Boffin Blackout

Ghanaian scientists are whining in Bonn that the ‘benighted’ local media is treating them like an unwanted stepchild. The media counters that the baby-bawlers are media-maladroit, bungling boffins who do not bait with any tantalizing titbits. I side with the media. We have annual floods, electric sockets from China, Indonesian matchsticks and Ivorian body lotion swarming in to fill a vulgar vacuum. So, the Theory-Talkers should shut up, please!

Kwashay

Two boys in overalls scooter-cruise in broad daylight in ‘uncrowded’ streets of Accra. They turn a nook and creep upon an isolated walker. The bike halts; one comes down; he’s brandishing a machete pulled out from under his over-sized clothes; the bag is snatched, the laptop, the watch, the phone and the wallet. They’re gone in ten seconds, leaving only a foul wisp of fuel-adulterate behind. They will hack you down if you resist or delay. Kwashay – riding robbery (or motorbike mugging) in the City of Accra.

Road-building in Accra

Reputable road-builders from Europe and China carve, chisel and plane our African roads with some of their cutting-edge knowhow. In no time, the rains tumble and devour deep holes into the roads and into the reputations of these firms.

Funeral Party in Accra

Twenty cars whizzed through the court-road traffic at high noon towards the Korle quarter of Accra ferrying feisty, frolicking funeral-goers (not mourners) in white Adinkra fabric. They sped on-the-verge-of, and ignored the static cars in the lunch-hour queue, looking to ram through anybody who dared to enter from a side route. Some were beating deafening drums and playing loud-park music, while a camera van 'panoramaed' it on tape. Happy people decked in white (a 40-something-year-old woman winked at me). The deceased must have been very old.

The Lure of the Chieftain

Folds of fine, woven cotton in ivory and azure, sunflower and crimson. Gold bangles, bracelets, rings and ancient pendants. Cowries, beads, a hand-crafted, silken, horsehair whisk and fine-leather sandals. A dark crown-hat with bright reddish-gold and silver sequins, spangles and medallions. Such human pride and splendour. What are his interests: service or ‘serve his’?

The Nsawam Breadline

A few kilometres outside Accra, on the horrid highway to Kumasi, a ‘livelihood’ line of bread sellers stretches as long as the eyes can see. This is the town of Nsawam. Its dying buildings tackle the streets tightly, threatening to tumble any moment. The main street is a narrow tar strip with edges gobbled jagged by time, rain and native neglect. The baker’s design suggests that all the bread is baked and browned in one bakery or two. So, how does one know whose bread to buy? I’ll start with the first rustic Pretty I see with an idyllic smile. When the new highway bypasses this town, no cars will come this way. The bread line and the famous Nsawam bread will simply go away.

African Cow

A Shaman Coven killed an African cow to make ‘Bafana’ swift and strong, and maybe even win The Cup. When ‘Bafana’ led Mexico by one, the European commentator frisked frivolous fun that the spell was holding fine. The African co-commentator, short on humour, high on pretence, solemnly stumped that “How can these things ever work?” Then Marquez brought “el tri” level. I wonder who was really the cow!