Man-ipulation

As I was about to leave home early this afternoon, a black VW Golf 4 wheeled past with two ladies in it. They boomed their music so loud that it heaved the carpet of dust on the street into the air in tune with the beat. Something must have been disquieting about their style because the metal grille across a drain leapt up to bite the right rear tyre into shreds. It took the rompers longer than present narrator to hear the tugging tyre over the stadium sound, so they only came to a stop four blocks away. Now, I ordinarily would zip over to help damsels in distress, especially as one bounced gigantic jolly jugs in front of her. But I felt just like the barbaric grille, so I allowed my genteel graces to hide in the gutter. Two ladies all dressed up with somewhere to go to would not lift a fingernail after taking a gas cylinder out of the trunk. It was rare riotous to hear them trying hard to outmanoeuvre each other by pretending not to know that the frigging black pneumatic that lay fastened before their eyes was the spare tyre. As Maxine and I drove slowly past, I caught the man, who was school-boy eager to help them, addressing his questions to the chest level of things.

Warm Days Are Here

The sunny days are stepping up! :-) I can discuss Accra again as a proper burg , with at least one thrilling thing to do in the day – swimming! True, this year’s rainy season has never really faded away, but, now, we also have the warm weather showing her face in between the legs of the rain. This is swimming weather, no? I took a few days off work for a woman; but now I have an added focus in the hols to slay the time. I have many new pairs of swimming shorts, splashed on me by Shiks, to outdoor. Back to the claim about Accra becoming a proper city, I do not know of many daytime pastimes in the city apart from the pool, the beach or private movies. Or do you?

Your Love Bores into My Very Being

Over the past few weeks, a refreshing and catchy love song has aired over TV. It did not win my musical soul from the start; but repeated play has made it bloom brightly on my mind. And, now, I look out long for it every night. Its title is ‘Odo Pa’ (True Love), and it is sung by Kofi Tanoh whose sin and suicide in not picking out a performance name can never be explained to me. Plus, he looks a bit too knobbed and knotted, ribbed and rugged, to be cooing love words while his poker face remains unchanged throughout the video clip. He features another, K Twum (alias Rasta). It is rather Rasta who appears to be swinging some wicked amusement, but the song comes across as older, richer and more mature than him. Especially devastating to any resistance I may have had to this song is the nonce word at the end of the second refrain, ‘Wo do n’ako me gedem’ (Your love has pierced / penetrated / arrested my very ... ‘gedem’ can only mean something like being or soul.

Opposites Attract

A deep-fried, corpulent chicken dressed all in white with lacy tails trailing her everywhere. She’s chunkily checking me out at Equator because she’s standing there alone, and I am all by myself. She greases this way and sashays that way half in dance and semi-tease, turning her beefy head over her soft shoulders to give me a sidewise look of rousing meaning. She seizes the attention of all fifty-something kilos of me for a moment; then her flabby overhangs take over. I turn away from her, and have to get a very strong drink.

Two Faces of Tilapia

It offered savoury delight in the golden ages, and was prized with tenderness before the Europeans made landfall. Then, the civilised (as if they were formerly benighted) and the sham-show nouveau riche came to look lowly upon the fish as cheap chow.

Money began to drip into the doddering economy in the 90s. The condescending gentrified or dolarised saw their indifference curves shift right. Demand hit the ceiling overnight, outstripping the Volta supply, and now poor men cannot buy the 'poor man’s food'. The rich like it so long as it is too expensive to be bought by just anybody.

One day soon, roast plantain (called Kofi Brokeman) will also be priced out of the average purse.

Few Live; Most Exist!

A quaint quote that flashed on TV. I have no naked notion what this maxim means to you. Language has mutated into a baffling, defensive tool today. We shudder at the fishy smell of our own prattle in the mouth of another person. ‘Few live; most exist’ is as clean, clear and classic as human expression will ever get. I have an idea – think over the quote and, if you will, share what it means to you in the comment section. Inspire us all!

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I dismissed it,
not denying.
And it grew up,
while in hiding.
Now it's screaming
wild confessions!
You have me yearning
ten times ten!
So, yesterday,
I came to start accepting!