Michael Jackson, Air Crashes & Other Random Questions

Why does anybody want MJ's autopsy photos?
Can Northwest Airlines Flight 255 be the last, please?
Would you take DXM for a cough?
Is Manuel Zelaya the better of 2 evils?

Sunday Night Out

There are only two or three cars cruising along the infinite streets. And couples nuzzle in shades, or drift along in languid, luxuriant gaits. In every hot-spot hang-out, the vacant tables warmly embrace you. The waiters are familiar and friendly; the service swift. And as Monday morning looms, there is a ‘nectar-ine’, natural reason not to linger too long on the night. Pacy drinks, gush-free goodnights, a dwarf drive home. Lovely, lovely evening.

Sunday at Work

Came to work in the rain
Didn't hear me complain
Either you're back on a plane
Or I'll do this again and again.

Egg is Meat

Sitting tight for warm, wonderful, well-done Waakye to wolf on Thursday afternoon, I waded into a wager with The Cat. I slickly staked the meat that would come with the food, knowing this Cat worshipped his cooked carcass. The Cat agreed on the fly. Intern Achiaa loosely let it slip to the Cat that I was not having my Waakye with venison or any kind of viande. The Cat asked what I was eating it with. In order that Intern Achiaa would not say “fish” and ‘salivate’ The Cat, I wisely whooped, “egg”. The Cat was silent for a trice. Then he came back, “but egg is meat”. Dear reader, what do you think? Is egg meat?

Catwalk

After work on Wednesday, the Beauty Queen regaled us with this droll memoir. Many years ago, her neighbourhood kiddies club organised a Pick-n-Act. This gaucho-guy who felt ‘très bien’ plucked the nod to ape [a model on] the catwalk. Cool Dude slumps slowly on all fours, and begins a feline tread.

The Accident

This morn, while braking at the traffic light
The car abreast was still in flight
But, too late, he changed his mind
And a big bus ate his behind!

The Liberty of Cremation

Hmm, Alpha Lion. He’s mightily mirth-provoking, these days. Alpha Lion is desperately disinclined to die. He aspires to linger on, on ephemeral Earth evermore. He double-dares divine delight under the darling domes of heaven. Alpha Lion is scant seduced by saccharine stories of eternal celestial praise and carols. He’s coolly considering cremation or cryonics when he expires geriatric. He confesses a carnal dread of not being able to inhale and exhale if he is interred upon death. Wow! He elects the liberating feeling of cremation!

Tracy & Stacy

i saw two of the same face
together in one happy place
feeding on the double beauty
became my pleasant duty.

Hmm, TV3, Long Tennis?

On its Saturday-morning enfants entertainment, TV3 shows an instructor coaching the callow school-goers on a rousing game with yellow-green balls, rigid rackets and a sprawling net on a concrete court. The ritzy caption on the screen calls it – LONG TENNIS! What are they teaching the infants? Erm, Roger Federer, can you sms me on how green the LONG at Wimbledon is, when you get there?

Broiled, Blistered Backside

Alpha Lion pitched an unblest rivalry with his big sister when growing up. One morning, he had heated his multi-purpose water in an aluminium bowl. Big Sis just wanted a cup for chocolate, but Alpha Lion would not share. He put a lid on the bowl of hot water, and sat on it, while still in his pyjamas. The lid slid and down he sat in the scalding water. The harder he tried to get it off, the tighter these pyjamas stuck to his simmering flesh.

When they finally stripped him down, he had to cool off the affronted arse, first in frosty water, and then in front of a standing fan. Then, for weeks, he had blister-and-burn treatment. Needless to say, he has learned his lesson. He loves all his siblings to bits. Alpha Lion just told me this story after work. I went looking for Tiger 2 and Black Rhino to help me strip down Alpha Lion to inspect the lingering scald marks, but he bounded down the stairs.

The Village Court

they come here
with problems
they used to solve
over a quick drink

and leave here
with new troubles
they did not have
in their simple days

what they seek
is alien to their ways
who they come before
does not think like them

On Closing Car Doors

Mother courtesy-trained you to hold a door by the handle, and shut it with good grace. That is how Breeding shuts the door. Many dumbly decided that Mother meant a door to, or in, a house. So, when they evacuate a car, they grasp the portal by the flank or edge, and fling it to a vulgar close. I really hate that.

Blip, Be Gone!

A blip on my radar
You almost never happened
A purposeless invader
You picked a shameful end

Gulf

TV3 is airing pithy promos for its premier sports programme – SPORTS STATION. They are bruiting about marquee sportsmen and women to catch the fire in people’s minds. On Saturday, they advertised a game of GULF. I know! It strongly suggests a curious contest in which the duellists bivouac themselves on opposite coastlines, and try to pilot petit, pockmarked balls across. Interestingly, they allied such a strange sport with a certain TIGER WOODS, who already governs the popular game – GOLF.

God's Real Presence

Seekers of God in a church room
Your ignorance may be your doom
For God lives right inside you
But you don't have a single clue

Public Bathroom Floor

This public bathroom floor
Was so messy and poor
To catch the 'animals' with proof
I went tracking each hoof.

The Cultural Cant of Itchy Palms

Please coach me on how many ‘clectic cultures are ’caroused’ by itchy palms. I would have placed it with the pilfering proclivity, but, in Ghana, it promises deluge-Dollars and endless Euros. To put the passé theory on trial, would you say that the S.O.L in straitened slums do not catch cacoethes in the palm? Or try asking the Makola mendicant how many times an itch has crystallised in cash for them. So, I came to the realisation, this monsoon morning, that an itchy palm means ... there’s an itch in your palm; nothing more!

Mad-House Justice

There’s a wretched squaw in epic need of mental health care, vegetating on the ‘sacred’ street below the Supreme Court building. In the smouldering daystar, in the drenching downpour, and even when the legion is lagging home, she’s ’plinthed’ on the parched pavement with her napless, dirt-caked, gamy body. One long month has crept by; nobody tries to help, for it is someone else’s job. When I was leaving the courts today, she was fast asleep – or freshly deceased – in the afternoon rain.

Emmanuella – The Guinness Song

Last night at the office, long after working hours, Alpha Lion and Tiger 2 were spiel-sparring in the hackneyed ring of flying fuel prices, emboldened ex-girlfriends and pedantic politics. Tiger 2 was scoring Hiplife tracks via his phone mp3 player, as he’s wont to do, and dancing the Caveman Stomp. When “Emmanuella” began to melodise, Alpha Lion’s face fluoresced, and he delivered a dum-dum, “this song go go plus Guinness paa oh”. Ever since we grappled with gathering our guffawing bodies off the shiny office floor, I’ve been in travails trying to find a link between the song and the stout... beyond the reason that it is Alpha Lion’s preferred alcohol, of course.

Routine Reminders

Everything prompts a melancholy memory of you! Shall I jig up a jumble sale in my house? Or shall I float a flea market in my heart?

The Women Ask Too

Saturday evening; a tall, elegant police woman at the security checkpoint. Black military boots, blue-black uniform – hugging her gym-going long legs, torso-tight, topmost button open. She reminds me of the woman-in-uniform idolatry. She saunters towards me, as if we’re both expecting something to happen. She asks me why I’m “chilling” alone. I know she’s seducing for money, but I decline to infer. I flash a serpent’s smile and wink, and gesture the passenger seat, if she really wants to “chill”. She waves me on. She didn’t smile the whole time. She reminds me, also, of the women-at-the-war-front debate, although this situation had a little milk poured over it.

Yellow Slipper in the Street

Moseying along the Spintex Road, past the bumpy link called Flower Pot, I gained on a banana-coloured flip-flop poised on the cusp of the street. Street vendors huddled together in market-conversation on the dusty shoulder, as other observers eyed the separated Siamese (the slipper) as if it was a shrine, or the magical mules of a saint. An excited ambulance had just jetted past five minutes earlier. I think that a car had scythed the lone yellow slipper from its twin and their wearer.

Business School Doctor

I’ve first-sighted this curious case of a daytime doctor, night-time malcontent who’s disbursed a decade of his life in med school; the nearest two years stitching up broken bodies. Now, he’s so foully frustrated by his failure to clip a suture in the hollow at the pit of his pocket. He’s elected to refract his career path to business school, and then become a billion-buck banker. I find this haplessly heartbreaking.

Kim Kardashian, The Racist Test & Other Random Questions

Has Kim Kardashian already picked an engagement ring?
What, on Earth, is a Red Fox Labrador?
Will Kaka really go to Real Madrid?
Is Havard serious with its 'Racist Test'?

The Demons Who Betray

What are the social lines? In a small society, where everybody knows everybody else, can friends go after their friends’ partners? Can your partner guiltlessly go for your friend? Which would mean that marriage is the only sacred grounds? If the answer is ‘yes’, then please go ahead and tell me the difference between ‘friend’ and ‘fiend’.