The Cat-Kicker

Inside the wooden fencing, they’re watching a La-Liga match. Outside, where the loudspeakers bellow loud, we sit among the smoking tables, each two less than a metre apart. The varicoloured bottles remain arranged on the tables when a round of drinks is done like some mating-dance plume show. A couple huddles near the perimeter opening. He’s having a drink. She’s having a drink and eating out of a plate. Her mouth drops almost all the way to the table. I’m watching the obscene curvature of her ... backbone, when I see two cats circling the table. One can no longer wait for scraps and bravely rubs against her leg. With a shout above the music, she kicks the poor cat in an airborne arc into the crowd. Who kicks animals anywhere? And who kicks felines on a date?

Triplets at El Wak on a Saturday Morning

On a twilight cruise for Saturday soccer at Labone. Aviation Road is already abuzz with busy-bee Accraians. The traffic lights fire red before I can cross Giffard Road into Cantonments. I don’t like stopping here: not fifty feet from where the runway-gobbling plane scythed through the swarming street.  Three sets of tiny feet identically shod in bright-red ladybug-like shoes pitter-patter across one lane. Their mother plods behind them. The first stretches out her tiny hand and wriggles the fingers at passing cars. Her two sisters repeat what she does. One, two, three, four, all cars are hypno-stopped. They sail across in a straight line in rhythmic step. Mother ‘walruses’ awkwardly behind them. Then, they are gone. Beautiful. Beguiling. 

Automatic Car Wash

I was thrilled earlier this week to see an automatic car wash open right outside my neighbourhood on Spintex Road. My hood was far from dusty, but the elements had gnawed at the tired streets. Then, some smart person chose to cover it all with pavement blocks, and then the pavement with cement dust. Now a car can only stand clean for one hour.

Today I went to the car wash. It’s owned by two Lebanese old men. They take pleasure in pressing the buttons themselves. The car is lathered and washed with electric pompoms and semi-dried with electric dryers.

A few metres further down, four Ghanaian lads wipe the cars dry. That’s the real story of this post. They are filled with so much hate. They insult their employers from the time you drive in, and theirs is the last voice you hear on the way out – insulting. They speak in Twi, of course, and try to draw me into their xenophobia. I ignore them. When I’m ready to drive off in my shiny car, one of the owners capers up to me and asks in a friendly voice, “It good?” Although it took longer than your regular one-hose car wash, I’m going back there.

It was those boys’ attitude that needed to run through the car wash, not cars.

The Foolish Get Scammed

It’s not sinister spy stuff. One contented brain, two eagle eyes and three grams of good grammar – the essential toolkit. The steed of cyber fraud will canter far from your prudent purse. I mean, what self-respecting ‘British’ CENTER has a website wriggling with worms of American English?

This is Not Education

How does a boy end J.S.S.
Unable to spell his name?
Is he a buffoon, more or less
Or's the system to blame?

How does a girl attain Legon
And know naught from the books?
Education's a great, big con
If no one cares or looks

How do the youth land a new job
And never had a coach?
They're thrown out to the working mob
And crushed flat like a 'roach

Jobs Hanging on Trees in the City of Accra

Who's jump-started the jobs-jalopy in Accra? I haven't seen it hobble past on the street below my office window. It's just the passport-hunting, jobless flock. So where's the Ghana High Commission going to conjure nine-to-fives for jobless Ghana-Brits to return to? Political possum-play.


Sent from my BlackBerry® smartphone

Memories of London 2012

My keepsakes from the Olympics: the thrice-striking lightning Bolt; Farah winning Mo than one gold medal; Jess the GIANT tadpole; the Baltimore Bullet killing it in the swimming pool; Golden Girl Gabby Douglas.

And then there was the bonsai Bukom boxer; went into the prize fight with only brawn; beaten into a pulp of boiled bambara beans by the lanky Nipponese 'blowman'. God, his bewildered oafish look!