The Ringing Lemons in the City of Accra

Would you accept a spanking new car which only drove in blind reverse? What dark torture might you devise for the man who sold you a wonder drug that lay wicked waste to your enchanting flower garden only to immunise the weeds as they defile your grounds? And though you may not be American, what would you think if you heard that GWB had hurriedly dispatched the sons and daughters of good American families to some senseless killing fields with no radio contact with their commanders?

So, what’s in a name? Simple, ego! The reason why we do not reject names that are simply not working, or are no longer working: Great Britain, The American Dream, The Dream Team, African Unity. See my direction? So, what’s in a name? Arrogance, snob appeal!

The City of Accra (as safe as she still is) is no longer the haven that she used to be. Every Accraian has a cell phone, or will soon acquire one. It is for security. The emergency lines have not been taught what an emergency is. While les sinistres are chasing you at night or tearing down your door, it makes sense to call your best friend and say simply, “Robbers, help!” Then, while you’re bound up and counting possibly your last seconds on Earth, your friend can call around for the police or whoever will help.

But how can we get help when the lion of service providers takes down the service for eight disquieting hours on a weekend night? It happened on Saturday. And when I was going to bed at 3 am, so many Accraians were crippled ceramic ducks.

They turn our lovely phones into lowly lemons; curious cars that only drive backwards; skyscrapers without stairs or elevators. Because of the snob appeal, Accraians will continue to use this service provider. A new addition is coming to town. Three million breaths wait, bated, expectant! Nokia did not make my phone to be a monument to inefficiency, silence, impotence.