Driving to a T in the City of Accra

I looked languidly on the latest instalment as it unfolded squat in the umbra of the Police HQ. The callow caitiff was in fine flow controverting the cyclist cops to the point of perishing the thought that they really saw what they thought they saw – a traffic transgression.

The violated victim veiled his Factor-8-deficient face with his hands, in disconsolate disbelief. Betwixt plaintive cries, he’d part his fingers to take a peek at his damaged caoutchouc car.

People who drive in Accra do not know fault, will not accept mistakes, and will obfuscate fact with aggression and mob-attracting sabre rattling. Why are we so dishonest? So are we honest when we’re not driving?

Are Telenovelas for Women? Really?!

I was given to take on trust that maudlin telenovelas were a fantasy flight for weak-willed women played false by their possum-playing men; flapping wings to a magical land tingling with romantic possibility, fervid formication, all the lovely things their men would never be. I was made to empathise that, being un-soft and semi-pure to the more refined rarities of life, men esteemed these dainty distractions as weak wasteful nothings.

Gladly gaining home on cruise control from hell-frazzling work this evening, I acquired a thick throng pupating around a tiny TV set somewhere open air in the 37 zone. The light, fluid traffic allowed me to glide to a trickling pace to range the secret spectacle. The men outstripped the women, and they were narcosynthesising on “Second Chance”, a teledrama about love, betrayal and souls playing hopscotch from body to handsome body.

Making it Rain Suicidal in the City of Accra

Somebody’s kindly jetting in Phat Joe and Sean Kingston to stupefy the City of Accra. The concert tickets are aviating between GHS70 and GHS100 (read $70 and $100). Stupendous! I wonder: would the rates be that interplanetary in NYC or London? Local artistes will play with them, no? How much of the astral takings will our own galactic Ghanaians be earning? Am I the only one who appreciates that while Tinny, Samini and Co. run excellent stagecraft at live events, these huge hip hop stars with sizzling music videos flop feebly on the stage?

Sexist Sex Laws

Anwar Ibrahim – a man I’ve almost venerated; victim of peccant political arch-foes; mis-tried, mis-convicted and sordidly shamed for sodomy. Now fresh allegations of base buggery have crept out of the public rectum against him. In his defence, he has set up an ancient law. What stupid, inane law requires four witnesses to prove a sexual offence?

Hasn’t sex been a private show since Adam and Eve daringly displayed sexual paradise in an open garden under an apple tree? Except for opiate orgies, doesn’t group sex almost always mean gang rape? Who would ever get four willing witnesses? Anwar may be innocent, but he’s not playing fair by invoking this law.

Will the gang of four who raped or sodomised you testify in court for you? I may forgive Anwar, but such a donkey law only encourages rape and sodomy – that is awfully crude! I don’t care if I have trampled on tender toes. And I hope my withering words are a piping white rod in the a**h*le or hymen of those who support such a law!

Self-Respect

Today, I elected to pen paragraphs on self-love. I relive a solid ipse dixit I lumbered upon as a nosy teen. Spurning its wise path, I only sing sob songs for my pighead. It teaches and learns its own life lesson. Sadly, I can't dig up who cut these dazzling diamonds:

Be too self-respecting
To lavish the love of the whole heart, soul and strength,
Especially where such a gift is not wanted,
And would be despised.

Pot Parade in the City of Accra

They range their varnished vases in open stretches and regular symmetry - the immaculate infantry on parade. The stunning shapes and dazzling colour coats take the watcher’s breath away! Every time I drive by, I crawl to (irritate the driver behind me, and) leer lovingly at the ovals and cones, pyramids and globes – my visual breakfast for the day.

One hundred tasty servings of cream crustaceans, turquoise turtles, emerald eagles, cobalt cauldrons, bronze fish, purple monkeys, gamboge balls, tangerine hills and ivory plinths. I wonder, I marvel.The splendour takes me, every single time!

Street(side) Manners in the City of Accra

You must not take it with a grain of salt – Maya was present at this misadventure too! A ‘big lawyer’ and a young lady hanging out at Melting Moments. It is a neat bistro at Labone, sublime at nightfall, lit in ochre, not too brightly or too softly. While sitting tight for our fancy frittatas, we took the time to delight in the gloaming crowd.

She was a middle-aged white woman. She bumped into the disarrayed metal furniture, bleeding from the nose and mouth. She froze at the mirror on the wall on seeing the blood in her girlish face. First the blood was there, streaming, drip-dropping in the wash basin. Then, it was all gone! Sorry, that was on the Hallmark channel which we were watching –frittatas yet to come :-)

The lawyer’s lady was in a forgettable top and a flair, fawn, sparsely sequined skirt. It was long, but scant excuse for her to sit with her spindly legs splayed wide apart, her back bent and her lips almost lapping the platter on the tiny-top, high-leg table. I craned my neck half-expecting to see dog biscuits in the dainty china.

We struggled between the devil of the horror flick on TV, and the deep blue sea of the barrister’s Brummagem. A thin, pretty waitress whizzes by, and the hateful Hoyden raises her head. What next? “Ssssssssssssssssssss!” The hissing caught the waitress’s attention (wouldn’t it?), but it also startled everybody else.

They herd out noisily through the french window, to the mini car park. So, he drives the big, chartreuse Honda Accord glittering beside Maxine. Cool! He showily beeps it open, and flings his door outward, not caring. It catches my poor car on the flank with a grating sound. Horrified I am, but I remain timid in my seat. I’ve had enough of them!