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?
Friday, June 20, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Night Markets in the City of Accra
The daylight gathers up her see-through dirndl, and strides out of the city centre with the frayed and frazzled workers ... and sluggish stragglers. As the city lies naked and exposed, we lustfully espy her prize assets which were hidden earlier on by the detumescent denizen - pavements; walkways; road signs; wide and clean block facades, in the sepia evening light.
As the sun plunges her curtains, a few street lights catch an ecru flame, but the open-space glamour does not last long. Scores of Accraians flood into the wan light, carrying tables and chairs and sacks on carts. This is the Accra Night Market setting up. Kenkey, suya, shoes and phones; clothes, virility drugs, cheap perfumes; fakes, dupes, knock-offs, ersatz goods.
Other tradesmen hover around the edge of the elfin light, preferring to do their business in the dark: the skin trade, muggers, loafers, Ali Baba’s forty thieves and the dishevelled and moonstruck men retailing a whole lot of powder!
As the sun plunges her curtains, a few street lights catch an ecru flame, but the open-space glamour does not last long. Scores of Accraians flood into the wan light, carrying tables and chairs and sacks on carts. This is the Accra Night Market setting up. Kenkey, suya, shoes and phones; clothes, virility drugs, cheap perfumes; fakes, dupes, knock-offs, ersatz goods.
Other tradesmen hover around the edge of the elfin light, preferring to do their business in the dark: the skin trade, muggers, loafers, Ali Baba’s forty thieves and the dishevelled and moonstruck men retailing a whole lot of powder!
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Ode to Myself OR to the One I've Lately Come to Like
O how quiet the world becomes
And so clearly every thought throbs
The last clever word you said
Last time we met
The parked Camry you sat on
Your smooth, tight jeans
The little, short sneezes
In the light evening air
Delicious, faint fragrance swirling in my head
O how breathless the moment grows!
So soft and sharply, strikes every pulse.
And so clearly every thought throbs
The last clever word you said
Last time we met
The parked Camry you sat on
Your smooth, tight jeans
The little, short sneezes
In the light evening air
Delicious, faint fragrance swirling in my head
O how breathless the moment grows!
So soft and sharply, strikes every pulse.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
The Fridge Raider
she rained on my house,
with no gathering clouds,
not stirring the slightest wind.
she swept into the kitchen,
swinging her big and puffy bag.
she said she was inspecting,
and needlessly shouted questions
at me in the living room.
when the sky cleared,
and left the kitchen quiet,
and she was gone,
my fridge had walked out in her bag.
my filching cousin!
with no gathering clouds,
not stirring the slightest wind.
she swept into the kitchen,
swinging her big and puffy bag.
she said she was inspecting,
and needlessly shouted questions
at me in the living room.
when the sky cleared,
and left the kitchen quiet,
and she was gone,
my fridge had walked out in her bag.
my filching cousin!
Thursday, June 12, 2008
The Ugliest Woman in the World
A curious old man, who was born blind, spent the whole day, everyday, sitting in front of his humble house listening to footsteps hurrying past, and trying to tell from the smells what kind of person was passing by. He grew tired of seeing the same old nothing all the time, and devised an unusual quest which would take him on an intriguing journey around the world. He was going to find the ugliest woman in the world!
He calculated that, from all the accounts of the world being deliciously filled to the brim with delicate-mannered and fine-featured women, he’d have to walk for three long days at a time, before he would stop and ask for directions to the house which the ugliest woman haunted with her hideous presence every grotesque day.
Day Three
Blind Man stopped at the first house he came to at the break of dawn. He rapped on the door and kept doing so until somebody came to open it. He said:
Pray show a blind man that you’re kind;
Where may one the ugliest woman find?
The blind man could not see to tell whether the person opposite him was smirking or standing still, shocked. But after a while the answer came, sweet and comforting to his keen ears: Just go down the street to the last door on your right.
The blind man went down the street to the last door on his right and rapped without stopping on the wooden door. Somebody came to open the door and, from her fragrance, she was a woman.
Have pity on a poor blind man who’s seen no thrill that life commands;
May I touch you with my hands?
The question hung frozen for a while and then the answer came along. She said, “Sure, go ahead.”
He put his fingertips lightly to her face, and found it coarse and bumpy. Surely this was the ugliest woman in the world. But he found her tall and full-bosomed body strongly appealing to his fingers. He changed his mind and thanked her very much with “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world.” Then he went off on his way.
Day Six
The blind man came to low, little gate and found it opened on the shove. He banged on the short little door repeatedly till somebody opened it. It was the voice of a woman, except she sounded like a man. And from where the speech came out, she was a ? dwarf. Surely the ugliest woman in the world.
Have pity on a poor blind man who’s seen no thrill that life commands;
May I touch you with my hands?
The answer rolled out without hesitation, “Sure, go ahead”.
His fingers found knobbly joints and crooked limbs. Pure ugly! But as he turned to go on his way she said, “You must be tired and hungry from walking. Why don’t you come in to dinner with me?” He left the dinner table that night feeling he’d just been with the prettiest woman in the world.
Day Nine
The blind man came to a huge mansion and made to knock on the giant gate, but a guard on duty blocked his path and asked him to hobble along. Hugely disappointed by his failure, for such a splendid house had endless space to hold the prettiest and the ugliest at the same time, the old man fixed his sight on the long road ahead and started the lonely walk.
“No, let him in.”
“But, Miss, he’s just a dirty, blind beggar.”
“Let him in.”
He found her young and totally charming. Sweet smelling, gentle voice, cultured speech; the prettiest woman in the world. But after playing the honourable hostess she asked him to do something little for her.
“I saw you walking down the street and knew my chance had finally come”
“What is your wish, ma’am?”
“There is an old man sleeping by a swimming pool near the gate you came through”
“Pardon me, ma’am, but I did not SEE the man or the pool.”
“Well, he’s my husband. I want you to stab him in the chest with your white rod on your way out. I’ll pay you anything to help me get rid of him. Since you’re blind, it would look an accident”.
Later, on his way, the blind man thought to himself, such a physically pleasing woman, sweetly concealing a hideous heart. He was not sure whether she was beautiful or beastly ugly. He was sure a person could not be both.
The blind man’s quest was taking him far from home, and he was nowhere near discovery. He had not found an ugly woman yet (or had he?). How then could he hope to find the ugliest woman in the world.
[Writer’s Note: this story is in the draft stage and must end here. But when would he find out that he’s on a useless journey?]
He calculated that, from all the accounts of the world being deliciously filled to the brim with delicate-mannered and fine-featured women, he’d have to walk for three long days at a time, before he would stop and ask for directions to the house which the ugliest woman haunted with her hideous presence every grotesque day.
Day Three
Blind Man stopped at the first house he came to at the break of dawn. He rapped on the door and kept doing so until somebody came to open it. He said:
Pray show a blind man that you’re kind;
Where may one the ugliest woman find?
The blind man could not see to tell whether the person opposite him was smirking or standing still, shocked. But after a while the answer came, sweet and comforting to his keen ears: Just go down the street to the last door on your right.
The blind man went down the street to the last door on his right and rapped without stopping on the wooden door. Somebody came to open the door and, from her fragrance, she was a woman.
Have pity on a poor blind man who’s seen no thrill that life commands;
May I touch you with my hands?
The question hung frozen for a while and then the answer came along. She said, “Sure, go ahead.”
He put his fingertips lightly to her face, and found it coarse and bumpy. Surely this was the ugliest woman in the world. But he found her tall and full-bosomed body strongly appealing to his fingers. He changed his mind and thanked her very much with “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world.” Then he went off on his way.
Day Six
The blind man came to low, little gate and found it opened on the shove. He banged on the short little door repeatedly till somebody opened it. It was the voice of a woman, except she sounded like a man. And from where the speech came out, she was a ? dwarf. Surely the ugliest woman in the world.
Have pity on a poor blind man who’s seen no thrill that life commands;
May I touch you with my hands?
The answer rolled out without hesitation, “Sure, go ahead”.
His fingers found knobbly joints and crooked limbs. Pure ugly! But as he turned to go on his way she said, “You must be tired and hungry from walking. Why don’t you come in to dinner with me?” He left the dinner table that night feeling he’d just been with the prettiest woman in the world.
Day Nine
The blind man came to a huge mansion and made to knock on the giant gate, but a guard on duty blocked his path and asked him to hobble along. Hugely disappointed by his failure, for such a splendid house had endless space to hold the prettiest and the ugliest at the same time, the old man fixed his sight on the long road ahead and started the lonely walk.
“No, let him in.”
“But, Miss, he’s just a dirty, blind beggar.”
“Let him in.”
He found her young and totally charming. Sweet smelling, gentle voice, cultured speech; the prettiest woman in the world. But after playing the honourable hostess she asked him to do something little for her.
“I saw you walking down the street and knew my chance had finally come”
“What is your wish, ma’am?”
“There is an old man sleeping by a swimming pool near the gate you came through”
“Pardon me, ma’am, but I did not SEE the man or the pool.”
“Well, he’s my husband. I want you to stab him in the chest with your white rod on your way out. I’ll pay you anything to help me get rid of him. Since you’re blind, it would look an accident”.
Later, on his way, the blind man thought to himself, such a physically pleasing woman, sweetly concealing a hideous heart. He was not sure whether she was beautiful or beastly ugly. He was sure a person could not be both.
The blind man’s quest was taking him far from home, and he was nowhere near discovery. He had not found an ugly woman yet (or had he?). How then could he hope to find the ugliest woman in the world.
[Writer’s Note: this story is in the draft stage and must end here. But when would he find out that he’s on a useless journey?]
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Accra, It’s All Right to be Middle Class
When the stuffy colonialists guffawed their way out of here with their poniard noses in the hot air, they caved a vaginate vacuum behind. The locals clambered harum-scarum into the gaping hole, and strained their monkey best to mimic the egressing Europeans. And the clerical clique opened its eyes, delighted to find a little space in the formerly out-of-reach middle class.
Now, Accra is a city of the really ridiculously rich. Haute Couture clothes, dazzling jewellery, big, shiny cars and many-peopled malls are her defining character. A Little America is radiating out of the simian circus in sound and sight and wispy wishes. The seeming phiz has two low levels: an artificially oiled and funded upper class and a raw-nerved, resentful lower class. Old money and aristocratic name stand jaded and one-upped in the fringes jaundiced at anyone who (like them) dares to breathe or give a happy, life-savouring smile.
The numbers are staggering. The upper class is stiflingly stacked with true and pretend wealth. The modest middle class is shrivelled and shrunken to the sheer shower of cold, daily ridicule. “Why are you so old fashioned?” “Why are you so uncool?” “Why are you so quietly dressed?” “Why are you hiding so much skin?” “Haven’t you noticed that everybody goes to shop there?” “Why are you still driving that car?”
My favourite has got to be the well-designed website of a hugely popular radio station. They love to post pictures of the ‘happening’ places and events in the City of Accra. Every palsied pretender poses like a superstar. So, who’s signing autographs? Who is going where to see whose programme?
My dear Accra, it’s really all right to be middle class.
Now, Accra is a city of the really ridiculously rich. Haute Couture clothes, dazzling jewellery, big, shiny cars and many-peopled malls are her defining character. A Little America is radiating out of the simian circus in sound and sight and wispy wishes. The seeming phiz has two low levels: an artificially oiled and funded upper class and a raw-nerved, resentful lower class. Old money and aristocratic name stand jaded and one-upped in the fringes jaundiced at anyone who (like them) dares to breathe or give a happy, life-savouring smile.
The numbers are staggering. The upper class is stiflingly stacked with true and pretend wealth. The modest middle class is shrivelled and shrunken to the sheer shower of cold, daily ridicule. “Why are you so old fashioned?” “Why are you so uncool?” “Why are you so quietly dressed?” “Why are you hiding so much skin?” “Haven’t you noticed that everybody goes to shop there?” “Why are you still driving that car?”
My favourite has got to be the well-designed website of a hugely popular radio station. They love to post pictures of the ‘happening’ places and events in the City of Accra. Every palsied pretender poses like a superstar. So, who’s signing autographs? Who is going where to see whose programme?
My dear Accra, it’s really all right to be middle class.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Life's Not Fair
Life’s not fair
And life is not so smooth
You will fall down again
You must rise up again
Sad to know someone suffers much more than you can bear
Love will creep up somewhere
Life’s not fair
Money can’t grow on trees
Honesty is not gold
Someone’s prettier than you
The one you’re sure is meant for you is in another’s arms
Someone you know just died
Life’s not fair
Hard work is second best
Feelings we must express
Some people we can’t stand
The children bombs will kill in the next senseless war
Your pay is not enough
Life’s not fair
And life is not so smooth
When your senses swim in joy
You make the most of it
See, you and I have come to know so well we can’t deny
That life’s not fair.
And life is not so smooth
You will fall down again
You must rise up again
Sad to know someone suffers much more than you can bear
Love will creep up somewhere
Life’s not fair
Money can’t grow on trees
Honesty is not gold
Someone’s prettier than you
The one you’re sure is meant for you is in another’s arms
Someone you know just died
Life’s not fair
Hard work is second best
Feelings we must express
Some people we can’t stand
The children bombs will kill in the next senseless war
Your pay is not enough
Life’s not fair
And life is not so smooth
When your senses swim in joy
You make the most of it
See, you and I have come to know so well we can’t deny
That life’s not fair.
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