Harbin’s Hidden Hurrah in the City of Accra

Friday evening along Accra’s car-crowded coastal route. As you cruise past the hallowed twain of La hotels, you gain a rocky, bumpy construction dirt-land on the way to Teshie. Drive carefully past the leftward Military Barracks and rightward Next-Door beach ‘place’; a two-storey high converted warehouse stands up on the right. Slow down, or you may miss its shabby, scrubby drive-in.

Harbin shows off a bowling alley ten-games wide and a video-game arcades with racing cars and bikes, dancing light pads, shooting hoops, shoot-em-ups and pool tables. It’s all neatly arranged in two not-very large spaces with two enclaves for the reception and a bar in the room ‘ante’.

Harbin is pure, unaffected and down-to-earth delight. It’s best to invade it with a mini group of four to eight. It’s good on Saturday and Sunday too, although it’s ready to close at eleven. I had so much fun knocking down the pins on Friday night, and I have a torn lawyer’s tunic shirt sleeve to prove it.

Yellow Pagoda Skirt

Bright-yellow-early-morning shock, cascading from your sylphlike hips right down to skimming-the-ground. Forming four or five pagoda roofs in its wind-swept flow. Something sacrosanct must dwell under it, but (before I can stick around for an un-defiled duel) the demon driving behind blows his evil horn to move me along, and I can only think to write about you.

The Psycholinguistic ‘Prostitute’

Men who act this way must be barred from politics for life.

You’re not man enough to take her on in a popular vote, so you call her a prostitute. Your evidence – she’s not married. She has two children. She’s had different lovers over time. That’s your case!

Rubbish. You know how this society sees women who receive a nightly wage for a bodily transaction. It’s psycholinguistics. You don’t fight fair to win. You label your female opponent that way to win. Politics is not just about winning.

To everybody practising the psycholinguistic ‘prostitute’ political prank, some village is missing an irreversible idiot, and you are he.

3 Events That Have Shaped My Life

When I was only 4 or so, I fell out of an upstairs window but didn't hit the ground below. The telephone cable entangled my foot, flexed and bounded me back in. I was slightly concussed.

When I was about 14, my father compelled my twin and I to kill a sheep for Christmas. I learned the value of life (any kind) then, and have not taken anything that lives and moves for granted since then.

When I was 17, pretty Chantal from Cote D'Ivoire broke my heart. She was 18. I'm not sure if I really ever recovered from it. I started writing poetry as a means of dealing with it. I've not stopped writing since then.

Can you think of any 3 of your own?

Dealing with Gbagbo – The Limits of Reason

I have been haunted by images I have witnessed and imagined of Laurent Gbagbo since yesterday. Yes, he must stand trial for the alleged murders, rapes and beatings of civilians by his followers – he has political responsibility (and let us not forget the alleged murders, rapes and beatings of civilians by Ouattara’s men too).

But why was he pictured being dragged out of the President’s official residence? Why was a TV crew in the room at the Golf Hotel when he was wiping the sweat off his body and changing shirts? And why did the first soldier to reach him in the bunker allegedly slap him? Why?

If he allowed his men to commit beastly crimes, are his captors any better for their treatment of him? Have both sides not acted outside the limits of reason?

The Oldest Thing I Own

The oldest thing I own is an old book that belonged to my Grandfather. It is about 50 years old. It is a book on jurisprudence - the philosophy of law - and he wanted to be a lawyer. Unfortunately, he did not go far enough in formal education to be a lawyer, even though he made it to magistrate (career magistrate). I loved him to bits.

He called me "Senior Brother", and died before I discovered I wanted to study law. Maybe I did it for him. He died sitting up in a hospital queue. He was 84 and very ill, but nobody would let him jump the queue.

I have never read that book - I never may. It holds much more than just the complex writing in there: life, love, sentiments, a deep bond.

What is yours? What is the oldest thing you own? What's the history behind it?

Who Would You Wait in a Line For? Or What?

The longest I've lingered in a line has to be between freshman registration day at the University of Ghana and waiting to cast my ballot in the 1996 Presidential Election. It must have been 6 hours apiece.

But, God, I really hate to be held up in any kind of queue for anything. Come to think of it, I wait in 'line' all the time as a lawyer waiting for my case to be called in court. Shucks. Need to change jobs.

What 3 things would I gladly wait in long lines for?

1) Maybe Lil Girl after she's been away for a while.
2) Maybe Obama (or Nelson Mandela), if he will actually exchange a sentence with me.
3) Can't think of anything else.

What about you?