Because They are Children

I do not care what tired toes I tread on – it is an inferior culture which treats children churlishly; no rational respect. At an otherwise winning wedding reception last Saturday on a sunny shore, the hungry minors were ejected by the MC from the querulous queue at the food table, while the adults ate and wasted. Even the lower species feed their young first. Thankfully, the gracious groom had the children put back in front.

British Culture & the BHC’s BS

So much gravel is ground about the galled Ghana Civil Service and its castoff client-service culture. But subject your good self to the British High Commission’s main switchboard in Accra. They NEVER pick up. At least, the people at the ministries, talk to you.

BHC Switchboard: +233.21.221665,

Yellow Yeast at the Airport

I don’t know what triple-turned me off – was it the bushy boofiaa (two-edged afro) or the blister-bleached skin which was yellower than his banana necktie? Could it be the nasty red heads ‘pineappled’ all over his fermenting face, or the superior way he swept across the public space? Oh God, I whole-heartedly hated him on sight!

Wild Country

You aviate for 35 minutes, or dirt-drive for 4 hours. You arrive in another country - wild, untamed, raw, confusing. Cool customer service in Accra is on vacation, but this Gehenna of Graces does not even have it. You see some bum breakfast when the sun goes down, your a/c is fixed after the heat season, the internet crawls like it’s been caught in a net, and ‘civil’ civil servants treat you like some fetid felon. It’s really wild, even in Kumasi. So scary to leave Accra.

Paid Protectors? ‘Fraid they’re Gangsters!

No! We don't want to frighten visitors away, and almost everybody will go with hair unharmed while pacing through dark, dark, Accra. But half a dozen policemen were just jailed for rogue-robbing a businessman in his hapless hotel room. So, last night, at 9 p.m., I slackened speed to give two cops a ride up the Spintex Road. But, wanting to arrive safe and sound, I changed my mind and simply sped off.

The Perils of a Pretty Car

This time it hit cosily close to home. My main man was teeing down the Tema Motorway and minding his own beeswax, as he always does, when a hail of heavy objects hurtled into his windscreen. There, in the shadowy shrubs, he was meant to halt, be hustled, robbed and maybe hurt, but he hissed on with a smashed facade. And it was not even late. It’s sensible not to stop in Accra no matter what has struck your car.

Nightdress Parade

In the suburban streets of the City of Accra, when the daylight is already broader than their sofa hips, many women sail about in their sheer nightclothes. At a 6 O’clock convenience kiosk, this mammoth matron scratched her Grand Canyon through the rear of her see-through frock, right in front of paralysed passersby. A keen-eyed mate suffered this, and thought it bloggable material for me.