I looked languidly on the latest instalment as it unfolded squat in the umbra of the Police HQ. The callow caitiff was in fine flow controverting the cyclist cops to the point of perishing the thought that they really saw what they thought they saw – a traffic transgression.
The violated victim veiled his Factor-8-deficient face with his hands, in disconsolate disbelief. Betwixt plaintive cries, he’d part his fingers to take a peek at his damaged caoutchouc car.
People who drive in Accra do not know fault, will not accept mistakes, and will obfuscate fact with aggression and mob-attracting sabre rattling. Why are we so dishonest? So are we honest when we’re not driving?