Every first-time beholder has asked me if Volta Hall in the University of Ghana was a chapel. Hardly, isn’t it :) When I was a little student in Legon (and more fearless than now), I witnessed the most curious thing at Volta Hall. I would be greatly surprised if it does not remain a daunting feeling that one suffers as they walk up the two flights of stairs to the Porter’s Lodge. That’s when the hottest and hippest young women in Accra come gathering in the coolest clothes in earth. All made-up. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Sweet-smelling. Saccharine-smiling. Daunting, didn’t I say?
K.A.T., my roommate, and I were standing with the girls when a forty-something year-old man (who obviously thought he was a cool-looking dude) with blue shoes, gold pendants and a golf-course girth, made the long walk up the twin stairs. He was speaking loudly on the phone (something about Dollars, if memory serves). The tensest zone takes eight odd steps to cross over. He was halfway through and getting louder on the phone when the very phone began to ring. Now I can swear to you that I have seen nice, clean and dry skin suddenly and violently break into streams of sweat. He took the longest four steps in his life to the sound of a dozen sniggering beauties - and two boys :) We waited there for a very long time, but we did not see him come back.
I read a Newsweek (or Economist) article about two years ago about mobile phone usage in public. In Japan (or South Korea) commuters have silently laid down their own rules. At either rush hour, they do not speak much on the phone – it’s all text messaging. I imagined the author’s description of eyes intently glued to wide screens and frantically-moving fingers, and it looked a disturbing but beautiful scene of orderly robots. The slightest hint of a voice convo brings one hundred evil-eye stares and hostile whispers to hush.
Not in the city of Accra. Public-place phone calls are made on megaphones or worse. I hear everything you’re saying. And I was curious, but frankly unimpressed, to hear that your aunt is sleeping with the boy next door. I was also pained at the announcement of what you want to have for dinner at home tonight. And I am sorry that I laughed, when, looking at you, you! You just had the most-important business meeting ever held in the world. But did you look around you? I was not the only one laughing. We were all compelled to even stare at your shoes; we saw fraying leather when you sent us looking for gold. I have said enough. With almost every Accraian you walk past, you can hear one part of the conversation and deduce the other part. Imagine all the secrets you’re giving away, after working so hard to keep them hidden from ... your wife ... boss ... neighbours ... the press ... God ...everybody.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
A Vista of the Sunset and Moon-Wax
Perched pretty on the sun-kissed rocks of the Atlantic is a cool getaway den that you could live and work in Accra for many years and not discover. An amazing fact considering that the entertainment scene in the city of Accra is a bit thin, closed and familiar. It’s just great to know that right on the High Street, you can close from stressful work and, after a short walk or drive, have a drink (oh, your order comes eventually) and barbecue on the rocky shoreline.
And once you’re in after paying a fee, I think, (where do you not pay in Accra these days) you can sit near the rocks or on the benches scattered across a wooded sandy promenade. It’s big enough for a walkabout. The setting sun is a huge golden egg yoke; something you could stroke with your fingertips if only you could stretch out your arm a foot higher.
Entering on a full-moon evening is the stuff that dreams are made of. As you descend the steeply-hacked stairs, it feels like you could walk out on the broad, silver esplanade flung across the pitch-black gulf.
It’s just not a place you’d like to stay for too long. But an hour’s visit is heaven. And, yes, I left out the name of this little paradise on purpose. A little adventure for you. No?
And once you’re in after paying a fee, I think, (where do you not pay in Accra these days) you can sit near the rocks or on the benches scattered across a wooded sandy promenade. It’s big enough for a walkabout. The setting sun is a huge golden egg yoke; something you could stroke with your fingertips if only you could stretch out your arm a foot higher.
Entering on a full-moon evening is the stuff that dreams are made of. As you descend the steeply-hacked stairs, it feels like you could walk out on the broad, silver esplanade flung across the pitch-black gulf.
It’s just not a place you’d like to stay for too long. But an hour’s visit is heaven. And, yes, I left out the name of this little paradise on purpose. A little adventure for you. No?
Saturday, March 29, 2008
The Case for an Extra Day in the City of Accra
After a week of wild and licensed devilment, a newly-married husband (H) and wife (W) call timeout, and vow to make love on only r-bearing days: Thursday, Friday and Saturday.
The novel arrangement (quite senseless to present raconteur) works well for the weekend. But, by Monday, the hunger lurks in H’s brightening eyes, and W wilts under his soulful stare.
By Tuesday night, H and W have got to accidentally touching each other, with every tiny movement, on their suddenly-shrinking bed, and pretending not to notice. But, on realising that pride and honour would not help revoke the rashly-made vow, H and W tacitly turn to high intrigue.
H: Baby, what day is today?
W: TRUESDAY!!!
The thick and terrifying traffic, in the city of Accra, snakes its way through the now-noisy suburban streets to the city centre. The nuclear sun conspires along, assisted by the lately-rising skyline, to asphyxiate a tearful and frustrated city.
With all the hideously-hot hours spent in the stagnant traffic jams, fatigue spreading like an oil slick, and boiling-point weather, I believe the case is made for an extra day of the week :). Even Saturday and Sunday pass too quickly, and Tired Monday is soon upon us.
People may treat the extra day as a working day or no, but the case is strongly made. What I don't know, for certain, is whether this appeal should be made to Parliament or Heaven, but I’m collecting signatures :). When the extra day is granted, I suggest we call it … TRUESDAY! Poor couple.
The novel arrangement (quite senseless to present raconteur) works well for the weekend. But, by Monday, the hunger lurks in H’s brightening eyes, and W wilts under his soulful stare.
By Tuesday night, H and W have got to accidentally touching each other, with every tiny movement, on their suddenly-shrinking bed, and pretending not to notice. But, on realising that pride and honour would not help revoke the rashly-made vow, H and W tacitly turn to high intrigue.
H: Baby, what day is today?
W: TRUESDAY!!!
The thick and terrifying traffic, in the city of Accra, snakes its way through the now-noisy suburban streets to the city centre. The nuclear sun conspires along, assisted by the lately-rising skyline, to asphyxiate a tearful and frustrated city.
With all the hideously-hot hours spent in the stagnant traffic jams, fatigue spreading like an oil slick, and boiling-point weather, I believe the case is made for an extra day of the week :). Even Saturday and Sunday pass too quickly, and Tired Monday is soon upon us.
People may treat the extra day as a working day or no, but the case is strongly made. What I don't know, for certain, is whether this appeal should be made to Parliament or Heaven, but I’m collecting signatures :). When the extra day is granted, I suggest we call it … TRUESDAY! Poor couple.
Friday, March 28, 2008
National Friday Wear
Fridays are finely flavoured with vivid colours: red, yellow, blue, green, lilac, gold, brown. Patent and rich raffia of African fabric wrapped around the soft rounded edges of the capital. It’s called National Friday Wear. Wax prints and batiks, African, Dutch, origin-unknown, that-which-cannot-be-told, very many different types.
The sensual slit and courtly kaba have made a queen’s comeback. Hugging and stretching like musical strings across the Shai-hill bodyscapes of the proud and victorious Accra woman. Long round curves of a freehand artist brought to throbbing life by the street-side beat of a daydreaming drummer.
Shirts! Such shirts of sheer showiness. Patterns, stripes, squares, abstract. Long-sleeved with elegant sweeps of the arm; short-sleeved for the worked-out, sinewy arm, trimmed and toned to impress.
Crazy combinations. Prints, skirts, khakis, jeans, leggings, loose, firm, wind-swept, hugging, sheer, everything. Laid-back loveliness has never looked this good as strewn all over the city. The one day out of seven when everybody, as a rule, has sixty Kodak moments in every hour.
Friday is the fruitiest, sweetest and spiciest day of the week :).
The sensual slit and courtly kaba have made a queen’s comeback. Hugging and stretching like musical strings across the Shai-hill bodyscapes of the proud and victorious Accra woman. Long round curves of a freehand artist brought to throbbing life by the street-side beat of a daydreaming drummer.
Shirts! Such shirts of sheer showiness. Patterns, stripes, squares, abstract. Long-sleeved with elegant sweeps of the arm; short-sleeved for the worked-out, sinewy arm, trimmed and toned to impress.
Crazy combinations. Prints, skirts, khakis, jeans, leggings, loose, firm, wind-swept, hugging, sheer, everything. Laid-back loveliness has never looked this good as strewn all over the city. The one day out of seven when everybody, as a rule, has sixty Kodak moments in every hour.
Friday is the fruitiest, sweetest and spiciest day of the week :).
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The Semi-Retired Millionaires in the City of Accra
A smooth-talking craftsman piously promised one month ago to forge metal furniture for me in one week. His sample pictures were old, scratchy and fading, but the works of art in them were clear enough to melt the heart of the dimmest philistine. And so was mine. I paid a famine price in golden Ghana Cedis, and, there, the story ends... or, does it?
Adroit artisans and cunning craftsmen pockmark the face of the city of Accra. They like us to prize their importance in our daily lives, for necessity or art. They usually turn out evidence of raw talent, but flawless finishing is still a distant dream in the city of Accra.
These self-employed Accraians choose their working when-and-how. They elect not to work weekends and public holidays. They’d rather take the family out or sit under the alcohol tree with friends, spending the money they have earned, asking clients to come back the next day!
When the dallying Bluecollar shakes off the narco-stupor, and opens his crammed work shed, at eleven a.m. (early by him) he professes shock that some naughty elves have spent a busy night undoing the maestro’s masterpiece(but he only worked in his mind). Because you have a nine-to-five, he tries to renegotiate the price because the work is more complex than his simple mind calculated. Glorified begging from you who plan and budget your pesewas and pins.
Yesterday he darkened my doorstep with his oily self and the metal work; almost as nice as in the faded tableau. But the soft furnishing, that he didn’t bring with him! Between basely blaming another of his ilk in trade and re-haggling compensation we both discovered that the flaming beauties were each one leg short :(
Semi-retired millionaires; working when they like; naming their price; taking many holidays; not caring what other people want.
Adroit artisans and cunning craftsmen pockmark the face of the city of Accra. They like us to prize their importance in our daily lives, for necessity or art. They usually turn out evidence of raw talent, but flawless finishing is still a distant dream in the city of Accra.
These self-employed Accraians choose their working when-and-how. They elect not to work weekends and public holidays. They’d rather take the family out or sit under the alcohol tree with friends, spending the money they have earned, asking clients to come back the next day!
When the dallying Bluecollar shakes off the narco-stupor, and opens his crammed work shed, at eleven a.m. (early by him) he professes shock that some naughty elves have spent a busy night undoing the maestro’s masterpiece(but he only worked in his mind). Because you have a nine-to-five, he tries to renegotiate the price because the work is more complex than his simple mind calculated. Glorified begging from you who plan and budget your pesewas and pins.
Yesterday he darkened my doorstep with his oily self and the metal work; almost as nice as in the faded tableau. But the soft furnishing, that he didn’t bring with him! Between basely blaming another of his ilk in trade and re-haggling compensation we both discovered that the flaming beauties were each one leg short :(
Semi-retired millionaires; working when they like; naming their price; taking many holidays; not caring what other people want.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
The Liquefaction of Accra
Yesterday, the amazingly azure Atlantic, in the middle of the Accra inferno, looked so strangely out of place. Calm and yet powerful; angry but not about to break the frightened shore. It was oh so postcard perfect, even from a mile away. The horrible heat, grotesque buildings and aspiring-but-ailing air conditioning put my mind on holiday and kept drawing my tired eyes to the far-off, deep-blue beauty.
Something really big is about to melt or vaporise in the repressive heat of the city of Accra. It might be the ocean, or a big hotel, or the Freedom and Justice Monument, or the Korle Lagoon. I have heard a question whispered a million times. Each time, it gets no answer. Can this furnace frizzle the brain? Thinking fearfully about it, I realise I do not really want the answer. But Accra sorely misses the rain.
But many are they who love the torrid air. These Accraians live on dry beds of land which come suddenly to life as ravenous rivers or rapid waterways when the heavens sprinkle three drops of water. My goat-herd guess is that these Accraians number three-to-one more than the rest of the city residents. Since their prayer against the arrival of the rain is far more ardent, far more desperate even, something monumental will liquefy in the city of Accra.
Many anaemic generations of city authorities with their rigorous regulation and perfect planning have done their utmost best to ensure that the rainy seasons come and wash through the Aegean Stables of Accra, together with the filth, houses, and little-valued human lives. Next, they will be asking for national medals.
Something really big is about to melt or vaporise in the repressive heat of the city of Accra. It might be the ocean, or a big hotel, or the Freedom and Justice Monument, or the Korle Lagoon. I have heard a question whispered a million times. Each time, it gets no answer. Can this furnace frizzle the brain? Thinking fearfully about it, I realise I do not really want the answer. But Accra sorely misses the rain.
But many are they who love the torrid air. These Accraians live on dry beds of land which come suddenly to life as ravenous rivers or rapid waterways when the heavens sprinkle three drops of water. My goat-herd guess is that these Accraians number three-to-one more than the rest of the city residents. Since their prayer against the arrival of the rain is far more ardent, far more desperate even, something monumental will liquefy in the city of Accra.
Many anaemic generations of city authorities with their rigorous regulation and perfect planning have done their utmost best to ensure that the rainy seasons come and wash through the Aegean Stables of Accra, together with the filth, houses, and little-valued human lives. Next, they will be asking for national medals.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
The Beauties on the Stage in the City of Accra
There are only pitiful prizes for divining rightly that I absolutely adore the lovely women of Accra. They have been poised for such prepossession for quite a long time, and, having arrived, have no continental peers :)
But the beauty pageants in Accra – they used to be christened beauty pageants even when not much was comely on two legs in the city of Accra. A casual scan revealed twice as many beauties in the audience as the vain viragos on the stage reciting poetry not their own, or making speeches written in somebody else’s withered words and a pilfered accent. The prettiest was never the winner (fair enough). The most talented never won (and Ghana never won anything). The most intelligent never won. The most beautiful (only out of the lot on the stage :)) was always left in tears, biting, kicking, accusing, scandalising in tantrums, threatening to go to court or the court of public opinion.
And the pageants changed. They picked on fancy names and skirted the word ‘beauty’ like a vile affliction. Yet, all the time, the women grew more beautiful. The present favourite focus appears to be talent: dancing, speeches, poetry recitals and little else :(
‘Face’ replaced ‘Beauty’ or the vague, deceptive ‘Miss’ (for many were not maidens). I wonder if the change in name has anything to do with carbo-abdomen and allied amorphisms :) (See how I like coming back to this). After all, you may hardly be body beautiful and still flaunt a selfishly stunning face :)
Why haven't the drop-dead gorgeous college girls entered these pageants?
But the beauty pageants in Accra – they used to be christened beauty pageants even when not much was comely on two legs in the city of Accra. A casual scan revealed twice as many beauties in the audience as the vain viragos on the stage reciting poetry not their own, or making speeches written in somebody else’s withered words and a pilfered accent. The prettiest was never the winner (fair enough). The most talented never won (and Ghana never won anything). The most intelligent never won. The most beautiful (only out of the lot on the stage :)) was always left in tears, biting, kicking, accusing, scandalising in tantrums, threatening to go to court or the court of public opinion.
And the pageants changed. They picked on fancy names and skirted the word ‘beauty’ like a vile affliction. Yet, all the time, the women grew more beautiful. The present favourite focus appears to be talent: dancing, speeches, poetry recitals and little else :(
‘Face’ replaced ‘Beauty’ or the vague, deceptive ‘Miss’ (for many were not maidens). I wonder if the change in name has anything to do with carbo-abdomen and allied amorphisms :) (See how I like coming back to this). After all, you may hardly be body beautiful and still flaunt a selfishly stunning face :)
Why haven't the drop-dead gorgeous college girls entered these pageants?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)