Yesterday, the amazingly azure Atlantic, in the middle of the Accra inferno, looked so strangely out of place. Calm and yet powerful; angry but not about to break the frightened shore. It was oh so postcard perfect, even from a mile away. The horrible heat, grotesque buildings and aspiring-but-ailing air conditioning put my mind on holiday and kept drawing my tired eyes to the far-off, deep-blue beauty.
Something really big is about to melt or vaporise in the repressive heat of the city of Accra. It might be the ocean, or a big hotel, or the Freedom and Justice Monument, or the Korle Lagoon. I have heard a question whispered a million times. Each time, it gets no answer. Can this furnace frizzle the brain? Thinking fearfully about it, I realise I do not really want the answer. But Accra sorely misses the rain.
But many are they who love the torrid air. These Accraians live on dry beds of land which come suddenly to life as ravenous rivers or rapid waterways when the heavens sprinkle three drops of water. My goat-herd guess is that these Accraians number three-to-one more than the rest of the city residents. Since their prayer against the arrival of the rain is far more ardent, far more desperate even, something monumental will liquefy in the city of Accra.
Many anaemic generations of city authorities with their rigorous regulation and perfect planning have done their utmost best to ensure that the rainy seasons come and wash through the Aegean Stables of Accra, together with the filth, houses, and little-valued human lives. Next, they will be asking for national medals.