Uncivil Servants in the City of Accra

It’s like squirting shit in your face. At the General Post Office on sunless Friday to pick up a package, the watchdog women of the Customs are all pitchfork-frowning and hell-not-helping. This is the baby truth. The men hardly help too, but they handle you politely. These people stonewall you for thirty pinball minutes; then they tell you at 4 pm that they close at 4 pm; come back on Monday. For more of the same shit, doubtless. They don’t know yet what’s wrapped up in my pack, but they loathe me already. Envy? Well, I'll return on Monday to see their cesspool faces.

Ghana Gospel Singers*

Job Requirements

1. Must be able to string 2 or 3 bible verses together.
2. Must sing in Twi and, sometimes, Ga or Ewe.
3. Must be able to sing-n-wheeze like a choking cricket in a can.
4. Must dance with zulu-energy and try ridiculous dance moves.
5. Must like formation-dance background singers.
6. Must be able to grin like a Cheshire cat for 3 minutes.
7. Must be prepared to act out sad and ecstatic scenes.
8. Must be able to cry on demand.
9. Must drink Oestrogen syrup every morning, if a man.
10. Must dress like a peacock or like a peacock with most feathers removed ;-)

Bonus Requirement

Must be prepared to symbolize success in flashy cars and humongous houses.

* While I stand by my post, I admit that gospel singers in other countries can be a class act!

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.