Closet Kung Fu*

Sin #1: Goes to the loo with his cell phone.

Sin #2: Doesn't switch it off or make it mute.

Sin #3: Fails to realise there's an office mate in there.

Sin #4: Begins to grunt and heave to announce the dislodging.

Sin #5: A call comes through while he's pushing and panting.

Sin #6: Dares to pick the call mid-push, as his voice floats out the cubicle.

Sin #7: Through mouth and nose he yells, “Heee-aaaaaaaah, heh-lloooo.”

Sin #8: Denies it was his voice; says it was the ring tone!


*Forgive me, it's Silly Friday.

Give Us More or We’ll Release the Prisoners!

You know we are damned, dead and doubly doomed when wailing warders abandon prison posts and ooze out onto the city streets like plagues and pus to hold the public hostage. It’s true that they may be paid like public peasant slaves, but to threaten to unleash hordes of prisoners on the equally pay-pinched public is to sink integrity beneath a cesspool.

The Arse of the Traffic in the City of Accra

I’ve had it with bailing out of home at Bat Hour and digging in at my desk (after work) until the Witching Hour, all because of the treacherous traffic streaking from the armpits to the arse of Accra. I resent Ghanaian government – the entire gamut of gormless Ghana governments that have made nothing, nada, of tackling the commuters’ conundrum intelligently. Next time a pitiful politician (of any colour) approaches me, I’d welcome them with my middle finger and vote likewise.

Wicked Wednesday – The Irrelevant List Coming

A catalogue of Ghana’s gay MPs will ‘out’ on Wednesday. Why? There was politics in the town of Cape Coast; a jostle for renown between the president and the leader of the opposition. Now, the shit has hit the fan; scurrilous broadsides. One man has been called gay by the other side. He says it’s not true. However, he has information on who’s gay in Ghana’s Parliament. He will expose them on Wednesday. 2010 in Ghana! Our leaders are dabbling ... Do we really want development in the next 300 years?

I Wish I Could Ask Napoleon for Advice

If I could ask any historical person for advice, hmmm, it could be any among hundreds. But, now, I'm thinking of Napoleon Bonaparte. And here's what I'd ask him:

marilyn_monroe_on_vent

You're small; you have riveting eyes; you are aggressive; you're a soldier; is there anything else in your skill bag for spectacular success (we'll talk about the equally spectacular failure later)?



A close second could be Marilyn Monroe, who I'd probably ask, "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?"



Who would you pick, and what would you ask them?

Non-Lyrical Mouths, Excuses or Self-Respect?

You know that it's either your game is dead from non-practice, or you settled down a long while ago, when your little nephew (who idolises you in every way) dares you to chat up a pretty girl on a train, and all you think about is your pride and reputation (in a strange country) instead of focusing on the little job at hand.

Menages a Trois - Age is Just a Number

I caught two old black dames on a red bus shamelessly checking out me in a grey 'skin' suit, light blue shirt and a super-sexy tie. They both smiled at me, and one gave the thumbs up they couldn't honestly deny me (tongue in cheek). For 30 minutes, I def walked taller.

Skunks on the Loose

You’re in a crowded place, like on a bus, and the hygiene’s dysfunctional for some of the people around you. Did they not realise at home? Skunks are not repulsed by their own scandalous scent. Maybe humans are the same. They should leave the skunk at home.

Claiming Accra

So, what's in all these names?
The national arena of games
Was first named after Accra
Then renamed for a sports Czar

It was claimed he was not from Accra
So the name-change was a scar
The mayor penned a daring decree
Reverse the name did he!

It happened in the capital
A city no longer ‘local’
Can the group which came here first
Make us bend to its will, coerced?

Vendors with Bells in the City of Accra

Today, I drove past a frowning fat man in a yellow MTN vendor’s vest. He was pitching strips of rubber-sealed phone top-up cards in front of the Palace Hypermarket (what’s that?) on the Spintex Road. Nobody was buying his cards (which must explain his fat fart face). But what really stood him out in the pedlars’ queue was the little black metal bell in his right hand – a now-not-so-common selling aid. With tiny twitches of his wrist, his three-clang cadence compelled attention to his common cards.