A combusting, constipating quarter in the city of Accra is couched on the cold and rocky coastline, by the Giant Gulf of Guinea. It pans out up-shore, across a major street and over red-earth flatlands. It offers boundless sweeps of hibernating beaches, except for enchantingly cultivated choice strands where elegant, self-indulgence-inducing hotels have gulped up the usable space.
Between its squashed southern estates and the two great hostelries, the fierce shingle streaks wild and primitive for maybe a double kilometre. The drive on the slightly bending dual carriage is spectacular unlimited, especially on low-traffic, moonlit nights. But the awestruck gazer is running risks of knocking down a dozen jaded jaywalkers at any time.
I’m bland and barren in imagining (no, I can imagine easily, really) what they treacherously traverse the streets for, appearing from nowhere and gambolling heedlessly towards the austere, inclement banks of the titanic Atlantic. They do not give pause, and stand to admire. So what in heaven’s holy moniker are they doing there?