CRY, MY BELOVED CITY

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…

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

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

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

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...