Getting the News in the City of Accra

Most people in Accra are no longer served the news in a spreadsheet print on a plate. Just like their food, they like their news fast. Enter the radio and the internet. Although I learnt of Osama bin Laden’s death via twitter, I admit the surest we can hope for (for the internet folk) is myjoyonline or ghanaweb. So, how do you get your Ghana news?

The African Dream

I bumped into an old acquaintance at a public lecture tonight. Since he appeared to be doing super all right in his affairs, the topic of income was soon incoming. He boasted that he was living the Ghanaian Dream. I had never heard that phrase before.

Hmm. So the American Dream means you can start modest and work hard to achieve wealth or anything in America. What would be your 2-line version of the African [or substitute your particular African country] Dream?

Nice, Clean, No-Bribes Ghana?

Have you tried getting a passport in Ghana? Or registering a company at the Companies Registry? Or simply entering the country through the Airport? Or driving through a police checkpoint after 10 pm? Everyday things we do and have to pay more than the official amount for (mind you there is no official fee at all for driving through a police checkpoint on the way home). So do not tell me here that Ghana is the least bribe-taker in West Africa. Cold comfort that.

Living Close Together in the City of Accra

South neighbour’s cooking Rice-Water for breakfast again. East neighbour’s warming her palm soup – at 5.55 am, would you believe? She’s a single girl living alone. I can tell by the unchanging sound of clicking heels the same split seconds apart every day. She cooked the soup during last night’s storm. I’ve never seen her, but I know she’s short because the heels never slip off. West neighbour’s sousing himself in his strong fragrance again. I wonder why he’s wearing his Tuesday-and-Thursday scent on this Monday morning. North neighbours are a little far off. The street divides their line from mine. At 6 am, the wife starts her Corolla – never 6.01 or 5.59, I’ve checked. The husband won’t come about for a little longer. Luckily, I’ll be long gone before his daily sinus evacuation starts at 6.15 – 6.20.

Semi-detached little houses huddling together. Anthropology.

Moonlight in Boxes for Sale in the City of Accra

There are two classes of cheap charlatans creeping and crawling in Accra these days. First,the ‘locals’ who pretend to possess skills they really don’t have. Second, the ‘returnees’ who profess expertise they only saw others do back in the West, and think they can return to Africa and do the same (after all, the standards are low and nobody would find them out).

I hate both groups of people. I’ve heard one call himself a designer and call a local furniture maker with tasteful proficient finishing a carpenter. I've seen the work of both, and the carpenter trumps the artificer.

I am tired – and I’m sure I’m not alone – of so many so-called professionals in (or returning to) Ghana who remind me of an elephant trying to pick up a coin from the floor – bungling fools. It’s more painful to have a professional mess a job than a dabbler-struggler to admit from the start that they are only ‘trying their hands at it.’

Driving Mad-Maxly in the City of Accra *

A mindless, maniacal trotro (minibus) driver was marauding up the under-construction Spintex Road last night. He manoeuvred morbidly around my mild-mannered Maxine (my car) and left me in the wake of his soot. Not many moments later, the minibus was clobbered by a boulder and meanly mangled. I made mighty sure to honk to catch the attention of the pterodactyl that was driving it. When he it looked at me, I gave him it the Idiot’s Salute and whizzed Maxine past.

*I'll explain yesterday's post soon.

My Final Blog Post...

So, I got a mathematician friend to calculate how much time I’d save for myself (and my other interests) every day if I stopped blogging. Answer: a whopping 60 minutes.

Then I got a psycho-something friend to promise to help me with the withdrawal symptoms that are sure to happen. She says there’s no chance of depression.

And I got a priest friend ... nope, I lied – I’ve no priest friends.

Then I got a psychic friend to tell me through a crystal ball why I was inexplicably (to myself) quitting blogging. And she told me it was because I had rediscovered an old ‘love’. And since that old love could bring more money than blogging ever could...

Then I got a follower of my blog to tell me the truth that this blog would be missed for only one week, and then it would be forgotten ‘no sweat’.

I wonder if this is a good enough final post...