The Kumasi I Saw

Kiz and I took a rugged road trip through the airy Aburi Mountains and not-so-novel New Juabeng, through the king-size Kwahu Highlands and Asante-Akyem to Kumasi (the second city). I may employ next week reliving the experience through my posts. But, to summarise it all here, the Kumasi I saw was weather-cool, traffic-light, better-roads, bigger-average-booty compared to Accra. Plus, there was chow aplenty. But Kumasi has probably more streetwalkers, more BO in polished places, less or no English, and precious little unleaded fuel (or knowledge about it). But nothing I have seen compares to the nighttime Bantama streets, nothing!

Two by Two

From my collection 'Amour Propre'

Two by two they slept that night
When the sky threw down her tears
And swathed the heart in a prickly cold
Chest to chest; arms around body
Their spirits tamed the unfriendly chill
Two by two they walked that night
When the wind pierced through their clothes
And formed death’s layer under the skin
Shivers begged for heat to touch
The frost stood tall and fiercer still
Two by two they kept the night
But one stayed lone to write a sad song.

Crool Black

The lack of light cuts clean, slim lines on the wearer’s frame. It recites racy elegance and calm confidence. It speaks of no need for silly frills to feel cool! But it also denotes death, buried sadness and tears. It is morbid, funereal. It is cruel. But when you put on black, questions fly at you: what is the tragedy? So, in Ghana, Black is crool (cruel + cool).

Is Hiplife Played Out?

It exploded on the scene, and mopped the floor with doddering Highlife. A social invasion of beaches and homes, ‘concerto-conference’ halls and cars, it lured mad crowds to its Low-Fi gigs, and forged its own vibrant ‘inside’ culture.

Now, it appears played out. Hiplife practitioners serve twice-told tales in the same humdrum, borrowed beats of ancient global chart toppers. As with all fads in Ghana that quickly fizzle into thin air, Hiplife is creeping and crawling tired.

Gari Fortor

Crisp, chewy, pan-roasted manioc granules softened and textured with a little oil. ‘Savouried’ with a dash of all your favourite spices. Balance-dieted with vegetables and fish or lamb or chicken. ‘Varietied’ up with kibbled Kelewele. Set down beside a cool, tall drink. Please, please, stop! I’m already dreaming of lunch at 6 a.m.

$20 Million to stand on

A female friend suggests sombrely that short men wrestle with more chimera challenges in finding true mates than almost anybody else. The cutting reality is that women on natural stilts will not have little men. Another, says she, is that compact women won’t want sawn-off men for fear of spawning imps and elves.. It is a selective science to save your sons the hardship of moneyless mate-finding (true love). My friend feels that a short man needs $20 million to literally stand on, before he should be ‘seen’ by a woman.

Sweet Mother, What It Look Like?

I was hanging out with my friend, Gee Oh, at the Golden Tulip Hotel’s swimming pool at the gloaming, and rationing on their best effort at Italian cuisine. A live band was keeping time on the same half-dozen rehearsed songs in changing cadences. We were challenging each other to a dance, when the band started “Sweet Mother”, but Gee Oh changed her suiting mind because people might have thought that she was my mother, although she looks pretty youngish herself. So, I was just wondering: does it matter what people think?