Academic Licence to Kill

One misty, moisty morning, in the early 2000s, at the University of Ghana, Legon, a professor beat his student black and blue in his office. Now, lecturer-student battering was so common in those days, that this bludgeoning almost went unnoticed. Ok, that is not quite true. Because it was so hideously shocking, people started to ferret for information. Why would a distinguished professor lay aside his dignity and take his bare knuckles to the junior jawbone of a student? The answer arrived quick and thick with scandal. The martyred undergrad had taken two things from the cruel Sensei.

The dandy don was besotted beside himself with a girl in his African Studies class. Being all brawn, but not very ballsy, he found a boy in his class to deliver daily presents and notes of love to the Legon Lovely. Between the dispatch and handover time, confusion must have settled on his roguish mind, for the double-dealing Boy Student presented himself as the Giver-of-Gifts and the Lost-in-Love. So, Girl Student falls for Boy Student in the praying (or is it preying) Professor’s stead. Professor finds out, and gives Boy Student a first-degree demolition.

Foreskin Alert!

Spending a pleasant penny in the men’s room in our office building. Scary-looking dude clicks his hard soles into the room. Though there’s plenty of pee room beside me, dude is just standing behind me twiddling with his fly. I do a half-turn and fix a stern eye. Dude heads to the toilet-cubicles. I hear the jet of pee hit the bowl. Then, it all comes to me. Dude is hiding the fact that he still possesses a hermit prepuce!

Ideal Love for Your Partner

You have to view them
Like a star on TV.
Do not examine them
Under a microscope.

I’m Pregnant for You!

That got you reading, no? How many times I hear people say ‘pregnant for’ when talking about a gravid girl and her siring mate! The elusive preposition to put some cheery decency into the situational biology is ‘with’. ‘A’ is pregnant WITH ‘B’, and not FOR ‘B’, unless the obstetric outcome is under a curious contract by which ‘B’ paid money to ‘A’ to get pregnant for ‘B’. It could also sadly mean that ‘A’, who is pregnant, does not love the child, even before the poor thing is born. If you would say ‘with’, then we could all go away with gossip and the hope that the coming child arrives to love and not regret.

Fantasies of a 31 Year Old

So, what should you do,
When you're almost thirty-two,
With unexplored fantasies,
And hormones playing 'Tease'?

Crying Women in the City of Accra

What mighty misfortune visits, that a fully-grown, self-possessed woman should jaywalk like a just-orphaned waif, at solar-soaked midday, in front of the presidential palace in the city of Accra, ululating unconsoled, with her hands on her head, while searching the faces of anguished watchers in the traffic streaming by? Is that a portrait of how people generally feel about life? Huh? Huh?

Harmattan Heat Season

Cold, Dry Wind in jejune January
Hold your lecherous lick until I’m snoozing
Or blow your foxy feistiness the other way
I’ve made a painful promise of Chastity

A Rueful Class Reunion in the City of Accra

We had a mini reunion not many nights ago. One of our colleagues was taking the lead leap of launching his solo practice. We were all proud of him ... I hope :-). But two of the vicious vixens in our class were curare-paralysed with envy when another of the more visible of our guys touched down with his spicy senorita. She was in a dress cut and uncut to show off her young, cavernous, hips-don’t-lie body in many heart-stopping cameos. The sneers, snide remarks and non-discreet snickering didn’t make it to their already-ageing eyes. The rest of us loved it when mock choking turned real for the one with the most post-school, personal-life mistakes (I know it’s wicked, but it was fun).

Police Parasites in the City of Accra

I resent myself that I suffer myself to be bullied and bilked every night by the police at the checkpoints to give them money. It’s not that I flout the regulations or anything. They just get you to roll down; they see your young ... ish face, and then, they ‘pounce’ on you. They ask you how was work. They stretch out their arms unbidden, into your car and shake hands with you. Then, they ask you for a present for the closest doggone calendar event (past, present or future). Christmas, Easter, Eid, a Black-Stars win – or draw ;-) – etc. “Can I get my present for Prez Mills’s inauguration? Oh, won’t you make it double; Obama’s is just around the corner?!” I expect a fully-brawned-up cop to ask me for HIS Valentine’s Day present any day now! Eeek! Then, because they have condescended to shake hands with you, the familiarity obliges you to give them the money, even if the smallest note you have is by no means small.

Pool Parties in the City of Accra

I haven’t been to any yet (oh, won’t somebody invite me next time) so I speak only to toothsome tableaux and savoury polaroids I have sneak-reviewed. Seeing that there is hardly a body or ripple in the luscious eye of the pool, why do you christen the evening a pool party? Is it because of your liquid flirtations next to one? Or are you just extravagantly excited at the excuse (a water body nearby) to serve healthy portions of unwrapped eye candy which you would probably not at high noon in Central Accra, at the Golden Tulip or even in your Dzorwulu or Adenta neighbourhood streets?

Riding on the Middle Line

Death-defying motorcyclists creating an arrogant aisle between the regulation lanes. They overtake your tarrying car or ‘takeover’ your phone without your permission. Today, I saw a car skid and slug two riders on a bike behind me. They took a spill off their wheels; the bike slammed into my innocent rear bumper, the riders flopped heavily on my boot. I darted out to make sure there was no bump or blood on my car. It was only a little dent – no bigger than the size of the riders' combined brains. As I sat back in (it took all of forty seconds) people were carrying ‘twisted legs’ off the street. Will they stay in line next time?

Reality Check One

The Accra Air no longer crackles crisp with the electric electoral fairytales. Lethargically, people yield to real-life living. It matters not a rat’s arse who is the president – Accraians have to drudge, commute, pay bills, economise, agonise, save a little more than little and hope to acquire property that’s too big to fit in a box, the pocket or on a cart. Life’s like that! Trivia excites. Dreams and celebrations come in thick-coming fancies. But, now, it’s time to scurry into the fields, each man for himself, and dig some damn trenches.