One-Door Cars in the City of Accra

You only need to run your mental fingers over your own body parts to fathom fine specimens of things that come in twos. So I am as bewildered as an oily ‘bofrot’ as to how so many Ghanaians can conspire to call a car with only 1 door on each side a ‘one-door’. Fyi, the ‘culprits’ are not only taxi drivers but also people who ought to know better. Or is it that Accraians think in terms of pairs.

(Bofrot = a sugary, deep-fried flour ball)

Brand Spanking New in the City of Accra

For a long time, during the dark days of mean military machismo, everybody was too scared of unspeakable ‘horribles’ to own a car as fresh as a daisy. In any case, very few possessed the moolah to buy a brand new auto. These days are different – it’s sunny. Many people can, and do, buy ‘wheels’ wrapped in a box. Then, they cruise the city in it for at least 365 days with the seats still rubber-wrapped to prove it is new. Ridiculous!

Give Me A Break

Office mate picks up the phone vexed. It is his “little” cousin, he says. But his “little” cousin is 22, and she wants him to “sponsor” her birthday party. He does not know what put it in her coconut that he had “silly” money to splurge. He tells her to “give me a break” but confesses to me that he knows she would phone-molest him one thousand more times, anyway.

The Still-Vexed Question of 10%

There’s really no oil in the Western Region of Ghana, but the oceanic oilfields float off the western coast dragging damage over its terra firma. There being ten regions in Ghana, it sounds like a no-brainer that the Western Region should receive ten percent of Ghana’s oil revenue. But I’ve never been impressed by such ‘duh-rithmetic’.

Getting the News in the City of Accra

Most people in Accra are no longer served the news in a spreadsheet print on a plate. Just like their food, they like their news fast. Enter the radio and the internet. Although I learnt of Osama bin Laden’s death via twitter, I admit the surest we can hope for (for the internet folk) is myjoyonline or ghanaweb. So, how do you get your Ghana news?

The African Dream

I bumped into an old acquaintance at a public lecture tonight. Since he appeared to be doing super all right in his affairs, the topic of income was soon incoming. He boasted that he was living the Ghanaian Dream. I had never heard that phrase before.

Hmm. So the American Dream means you can start modest and work hard to achieve wealth or anything in America. What would be your 2-line version of the African [or substitute your particular African country] Dream?

Nice, Clean, No-Bribes Ghana?

Have you tried getting a passport in Ghana? Or registering a company at the Companies Registry? Or simply entering the country through the Airport? Or driving through a police checkpoint after 10 pm? Everyday things we do and have to pay more than the official amount for (mind you there is no official fee at all for driving through a police checkpoint on the way home). So do not tell me here that Ghana is the least bribe-taker in West Africa. Cold comfort that.

Living Close Together in the City of Accra

South neighbour’s cooking Rice-Water for breakfast again. East neighbour’s warming her palm soup – at 5.55 am, would you believe? She’s a single girl living alone. I can tell by the unchanging sound of clicking heels the same split seconds apart every day. She cooked the soup during last night’s storm. I’ve never seen her, but I know she’s short because the heels never slip off. West neighbour’s sousing himself in his strong fragrance again. I wonder why he’s wearing his Tuesday-and-Thursday scent on this Monday morning. North neighbours are a little far off. The street divides their line from mine. At 6 am, the wife starts her Corolla – never 6.01 or 5.59, I’ve checked. The husband won’t come about for a little longer. Luckily, I’ll be long gone before his daily sinus evacuation starts at 6.15 – 6.20.

Semi-detached little houses huddling together. Anthropology.

Moonlight in Boxes for Sale in the City of Accra

There are two classes of cheap charlatans creeping and crawling in Accra these days. First,the ‘locals’ who pretend to possess skills they really don’t have. Second, the ‘returnees’ who profess expertise they only saw others do back in the West, and think they can return to Africa and do the same (after all, the standards are low and nobody would find them out).

I hate both groups of people. I’ve heard one call himself a designer and call a local furniture maker with tasteful proficient finishing a carpenter. I've seen the work of both, and the carpenter trumps the artificer.

I am tired – and I’m sure I’m not alone – of so many so-called professionals in (or returning to) Ghana who remind me of an elephant trying to pick up a coin from the floor – bungling fools. It’s more painful to have a professional mess a job than a dabbler-struggler to admit from the start that they are only ‘trying their hands at it.’

Driving Mad-Maxly in the City of Accra *

A mindless, maniacal trotro (minibus) driver was marauding up the under-construction Spintex Road last night. He manoeuvred morbidly around my mild-mannered Maxine (my car) and left me in the wake of his soot. Not many moments later, the minibus was clobbered by a boulder and meanly mangled. I made mighty sure to honk to catch the attention of the pterodactyl that was driving it. When he it looked at me, I gave him it the Idiot’s Salute and whizzed Maxine past.

*I'll explain yesterday's post soon.

My Final Blog Post...

So, I got a mathematician friend to calculate how much time I’d save for myself (and my other interests) every day if I stopped blogging. Answer: a whopping 60 minutes.

Then I got a psycho-something friend to promise to help me with the withdrawal symptoms that are sure to happen. She says there’s no chance of depression.

And I got a priest friend ... nope, I lied – I’ve no priest friends.

Then I got a psychic friend to tell me through a crystal ball why I was inexplicably (to myself) quitting blogging. And she told me it was because I had rediscovered an old ‘love’. And since that old love could bring more money than blogging ever could...

Then I got a follower of my blog to tell me the truth that this blog would be missed for only one week, and then it would be forgotten ‘no sweat’.

I wonder if this is a good enough final post...

Mythical Creatures

So, if you are all so sure of whether a Sea Horse is real or mythical, how about each of you mention a different (well-known) mythical creature. Shall we exclude the Yeti, Big Foot and the Loch Ness Monster?

Sea Horses

How’s your integrity today? Good?

Without using Google or a dictionary or any other source (but your brain) what’s your split-second answer to the following question? (It’d be more fun to post your answer before checking to see if you’re right).

Is the Sea Horse a mythical or real-life creature?













(Picture credit - biology-resources.com)

Breaking Eggs in the City of Accra

As early as I can remember, my twin was a very strong-minded person who could not be swayed easily from his assumed position. One case in point is a game we used to play – this by all my siblings and I. we’d catch one person unawares and throw an object at them with the shout “catch”, and they'd instinctively reach out and salvage it. Now my twin does (and did) not like surprises*. I caught him off-guard once and started flinging eggs out of a dozen-crate. He watched the first one arc through the air, hit him in the chest and plod to the ground, and two, and three, and four and six and eight. He watched them all break with a wicked chuckle and gleam in the eye. When I threw the twelfth egg in stupidity and disbelief he made to catch it, but his brain must have quickly reset itself to the position ante, so he withdrew his outstretched hand and let the last one fall. That’s the amazing man that is my twin.

*About his not liking surprises, I may tell you one day about how I woke him up with a well-placed fart a few inches from the middle of his face. Disgusting? Well, I loved it!

Heavy Load, Heavy Pants in the city of Accra

A young porter-boy on the Spintex Road conveys a bulky barrel full of something weighty on his clean-shaven head. The barrel, it’s the size of a compact car, and I’m wondering what’s in there when my eyes catch the droop of something. He’s trudging along with 2 other boys – one in front and the other behind. Whether it is pitiable penury or purloined prison or pop culture, I don’t know, but the purpose of the boy behind is to hoist up his sagging jumbo trousers which flop below his knees with every few steps.

All Roads Lead to "Square One" in Accra

Accra can be exciting for those who loathe the herd mentality. One long holiday, and the flock ‘spooked’ to see Adams Apples or the Fabolous Concert or some pool party whose name I forget. The original mind, on the other hand, has ‘owned’ a sprawling, not-crowded city to explore and revel in – and it has been electric. There’s one last chance today, but the herd is already heading to the beach or the Accra Mall.

The African Court

It is said that when your neighbour does you wrong you have two options. You can take them to the European Court. There, lawyers and the judge would determine the matter. You may take them to the African Court instead. There, the spirits would determine the matter. If you refuse a summons to the European Court, the judge will send the police to bring you. As for the African Court, you simply cannot refuse a summons – you will find yourself attending whether or not you wish to. You can bring an appeal from the European Court to the African Court. The reverse is not true. A final difference: the European Court tends to punish by fines and prison and declarations; the African Court’s punishment tends to be incantations, insanity and life-and-death issues.

Scrambling for Sleep in the City of Accra

Sleep is no longer a free fancy in the city of Accra. You have to purchase sleep with your soul itself in some swanky Ridge or Cantonments neighbourhood. Or if you live on the obliging outskirts, you can catch a scrap of sleep, after you’re too traffic-tired to savour sleep. And you seem to have to wake up as soon you hit the sack because you must flee from home before first light if you want to make it to work before brunch time.

We Must Be Mad in this Country, Ghana

Today, I saw a sad photo exhibition and book launch on mental health in Ghana. I will not recover until after Easter. Do not get me wrong – it was a brilliant piece of work by Nyani the ace photo-artist. It was excellent. But to see people in slave manacles because they have some mental health ailment tore at my heart. But that was not the worst of it. Many such persons are ‘yoked’ to tree trunks by the leg (through a hole just big enough to slip the leg through and fastened with a big, big nail sure to scratch a nasty, painful wound if the ‘prisoner’ tried to escape, or maybe impale them if not cut off a part of the lower leg and foot).

A nation is only as civilised as how it treats its prisoners ... and mental health patients.

But it is poverty too. Families cannot afford about 25 Cedis (about 13 Dollars) a month to pay for the drugs that would create the right chemical balance which would make us call these unfortunates normal.

So they are shackled and manacled to prevent aggression or injury to themselves or embarrassment to their families.

When I saw it, I asked blogger Fiona: What country is this? I knew the answer; I feared the answer; I feared facing up to more evidence about the different layers of existence in this country.

There is a lot of work to do. More important than wasting venom on a corps of misguided journalists who published an inaccurate (not wholly untrue) article about internet fraud in Ghana. I kept quiet about that one because I did not care what they wrote.

I do care about our low level of civilisation and that we treat mental health patients even worse than convicted felons.

If you are also touched, repeat after me:

"I pledge myself to the service of Ghana with all my strength and with all my heart."

I'll Never 4give You (Pt 2)

She called. An old 'associate' trying to find a way to get into my phone book again. Some people too. You want to talk to me and you go the round-about way and pretend that you won't forgive me for what?