Jaywalking to Sea at La, in the City of Accra

A combusting, constipating quarter in the city of Accra is couched on the cold and rocky coastline, by the Giant Gulf of Guinea. It pans out up-shore, across a major street and over red-earth flatlands. It offers boundless sweeps of hibernating beaches, except for enchantingly cultivated choice strands where elegant, self-indulgence-inducing hotels have gulped up the usable space.

Between its squashed southern estates and the two great hostelries, the fierce shingle streaks wild and primitive for maybe a double kilometre. The drive on the slightly bending dual carriage is spectacular unlimited, especially on low-traffic, moonlit nights. But the awestruck gazer is running risks of knocking down a dozen jaded jaywalkers at any time.

I’m bland and barren in imagining (no, I can imagine easily, really) what they treacherously traverse the streets for, appearing from nowhere and gambolling heedlessly towards the austere, inclement banks of the titanic Atlantic. They do not give pause, and stand to admire. So what in heaven’s holy moniker are they doing there?

Living on the Motorway

Reverse the fourth dimension to 1998. A masterly motif of a caravan of industries is spinning at great speed on the same spot: Tema, Industrial town, first cousin of Accra. Drastically dissimilar to any other Ghanaian commonwealth for its considerately-named streets; numbered homes; well-laid, clean and snazzy streets; small, engaging buildings; first-rate factories and swift-coming traffic.

The twenty-something-kilometre motorway, unfurled long ago, seemed a lonely, eternal cross. It was surrounded by vast, virtuous flatlands teeming with spry swamps, wholesome woods and motley hues of tall savannah grass.

In 2008, the virgin is gone out of the land between Accra and Tema. The formerly detached first cousins are now hideously holding hands on either side of motorway. A monstrous megapolis has stealthily sprawled its sinewy tentacles from Accra to Tema. The woods are ruefully replaced by sorry sprinklings of shrubs on tiny tracts of un-reclaimed swampland.

Unsightly blotches of massive houses, tiny houses and whole recumbent estates have sprouted on the diced land. Totally ugly buildings they are, not for the architects’ philistine flair (for the schematics are quite scenic) but what is a trophy tattoo of a black widow spider doing on the face of a beauty queen? Her looks are now limp, as is the dainty art.

Juapong, Pillow Country

Most people hanker after a downy, puffy pillow at night. Pillows have been lovingly related to gladsome comforts and showers of cloudless dreams since the maiden morning of life (bar evolution).

Juapong is a tiny town tucked away in the Volta Region (but sleepwalking in the Eastern Region) of Ghana. She unfurls her common clothes on either side of the Adome-Kpeve-Kpando road. Not a whole comely lot is in sight on the drive, even at a casual pace.

Juapong nourishes herself on a textile company. The by-product of the cloth-making is the loads of colourful, odd strips of fabric. It would have been lowly litter with well-employed, sensitive city folk and a hounding headache for hapless city authorities. But, here, in Juapong, the single street is as clean as a whistle.

Down the length of the town, both sides of the road are delightfully decked with simple wood stalls stacked multi-storey with portly pillows; an open-air pageant of stuffed, plump and soft pillows in all imaginable colours. I think beyond the plain question of competition among neighbours, and wistfully wonder how snug pillow pleasure could have been so underrated by such a closet hedonist as I.

Sweet Innocence of Youth

Two untended mango trees prevail rugged in my parents’ house as the seasons scuttle north, and then sail slowly south. They joyfully poke their impetuous trunks in the wide eye of the sky; daring the affronted elements to unleash overwhelming forces to test their timber tenacity.

Sticky-billed birds flock furtively to the young fruit on the trees, before they’re ripe to eat, and drill yawning gorges in their slowly-softening skin. The raw and ravished buddings dangle rough and woozy from the weather-beaten branches. The evil elements dispatched the birds.

These terrible times have cleanly licked the last syrupy drops out of the sweetness of callow youth, and succeeded it with a cutting, ruthless ripeness. So, babies-not-long-gone are daily striking a cruel blow at the trusting, slumbering world. The sweet innocence of age, ken and lore is repeat-raped savagely by the unfledged, silly stripling.

Ogling! Sweet Peccadillo!

It must be the sickening feeling of the fingers of a person’s eyes running slowly over your stiffening body, unclasping hidden clips and straps, and blissfully pinching on your privy. Pretty people pretend to hate the craving regard of another. You are blazoned not half bad with a comely face and an electric body; you should suffer no affront even if a grisly, gangrenous ogre ogled you.

If a woman (any woman) kindly found some delicious chip of any part of me, I would be glorious glad to offer her fulsome eyefuls of more visual fricassee :-) We are all withering works of art; so why should we not make it an uppity weathering? :-) You really should turn off your overheating ohmmeter, and strike a radiant light every magical moment an enchanted pair of eyes hounds your Royal Highness :-)

Shunsuke Nakamura

He gracefully glides his lean frame into the flight path of the ball, and waits calmly as it comes to sleep in his vacuum chest. He springs nimbly to one side, and the ball reverse-soars slowly to the turf. Then, he threads a delicate pass through an undergrowth of legs to his confounded teammate.

The myth about Asian players is that they are bloody boring. They blight the beautiful game with a sterile, scientific style of speed, space and rectilinear ranging. They’re as blind as bats to the skilled art of fraudulent feints, sweetly curled lobs and lofts, stupefying stepovers and the haunting, humiliating chip.

Nakamura has reached the summit of the two hundred and eighty four Munros of Scottish football. He had one dream season deliciously filled with flawless free kicks, unbelievable ghost passes and gorgeous goals in thick-coming fancies.

Aiden McGeady is surrounded by three defenders. He swiftly backheels to Jan Vennegoor of Hesselink who is cruelly scythed to the ground. Nakamura floats on the scene. He casually casts the ball onto the pitch, and saunters three steps backwards. He takes no pernickety aim. With neither showy twist nor frilly turn, he shunts forward and lightly strikes the ball. It’s slow, it turns some speed, it flies, floats and dips into the net agape. Goalkeeper amazed! :-)

The Modern Woman

My irresistible presence
Confounds you to mistakes
My immortal essence
Plagues your passions so

I burn into your soul
Hot like liquid fire
I’m etched onto your mind
It’s my physical pull on you

I am the modern woman

Watch!

I am a free spirit
I walk with a song in my body
I talk in sweet melodious tones
I leave your mind and heart in a split

I am a free spirit
You cannot hold me
I’m too clever for that
You have nothing that I want
Except your true respect

I am the modern woman
I’m cool and confident
I’m smart, intelligent

I have my own big dreams
You want to rule me, you better walk on
Give me some respect, and we can be friends

I am the modern woman.