In countless peopled crannies in the City of Accra, sheet wood and cardboard stalls defy realty regulations, and stand pretty prismatic; painted in red, yellow and white. Attending aft the counter is a boy or two or four (never a girl), sometimes completely bandaged with chef civvies – high hat, apron and all. He’s slightly obscured in sight and sound by all the frizzling, sizzling and smouldering.
A disorderly throng (never a quiescent queue) lays swinish siege to the kitchen kiosk, shouting three different orders in befuddling price variations (the fare is never more than three, what d’you think this is, a royalty restaurant?) The cooks will never muddle an order, a dazzling piece of magic.
The food is hot and generally safe. A quick and easy business for otherwise unemployed young men. A curious question though: why don’t women do check-check?