Heavy Load, Heavy Pants in the city of Accra

A young porter-boy on the Spintex Road conveys a bulky barrel full of something weighty on his clean-shaven head. The barrel, it’s the size of a compact car, and I’m wondering what’s in there when my eyes catch the droop of something. He’s trudging along with 2 other boys – one in front and the other behind. Whether it is pitiable penury or purloined prison or pop culture, I don’t know, but the purpose of the boy behind is to hoist up his sagging jumbo trousers which flop below his knees with every few steps.

All Roads Lead to "Square One" in Accra

Accra can be exciting for those who loathe the herd mentality. One long holiday, and the flock ‘spooked’ to see Adams Apples or the Fabolous Concert or some pool party whose name I forget. The original mind, on the other hand, has ‘owned’ a sprawling, not-crowded city to explore and revel in – and it has been electric. There’s one last chance today, but the herd is already heading to the beach or the Accra Mall.

The African Court

It is said that when your neighbour does you wrong you have two options. You can take them to the European Court. There, lawyers and the judge would determine the matter. You may take them to the African Court instead. There, the spirits would determine the matter. If you refuse a summons to the European Court, the judge will send the police to bring you. As for the African Court, you simply cannot refuse a summons – you will find yourself attending whether or not you wish to. You can bring an appeal from the European Court to the African Court. The reverse is not true. A final difference: the European Court tends to punish by fines and prison and declarations; the African Court’s punishment tends to be incantations, insanity and life-and-death issues.

Scrambling for Sleep in the City of Accra

Sleep is no longer a free fancy in the city of Accra. You have to purchase sleep with your soul itself in some swanky Ridge or Cantonments neighbourhood. Or if you live on the obliging outskirts, you can catch a scrap of sleep, after you’re too traffic-tired to savour sleep. And you seem to have to wake up as soon you hit the sack because you must flee from home before first light if you want to make it to work before brunch time.

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.