Modesty Means Long Life

In another Ghana glitch (also known as ‘movie’) an *Asafo team went off to war with the next village. Deep in the forest, where an ambush was likely to be sprung, the Asafo was chanting war songs, and their Goliath was leaping up-down, up-down like he was competing with the giant trees for height, when an arrow cut him down. I laughed so hard that I upset the neighbourhood dog-siesta.

*A troop of soldiers

Senseless Movies in Accra

I just suffered through a gutter Ghanaian movie of machete brandishers, kidnappers for ransom and daylight murderers. It was missing just three things – a plot, rhyme and reason. I loathed it even more than the wanton-wickedness witchcraft flicks. If these mindless movies reflect this society ... hmm ... hmmm!

Breasts Pressed, Messed

Am I more upset with the weak enforcement of criminal laws which drives mothers to desperation, or am I angrier with mothers who mutilate their daughters’ breasts to 'protect' them from paedophiles? Can the impotent law punish the mothers with a clear conscience? And what will the mothers say when their non-abused daughters reach their twenties with flattened udders?

Traditional Marriage - The Colours and Others

The dressing is diverse: caftans, kabas, frocks, t shirts, short-sleeve open-necks, blouses and tunics. The colours are explosive: the official pink, turquoise, yellow, blue, white dresses with pink belts, flowers and glittering accessories: earrings, umbrellas, handbags, cell phones. There are slippers and shoes, sandals and mules. Kente, Adinkra, plain fabric and lace. It was a real picture-taking op; gosh, I’m glad I was there.

Praising Too High and Loud

So, at the traditional marriage, there are ovulating outsiders adulating and ululating too high. They’re singing of her beguiling beauty and calling him Adonis (both true). But they’re saying it too loud, too often, too unmistakeably clear. They break out at every marriage. They’re not happy for you, and put on a spectacle to conceal it.

The Vows

Despite the blaring horns, the finery and frippery on the German limo, the wonderful glide down the aisle amidst the delightful decor in the quaint Italian chapel, the head-rush moment arrives at the exchange of the vows and the gold British bands.

The Marriage Feast

The day before, the bride’s family women perch in a circle of wooden stools in the clearing between the huddling houses. They’re cooking Banku and Okra soup, Ampesi and Garden-Egg stew, Jollof Rice and Beef stew, etc, etc. The chatter is high in the beginning, but drains off every now and then, until somebody ‘bribes’ their enthusiasm with a round of safe alcohol. Some are not joining in – too many cooks will confuse the taste, I guess. But they burnish the banter, and provide substitutes. The kids are playing close by; hoping to be favoured with testing-tasting first servings. A neighbour sets up mammoth speakers and belts Hiplife tracks on the humid air. Passersby look on amused. The atmosphere is sizzling with expectation, and with preparation. My best friend’s traditional marriage.