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.