I recently favourited a tweet by @Be_Wisdom: “Surburbia
is where the developer bulldozes out the trees, then names the streets after
them ~ Bill Vaughan”. Some developer or interloper whooshed a flame through a tin-and-wood
Central-Accra market that's crowded thick as fleas. The police won’t find the
arsonist. I suspect strongly that the cinders are intended to make way for the
construction of a capitalist, concrete-architectural crime-scene (how else to
describe the explosive sprout of sterile office and apartment blocks in the
least-green city that I know?). These traders are squatters in most of these
settlements – we all know that; but usually squatters on governmental no-man’s
land; permitted to settle for a decade or two or three. After the cinders, the
riots, the cracked skulls, the lies, the justifications and the public loss of
interest, a hideous and humongous habitat will hulk over the land that was
known as Kantamanto.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Friday, May 3, 2013
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
German Football Highs & Other Random Questions
Will all German teams now score 4 goals in their sleep?
Does live tv make court proceedings better?
Will Luiz Suarez grow up at last?
Will Apple's fortunes go down forever?
Does live tv make court proceedings better?
Will Luiz Suarez grow up at last?
Will Apple's fortunes go down forever?
Friday, April 5, 2013
MPs' Pay & Other Random Questions
Do our MPs really identify with us?
Will Hillary Clinton 2016 happen after all?
Will the government buckle to the doctors or lecturers first?
Who does the thinking for the National Service Secretariat?
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Illegal Chinese Miners & Other Random Questions
Who else will go on strike tomorrow?
Will the lights be on when I get home today?
How many guinea fowls will GHS47m buy?
Will China lend money to Ghana again?
Will the lights be on when I get home today?
How many guinea fowls will GHS47m buy?
Will China lend money to Ghana again?
Friday, March 22, 2013
Blogcamp 13...is about Tilapia
Nobody can regale you with the savoury story of how to 'tooth' the char-grilled
flesh off the skeletal frame of the Piscean, Tilapia, better than a
Ghanaian/Ghana-resident. That’s why I blog; I know the pulse of Ghana; I sing her
song.
Blogcamp 12 was a platter of soft-cooked Banku with devilish dollops
of sweet pepper, shito and Kpakpo, and a greasy pound of queen tilapia tiara’ed
with tomatoes and golden onions. A palette of pleasant people; soul-stirring storytellers
looking for an audience with eager palates.
So what will 13 be like? Come Saturday, come hungry for fun.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Social Media
Year - twenty thirteen
Samsung - Tech Queen
Hangout - Facebook/Twitter
Reason - Flirt with not one jitter
Others? - Those mental dances
Pay-off - Network it enhances
Samsung - Tech Queen
Hangout - Facebook/Twitter
Reason - Flirt with not one jitter
Others? - Those mental dances
Pay-off - Network it enhances
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
You No Go Sort Me Out?
‘Chale, I dey go house wey my fuel short. Make you sort me out.’
Impetuous, inane, puerile ... thing; moulding pie with putrid hubris
for filling. Demanding dough with a sense of entitlement. I stone-face him, power
up the window and cruise down Spintex Road.
‘Oh, you no go sort me out?’ he barks.
He does not say ‘please’ once. In my rear-view mirror, he’s already trudging
up Spintex Road.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
I Don't Know What to Say
Are you saying somebody will find 100 Cedis and give it to the anti-social person? Are you really trying to stop a bad habit?
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Flower Girl in the City of Accra
At Ridge, where Gamel Nasser Avenue deceives to fly over the Police
HQ, I watched a tight, green, Afric-fabric frock ‘hallmarked’ with delightful
petals...on a milk-choc mannequin on the move. Loose, flair-sleeves, rich-blue,
florid frills like garlands on the neck. Sitting on her body like the
immaculate skin of a flawless fruit. Frivolously creased at the hamper-hips,
where the dress rode up. Why did she have to go and tug it downwards? Our
little love affair was quickly done.
Monday, March 4, 2013
Chewing-Stick
I do it in private, not caring that
it’s become a scorned ex-lover since the 1950s. On Saturdays, after Colgate and
Listerine, I pull out a hard, light, chewable, juice-releasing stick of Tweapea,
and sweep its budding bitterness over every milky spot of enamel. The flavouring
flourishes into a fine, addictive tang. And teeth have never stood with more integrity
after such tender care.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
A Galaxy of Clothiers in the City of Accra
This threadbare city supplies its
own golden gifts. Clothiers, clusters of them, in kiosks are hung on the corner
of every street. Caftans, kabas and cardigans; suits, skirts and slits; jumpers,
jackets, jumpsuits and jeans; they make them all. Frocks, tunics and pajamas too. And there’s a tailor/dressmaker for every epoch, pocket and preference. Only
downside, your clothes will be ready in two weeks or three or six; it all
means the same thing to them.
Friday, March 1, 2013
No More Ice Cream in the City of Accra
There is no AC/DC in the city of
Accra. Electrons don’t crackle through our coils. There is no mint chocolate
chip, lemon custard, raspberry ripple. No strawberry or vanilla. It’s difficult
to know who to electrocute with ten thousand volts of blame (if you can find one volt, that is). Our city is hot and chock-full with hordes of idiots. Bubble
gum, pistachio almond, blueberry cheesecake, egg nog, daiquiri ice, Neapolitan!
There’s no frigging frost in your Frigidaire to keep the ‘ice’ gellid in your ‘cream’.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Ghana's Brand-New Bastille
Electricity, water, fuel, crime, traffic jams, corruption. Right now, Ghana feels like a big, brand-new Bastille.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Growing Old in the City of Accra
Dashing and hunching through the trenches of ‘37’, a soldier hops off
a moving truck and almost scythes down a two-rider scooter. A driver and his
puerile passenger disembark and force-push their cart of a van through the
narrow slits between cars onto the pavements. And an old man and woman snail
across three lanes five metres before the zebra crossing. They trundle along hand-in-hand,
smiling at each other, locked in some riveting powwow, ignoring jolting jalopy,
wayward warrant officer and bemused blogger. Oh, how I loved them!
Monday, January 14, 2013
The Tribute-Prince
The Denkyira
State held sway over the towns and peoples surrounding it. That was most of
southern Ghana today. It had subdued the Akan-speaking clan-towns for miles in
all directions. As a sign of its dominance, Denkyira required periodic tribute
from the defeated clan-towns. The Oyoko clan which had settled around Kumase
was required to send a tribute of a young male royal to serve at the court of
the Dekyira king, Boa Amponsem, at the capital of Denkyira, Abankesieso.
One
particular tribute was an Oyoko prince: tall, handsome, lean-muscled and
quick-witted. He showed early signs of military genius and quickly endeared
himself to the warlike king, who treated him like a son... almost. However, the
young man was not free to come and go as he pleased because he was still a kind
of slave. He was the toast of all at the court - both men and women.
One day, the
tribute-prince succumbed to the power of his charm over the women of the court
and (not knowing his place) spent the night with Ako Abenaa Bansoa, the King's
sister. Abenaa became pregnant. In accordance with the law, the ‘offender’ had
to be put to death. But he was a man of lofty fate, and his spirit would not
give up easily. He fled to the kingdom of Akwamu where he was given refuge by King
Ansah Sasraku. On several occasions, King Boa Amponsem sent people to King
Ansah Sasraku to demand the return of the fugitive tribute-prince, but the
Akwamu king refused. Although Akwamu was a powerful, warlike kingdom, Denkyira
was undoubtedly superior in power. Akwamu sheltered the prince at great risk of
war. But the war did not happen.
The tribute-prince
was dearly loved by the Akwamu king who had him drafted into the army. He
learnt the disciplines of strategy and tactics (and stratagem), and the complex
war formation of the Akwamu army. After many years, the tribute-prince wished
to return home. He had grand designs brewing in his head and in his heart. In
Akwamu, he was neither a tribute nor a slave. Therefore, King Ansah Sasraku not
only permitted him to leave, but also gave him 300 men from Akwamu's elite
forces. The men were tasked to ensure that the prince arrived safely, and
remained safe upon arrival, at Kumase.
With little
incident, the prince's party arrived ‘home’. He formed a strong bond with a
priest of unrivalled manipulative, hypnotic and mental power. They set about uniting
the Oyoko clan with the other clans through coaxing, manipulation and passion.
A new State was born – Asante. When Asante was ready, it marched a colossal
army against Denkyira. King Boa Amponsem had long died and been succeeded by
his 'son' Ntim Gyakari. In the Battle of Feyiase, the prince and his priest
friend struck a blow for independence by killing Ntim Gyakari and routing the
Denkyira army by using the Akwamu-style military formation.
The free Asante State was born. It would soon become a massive empire.
The name of the tribute-prince was Osei Tutu. In a dark, romantic twist of the
tale, some historical accounts hold that the slain Denkyira king, Ntim Gyakari,
was the very son Osei Tutu had had with princess of Denkyira, Ako Abenaa
Bansoa.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Brain Bogey
Near sinking Swanzy Arcade at 5 pm, when British Accra dwellers were streaming back towards the crowded coastline, we saw an office girl standing in the trotro line. Common-clothed in drab brown, we would have driven by with blinkers on had I not caught her entire forefinger 'pitchforked' deep up her nose...maybe she fishing for bogey in her brain.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Injunction
Two brothers are jousting over
who ‘owns’ a chair. There are other chairs in the room, but they both want ‘this’
chair. An injunction is taking the cushion off the contested chair so that
nobody can sit on it until mummy determines who ‘owns’ the chair.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)