Shut Up Now

BOS: Banku Okro Stew

LIL: Laughing Incredibly Loud

OR: Oh Really?

LMSM: Lend Me Some Money

TS: Titus Sardine

TTTTT: Traffic

FB: Football (hmm…sounds like FaceBook)

BAG: Bra Asamoah Gyan

S: Suarez

I: Indomie

WWNE: Wonders Will Never End

AG: Agye-eeii!

EB: Ebe-eei!

OH: Oooo Ho!

These are what I have for now. I hope to come your way again with newly developed constructions for your use. But on a more serious note, I can’t help believing that very soon, our verbal conversations will become much faster than they are today. Our much preferred ‘Ghanaianized expressions’ will all fade away leaving things like ‘O’ for our characteristic ‘Ooo exclamation; ‘A’ for our ‘Ahaa!, ‘S’ for our ‘Saaa? And so on…

That will not be all; our conversational actions like the throwing of our hands in the air to express surprise, aggression or despair will give way to verbal expressions like, ‘THIS’ – Throwing Hands In Surprise. Our many facial expressions will give way to things like ‘MWOIS’ – Mouth Wide Open In Shock and many more. So don’t be surprised if very soon, you begin to see two people engaged in an flat conversation, where you don’t hear a shout, a moan; you don’t see an action, a facial expression and so on. I believe that time is coming where in a conversation, you will hear someone say (motionlessly and expressionlessly): ‘I am LOLling’ or pronounce the letters ‘OMG’ to convey his mood. I can almost imagine a situation where someone in an apparent expression of pain simply says (without action or facial expression) ‘FCIP’ – Face Contorted In Pain!

Charlie! Oh hooo! Where are we running to?

Rising up on the mourning after…

2010-07-06T14:39:00.002Z

Guest Blogger: Christabel Ewuradjoa Dadzie

The whole week was filled with tension. I could barely sleep on Thursday night; I was totally anxious and elated (all at once) about Friday’s quarterfinal match between Ghana and Uruguay. For some strange reason, I was one of the few (maybe not) who were very afraid of the Uruguay team… so the game started. I didn’t express my lack of faith because we needed only positive energy for the Black Stars – the entire Continent was rooting for us, but deep down, my stomach churned, it almost ached. The first 15 minutes proved me right, the Uruguayans had the ball all the time, the Black Stars barely touched the ball for more than 5 secs, and when they did they didn’t do very much with it. Emmanuel who sat next to me, whispered, “they will settle shortly, don’t worry” and settle they did! For the rest of the game, up until extra time, the Black Stars pressed on, showed determination, drive, and strove for excellence… to the very last minute. I have never in my lifetime seen a Ghana Black Stars team play until the very end like this team did. Even when the Maestro Abedi Pele led our team, we would usually give up right around the 87^th minute and leave fate to do its own thing. That had always been my problem with our footballers, and with our country, for that matter. But this was different. These guys were spirited – they were on FIRE! They wouldn’t take no for us, they wouldn’t let the pundits have their way – the so called young and inexperienced lads pressed on and hit the ball at the post three times in three seconds, until it entered the net (or did it) in the last attempt and our wonderful opponents decided to deliberately stop it with their hands (for a second the game switched to volley ball).

Blame Asamoah Gyan all you like for our almost-win, or be like me and blame the coach who took Inkoom out of the game instead of Kojo Asamoah, or better yet, John Mensah, our dear captain, who totally shrunk at the penalty spot – the last shot that could have kept us in the game… or the referee, but let’s save that story for another day. More importantly, there is so much to learn from Ghana’s run at the World Cup. If only our country will pay attention to what just happened to us and follow suite, we’ll go very far.

The Black Stars lost their star player Michael Essien, had many players injured and were beaten mercilessly during our friendly matches prior to the World Cup. Right there and then, the most human thing would be to show up, play decent games, or pretty much give up because of a “young and inexperienced” team! But they pressed on. Game 1: Ghana-Serbia (we played the best team Serbia has had in the last 10-15 years, as my Serbian friend proudly told me)… and guess what, we won! Game 2: Ghana-Australia – we drew. I was upset! I thought we’d be out, same with Ghana-Germany (but as Emmanuel rightfully explained mathematics took us forward). Our game with Germany was superb! The guys picked up their game (the last time we met Germany, they beat us 6-1 and many of us Ghanaians were afraid of a round 2 episode of the “Bochum disaster”). Then we got to the crucial stages, and our game got even better. We pressed on, we believed in ourselves, we carried the mantle that other African countries had dropped and went on and on and on to the very last - 120^th minute of the Quarter Final game.

Fellow Ghanaians, I need not belabor the point I’m making here. It is quite clear – while the Black Stars made mistakes along the way (which all humans do), they pressed on and on… and on – even when Asamoah missed the penalty, within minutes he was back to kick again! If only we would live our everyday lives in the same manner as the Ghana Blacks Stars 2010 have done, our country would be a very different place. My charge to everyone – let’s wake up each morning and tell ourselves “today has been given to me to press on and on… and on for my Country and Continent”; “I am alive today to give my quota to Mother Ghana because I am hers and she is mine, so I will work with every fiber in my being”. From the Scientists to Street Sellers, from the Ministers to Masons, if we are determined, our mistakes won’t keep us down; If we have drive and strive for excellence, our setbacks will turn into set ups. We can do this as a nation – let’s take ownership and pride in our country day-in, day-out, and reap the fruits of our own labor.

As I cry myself to sleep, since like all Ghanaians, I wanted a win and nothing less, I still have a lot of admiration for these players and choose to see the good in what happened. Thank you Black Stars, you’ve made us proud in 2010, and more importantly you’ve taught the entire nation a big lesson that, if practiced, will ensure that Ghana becomes the true beacon of Africa.

God Bless the Black Stars and God bless our homeland Ghana.

My name is Barwuah. Barwuah Balotelli.

2010-07-01T17:22:00.004Z

Good morning my fellow Ghanaians. As you can all see from the colour of my skin, the shape of my head and my Asante-looking forehead, I am as much a Ghanaian as all of you are. Before I begin, let me make it clear that my name is Barwuah, Kofi Barwuah. Forget about all the talk in Media Italia that I am dying to be Italian. Do any of you think it is possible to change the colour of my skin or change this short and hard hair of mine into soft, long locks like my brothers in Rome? Sorry, did I say brothers? I meant, my neighbours in Rome? I’m sure you all agree with me that, that will impossible unless I am Michael Jackson (May his soul rest in peace).

So please, my fellow countrymen do not accept that long and boring talk in the media; they need to sell information by using me as a bait to get you into buying. How wrong they are. They don’t know that Ghanaians (and I am a proud one) are not gullible (is that the right word?). They don’t know that you are a very discerning group of people who are able to read in between the lines and find the truth for yourselves. They don’t know that Mari…sorry…Barwuah Balotelli is loved and cherished by all Ghanaians. Tell them; my brothers, tell them!

Forgive me my fellow countrymen for I should have held this press conference a long time ago. I haven’t been able to do so until now because so many things have happened to me. You know some of them because they were reported all over the world. For instance, you heard that I, a proud Ghanaian declined to play for Ghana and instead opted to play for Italy. It is not true. Ah, Ghanaians paa, how can I do such a thing? How can I shame my motherland in this untoward manner? Let me tell you that, I have still not received any call to play for Ghana and I have a reason for saying this.

On 7 August 2007, a white man; I think his name is Claude Le Roy or so approached me to play for Guyana. As far as I was concerned, I was Ghanaian and did not see why I should play for Guyana; besides, I thought that the national coach of Ghana would be as black as I am. Later, my agent informed me that Mr. Claude Le Roy was actually the national coach of my country Ghana. That got me confused. I had all the time been under the impression that Mr. Le Roy was from Guyana. My agent would confirm that when I realized my mistake (was it really my mistake?), I felt very sorry and did not eat for about a week. So I want to say here again that I am ready at any time to play for Ghana (they are called the Black Skins right?).

Countrymen, you can imagine my joy when I saw the Ghana team play such classic football in the on-going World Cup. I told my friends in Palermo not to be surprised; they should just look at my skills and ability and understand why Ghana is doing so well. As for the Azzurris, I knew they wouldn’t get anywhere in the World Cup. In fact that is why I don’t even want to play for them. I understand that Kevin-Prince Boateng like me had also lived abroad for a very long time. It was nice to see him play so well with the Ghana team, that’s the spirit, my brother, that’s the spirit! The Ghana team has good players in all departments of the game. Interestingly, my brother, Gian’s goal against USA reminded me of a similar goal I scored against Juventus; no wonder we both come from the same home region in Ghana.

I think that Ghana should have scored so many goals in this World Cup. We have missed so many chances that every time I watch the replays, I scream and shout ‘buei! Buei! This is why I am ready to play for Ghana. When I come into the Ghana team, no scoring chance will elude us, God forbid! I will score from the centre, corner, free-kick spots and even from your much preferred penalty spot. Give me the call up into the Ghana team and leave the goals to me; you will not regret. You have also heard that I am quick tempered and I might throw my jersey on the ground and step on it! Me? Aaah! I will never do such a thing! Imagine me in the all-white Ghana jersey, how nice I would look and you think I will remove that beautiful shirt and step on it? For what purpose, if I may ask? Please forget about all that talk and concentrate on the goals I will score for Ghana.

I’m sure you have also heard from Jose Mourinho that I don’t like training and other things. I think that was a slip from Jose. Look, I train and train very hard okay! How could I have scored all those goals if I don’t train? See, if I didn’t train, how could I have scored in the final of the Copper Italiana when I had come on as a substitute for a player like Luis Figo? If I didn’t train, how could i have scored two goals against no mean a team like Juventus in the quarter final of the Copper Italiana? Listen to me, I will drink Milo in the morning, afternoon and evening and train hard with the team okay!

My fellow Ghanaians, please accept me back into the team. Forget about all you’ve heard and be assured that from now on, Kofi Barwuah is ready to play for Ghana. Even if its not too late, I would like to appeal to the FA to let me join the rest of the team in camp, who knows, I could get my first World Cup medal. Thank you very much and see you all soon.

Signed, Kofi Barwuah Balotelli

(Proud citizen of the beloved Guya…sorry…Ghana)

Permute me to talk football…

2010-06-29T21:22:00.003Z

If there was to be a major Mathematics exam on the 24^th of June 2010, the day after Ghana played Germany in the 2010 World Cup, I could vouch for the fact that all who had registered for that exam would have received a major boost ahead of the encounter. Never before had I seen a whole nation engrossed in the spirit and practice of the subject. Never.

From street corners, households, offices, sidewalks, market centres, public eating and easing places and everywhere, Mathematics became the most preferred subject for discussion more than anything else. Even our beloved political discussions received a huge nudge that will forever be remembered.

‘…So if Germany beat Ghana and Australia lose to Serbia, will Ghana still qualify? One shop attendant asked his colleague at a shop where I had gone to get a tin of milk. On my way back, I overhead two local mechanics debating seriously about the issue - one of them was insisting that the Black Stars would still have qualified even if they had lost to Germany. The other would have none of that. ‘…If Germany beats us, we dey go home sharp! He repeated continuously. They debate went on I suppose, hours after I had left and all through the nation, everyone was engaged in this football mathematics. To tell the truth, I am not a firm believer in the so-called ‘calculations’ in football and so when after the game against Germany, I learnt the Black Stars had qualified for the next stage of the competition; I just did not know how it happened. They had to lose a game to qualify?

‘Why we qualify? I asked one of my neighbours, a youngster who prided himself in the fact that he knew almost everything about football. ‘Why you no know? He asked with a dint of sarcasm in his voice. I looked hard at him and wondered why football was not that simple. When two teams play, there are two things that could happen. One team would win, the other would lose or nobody wins in which case a draw would have occurred. That sounds easy doesn’t it? Not so in a tournament situation like the World Cup. Here as I later learnt, every game result in a group had an effect on other results. Take group D in this year’s competition for example, this group had Serbia, Australia, Germany and our own Ghana in contention. What happened in this group could best be described as absolutely incredible!

Ghana beat Serbia with an unaccompanied goal in the opening game. Germany walloped Australia in the following game immediately establishing the superiority of these two teams in the group. But somehow, Serbia beat Germany in the next round and Ghana drew with Australia. I’m sure this was when the mathematical nature of football became apparent. Logical Reasoning (my favourite Secondary school Maths topic) promptly became useful: if Ghana beat Serbia and Serbia beat Germany, who will win the game between Ghana and Germany? First question. I’m sure the logical answer to this would be Ghana beating Germany right? Wrong. Germany beat Ghana.

Next question: If Serbia beat Germany and Germany beat Australia, who will win the game between Australia and Serbia? Were you thinking of Serbia beating Australia? Think again my friend for that did not happen. Australia beat Serbia! So here am I still wondering why football is not that simple. In fact, it is because of these and many other reasons why the explanation given by my neighbour still intrigued me. Ghana beat Serbia and had 3 points. Serbia had none. Ghana drew with Australia and they both gained a point each. At this stage Australia had only 1 point because Germany took all 3 points from the game they played against them. Next, Serbia beat Germany and took all 3 points. So that brings us to 4 points for Ghana, 3 points for Serbia, 3 points for Germany and a point for Australia after the second round. If we were working this complex thing with only the points the teams gained, things would have been a little easier for us. But I learnt rather grudgingly that there is something called, ‘goal difference’ or ‘goal aggregate’ that added to the points gained. Oh not other!

That is why even after the second round of the group matches, he explained, qualification was still not guaranteed for any of the teams. Germany led the goal chart with 4 goals, followed by Ghana with 2 and then Serbia and Australia with 1 apiece. In the final analysis, Germany beat Ghana by a lone goal and earned 6 points for themselves. Ghana earned no point from that game and so maintained their 4 points with 2 goals. Interestingly, Australia beat Serbia by 2 goals to 1 and earned 4 points with 3 goals. And so after a long explanation that touched on goals conceded, goals scored and a host of other impenetrable reasons, he finally arrived the reason why Ghana was able to qualify in this seemingly difficult group. He did his best but I still did not get it. I told him I didn’t get it; that I have concluded that I would never get it. He could not understand, in fact, he insisted it was not confusing at all. I bet he’ll be teaching Mathematics in the near future. Good luck to him.

The reason why Ghanaians love this aspect of the game I can’t tell but I can definitely say, football really makes the mind go round. For example, what would have happened if Ghana had drawn with Germany and Serbia had beaten Australia by a lone goal? Just thinking…

CRY, MY BELOVED CITY

2010-03-01T11:31:00.004Z

The determined African sun blazed more than ever from its domain among the cloudless sky and gave off such heat that one would think the earth was being purged of some cold brutality unexplained in the city. The only remaining trees that had been left standing due to the many development projects in the city hardly stirred. The air was hot and stale and the half naked young men hauling diverse goods on make-shift carts were the envy of many a shirt-and-tie wearing man. These men walked freely about and didn't care about clothes in that hot weather. Who cared about fine clothes in that maddening heat anyway?

They moved briskly through the crowd that had invaded the street pavements barking and insulting anyone who stood in their way. Their strong, muscular bodies dripped with sweat as if water had been poured in torrents upon them. They were rude and ruthless. One of them almost run into an old woman with his cart but he did not bother. To him, it was normal; one had to move out of the way or be forced to. The poor and frail old woman stood still for a while; she had missed a near death experience and the realization stopped her in her tracks. She turned and looked at the rogue as he hurried on, shouting and barking as he went. She wanted to say something but what was there to say? He was long gone and anything she said would not matter; he would not hear it. He would not care.

Sadly, she turned and walked away. In the distance, the massive overhead bridge stood like a boiling pot dripping with people on every side. It was overwhelming; it stood an uncomfortable sight and the noise and shrieks from the desperate hawkers who stood on it, crowded the mind like no other. Down below, speeding vehicles moved to and fro missing daring lives by inches as errant men and women gambled with their lives by running back and forth the dual carriage road. They refused to cross over by way of the bridge; they were too lazy for that. Instead, they risked their lives and did not for once acknowledge the one thing that was made to save them.

The whole place was crowded, suffocating and in extreme disarray. There was litter everywhere and the stench that came from the choked gutters along the street was horrible. To compound the situation, some young men were busily pissing into these gutters. They did not look one bit concerned about what they were doing. It was all but a part of their everyday life or so it seemed and they did so with such impudence and audacity as would annoy any well-meaning citizen. At every turn, there were imposing billboards that had been mounted in advertising one product or another. They competed for space in the already crowded city and much as they proved very inconvenient and unsightly, the shade they provided was a shield for many against the blazing sun.

At the side of the road, quite close to the overhead bridge, a young woman stood. From the cold stare that hung on her face, one could tell she was far removed from everything that surrounded her. It was obvious there was a lot on her mind as she stood there; a little child strapped to her back and an old jute bag in one hand. The child looked barely a year old and in the midst of all that was happening, he slept soundly. A large crowd had invaded the place where she stood and once in a while when a trotro pulled up, a massive scuffle would ensue until someone was able to break through and join the bus. Then everything would return to normal only for the scuffle to begin all over again when another trotro pulled up. The struggle for a place on the trotro buses was often a matter of life and death for most of the city dwellers. There were never enough buses to convey the hordes of people that daily commuted to and from the city centre. Everyday was a struggle, this being one of those few places in the city for which any time within the 24-hour day was a rush hour.

Initially, she wanted to join in the struggle but she decided against it. Her baby was still sleeping and the thought of taking the innocent child through all that hustle worried her greatly. She stood there and hoped that somehow, someone would be kind enough to offer her a ride to her destination. But after about an hour and a half, she could not bear it any longer. Nobody offered her a ride and she could not get a place on any trotro. She looked at the crowd; its size remained the same and the struggle continued as before. So, like everyone else, she helplessly joined them ready to compete for a place. She knew she didn’t stand a chance but she was willing to try. She was not the only one in that situation. A few metres from where she stood, two schoolchildren, about seven and nine years, stood quietly. They had been standing there for hours and no one seemed to have noticed them. They were wet with sweat; their hair was dusty and they looked very hungry. There were tears in their eyes; an evidence that the situation had gotten the better part of them. They stood there helpless and once in a while, their eyes followed hawkers who paraded edible wares in the streets with intense desire. They longed for a vehicle to take them home; they wanted something to shield them from the scorching sun. They were hungry and needed their mother.

The traffic jam started building up from the far end and the rapidity with which it grew brought sadness and anxiety to the anxious crowd waiting to board a vehicle home. A few minutes later, a trotro pulled up. The driver’s mate, a tall, lanky fellow hang loosely on the moving vehicle as it approached the teeming crowd and all the time he waved his hand ceaselessly indicating that the vehicle was headed in no particular direction. The reluctant crowd made way for the vehicle to come to a stop. When they became certain that the vehicle was indeed headed nowhere, they reluctantly withdrew from it and hoped that a more purposeful one would show up. They didn’t have to wait for long because just then, to the surprise of everybody, the driver’s mate began to call out names of various destinations on top of his voice. Scarcely had he opened his mouth than a mighty scuffle ensued. Such was the force with which the people charged towards the empty vehicle that he had barely a moment to escape. They fought, screamed and pulled at each other - their sweaty bodies rubbing off themselves in the process. They shoved the driver’s mate violently out of the vehicle as they tried to find space. The door proved too small for them but that did not matter. They all wanted to enter at the same time and for a while, no one succeeded. Three minutes of intense combat finally came to an abrupt end when suddenly; a loud scream broke through the middle of the crowd. It was so loud that within the moment it came, no one heard anything else. It stopped and then returned with the same intensity with which it came. This sent almost everybody scattering in all directions. Not knowing what was happening, they fled from the scene fearing for their lives. As they did so, the screams became milder and milder until they were all a safe distance from the vehicle.

Down on the ground, at the spot where they all once stood scrambling and struggling, the nine-year old schoolboy knelt over his younger brother; clutching his midriff in his tender arms. The younger boy was pale, unconscious and tears were streaming down the face of the nine-year old. He looked up from where he knelt, saw he was alone and started screaming and weeping again. Surprisingly, no one seemed to have noticed him; another bus had pulled up somewhere and they were busy trying to find space on it. There was chaos there too; people pushed, pulled and tore at each other just as they had done earlier. While they were at it, another empty bus pulled up sending another group of people on another invasion. The little boy was still bent over his younger brother, tears streaming down his cheeks; he continued wailing and weeping while his unconscious brother lay still. Slowly, his world began to fade away; one look at his unconscious brother and he felt dizzy. Up there, the sun still shone ever so intently and soon he could hear nothing – nothing at all. Both children had passed out.

It took the cries of a passerby before a taxicab finally pulled up to assist him rush the children to the hospital. The woman with the child strapped to her back, offered to join the taxi to the hospital. It was unbearably hot inside; the smell of smoke filled the near rickety car and the noise that came from the engine compounded the anxiety of the conscious persons who sat in it. The two unconscious boys lay on top of each other at the back seat and the young sweat-soaked man sat close to them. On the front seat sat the woman with the baby. He had just started to cry and he seemed to want to wake the boys up with his incessant cry. His mother tried to calm him but the heat made him so uncomfortable that he couldn’t stop crying. The congestion was unbearable and tried as hard as he could, the taxi driver couldn’t manage a passage through the thick traffic. He resorted to his horn but even that did little to deter the competing motorists on the road. There were vehicles everywhere. Drivers blew their horns and shouted on top of their voices. Other impatient ones slammed car bonnets with their bare fists in a desperate attempt to get other drivers to do the right thing. Still, others just sat in their seats and fumed.

The taxi soon came to a junction and the muddled convergence of vehicles from every side evoked a feeling of extreme desperation in all who sat in the taxi. The woman on the front seat was soaked in sweat as she wriggled her right hand in a fruitless attempt to fan her little son. Once in a while she would turn and look back at the two unconscious boys as they lay at the back seat, their shirts had been unbuttoned and their half naked bodies were soaked in sweat. She wailed and shouted to no one in particular; she was appealing for help but nothing could be done. The young man who sat by the boys could not take his eyes off them. He was stricken with panic as he looked out of the window and saw the chaos on the street. His knees kept knocking each other; he felt helpless. He understood more than anything, the need to get to a nearby hospital quickly. The driver continued to blow his horn. The woman continued shouting and wailing while drivers yelled at each other. Exhaust pipes continued to huff and puff; dust did not stop rising and filling every available space. The situation was getting more and more desperate.

Then it happened all of a sudden! Somebody emerged from nowhere and stood in the midst of the chaos. It happened too quickly before anyone could think. He was a tall bearded man, shabby in appearance and bulky in stature. In his right hand, he held a huge club. He did not talk; he just stood there and stared rather horribly into the faces of all who cared to look. After a while, he started moving in between the vehicles and using his club as an indicator, he motioned some of the drivers to move and others to remain where they were. He repeated the action all around him and within minutes, he had managed to take control of the traffic. Now they moved only at his permission and stopped whenever he raised his club - it was to be the defining image of a city on its way to disaster…

TELLER NUMBER ZERO…

2009-10-13T11:29:00.011Z

I’ve always felt very edgy anytime I enter the banking hall. And I don’t visit the banking hall very often. I don’t think it’s fear; no, not at all. I’ve always prided myself in the fact that I don’t fear anything and indeed I know I don’t. Maybe it’s consciousness of an extreme, almost surreal nature. Just maybe. For this reason, my ATM card is always with me wherever I am. In fact, if I had my own way, I’d prefer that all banking activities should be limited to the ATM. Period. I’m sorry I have to say this my banking friends but this is just something I feel within me. You can call it a selfish desire, a phobic or phobia-infested desire, call it whatever you will and I just might agree with you.

It all starts the moment I see the bank building. Sometimes, no, most of the time, I even forget to say hello to the security guy at post. And because of this, I am always embarrassed when they swiftly come to my rescue either by pushing or pulling the unlabelled sliding door for me. And by the way, why are some of these doors not labelled?

I remember one time, I was seriously struggling with one of those doors; there was no sign that said to pull or push. The security guy must have left his post momentarily because he was nowhere to be found. And before he could come to my aid, the small leather folder I was holding fell and all my stuff including a tissue-wrapped piece of ‘boflot’ I had conveniently tucked away in the folder scattered innocently on the floor. The ‘boflot’ rolled with all naivety into the banking hall and settled at the feet of one anxious looking lady in the queue. My eyes followed it until it finally got there and you can imagine my shame when I lifted my eyes and met hers. She giggled and the whole hall was soon plunged into a moment of laughter! Quickly I gathered what I thought was necessary and fled from the scene! I have since not done any business with that branch.

And this is just one of my many frustrations. Now let’s see what happens when I enter the banking hall. First; all eyes turn to look at me anytime I enter and i get really sweaty and nervous by that. I have come to a conclusion on that. Here’s what I think; everybody in the hall except the tellers and maybe the messengers are bored. They’ve been sitting and waiting for one thing or the other for a long time. To relieve them of their boredom, they long for something new. Something other than the faces of tiredness and boredom that stare at them wherever they turn. Something other than the bank logos, nicely polished furniture and bright flying ties that keep filing past them all the time. They find the door of the main entrance, an opportunity; an opportunity to stare at something new. It could be a beautifully dressed lady, a heavily bearded bulky fellow or indeed anything. So far as it’s new, it’s an opportunity. And so even though I don’t blame them much for staring, that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t like it.

The last time I walked into my bank, I was made to fill a withdrawal form before I could withdraw money from my account. Now I am only asked to write on a small sheet of paper, the amount I want to withdraw and my account number or something like that. Things keep changing don’t they? So you can imagine my embarrassment when I confidently walked up to one of the bank staff the other day and asked for a withdrawal form. He stared straight into my eyes and shook his head. I was shocked. Without saying a word, he took a piece of paper and told me to write out my account number and amount.

‘That’s it?’ I asked.

‘Yes. That’s it’ He responded with a wry smile spreading at the corner of his mouth. I was embarrassed. Things had changed that much and I didn’t know? Boy!

Now it was time for me to join the queue. I hate queues with a passion and to complicate matters, I always approach the queue in the bank, the wrong way. I don’t know why but it always happens. The cordon like ‘thing’ that serves as a waiting line in the bank is somewhat interesting or rather confusing for me. There are no signs to tell you where to enter and exit. And for me, I always enter the line from the exit believe it or not! Every time I do this, I can be sure that one angry man or woman in the long queue will look at me from the corner of their eyes and mutter a few obscenities into my hearing. It is only then that I would remember I’d gone the wrong way. Not again!

At the counter, I’m always a bit unsure of myself. Maybe I hadn’t indicated the exact amount I needed; or the account number I’d provided wasn’t what it was supposed to be. Maybe there was no money in my account. These thoughts race back and forth through my mind as I wait for the teller to look up. The quietness that descends when the teller begins to verify the information is killing! And all the time I feel like sinking into the belly of the earth. Behind me, there’s always that heat and tension that seems to mount with intensity every passing second. In such moments, I try not to look behind me lest I meet the terrifying gaze of an angry customer impatiently waiting to be served. Finally, the teller looks up at me and pushes the piece of paper back to me. He tells me to check my account number again. Now I’m looking hard at the sheet of paper; I had made a mistake again? Yes, I knew I would! I check my account number from my diary and quickly correct it. The teller pushes the piece of paper back at me again. This time, I had failed to indicate the currency. I shake my head apologetically and then proceed to correct that. It was supposed to be GHS and not GHC!

Now I’m through with the teller. My bundle of cash is in my hands. What next? I walk past the queue and they all turn to look at me but I do not care, I simply move on towards the door. But there’s always a final surprise that lie in wait. This is how it happens; I would walk quietly to the exit and then realize rather too late that I had left my phone at the counter. The teller would signal to one of the impatient customers in the queue to alert me immediately he realizes I had left my phone. The customer would hiss at me from where she stands; loud enough for the whole hall to hear. The security guard at the door would tuck at my shirt just at the moment when I am about to exit the building. I would turn and step back into the banking hall. All eyes would be fixed on me and with my head bowed, I would walk quietly to the counter determined not to make any eye contact whatsoever.

And later, when I make for the door in what would be the final exit, there’s a feeling of severe heaviness all around me. I feel like a thousand eyes are following my every move. Suddenly I would walk out of the hall into the waiting arms of freedom; where the ATM belongs!

SOMETHING WITHIN

2009-06-30T19:45:00.007Z

The dimly lit bar was unusually empty that night and to think that the following day was a Saturday added to my surprise. It was about 4:30pm at the time I entered the bar and even though I was surprised it was empty, I still had a flicker of hope – maybe and just maybe, the familiar faces that filled the bar every Friday night would soon appear and bring everything to life. I checked my phone to see if I had missed a call but surprisingly, none of my friends had called. What was happening? I found myself asking aloud. Earlier in the week, we had planned to meet at the Midnight Bar after work to unwind. The week, having been hectic for all four of us, we thought a night-out on Friday at our favourite bar wouldn’t be a bad idea. I dialled Akwasi’s number and waited for the call to connect. It didn’t. I tried again and the result remained the same. So I called Kasper. The call connected but his line was very faint and I couldn’t hear him. I cut the call deliberately and dialled his number once again hoping to hear him more clearly.

‘Hello, hello! I shouted into the phone and promptly heard a repeat of the same words at the other end of the line. It was harsh and sounded very angry.

Hello, hello! The voice went.

‘Kasper? I asked the voice at the other end of the line.

Kasper? I heard the voice repeat.

It took about five seconds for me to realise I was hearing no one but myself. Annoyed, I sighed heavily and cut the call.

‘Network problems, network problems…’ I muttered between clenched teeth.
My temper began to rise as I looked hard at the phone. I was annoyed that it could not connect me with my friends. The mere sight of it then became extremely repelling and as it lay uselessly in my palm, it looked so repulsive that I felt like throwing it down and shattering it into a thousand pieces. Suddenly, it moved slightly on its own accord and fell from my hands. It didn’t break. I picked it up almost immediately, and then turned round hoping to catch the sight of any familiar face. But seeing no one, I walked silently to our favourite spot inside the bar. I sat there for a while, my eyes searching the empty bar without any purpose. I stared hard at the empty chairs and tables until they began to look like hungry monsters ready to pounce and make an end of me. But before they could do anything however, the bar attendant dropped one of the drinking glasses and smashed it into pieces! The sound of the smashed glass startled me and I began to feel sweat beads forming on my forehead and under my armpits. Quickly, I removed my tie which had until that time been hanging loosely around my neck and asked for a bottle of beer. It was while waiting to be served that it suddenly dawned on me. I wondered why I had never thought about it.

There were about six attendants in the bar but one of them had always attended to me. I was taken aback when the realisation hit me. I had always seen the other attendants serving other customers but none of them except one ever attended to me. Somehow it seemed that particular lady had been tasked with the ‘holy’ mandate of attending to me anytime I came into the bar. I tried playing back time to see if I could remember at least one time some other attendant apart from that lady had served me. My mind went back to 24^th December the previous year; it was her I clearly remembered. On New Year’s Day, I recalled that it was that same lady who fetched our orders. I went on and on and at every point; I could remember none but her. I became a little confused. Did she know me? Had we met before? To these questions and more, my mind began searching for answers.

I thought of calling her the moment I see her so I could ask her a few questions. But what would she think? I wondered. Would she think I wanted to make advances at her? I played out the possibilities of that action and decided it was not worth it so I kicked against it. But just as I was about to remind the young man at the counter that my beer had not arrived, someone came out from behind the counter; she was holding a tray that contained a bottle of beer and a drinking glass. As she drew nearer, she smiled broadly and our eyes met momentarily; it was her. My heart skipped a beat as I waited for her to serve me. She was looking exceptionally beautiful that night; the play of light on her hair gave it some appeal every woman would crave for.

For the first time, I observed her closely and couldn’t help but wonder why I never noticed her. She had lovely dimples on both cheeks and they complemented her every smile with absolute charm. She wore a fitting red spaghetti shirt over an equally fitting black skirt. Her dark skin glittered with reflections of light in the bar and her strong perfume filled the air all around me. I noticed that her eyebrows hanging limply above her eyes did not look like eyebrows at all. They looked like thin black marks made by the sloppiness of a little child on a writing slate. They looked very funny but somehow, I could not bring myself to admit it. I was feeling like a mighty king smitten with the love of a common girl who would not dare so much as appear before him or even mention his name. This lady stood about five feet, four inches and when she began to speak, her words fell softly and tenderly on my ears. I felt dizzy.

“Good evening braa” she said as soon as she placed the aluminium tray on the table.

“H-hh-h-ello” I responded and waited for her to pour me my drink.

She did that in a matter of seconds and was about to leave the table when…

“Err…hello?” I said causing her to stop immediately. She stopped so suddenly that she almost tripped from those high-heeled shoes that seemed to have been forced onto her feet.

“Ye-es” she replied and then turned to face me.

“I was wondering if I could umm…ask you a question? I said.

A look of surprise suddenly spread across her face. She smiled shyly and nodded.

“Have we met somewhere before?

“Please no…” she said trying very hard to avoid my gaze. And then as if she had suddenly remembered something, she said rather quickly:

“Ah! But you have been coming here always? I could tell she was puzzled.

“I mean, have we met somewhere else apart from this bar? I explained. She simply shook her head, her hair blinding her left eye momentarily in the process. There was a short silence.

“What is your name? I asked trying to sustain the conversation. She looked at me for a while and then looked round about her as if to make sure no one was listening.

“Alema” she whispered and quickly turned to go.

I wanted to call her back but I didn’t. Instead, my eyes followed her every move until she was completely out of sight. I heaved a sigh of relief and raised my glass; it was the second time I was doing that, that night.

My phone began to ring; it rang with such intensity that I was suddenly jolted from the company of my thoughts back into reality. I snatched if from the table and then…

“Sorry…” Akwasi apologised from the other end of the line.

“But why didn’t you tell me you weren’t coming? I asked, annoyed at his irresponsibility.

“The car broke down in the middle of heavy traffic…”

“And you couldn’t call to tell me?

“Hmm…the whole thing happened so fast we all forgot to call you…”

“Anyway, are you guys coming? I asked to cut a long story short.

Akwasi assured me he would be there with the rest of my friends in a matter of minutes. So I waited. Soon, the bar came alive; people began trooping in and the DJ for the night had just raised the volume of the music, which was until then playing mildly in the background. I tapped my feet to the lovely sound of Congo’s Bongo Man, which had succeeded in bringing a few people to the floor. I watched them with little interest; my mind fantasising about Alema all the time. She had made an impression on me and I wasn’t going to forget. The sudden longing to see her again was so strong my heart started beating. I wanted to get to know her better. I desired her and wanted her to be mine!

Later when my friends came over, I had lost interest in everything. Their loud chatter and general liveliness failed to excite me and when it was time for us to leave, I was not prepared to go. They insisted but I had made up my mind; I would stay and wait for Alema. One after the other, everybody left the bar and I was left alone. Some of the attendants began to collect the empty bottles and glasses from the tables and one of them had already started sweeping. The dust of bygone activity rose with every movement of her broom and gradually managed to push me out of the bar. But I didn’t leave; I stood outside waiting for that moment when she would step out.

I didn’t wait a long time. After about fifteen minutes, the door creaked open and she stepped out. The moment I saw her, I lost my sense of control, I did not notice the surprise on her face, I did not realise she was frightened; I even forgot I had barely met her. I threw myself at her and embraced her tightly. A struggle ensued and we both fell – I struggled to cling to her; she struggled to break free from my grip.

“Calm down, calm down” She said.

I struggled to regain my grip but I couldn’t; my arms and legs felt numb as I lay on the bed. I was tied to it; but how come?

“Calm down, calm down” the nurse repeated while holding me down with both arms. As she bent over me, her name card read: Rose Fynn – Accra Psychiatric Hospital.

MADNESS ON ULERE STREET

2009-01-16T17:19:00.020Z

The streets were busy as usual. It was a few minutes to 5:30pm and as was often the case; vehicles of all sorts, old, new, rickety, dented, painted, scratched and all were chasing each other as if competing for the ultimate Formula One crown. Drivers raced with such determination, as would no doubt make the legendary Michael Schumacher very envious. Some blew their horns loudly apparently giving instructions to naive and ignorant drivers who in their view had no business sitting behind the steering wheel.

Occasionally, huge overloaded trucks blew their horns bringing about some kind of order that quickly vanished as soon as the trucks went out of sight. Everyone was in a hurry; it was obvious that the looming traffic situation created anxiety that terrified them. They did not want to be there when it happened. One major characteristic of this street was that, the heavy traffic situation worsened with each passing day. That was because, whatever the controlling mechanisms were, they just weren’t working. From the part of the street where a rusty road sign read Ulere Street to the point where it joined two diverging streets, one could count at least three traffic lights that had not seen repairs in ages. From afar, they raised the hopes of many only to discover later that none of them did so much as blink. These together with sheer indiscipline were enough to scare anyone away; but day after day, drivers came along and at the close of business each day, the heavy traffic situation descended like a plague devouring every minute and every second.

Osam stepped on the accelerator of his slightly used Opel Astra as he hurriedly made his way out of the company premises. He had closed a bit later than usual and the thought of being trapped in traffic on Ulere Street made his head, ache. He would have left earlier but one of his clients had called him thirty minutes before the close of business and had asked to see him. Frankly, he thought of turning him down but not when that client was responsible for making him meet his financial targets the previous year. He remembered the many congratulatory messages he received from his colleagues when his CEO announced during one of their numerous staff meetings that he was the only Client Service Executive to have met his targets before the last quarter of that year. There was a resounding applause that rose and filled the whole building drowning every bit of quiet that had preceded the announcement. He smiled as scenes of that particular day flashed through his mind. But his smile was short-lived. Suddenly, it dawned on him that he really shouldn’t be smiling at all. Today was different, he wasn’t in a staff meeting, people were not singing his praises; he was stuck in the middle of a heavy unending traffic for goodness sake. That’s what was happening! Looking ahead, he could see the traffic building up gradually; what he desperately wanted to avoid was approaching slowly and he felt helpless. He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them as quickly as he had closed them. The situation was still the same, a confirmation that he was not dreaming. He clenched his teeth, hit the steering with his hands and then covered his ears with both hands. The noise from the honking of vehicles, the frantic shouts from petty traders, the confusion raging in his mind and the racing of time as displayed on his dashboard disturbed him and he grew angry.

Ulere Street located right in the middle of the Capital City was named after a little village located in the Southern part of Africa. It was said that, the local Member of Parliament on an official trip to Southern Africa, discovered that ‘Ulere’ which meant ‘son of a god’ in his native tongue, was actually the name of a village in Malawi. He was fascinated and it was supposed that his excitement with that discovery led him to insist on naming the street after that village. Many said that during the sod-cutting ceremony, some of the locals thought a more relevant name would be chosen for the street but they were wrong. The Right Honorable member had other plans.

“This street will be known as Ulere Street,” he said after welcoming everybody to the function. There were murmurs in the crowd but he did not pay attention. Even if he did, his mind was already made up. ‘Ulere’ came to stay.

Ulere was famous for its beautiful environs and infamous for its heavy traffic. When traffic was at its heaviest, one could stay on the streets for close to two and half hours during which no vehicle would move. The situation at Ulere had been the subject for discussion on many radio stations in the city.

‘The situation is frustrating, depressing and disappointing, we’ll all die of this!” a caller yelled frantically during one of such discussions on Voice FM, a leading radio station in the city. Several appeals had been made to the government to do something about the street but nothing had been done. Some had suggested a dual carriage road, others hailed the idea of constructing an overpass and the likes but sadly the situation remained intact.

Osam rolled down his windscreen and put off the air-conditioner. He wanted to switch off the engine but he decided against it. The vehicle in front of him had been at a standstill for ages; its engine was off and its visibly irritated driver was shouting unpronounceable obscenities at another driver.

‘Why do you ‘cross’ me like that? Are you mad?’ are you…? He yelled.

The other driver thrust his left thumb out insultingly and spat onto the street in absolute defiance. Osam’s face contorted in disgust. What on earth was going on? He looked behind him, there was a long trail of vehicles; beside him, a scantily clad little girl carrying little bags of chilled water in a near-rusty bucket was busily shouting to whoever would hear: ‘ice water, ice water!’ Others behind her were exhibiting their wares with various shouts of acclamation. They tried to get the attention of everyone on the street and when one of them decided to try her charms on Osam, she was quickly turned away with a wave of his hand. The young girl simply moved from his car to another. She could not be bothered…

Soon the vehicle in front of him began to move; he stepped on the accelerator, moved a few inches forward and came to a halt almost immediately. He almost hit the vehicle in front of him. He sighed bringing both hands down on the steering. In his desperation, he blew his horn sending irritable waves through the driver in front. The driver reacted promptly - his hand shot out of his car and he pointed his forefinger upward telling Osam to go ahead and fly if that was what he wanted. Osam could not believe it. He opened his mouth to say something but he could not. Then the driver started raining insults on him. His voice was a little distant but Osam could hear him clearly. ‘Kwase-eaa…abo-aa!’ He shouted; he would have gone on and on if Osam had not decided enough was enough. The next moment, he was out; walked straight to the car in front and held the driver by the shirt. With all his might, he pulled him out of the car after opening the front door.

‘What do you mean by that?’ Osam demanded shaking him violently.

‘Let go of me, let go of me...’ he yelled and fought back.

Osam pressed even harder. He was upset and could not be stopped. He placed his left arm under the driver’s chin and pressed hard. Other drivers came out from their cars and surrounded the two in an attempt to separate them. After a very long struggle, they succeeded. Osam was obviously not amused. He tried to break away from the many hands that held him back but they proved stronger.

He shouted, kicked and resisted but he was powerless against the countless hands that held him. They hauled him to his empty car and managed to get him to sit. Moments ago, he had rushed out of this car like an angry warrior ready to face the enemy. Now he was being dragged back like a captured slave who had attempted an escape from his master’s domain. Slowly, he reached for his seat belt and attempted buckling up. He pulled the seat belt; it did not move. He struggled with it for a while but it did not budge. Disappointed, he gave up and leaned back. The long trail of vehicles that followed his car remained exactly as they were when he left it. None had moved and traffic was at its heaviest.

But after a while, the vehicle in front of him started moving and he followed. The fact that he was still following that car, the object that had brought him so much anger, irritated him. He tried hard not to look at the driver; he would not be able to concentrate if he did so and he knew it. He could feel his body shaking with an intense desire to finish what he had began. He had to teach that man some sense. He had to let him know he could not show such disrespect to anybody and get away with it. He looked at himself in the driving mirror and was shocked at what he saw. His hair was messy; his shirt was crumpled by what seemed like a thousand fingers. And to top it all, there was a mild cut above his left eye.

‘How did he get himself into all that in the first place? He paused to think. His mind went back to the moment he moved his car out of the office. If only he could turn back the hands of time, maybe he could have avoided this mess he found himself in. He heaved a deep sigh, stepped on the accelerator and moved on.

Soon darkness began to fall and the tired and weary Osam was close to home. He had lost sight of the infamous ‘car-in-front’. It was long gone. He looked at his face in the mirror one more time and silently mumbled something. He swore he would never allow himself to be dragged into such mess again. Deep down, he wished he had stayed in his car, he wished he had never allowed his anger to get the better part of him. What if somebody saw him? What if a friend or colleague had seen him, Nana Osam himself fighting in the streets? The thought made him shiver. He had been careless and stupid.

Slowly he reached out his hand to pick his phone; he had remembered he needed to make a call. There was no phone. He searched both pockets with one hand while driving with the other. He did not find it. He searched the small safe on the right side of the steering wheel, he even tried looking down but he didn’t find anything. A cold shiver went down his spine. He bit his lips and searched again but there was nothing; his phone was gone…

BORED ROOM

2008-12-19T16:34:00.004Z

She sat by the table, her legs stretched out and her feet out of her shoes. Once in a while, she unconsciously lifted them up in an attempt to place them on the table- a bad habit she had acquired in college. Fortunately, there were seven other people in the room to remind her she was not alone. This reminder ensured her legs stayed where they were.

Six members of the committee, including herself sat around the huge table that stood right in the middle of the conference room. The seventh member, the chairman, was busy giving a long, incomprehensive speech. He stood at the extreme end of the room with a marker in hand, facing the white board that was a few inches behind him. His well-tailored black suit provided a sharp contrast to the white blinds that covered the glass window behind him. He spoke haltingly and had a certain hesitation about him that cast a slow spell on everyone. Occasionally, he stopped to wipe the beads of sweat that dripped from his baldhead onto his stern face.

The time was 1:35 pm and the rays from the burning African sun were competing with the old air conditioner in the room. The rays were winning without much effort as one of the younger committee members at the far end of the table had already started loosening his tie.

Right across him, Amanda, one of her colleagues was fanning her face not only to keep cool, but also to lessen the musk of black polished leather emanating from the chairs. Even though the acrid smell was familiar with that room, it was worse today because the heat accentuated it with every passing minute.

She had been sitting there for about forty-five minutes and nothing had changed. The chairman was still talking and even though it was clear he was headed nowhere, he went on and on. Here he was now inviting contributions on an issue that was not even on the agenda.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the floor is now open…’ he said, looking intently into everybody’s face.

‘Floor is open for what?’ she whispered to Aba, the front office executive who was sitting beside her. Aba merely shrugged and leaned back in her chair. She looked round, no one stirred so she did the same; she leaned back in her chair and looked up. Little beads of sweat began to form on her forehead; she dabbed them gently with her handkerchief and remained in the same position. Her wandering eyes came to settle on the notepad she had put on the conference table in front of her. Somehow she had forgotten it was there. She leaned forward and grabbed it; as she did so, one of her male colleagues turned to look at her. Their eyes met briefly and she forced a smile.

She opened her notepad; maybe she could try writing something to keep her focused for a while. But a desperate attempt to write proved daunting, she knew she just wasn’t ready so she leaned back again and raised her eyes. The big ceiling above her met her gaze and she began to observe it carefully. It was white all round and the wooden frames that had been fixed under the cement covering looked very exotic. The designs were definitely not African, she thought. They looked Italian, she concluded. That impressed her. Unfortunately, the near-rusty ceiling fans did a great disservice to the majestic ceiling. It was like patching a brand new dress with a tattered cloth. The blades of the ceiling fan were rotating rather speedily above her and they made an occasional squeak. Looking at them for long made her feel dizzy. She already started imagining how the thin metallic hooks holding them up could break loose from the ceiling and fall on her, slicing her to a thousand pieces. She shuddered at the thought and started thinking about changing her sitting position.

But then, she hadn’t felt that way until now. The fans had always been there. From the start of the meeting until then, their blades were rotating and making that occasional squeaky sound that now terrified her. Why didn’t she feel that way from the beginning, why didn’t it cross her mind that they could actually come crashing down on her? Maybe her sudden concentration on those lofty spinning devices was the cause of her anxiety. She looked round and decided she would not change her sitting position. She was right; as soon as she dropped the thought, her anxiety ceased.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes. She felt a little uneasy; she removed her overcoat slowly and disengaged the first button on her shirt. The meeting was still going on; she could not believe it. How she wished it were all over. She felt desperate and frustrated. She wanted to jump out of her skin but she couldn’t. She wanted to lie down but she couldn’t bring herself to do that. Everything was dragging slowly around her and she felt giddy. She looked at her watch; it was as if the minute hand had gone to sleep and the second hand was painfully slow. What was happening to her? She wondered. Was she having a nightmare or was it really happening? She yawned loudly and as she did this, she looked round shyly; she wanted to check if anyone was looking. Nobody looked her way so she stretched and moaned; her heavy eyes closing in the event. She leaned back again and began to doze…

Soon she was gone but not for long. Aba nudged her back into reality sending a sharp pain through her. She opened her eyes to find everyone staring at her; ‘Do you care to share your dream with us Sompa?’ the Chairman asked...

A CONTINENT ON THE MOVE

2008-10-10T10:22:00.011Z

Described as the ‘Dark Continent’ by the media, Africa has always been in the news as a continent of poverty, corruption, political instability and a safe haven for every parasite, virus, bacteria and all kinds of health hazards. It has been said by critics that, some of these pieces of information on Africa are hyped and most often blown out of proportion. They have even questioned why the ‘good side’ of Africa has not been given much media attention. Is there a conspiracy to paint the Dark Continent even darker than it already is?

According to a very recent UN report, life in Zimbabwe, a country in the southern part of Africa is the shortest! This report states that, neither men nor women in Zimbabwe are expected to live up to forty years! In addition, this same country has the highest inflation rate in the world according to the Guinness Book of records. That’s not all. The top ten countries with the lowest life expectancy rates in the world are all found on the continent of Africa. It seems correct to say that, Africa is the continent with the most problems dating back to the colonial era to the present. This continent has been oppressed, looted of resources, looked down upon and marginalised for centuries. The odds from all indications are against her. Is there a future for Africa in view of recent events coupled with the attitudes exhibited by her leaders?

The political life of Africa is synonymous with the word, ‘instability’. Military interventions have characterised the political scene in Africa for so many years and sad to say, they still do. A greater number of the countries on the continent have either experienced coup d’états or have had civilian rulers who have amended the constitution over and over again to enable them remain in power a little bit longer. Some of these leaders also managed to declare themselves presidents for life and did away with democracy. Interestingly, some military rulers gradually metamorphosed into civilian rulers because the thought of relinquishing power to the civilians haunted their imaginations and terrified them; they could not think of forfeiting the ‘pleasures’ of being in power to life as ordinary citizens. So on the ‘throne’ they remained until they died or were toppled. Such has been the political situation on continent.

In the mid 60s down to the early 90s, it was a common thing to hear about the seizure of power by the military any moment on your radio set. It would begin with a sudden interruption of radio programming, a medley of patriotic songs would follow and then a sudden harsh announcement that would signify the official take-over by the military. The leaders were mostly junior ranking officers who would cite corruption and mismanagement as the reason for their intervention. They would in turn stay in power for a long time leaving the worst corruption records.

A classic example is President Yoweri Museveni of Uganda. Over twenty years ago when he came into power through a military junta, he cited leaders who stayed too long in power as one of Africa’s major problems. Nineteen years later, he thanked members of the Ugandan parliament for voting to scrap term limits that would have ended his presidency. He is even on record as saying: “…that (presidential term limits) provision was not wise at all, because the problems Africa face are not time-bound…”In the 1970s and 80s, many African countries were being run either as one-party dictatorships, or by military governments. Countries such as Nigeria, Mali, Uganda, Ghana, Ethiopia, Togo, Upper Volta (now Burkina Faso), Niger and Chad are examples. Some of these military heads have either stepped aside or melted into civilians and contested elections.

Blaise Campaore of Burkina Faso, Mathieu Kerekou of Benin, Yahaya Jammeh of the Gambia, Lansana Conteh of Guinea and Jerry John Rawlings of Ghana can be cited. I dare say that many an African leader has not come to terms with free speech, equal rights and the rule of law. To them, these are ideals that cannot work in these parts of the world. It is surprising to note that, Africa’s great leaders who fought tirelessly to wrest power from the colonialists saw the need for freedom. They argued that, the African must be given the right to rule and make decisions for himself. In a way, they saw the need to give equality a chance; they wanted democracy. But sadly, the ‘pleasures’ that accompanied life at the top got into them. So they woke up one day and decided that no one was as wise as they were; they concluded that, they had to rule until their dying day. Thus they stifled all opposing voices and placed an embargo on the formation of political groupings. But in those days, Julius Nyerere of Tanzania showed a deeper commitment to the rule of law when he stepped down from power after completing his term of office.

The likes of Nyerere have been very few in contrast to the likes of Nkrumah (who declared himself President for life) but the trend is changing! Indeed the old order is gradually giving way to the emergence of a new crop of leaders. John Kufuor of Ghana, Abdoulaye Wade of Senegal, Festus Mogae of Botswana and a host of other African leaders can be said to be championing the cause of democracy and the rule of law and this has made military uniforms and long strings of military accolades, very rare at Presidential summits. Also, with the West African Regional body, ECOWAS, stating emphatically that it would no longer tolerate military coups, the AU showing signs of disapproval regarding military juntas, such interventions are becoming very rare on the continent. Even the Comoros are now quiet. At one point in 2001, three coups were recorded in two months! In one instance, one coup-maker was in power for just a single day! There are still hot spots in parts of West Africa and the Great Lakes region and very recently, Chad and Mauritania. But there is every reason to believe that sustained and delicate attempts at peace on the part of the ECOWAS and the AU combined with pressure from the UN and other western aid agencies will be able to keep the army out of the political arena for a very long time.

The issue of women in African politics is a refreshing trend worth noting. At least three women have held Vice Presidential positions in South Africa, Zimbabwe and Burundi; one has been Prime Minister in Mozambique and another, Prime Minister in Sao Tome and Principe. In Liberia, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf has broken through what used to be a man’s wall to become the first female elected President of an African country. These emerging trends are a sure sign that there is a current wave of change blowing across the continent. With a gradual shift to multi-party democracy, respect for the rule of law and Ellen Johnson-a mother who has already started incubating the yet-to-be hatched prowess of a new Liberia, I strongly believe we will wake up one day to the dawn of a new Africa.

L'AFRIQUE NOIRE

2008-08-20T14:38:00.001Z

They say we are dark

Still others refer to us as black

They say our hopes are dashed

Our inner strength, feeble and quashed

We were only good for their plantations

And from us they fed and enriched nations

Yet they did not regard our ability to reason

Our minds to them, belonged to prison

They broke all forms of resistance

Offering no form of assistance

Our mothers cried for lost lives

Our fathers could not overcome with knives

We were reduced to beasts of burden

Our eyes tired and heavy laden

We trembled under the yoke of oppression

And fumbled with sounds devoid of expression

Yet our dreams live on

The present and future battles will be won

From the tracks of Olympia

To the ideals of the land of utopia

We will arise and shine

We will no longer whine and pine

The brightness of the sun will comfort us

And nothing can stop us

Emmanuel Amankwah (20-08-2008)

ADVERTISING QUOTES

2008-05-20T17:06:00.000Z

"Kodak sells film, but they don't advertise film. They advertise memories"
(Theodore Parker)

"If you can't turn yourself into your customer, you probably shouldn't be in the ad writing business at all"
(Leo Burnett)

"The most powerful element in advertising is the truth"
(William Bernbach)

"Creative without strategy is called 'ART'. Creative with strategy is called 'ADVERTISING'"
(Jef Richards)

"Doing business without advertising is like winking at a girl in the dark. You know what you're doing, but nobody else does."
(Stuart H. Britt)

FATHER FORGETS

2008-05-19T09:57:00.000Z

After over 10 years, i have gone back to reading Dale Carnegie's 'How To Win Friends and Influence People'. I couldn't help but fall in love once again with W. Livingston Learned's 'Father Forgets'; it is an absolutely brilliant piece-i think everyone should read it. So, here you are. This is as appeared in the Reader's Digest...

Listen, son: I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guiltily I came to your bedside.

These are the things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor.
At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called, “Goodbye, Daddy!” and I frowned, and said in reply, “Hold your shoulders back!”

Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came up the road I spied you, down on your knees, playing marbles. There were holes in your stockings. I humiliated you before your boyfriends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Stockings were expensive and if you had to buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son, from a father!
Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in timidly, with a sort of hurt look in your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door. “What is it you want?” I snapped.

You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs. Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding;this was my reward to you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of youth. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years.
And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character. The little heart of yours was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me good night. Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your bedside in the darkness, and I have knelt there, ashamed!

It is a feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours. But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: “He is nothing but a boy, a little boy!”
I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your cot, I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you were in your mother’s arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much.

The Count of Monte Cristo

2008-03-10T16:30:00.001Z

Chateu D'if! your walls, your dung filled floors, your gloomy surroundings, your hopeless enclaves and your terrible wardens! Two nights in your bossom and one is sure to loose his senses! You captured and imprisoned for three years and a decade! How cruel? how inhuman? In the end, a priest and a mantra: GOD WILL GIVE ME JUSTICE overcame. Now tell me, where lies your power? where lies your grip?

Monsieur Morrell is a very fine gentleman and an excellent portrait of the exemplary employer.

Edmund's determination carries him through hardships that pay off in the end. He's resolute, the kind whose kindness is larger than life. He survived betrayal, he survived the bitterness and envy of failures like Danglar and Fernand. He survived the Chateu D'if!

Fernand is driven by selfish desires and the love for a woman who could never be his to betray and kill the soul of a beloved friend. He is the kind who will kill for selfish interests regardless of the consequences.

GOD WILL GIVE ME JUSTICE!

A tutor among tutors!

Dangle, dangle Danglar!

'...where is he? where is Edmund?...'

This particular phrase captures for me, the depth of love this lady had for Edmund.

Thinking creatively

2008-03-07T13:36:00.000Z

An idea is nothing more or less than a new combination of old elements
- Webb Young

An idea is delicate, it can be killed by a sneer or a yawn; it can be stabbed to death by a quip and worried to death by a frown on the right man’s brow.
- Charles Brower

We cannot open ourselves to new insights without endangering the security of our prior assumptions. We cannot propose new ideas without risking disapproval or rejection.
- Robert Grudin

leadership quotes for today

2008-02-20T09:23:00.000Z

H. Ross Perot:

Inventories can be managed, but people must be led.

Henrik Ibsen:

A community is like a ship; everyone ought to be prepared to take the helm.

Herbert B. Swope:

I cannot give you the formula for success, but I can give you the formula for failure: which is: Try to please everybody.

Isaac Newton:

If I have seen farther than others, it is because I was standing on the shoulder of giants.

James Callaghan:

A leader must have the courage to act against an expert's advice.

James Kouzes and Barry Posner:

There's nothing more demoralizing than a leader who can't clearly articulate why we're doing what we're doing.

leadership quotes for today

2008-02-05T10:23:00.001Z

Dwight D. Eisenhower:

You do not lead by hitting people over the head - that's assault, not leadership.

Edwin H. Friedman

Leadership can be thought of as a capacity to define oneself to others in a way that clarifies and expands a vision of the future.

Elizabeth Dole:

What you always do before you make a decision is consult. The best public policy is made when you are listening to people who are going to be impacted. Then, once policy is determined, you call on them to help you sell it.

Eric Hoffer:

In times of change, learners inherit the Earth, while the learned find themselves beautifully equipped to deal with a world that no longer exists.

THIS LIFE

2008-02-01T15:49:00.000Z

The road on which we trod
Is no easy a road
The fight which we must fight
Is no easy a fight
The successes we must chalk
Are no easy a thing to talk

At the end of the road however
We see hope that will not waver
Hope flowing from God almighty like streams
Like light from the maker, it beams
On this hope, our feet is established
On this hope, we will emerge accomplished

01-11-03

love fulfilled

2008-02-01T15:13:00.000Z

Love fulfilled
I’ve spent my life looking for you
Finding you wasn’t easy a thing
Years of thoughts and questions
Moments of sighs and breathlessness
Have now turned into wonder and amazement
For a moment, I feel I’m not me
I have released the long dreaded
I have looked hard at what I call love
And dared to open my mouth
But love smiled at me, winked and beckoned me nigh
My heart is gladdened, my soul throbs with excitement
Welcome my love, welcome into a longing heart
I love you.

September, 2007

EVERYDAY

2008-02-01T15:12:00.000Z

EVERYDAY
(Ode to Stethoscope)

Everyday, my thoughts spin round and round and settle on you
Everyday, thoughts of you give me a tingle and a stir
Everyday, I wish I were near you
Everyday, I keep loving you
Everyday, my love keeps growing for you
Everyday, I wish I could speak to you
Everyday, the first dial on my phone reveals your name
Everyday, I talk to God about you
Everyday, I wonder if you love me
Everyday, I wish you were in my arms
Everyday, I wish you knew how I feel
Everyday, I wish I could make you know how I feel
Everyday, I want to celebrate your good qualities
Everyday, I thank God for you
Everyday, you feel far from me
Everyday, I long for you
Everyday, I ask, ‘will you long for me?’
Everyday, I become a little bit afraid
Everyday, I feel you will not want me!

emmanuel amankwah (08-02-06)