Non-Street Beggars in the City of Accra

Look, foreign governments don’t post a Santa-for-all-seasons at JFK or Heathrow or Schiphol or Frankfurt to shower sweet toys and treasure on travellers. It’s the same camera, watch, phone, shoes, or frippery they ‘rock’ back at home. So all those people in Ghana always cadging visitors for gifts, PLEASE STOP IT!

Praise & Worship...& Contagion

Quick start. Music soaring. Voices swelling. Atmosphere psychedelic. Quick draw. Handkerchiefs swaying. Microbes sailing. Nostrils inhaling. I'd rather stay in bed.

BlogCamp 2012 - Ghana Rising

Online porn is the quarry of the bird-dog youth of today! Clueless carol of some society speakers. Not true! Imagine my sweet surprise on seeing so many still-growing minds with yards of yen for social medial relevance at BlogCamp 2012; relevance as content creators and catchers too. Ghana's rising the right way - led by the youth. Well done to the organisers.

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Too Old to Hold an OD

I was trading bagatelles with a concupiscent confidante about being middle-aged and unmarried when she got a phone call. Earlier that day, a bank she works at had refused a man an overdraft.

What was the reason? He was over seventy! They would not say this, but they fear he could drop off at anytime, clearly. It matters little his clean credit history or bold bank balance.

So, while we were trifle-flirting-fretting over being nearly too old to be unmarried, a prosperous senior citizen was too old to snag an OD.

It’s Not Too Much Talking; It’s Too Little Voting

Some people say there is too much talk in Ghana. They reckon more action and less talk is the economic elixir we require. I agree that too many people pretend to be political, economic and social experts in the media (including online social media). I disagree, however, that Ghanaians talk too much. The basic meaning of democracy – as I understand it – is the sounding of all views before choosing the most popular.

If TV, radio, print and online media are filled with the ‘voice of the people’, there is a good chance that decisions would be the choice of the people, and failure would be viewed philosophically and not vi et armis. I shift my position a little. The inexpert experts should hush and let the vox populi be broadcast.

Having said that talk is good, talk is not enough. It would be a catastrophe if we did not talk at all. It would be a shame if we talked and talked and nothing happened. A child in primary school, I read a story of a world of creatures resident in a ball of animal fur or something like that. This world was unseen to the ‘normal’ world and condemned to be destroyed. A campaign team was sent around this tiny world to urge the creatures to make an almighty racket. Maybe it could be saved if they could prove that life existed in the ball of fur. Voice and cymbal, drum and hands – they made the din with anything they found. But the animals were not convinced that life resided in the ball of fur. Things got critical. Then the creatures saw the tiniest of their kind. It was hiding behind a flake of dandruff. It would not join in the noise. It did not believe it could make a difference. At the end, it was convinced to shout at the top of its voice, and the animals heard the din. Their world was saved.

It would be a senseless shame if we all spoke up but failed to do the one most important policy-affecting act. VOTE! And it would be sadder still if one could not vote because they did not register. We all know the shortfall of votes that took Ghana to a second round in the 2008 elections, and the number that made the difference finally. How many did not register? How many did not vote? Could they have made a difference for one party or another? Imagine the cost to you (as a taxpayer) that we had two (some say three) elections, instead of one, to choose a leader!

I will not say that the abstaining wise deserve the rule of the foolish but civic. But what a bummer it would be if two abstainers out of every ten could sway the elections by doing nothing beyond the civic right to speak. Many do not feel too patriotic, and I understand their reasons. But when you vote, you vote, first, for yourself; not for Ghana.

The voters registration is on. It is only of secondary importance that the process is biometric rather than something else. Be responsible for your future (and maybe Ghana’s). If I have convinced you – if I needed to – please go out and register. If I failed, then we will fail.

Five Favourite Forget-Me-Nots

Grandfather's Old Law Book

The ancient, no, Jurassic, Jurisprudence book that belonged to my grandfather. He’d wanted to a lawyer. He abandoned school with eyesight problems and a thirst to enter politics against an evolving dictator at the time. He became a magistrate, but never a lawyer. When I pick that book, he speaks to me. He starts, “Panyin Senior Brother.” That’s what he called me. He's smiling down at me right now.

Varicoloured, Old Bed Sheet

The many-motif strip of cloth my mother gave to me in ’98, when I was going to the university. It saw tears and wet dreams for coquettish college girls and served me well in my law-limited sleep. I keep it as a cover cloth now, and it will never retire from my bed.

Bold, Blue Bath Bucket

Ten-litre pail with a lovely black handle. Faithful companion when the showers turned traitor. Now benched as a laundry boy, it’s still not too little to give me a quick body dousing.

Blue, Plastic-Strap Swatch from Primary School

My first Swatch, and mother of many more. I can’t say it rendered me precise, but it was a long-lasting friendship.

Black, Sleek, Scientific Calculator

Daddy bought this gizmo months after we “broke the neck of this Apartheid” in South Africa. He bought it in Johannesburg. It was seventy-something Rands. A long-distance cousin I only saw once visited for three hours. He must have arrived back in Koforidua with a new toy.

Cast-Away Hat in the City of Accra

A well-worn, brown hat perched on the bald cusp of the Spintex Road. I saw it just before a trotro cut in, in a half-whisker before me, and bow-legged the hat. I wondered if it sailed off its owner's suddenly-naked head or if, in typical thug-driving, a trotro whisked him from under the suddenly-perchless hat. It looked so lonely among the people and cars.

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