A Set of What?

I bet your system includes a planet called Pluto. 

2 reasons I wouldn't buy that.

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?

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?

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?

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.

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

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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’.

It's 'Success' We Want

... and they have sold students' books for ages!

Ghana's Brand-New Bastille

Electricity, water, fuel, crime, traffic jams, corruption. Right now, Ghana feels like a big, brand-new Bastille.

Please, Can They Dump It Dry?

As seen at Kuku Hill, Osu, Accra, yesterday.

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!

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. 

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.

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.

Axe Man on the Loose

This man has been selling these axes, no tomahawks, on the High Street for weeks now. He suspects/knows he is doing something wrong so he usually clutches them very close to his body. Is it that no cop has seen him? This was taken today (48 hours before the general elections).