The Ringing Lemons in the City of Accra

Would you accept a spanking new car which only drove in blind reverse? What dark torture might you devise for the man who sold you a wonder drug that lay wicked waste to your enchanting flower garden only to immunise the weeds as they defile your grounds? And though you may not be American, what would you think if you heard that GWB had hurriedly dispatched the sons and daughters of good American families to some senseless killing fields with no radio contact with their commanders?

So, what’s in a name? Simple, ego! The reason why we do not reject names that are simply not working, or are no longer working: Great Britain, The American Dream, The Dream Team, African Unity. See my direction? So, what’s in a name? Arrogance, snob appeal!

The City of Accra (as safe as she still is) is no longer the haven that she used to be. Every Accraian has a cell phone, or will soon acquire one. It is for security. The emergency lines have not been taught what an emergency is. While les sinistres are chasing you at night or tearing down your door, it makes sense to call your best friend and say simply, “Robbers, help!” Then, while you’re bound up and counting possibly your last seconds on Earth, your friend can call around for the police or whoever will help.

But how can we get help when the lion of service providers takes down the service for eight disquieting hours on a weekend night? It happened on Saturday. And when I was going to bed at 3 am, so many Accraians were crippled ceramic ducks.

They turn our lovely phones into lowly lemons; curious cars that only drive backwards; skyscrapers without stairs or elevators. Because of the snob appeal, Accraians will continue to use this service provider. A new addition is coming to town. Three million breaths wait, bated, expectant! Nokia did not make my phone to be a monument to inefficiency, silence, impotence.

The Child

Is your heart of the whole
In what it is you’re doing?
Or do you sometimes wish
You were doing something else?

Do you do it with a free mind
Or is your hand forced to it?
And even when the end feels right
Do you think you could do more?

Do you think you’re in the right place
Or are you moving at the wrong pace?
And if life should end today
Would you regret your options made?

If life is one hard game
How are your pieces playing out?
Is there a burning need
Or hunger in your soul?

Do you meet the morn with hope
And go to bed with a light load?
Do you take the time to stop
And ask yourself: is it worth it?

Whatever you start to do
Do you finish what you start?
And are these questions really meant
To be answered? None at all!

Azumah Nelson, National Hero II

So, the Lion of Africa could not even scratch a hairline fracture on Ayers Rock (Uluru). Wait, that is mighty unfair! The rock is already an awesome, eerie red, so its bruises could hardly come to show, no?

Azumah stood in high water’s dreaded way for the love of the children. I heard he called up the Aussie Cat to donate some Aussie dollars to a Ghanaian cause. The sly feline, licking a double old wound inflicted by the Gladiator of Accra, would not let a cent pass without an avenging duel. He knew he was younger and kept in much the better shape.

And, yet, in the final rounds, the Tommy cat tail-between-legged all over the ring Down Under, fearful that the lion had one puissant paw stroke left in him. Azumah did it for the children, and came out unscathed. He is twice the man he was, when he woke up this morning in a Sydney Hotel Room.

Azumah Nelson, National Hero I

And when the bell chimes, he must lock his eagle eyes on feline Fenech’s claw-paws, not blinking or retreating; thinking, while not imposing.

Between ducking the birdshots on the fly, like quail, and skipping on his semi-geriatric legs, he must freeze his granite mind on his former glorious fights, and recall the one sucker punch which never failed him in a deadly duel.

Then, he must bide his ticking time, and (if he’s not already been pulverised by the vicious and younger man) he must wantonly unleash a deadly dumdum to break the atlas and axis bones in the vain vertebrae of the Aussie Cat.

Tuesday Twilight Traffic in the City of Accra

The clashing cultures of the farming forest and the fishing coast have left me in a tangled skein as to whether Terrible Tuesday is a labour or leisure day. It should be arch relief to blame the bustling market squares for the passage gridlock. Sadly, I do not note more muscle-bound yam pedlars or lane-hopping hawkers, at high noon Tuesday, in the City of Accra.

The giddy malaise infects every artery out of the pulsating heart of the city, as Tuesday rudely farts its motor fumes and perspiration in the weary and famished face of the homebound Accraian. And it all won’t evanesce until way past the boring evening news, or benign bedtime.

So, who (or wicked what) is gushing trebly into the City of Accra on Tuesday, that doesn’t sweep this way on any other day? There must be some overrun answer prostating somewhere. Or am I soaring above the city authorities? The traffic is terrible, and somebody’s thinking is blatantly bagatelle-blank.

Feeling the Same

When a lone bird soars above
And flowers passed don’t bring a hug
When a wink or smile is spurned
And the seat you saved is void
It’s all about feeling the same

A touch that made your heart explode
That smile you know you’ll never forget
The words you said but never thought
The selfless things you did for once
It’s all about feeling the same

When half your day is spent forlorn
And your pining crosses into dreams
When your world is your bedroom
And radio songs bring silent tears
It’s all about feeling the same

Every human one-on-one
Man to woman, woman to man
The things we do without the thought
The smiles, the tears, the indifference
It’s all about feeling the same

Check-Check in the City of Accra

In countless peopled crannies in the City of Accra, sheet wood and cardboard stalls defy realty regulations, and stand pretty prismatic; painted in red, yellow and white. Attending aft the counter is a boy or two or four (never a girl), sometimes completely bandaged with chef civvies – high hat, apron and all. He’s slightly obscured in sight and sound by all the frizzling, sizzling and smouldering.

A disorderly throng (never a quiescent queue) lays swinish siege to the kitchen kiosk, shouting three different orders in befuddling price variations (the fare is never more than three, what d’you think this is, a royalty restaurant?) The cooks will never muddle an order, a dazzling piece of magic.

The food is hot and generally safe. A quick and easy business for otherwise unemployed young men. A curious question though: why don’t women do check-check?