Roughneck Radio in the City of Accra

Ghana radio’s raw and raucous; strident of speech; toxic of tone; boorish of music and moribund of news. I float on Atlantis or ride with BBC.

No Painkillers in the City of Accra

We’re scared. We’re very afraid. All manner of things are no-go areas now. No local Bitters or Gins. They increase the libido for 2 months and then give you a mere mushroom for life. Now, some boffin says here that painkillers cause ED. In other words, if you want to be well and firmly hung, don’t take Ibuprofen, though your head splits into two.

The Devil Tried to Sell Me Bread Last Night

I was stuck in the Accraian vehicular mud on the way home when he accosted me near the dark Airport Traffic lights. He materialised upon me, wielding a loaf of bread in his right hand. His left hand was out of my view, so I could not see the miniature pitchfork certain to be clutched in it. His eyes were hard and bloody, his ears, hairy and elfin. He gave one severe look, and I zigzagged through the queue. He may have been a human vendor, but I didn’t stick around to discover. I fled with the thought that since the time of Jesus, You-Know-Who has been tempting Earth with bread.

On Eating Rice with a Spoon

I am freedom’s fiancé; pied, assorted, motley, sundry kinds of freedom. I believe people are free to march on their heads instead of feet; fart fifteen frivolous times every fine day; banquet on a bowl full of Fufu and Fanta and drink up the soup chilled from a bottle; wear a gruff goat rope for a belt. I believe in fulsome, fetterless and fanciful servings of the flavours of freedom. But please, philistine friend, don’t eat rice with a spoon! At home, at work, eating out, Villein, please don’t do it!

Picture credit - dreamstime.com

No Love At All in the City of Accra

Really, apart from hanging out, it’s been a very long time since I saw anybody in Accra do anything because they simply love it – and I’m not talking about work. So, what are people doing in which the payout is ... well, a smile.

The Son Who Wanted a Car

A son badly wanted a car

On his coming birthday

He found sly ways to hint his Pa

Whose wealth was off display

The birthday came; it surely did

The Son, he got a bible

And a hearty dinner of squid

He felt like Cain, not Abel

A year after the Son’s letdown

He went to see his Pa

And accosted him with a frown

His harsh words left a scar

The old man fell down, and he died

He couldn’t bear the words

And after all the tears had dried

It all then turned absurd

Found stuck inside the Holy Book

Were keys to a new car

If only the Son did look

He'd have both car and Pa

Looking Hard at Maids – Are They Slaves?

This story is harrowing but not out of this world. Domestic servants (or maids, in Ghana) have been with us since time immemorial. African children have always been taken to live and work with their aunts and uncles and parents’ friends. After independence and the rise of the African elite, maids in rural Ghana would go and live with stranger-families in the cities without pay with the expectation that she would grow up into an Awuraba (or Gentlewoman). It is now difficult to find a girl who would travel to the city to live with and work for a family without pay, work from dawn until midnight or not insist on days off. I once got into an impassioned argument with a Ghanaian boy whose girlfriend was a temporary student girl from America. I barracked him because I thought he was selling out for calling it modern-day slavery. Now, I am ready to change my position.