The Mechanics of a Curse

A girl in a compound house* loses her phone in broad daylight. About ten people were close enough to have filched the phone. A day steals by, and the phone has not been found. The ‘Landlord’ calls a house meeting. There is fulsome denial all round, and free-flowing suspicion-spiel. In the middle of the din, the victim takes a white egg from under her clothes, calls on a deity with a disturbing name to slay the thief, and shatters the egg on the floor. Two of the cruellest accusers immediately drop to their knees, and confess to the crime in rapids and waterfalls. The Landlord prevails on the girl to revoke the murderous curse. She calls for a bowl of water with a charcoal chip in it; this she sweeps over the egg remains. Then, there is peace. The curse is revoked. Is everything really that easy? I lost a pocket calculator I really loved seventeen years ago. I want an egg right now!

* Compound House - A house with a walled compound and several detached or semi-detached rooms or apartments usually given out for rent.

Scrambled Eggs, Scrambled Signals and Rejected Calls

While the police binge on scrambled eggs with their pay rise, armed robbers have ‘sexed up’ with ‘NASA’ equipment which scramble phone signals within one-hundred-metre radii, so victims cannot ‘SOS’. MTN fixates on sponging up each Ghanaian communication Dollar and Rand, and randomly retires the call signals at night, so all our calls are rejected. Where does that leave us? Between a rock, a hard place and a gunpowder store. To the credit of the police, even though their rapid-reaction teams are arriving about ten minutes too late, at our untraceable homes, at least they are arriving.

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