Why I don’t go behind my house

Forty-something year-old mama, in the house behind, in our matchbox-size, hugging-house neighbourhood, why do you lie in wait (surely that's what you do) for my Sunday-sneak to the clothesline, and ‘ghost’ on me from your side of the three-foot wall, in your ice-blue negligee with stubborn nipples poking out and chubby side-boob folding out, to ask me questions about the law?

Merlin Would Have Whupped Komfo Anokye

In a raffia skirt, black body ‘pasteled’ with white chalk, hoary horsetail whisk gripped in one hand, white chicken-egg cradled gently in the other, he twists and turns, hops and leaps, chanting, mocking, menacing, panting, until beads of sweat cut rivulets into his body paint. After a very, very long time, Komfo Anokye is ready to cast a spell.

In a minute, Merlin would have whipped out his willow wand and turned Komfo Anokye into a porcupine (kotoko) with a single abracadabra. So would Harry Potter. So would Baba Yaga. So would Yaztromo. So would Gandalf (whether White or Grey).

I could say more, but I think the point is made. Are we where we are because of some cultural defects?

The Rocking-Kiosk Girl

The tan Khaya* kiosk where the soft-faced, busty girl-with-the-hair-like-a-wild-animal retails phone airtime is my final night-time stopover before home. It’s both for the card and the chance to hold her luscious figure in my glassy-eyed gaze and wistfully wonder “there is the love of my life in another world”. Last night I was late, the kiosk was closed and I thought she’d hurried home. Then, as I pulled away, the kiosk began to rock-n-bob, and I heard a gleeful girlie gasp. So, this was home.

*A type of African Mahogany tree

The Shit Storm

We all get the tummy trots from bad food, sweets, spices or fear. The other day I compared notes with friends and colleagues on the cold sweat, malaise and black eye of the rapid runs. We shared startling similarities.

For most people the shit storm makes landfall (or shall we say intestine fall) after midnight.

Most people can hold in the runs while on the move (in the city) but when they get home and near the toilet, the muscles relax and any obstacles or delays and, pffffff, it trickles down the legs.

The runs are sometimes held back by a solid pellet which when ejected with a mistimed foolish fart turns on the taps of Montezuma’s Revenge.

The trots dislike sudden moves; for when the first drop dribbles out, the funnel flares and the faucets overflow.

Breaking* in the Name of Love

Accra is pocket-size - everybody knows almost everybody else.

Imagine a fringe friend who’s secretly married warming up to your sibling or close friend. Do you tell on them ‘already’? Would you shut your bill (you parrot!) and mind your own ‘beeswax’ and let people deal with their issues (or tissues, since this will end in tears)? Or will you tell Angelic Acquaintance to fly away quietly forever and nothing more said?

*Breaking – a Ghanaian English word meaning to tell on someone in order to upset their plans.

Hiplife Video Vixens in the City of Accra

As far as Hiplife goes, I shine up to the songs that I do before I see the videos. It is not a statement on quality, though I don’t think mighty much of them. It’s about the video vixens. They seem to need to wear minimal clothes to bump, grind and gyrate their boiling bodies. Is there only one way of dancing to Hiplife? Is it not an art form that must develop, innovate and reinvent itself all the time? And Hiplife naturally thrives on immediacy and present-pulse. It reflects what is happening today, right now, at this very moment! Then it fast fizzles out and returns revealed in different sizzling styles. That’s the thrill of our Hiplife. So if Hiplife means all that’s cool, en vogue, stylish and ‘now’, you really have no effing excuse wearing out-of-vogue-and-never-returning, ugly-in-itself-God-what-was-the-tailor-thinking fashion simply because it helps us to delicious 'dishings' of your delightful desserts.

Un-I-Doing in the City of Accra

They grumble that divorce is competing healthily-unhealthily on the sombre-statistics table in the nuptial city of Accra. Some propose that today’s talented women are anti-BS and will make you gorge yourself on some. I have double doubts about that. Other people whine that young people are getting hitched for wretched reasons. I’m open to looking into that. Is love the only right reason? What about respect? Convenience? Empathy? Need?