We Must Be Mad in this Country, Ghana

Today, I saw a sad photo exhibition and book launch on mental health in Ghana. I will not recover until after Easter. Do not get me wrong – it was a brilliant piece of work by Nyani the ace photo-artist. It was excellent. But to see people in slave manacles because they have some mental health ailment tore at my heart. But that was not the worst of it. Many such persons are ‘yoked’ to tree trunks by the leg (through a hole just big enough to slip the leg through and fastened with a big, big nail sure to scratch a nasty, painful wound if the ‘prisoner’ tried to escape, or maybe impale them if not cut off a part of the lower leg and foot).

A nation is only as civilised as how it treats its prisoners ... and mental health patients.

But it is poverty too. Families cannot afford about 25 Cedis (about 13 Dollars) a month to pay for the drugs that would create the right chemical balance which would make us call these unfortunates normal.

So they are shackled and manacled to prevent aggression or injury to themselves or embarrassment to their families.

When I saw it, I asked blogger Fiona: What country is this? I knew the answer; I feared the answer; I feared facing up to more evidence about the different layers of existence in this country.

There is a lot of work to do. More important than wasting venom on a corps of misguided journalists who published an inaccurate (not wholly untrue) article about internet fraud in Ghana. I kept quiet about that one because I did not care what they wrote.

I do care about our low level of civilisation and that we treat mental health patients even worse than convicted felons.

If you are also touched, repeat after me:

"I pledge myself to the service of Ghana with all my strength and with all my heart."

I'll Never 4give You (Pt 2)

She called. An old 'associate' trying to find a way to get into my phone book again. Some people too. You want to talk to me and you go the round-about way and pretend that you won't forgive me for what?

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?