The Kumasi I Saw

Kiz and I took a rugged road trip through the airy Aburi Mountains and not-so-novel New Juabeng, through the king-size Kwahu Highlands and Asante-Akyem to Kumasi (the second city). I may employ next week reliving the experience through my posts. But, to summarise it all here, the Kumasi I saw was weather-cool, traffic-light, better-roads, bigger-average-booty compared to Accra. Plus, there was chow aplenty. But Kumasi has probably more streetwalkers, more BO in polished places, less or no English, and precious little unleaded fuel (or knowledge about it). But nothing I have seen compares to the nighttime Bantama streets, nothing!

Two by Two

From my collection 'Amour Propre'

Two by two they slept that night
When the sky threw down her tears
And swathed the heart in a prickly cold
Chest to chest; arms around body
Their spirits tamed the unfriendly chill
Two by two they walked that night
When the wind pierced through their clothes
And formed death’s layer under the skin
Shivers begged for heat to touch
The frost stood tall and fiercer still
Two by two they kept the night
But one stayed lone to write a sad song.

Crool Black

The lack of light cuts clean, slim lines on the wearer’s frame. It recites racy elegance and calm confidence. It speaks of no need for silly frills to feel cool! But it also denotes death, buried sadness and tears. It is morbid, funereal. It is cruel. But when you put on black, questions fly at you: what is the tragedy? So, in Ghana, Black is crool (cruel + cool).

Is Hiplife Played Out?

It exploded on the scene, and mopped the floor with doddering Highlife. A social invasion of beaches and homes, ‘concerto-conference’ halls and cars, it lured mad crowds to its Low-Fi gigs, and forged its own vibrant ‘inside’ culture.

Now, it appears played out. Hiplife practitioners serve twice-told tales in the same humdrum, borrowed beats of ancient global chart toppers. As with all fads in Ghana that quickly fizzle into thin air, Hiplife is creeping and crawling tired.

Gari Fortor

Crisp, chewy, pan-roasted manioc granules softened and textured with a little oil. ‘Savouried’ with a dash of all your favourite spices. Balance-dieted with vegetables and fish or lamb or chicken. ‘Varietied’ up with kibbled Kelewele. Set down beside a cool, tall drink. Please, please, stop! I’m already dreaming of lunch at 6 a.m.

$20 Million to stand on

A female friend suggests sombrely that short men wrestle with more chimera challenges in finding true mates than almost anybody else. The cutting reality is that women on natural stilts will not have little men. Another, says she, is that compact women won’t want sawn-off men for fear of spawning imps and elves.. It is a selective science to save your sons the hardship of moneyless mate-finding (true love). My friend feels that a short man needs $20 million to literally stand on, before he should be ‘seen’ by a woman.

Sweet Mother, What It Look Like?

I was hanging out with my friend, Gee Oh, at the Golden Tulip Hotel’s swimming pool at the gloaming, and rationing on their best effort at Italian cuisine. A live band was keeping time on the same half-dozen rehearsed songs in changing cadences. We were challenging each other to a dance, when the band started “Sweet Mother”, but Gee Oh changed her suiting mind because people might have thought that she was my mother, although she looks pretty youngish herself. So, I was just wondering: does it matter what people think?

Forgiving! Unforgiving! And Proud of it!

My radiant birthday - I’m fuzzy-filled with la dolce vita of love lavished by my warm, wonderful friends, and I’ve been fairy-floating on a cloud. All the keen kindness means a lot to me, coming after the cruel coming of this year.

On my birthday, I always look back to all the despised persons that I’m holding something – anything – hideous against, and I fondly forgive them. I let it go. I did the same this morning. So, officially, I’m loving everybody freely.

BUT NOT THE SMOOTH-FACED SHE DEVIL! I hate her, I hate her, I hell-hate her! I still hope she comes to no good end. I will not forgive her. I so wish she had not called me today. But, then, I spat on her false birthday wishes!

Wednesday, I Love You

I love Wednesday. Because Kiz and I like to hang out on weeknights (so why not Wednesday?) Then there's all those crowded weekends at all the fun places, and I'm a crowd-hater. Maybe it's because Monday's long gone, and Friday's finger-flirting with me from a fraudulent distance. Or because, by Wednesday, I've really got into the groove of the working week. Maybe it's because of that pair of Delilah-licious, luscious legs that lap-dance beneath my office window, at 5 O'clock, every Wednesday.

Nice to meet you. Who are you?

This is earnest embarrassing and not very 'pc', but whenever I meet someone for the very first time, I usually want to know something scandalous about them. I mean prison-scandalous, sexual-scandalous, integrity-scandalous, profession-scandalous, snobbery-scandalous, bigotry-scandalous, etc, etc.



It is not to hold it, nurture it, warp it, hide it, and let it out at a deviously damaging time. It is just to feed fat my human curiosity, and the belief that there's no closet without skeleton. Of course, for the average person that I meet, the locker is disappointingly as clean as a whistle.