Bra Failure In The City of Accra

The 'Cleavage Gallery' is an art exhibition I'm thrice-thrilled to attend everyday. Sans-bra is another dashing, delightful devilment at the other end. But when the cups runneth over as a result of 'syncopated' styrofoam, please do not call the wearer a 'Brartist'.

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Who Sells The Drugs In The City of Accra?

In this nation of saints and sinners (and I do not belong permanently to either group) I was surprised to see the public perplexed about the alleged compromise of anti-narcotic agents by drug barons.

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“Thank God We Are Not A Nigerians”

You’re playing football with your sibling in your backyard, when a miscued (but intended) hard kick floats over the wall onto your neighbour’s grounds and smacks your friend (who lives there) in the face, drawing blood from his nose. Yes, you were just playing, and the bleeding will stop, but should he just forgive you? Or should he scale the wall and thwack you right back on the chin?

So, there is a song by a very interesting pair of Ghanaian musicians – Wanlov and Mensa, also known as FOKN Bois – which has sailed over the wall and landed with a thud in the face of their neighbour.

I have not heard the song myself, but the title is (syntax stumble intended) “Thank God We Are Not A Nigerians”. 

Marking Maltesers

Sneaked out of the office freezer
Boldly branded against sticky fingers
Stapled to make doubly sure
Tantalising teasers

A Lovely, Educated Public

I was lounging at the curiously-christened 'Luscious Temptations', at East Legon, last Saturday, with fellow bloggers Kobby Graham, Nii Ayertey and Edward Tagoe, discussing the extinct education in ‘gambling’ Ghana. Then, today, I stumble across a news item that Nana Akufo-Addo (a presidential candidate) promises a “lovely, educated public” within a decade, if he wins Elections 2012. Sadly, the news report (shameful for a digital medium like myjoyonline) skips his ‘blowhard’ building blocks for achieving such lettered loveliness.

Electric Bills & 'Compound' Houses in the City of Accra

A compound clustered with twenty tiny cubicles - detached or semi - with twenty families 'tadpoled' into them. Human activity is measured by one power meter.

One government worker possesses the Tv, the hot plate, the iron, the fan and the fridge. Nineteen other families 'temp' his toys from him; cook their gruel on his hot plate, preserve their meat in his fridge and watch cheap South American Tv soaps into his sleeping time.

When the electric shock (sorry, bill) kicks in on the 29th, the landlord, without calculating, coldly carves a chubby chunk for 'white collar' to settle. The 19 families plead penury and unemployment and 'snitch' that it is the government man who hoards the Tv and other gainful gadgets. Nobody wishes to install a separate meter for their room alone.

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When Your Debtor Says You Owe Him

Mr. B. Borrower (B for ‘Barbarian’) cadged his friend, Mr. B. Birdbrain (B for ‘Boob’) for a loan of 200 Ghana Cedis. Birdbrain had only 150 that day, and loved his neighbour more than himself by handing it all over. Birdbrain felt his heart moved by the frowning face of wretched Borrower and pledged to provide the extra 50 Cedis on the morrow. The discourteous debtor accepted the 150 Cedis and said “Thanks. So you owe me 50 Cedis”!

What? Was it impudence or lazy language use?

(True story, made-up names. W’abodam papa!)