Bullet-Proof Verse

The ultimate exhibition of spiritual strength is the will to repel bullets with the mortal body. It’s been the Holy Grail of the African warrior since the sky separated from the Earth. Bullet-proof status is sealed by skin slicing, inoculating the incisions with spiritual salve, boozy bounds over midnight fires while mumbling mediaeval mantras. And there’s only one way to experiment whether a warrior or warlock has divined an anti-ballistic body; that is live, public demonstration. Props required: shotgun, trusted friend/marksman, delirious crowd, newsman and bullet-proof verse. News item the next morning: A self-proclaimed wizard dropped dead instantly when he was shot by his friend... As the town fool walks by the lifeless body of the pretender, he’s heard saying Kwasea!*


*Idiot.

Supernatural Mischief

In the malevolent military days, in the hoodoo-haggard Afram Plains, a soldier cuffs a little old man, and sends him sprawling in the dust. The fouled elder has done nothing wrong. He utters not a word beyond his whimpers and tears. He picks up his scrawny body and crawls pitifully out of sight with a hideous, haunted look. Minutes later, the gloating gladiator starts shrieking and shivering. Before scores of irreligious eyes, the wailing warrior’s own shoulder is swallowing up his affronting arm. The shoulder-socket sucks in the muscled limb until only a forefinger and thumb are left hanging out.

Love Potion #1

Douche juice. A sleazy legend in swaths of Ghana, (or was it in ancient times?) A woman longs to lure a man’s heart for love or gold? No problem. She cooks for him with water she’s used to irrigate her ‘fertile fields’. Guaranteed to make him her toke* to the end of time.

*Also toke bele – a man who is under a spell and is a fool for a woman.

Nogokpo – White Magic Shrine

The Nogokpo Shrine divines white magic on the southern Volta coastline. A super-specialist in thief-catching spells, it also dabbles in other martial mystics. Example: Anonymous steals your cell phone. You traipse to Nogokpo with the details. Nogokpo offers 2 options. Nogokpo can pay you the market price for your phone (which also amounts to buying the soul of Anonymous). Then, Nogokpo will visit indescribably excruciating afflictions on Anonymous. In one case, a thief who stole a chicken (and cooked and ate it) had it crowing out of his stomach until he surrendered to Nogokpo. Alternatively, Nogokpo will issue a spiritual summons to Anonymous, who cannot refuse to answer. The result is always the same: incantations invoked; property (or its value) recovered; or else Anonymous and their family lie buried in caskets!

The Other Side

This week I’m thinking about exploring the paranormal from a neutral ‘punto de vista’. What, really, is the other side? Well, for practitioners, taggers-along and hypocrites of the ‘modern’ religions, it is the parallel dimension which claims to be able to tap into all the unimaginably mighty power that we all know the Universe possesses (but some of us frown upon). We shall prospect for tales from around Ghana, from a purely light-entertainment vantage; that's if I summon the strength to do it.

Fan Ice

It is the shoe-shine scene playing all over again. But up the street, the shrill, short bugle blasts float faster. Paaaaa-na, paaaaa-na. The Fan-Ice boy goes bicycling by. He has frozen strawberry yoghurt, frozen chocolate, and a frozen, sorbet-like vanilla delight.

Shoe Shine

You’re indoors, keeping house, just lounging or kitting up for work (regretting that there’s no time to lick-n-buff your shoes). Tat-tat, rat-tat. Silence. Rat-tat, rat-tat. Yes, you heard it! A shoe-shine boy (bless him twice) is drumming up the street to burnish your kickers. But before the hour is surely saved, you have to insure that the polish is “Kiwi”, unless you don’t mind “Lude”.

Ayigbe Toffee

Sweetened condensed milk; fraction-frizzled in a pan, on a hot flame, into a tempting tan; window-silled to cool to a pliant plasticine. Rolled or moulded into fanciful figures – cylinders and snakes, squares and triangles; finger-licking good.

Daakowa

Roasted corn and groundnuts; milled and melded into a jellified mush; left to stand for a while to catch and cast off the groundnut grease; blended with ginger, sugar and Wisa seeds; kneaded into delightful, doughy, sienna globules.

Suya

Udder of cow; thinly sliced and then cultured with vinegar, oil, salt, and ground-pepper-and-groundnuts. Charcoal-grilled in the open air from about dusk beside the road. Served sizzling in cutlets wrapped up in paper.

Kube Cake

Coconut shavings desiccated and roasted in golden sunrays; devilishly varnished in creamy caramel; ‘butterly’ balled up before it cools and crystallises. Textured, golden globes of pleasure.

Kelewele

Deep-fried-till-golden, diced, ginger-glorified plantain, sweetening the Accra night air. Pecked while still hot and almost aglow. Relish with roasted groundnuts if you wish. Love it, but don’t be a calorie counter.

Airport Shell

It squats on the auxiliary artery which leads from the Airport roundabout to the Gifford Road (to Burma Camp). It used to be closed at 1 a.m. until armed robbers registered their unwanted approval. Now all the lights go out at 11 p.m. It serves fuel; flaunts a ‘corner store’; holds a handy garage; seduces with the Cockpit Grill, and exposes a car park to stand at if you wish ‘Airport’, ‘East Legon’ and ‘Spintex Road’ to see you on their way home at night.

The Corner Store

Every neighbourhood has one. Maybe had, before the ultra exclusive ones came along. Not always crouching at a street corner, corner stores are a really neat convenience; the slightly-steeper-than-market prices are worth it because they save you the long drive to town. But if you want more than something between chalk and cheese, then head to Shoprite (Tetteh Quashie), Max Mart (37) or, maybe, Koala (Osu). And good luck with the stifling steel snake.

Parasites, Pesewas & Porridge

“I will give you 50p.” That’s what the attendants announce to you at a well-known fast food chain in the City of Accra. What they really mean is that they will be keeping your change, because they do not have any. Imagine this – they will make GHC 150 if they do this to 300 ‘victims’ a day! The receipts they give out around 9 p.m. show that they take close to 400 orders daily. Some supplementary income! And when you come out to the car park, some security guard accosts you and asks for “some coins for Koko* for Old Man.”

*Koko - cornmeal porridge

Hand Culture – Eating Sticky Food

At Tante Marie (specialists in West African Cuisine), an interracial couple rendezvous with its Ghanaian friends. The Missus looks of Germanic stock; the Mister is a dusted-with-coal Rastafarian. They’re both clothed all in white. It’s a celebration! Among them huddles a little granddad in a giant’s ancient suit and a failing backbone that makes his head hang below his bony shoulders, as his dirty, white beard almost brushes the tabletop. He’s stuffing Banku and Tilapia into his pinched mouth with a fork. But, to really clean the flesh off the fish bones, he finds that he has to use his good old hands.

Traditional African Soap

For many, ‘European’ Soap smells nice, but leaves them with spotted, speckled skin. They’ll still not fall back on Alata Samina, Black Honey Soap or some similar ‘African’ Soap because they do not smell like heaven, although they leave your face as smooth as heaven’s highway. Lately, though, the soap-makers have caught on to sweetening their cleansers with Pear and Aloe, Lemon and Citronella. And now ‘modern’ people can avoid the pineapple face and still leave the shower with some natural, seductive fragrance.

Kwame Nkrumah – He Laughed!

A black Atlas shouldering the Black Man’s Burden, many of his pictures revealed a pensive phiz with resident shadows and a receding hairline. But, one picture in black and white has crossed my ken somewhere - Kwame Nkrumah laughing in percolating paroxysms. I cannot explain this rationally, but it makes my soul proud! Its infectious, carefree silliness weighed against his serious developmental mind just about fascinates me more than any other shot of any other man!

Kwame Nkrumah - Hard Target

Jan 2, 1964. Kwame Nkrumah walks the grounds of Flagstaff House with personal guards and ‘trusted’ cops aplenty. An assassin (who sent him?) squeezes off a bullet and misses. Salifu Dagarti throws the Prez down, and probably saves his life. For reward, the next bullet drills cleanly through Salifu’s loyal skull. Onlookers remain bystanders as the assassin chases after the President into a kitchen. Prez is screaming, but no help arrives. Kwame Nkrumah personally wrestles and overpowers a gun-toting assassin. On this day, he’s 54 years and 125 days old! But he escapes with only a facial bite!

Kwame Nkrumah – Give Us Chocolate

Cult creation was Kwame Nkrumah’s forte. By an almost unbelievable account, his Young Pioneers* would be amassed into a ‘Dogma’ room with tall walls, a door and upper windows. The thumb-suckers would be encouraged, by their adult minders, to pray to God for chocolate. “God, give us chocolate!” “God, give us chocolate!” Tens of times would they ask, but chocolate would not come down the Manna way. Then, the over-credulous nkwadaa would be ‘hocus-pocused’ to ask Kwame Nkrumah for chocolate. “Nkrumah, our father, give us chocolate.” Just asked once, and down rained confectionery like confetti from the high windows!


*Young Pioneers – A club of young followers of Kwame Nkrumah indoctrinated to be his eyes and ears in every home.