Kwame Nkrumah – Give Us Chocolate

Cult creation was Kwame Nkrumah’s forte. By an almost unbelievable account, his Young Pioneers* would be amassed into a ‘Dogma’ room with tall walls, a door and upper windows. The thumb-suckers would be encouraged, by their adult minders, to pray to God for chocolate. “God, give us chocolate!” “God, give us chocolate!” Tens of times would they ask, but chocolate would not come down the Manna way. Then, the over-credulous nkwadaa would be ‘hocus-pocused’ to ask Kwame Nkrumah for chocolate. “Nkrumah, our father, give us chocolate.” Just asked once, and down rained confectionery like confetti from the high windows!


*Young Pioneers – A club of young followers of Kwame Nkrumah indoctrinated to be his eyes and ears in every home.

Kwame Nkrumah – Kwame Ukrumah

Francis Kwame Nwia Kofie Nkrumah’s African consciousness aroused itself from his student days at Lincoln University, Pennsylvania. In time, he attracted the observance of the FBI. They must have feared that his electric charisma would fire up the Civil Rights Movement. Thankfully, they did not try (or maybe failed) to set him up for a jail term. That’s how these stories usually end.

The real story, this time, is that with all its sophisticated ways, the FBI did not get even his name right. They kept a file on Kwame “Ukrumah”. Shame! Returning to the the issue of sinister setups: many years later, the FBI’s sister (and rival) agency would trail him into his own country, and help depose him in a coup d’etat!

Kwame Nkrumah – Man and Myth

It is said that every newborn baby squeals. In napping Nkroful, the nascent Nkrumah, Francis Nkrumah, would not whine. His father had to fetch his muzzle-loader (also known as “Atiabofre”) to shoot a bolt. And, so, it took a booming gunshot to jolt little Kwame Nkrumah to whimper a bit. Right there, on September 21, 1909, they knew he was very special!

Kwame Nkrumah Series

This week, 'Ghana Blogging' decided to blog on the eminent statesman. AR will post snippets on his life, and try not to get way too serious. Enjoy!

He Didn't Buy Meat

A lad who never strayed too far from his comfortable life or over-doting parents tagged along when his streetwise schoolmates bussed off to a sports fiesta at Koforidua. His mates ‘diverted’ to a ‘chopbar’ to eat. Rich Boy was fascinated by the Waakye, but had never bought food in a place like this. He did not know how to buy it, what to say, or how much to buy. He glanced around for a clue, and settled on a workman eating the vaunted darkish rice and beans. He sauntered over and shyly asked the man how much he’d bought. The man scowled; he snarled; he gnarled, and left in a huff, calling the hungry hobbledehoy all manner of names that an adult shouldn’t call a child. The battered boy crawled to the food vendor and asked innocently, “what did I do wrong?” As he spoke, he pulled out a promising wallet, which lit up the food mama’s eyes. Said she, “Don’t mind that man. He couldn’t buy meat!”

400

This is my four-hundredth blog post. Since AR started, I have had crossovers into many themes, and, for about a week now, AR has identified itself as a Ghana, urban-culture blog. I admit that I do not even know all urban culture means, but I will learn every day, and I will keep my writer’s eye keen for the telling details everywhere. Thank you all for the blog miles between us. Here’s to more.

Otto Pfister

A German, septuagenarian football gaffer who tugged his tracksuit trousers beneath his behind. It had been Hip-Hop culture for a while, but Ghanaian youth named the craze for Otto Pfister. I had forgotten all about this, until the Hiplife star, Asem (and Caroline) brought it up in “Pigaro”. Now any male youth who comes to see the popular-culture fluorescence, must equip in low-slung trousers or shorts, scroll through the Otto Pfister phase, and sweep the streets with their trousers.

How Ghana Beat Sudan and Lost

I think the average Ghanaian solemnly swears that they are honest and benevolent; religious even. You all eyed the unified support on TV, as Ghana walked over Sudan to qualify for South Africa 2010. Many good citizens bled GHC 20 for a VIP ticket, but couldn’t get a place to sit. Many more vermin did not pay at all, but sat on other people’s GHC-20 perches. So, we stood throughout the game. I bet the usurpers would have ‘surrendered seat’ if the claimant were a foreigner (so they could lather the legend of Ghanaian hospitality!) Fools!

Kumasi Zoo

I would like to end “Kumasi” by talking fondly about its captive wild animals, but there’s no story in that. There are a few free-shitting Ostriches, slumbering Lions and Hyenas, pitiable Hawks and Vultures, etc. No Kumasianos (did you think I’d miss bringing it up?) flock to the zoo near Kejetia. The real story was this sign at the entrance:



LOL!!!!! So even in the “Close Season” the law refuses to protect the poor Akrantie, also known as Cane Rat or Grass Cutter. Bye bye, Majestic Kumasi! Next time, we might go to see the Asantehene.

Kiravi, Kilavi and Kay Vee

The cars are ranged with order in a spacious parking lot. In the chilly night air, three men flank the pinched entrance. We’re admitted for GHC 7 apiece. The anteroom yawns into three more rooms. The room on the right hides behind a closed door. Directly ahead is a vacant bar. On the right is the door to the club. Inside, the DJ’s box, the bar and black settees besiege the static dance floor. Pillars oddly screen the sitting area. The music is Dancehall (called Ragga) and Hiplife. I think they love “Simple”. The DJ drops crowd favourites over and over again. The collective fragrance is not sweet. Masculine BO chokes the air. Coarse tones are whispered everywhere in non-English. The bar stands mostly unemployed. Crashing glass sounds keep the time every few minutes. What there is a lot of, is sloppy, inter-dance snogging. It’s clustered thick as seeds. It’s time overdue to go at 1.30 a.m.

Colourful Bantama Evenings

In the heart of Kumasi lies Ghana’s bistro capital. Bantama hosts a daily night carnival. After dusk, shops close, shop fronts clear, and seats and tables are set. Bars and pubs open. Drink and meat freely flow. Men and women pour into the streets in brightly coloured clothes.

We espied a guy in a custard-coloured suit and hat, and another all in scarlet. Many a young man streaks a medium, white towel out of his back pocket, almost scything the street. Many a woman spikes school-rules, short, natural hair. They leave their inflated bosoms fairly out to treat, and swim from sidewalk to sidewalk in miniskirts or hugging jeans. The more mature males don hats from far-flung cultures.

We were touring for the famous British Pub. Legend has all the city capos haunting it at night. We cruised through many connecting streets. We did not find the pub. I asked a kebab boy. For “British Pub” he heard “Spar”. Between horror and suppressed snicker, I did not resist the urge to ask if he had Cane-Rat kebab.

A cabbie stopped to help. He acquired a fatuous frown, and said he did not know the “Parrrrrrr”. We sullenly settled for the “Soul Bar”. It did not have half the soul its name promised. It is a hatchery for fat, blood-sucking mozzies, and a flower/sewer garden.

Bantama is a street. Bantama is a scene. Bantama is a curious crowd. Bantama is musical. Bantama is the heartbeat of Kumasi at night. The name “Bantama” suffers from the ugliness of English spelling. I gather it should properly be spelt something like Baantoma.

Four Tastes of Kumasi

The McKeown Restaurant is tucked in one of the buildings on the vast Pentecostal complex at Asokwa. It dishes up some ‘wicked’ soups with the king of meats – Akrantie, also known as Cane Rat, also known as Grass Cutter, also known as Cutting Grass. It affects to have no beer to issue, but it displays and offers airlinesque wine.

Vienna City lies at Ahodwo, on the boulevard that also threads past Kiravi Night Club (look out for its own post). It serves ‘continental’ food in a nicotine ambience. Its many Lebanese patrons are permitted to break the dress code, by flapping among the pool tables and hookers in their flip-flops. And how do you explain having to pay to enter the club, and then having to pay to buy food and drinks? We were told it had a legendary pizza.

Cadillac, we did not have too much time to explore. As we came down from the cars, the live band elected to play ancient Sunday music...on a Saturday night! So we fled the ‘crime’ scene.

Abusua serves more ‘wicked’ Ghanaian recipes with more Cane Rat. It appears that Cutting-Grass-rearing has caught on in Kumasi, so all the bush meat has lost it bushy, smoky sense with a metal pellet or two lodged in the meat when the tasty rodent was shot. Abusua had run out of beer on a Saturday morning! But the food was goooooooooooooood, including the Gari Fortor and chevon, and even the tad-too-dry Tilapia.

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!