Who else will go on strike tomorrow?
Will the lights be on when I get home today?
How many guinea fowls will GHS47m buy?
Will China lend money to Ghana again?
Friday, March 22, 2013
Nobody can regale you with the savoury story of how to 'tooth' the char-grilled flesh off the skeletal frame of the Piscean, Tilapia, better than a Ghanaian/Ghana-resident. That’s why I blog; I know the pulse of Ghana; I sing her song.
Blogcamp 12 was a platter of soft-cooked Banku with devilish dollops of sweet pepper, shito and Kpakpo, and a greasy pound of queen tilapia tiara’ed with tomatoes and golden onions. A palette of pleasant people; soul-stirring storytellers looking for an audience with eager palates.
So what will 13 be like? Come Saturday, come hungry for fun.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
‘Chale, I dey go house wey my fuel short. Make you sort me out.’
Impetuous, inane, puerile ... thing; moulding pie with putrid hubris for filling. Demanding dough with a sense of entitlement. I stone-face him, power up the window and cruise down Spintex Road.
‘Oh, you no go sort me out?’ he barks.
He does not say ‘please’ once. In my rear-view mirror, he’s already trudging up Spintex Road.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
At Ridge, where Gamel Nasser Avenue deceives to fly over the Police HQ, I watched a tight, green, Afric-fabric frock ‘hallmarked’ with delightful petals...on a milk-choc mannequin on the move. Loose, flair-sleeves, rich-blue, florid frills like garlands on the neck. Sitting on her body like the immaculate skin of a flawless fruit. Frivolously creased at the hamper-hips, where the dress rode up. Why did she have to go and tug it downwards? Our little love affair was quickly done.
Monday, March 4, 2013
I do it in private, not caring that it’s become a scorned ex-lover since the 1950s. On Saturdays, after Colgate and Listerine, I pull out a hard, light, chewable, juice-releasing stick of Tweapea, and sweep its budding bitterness over every milky spot of enamel. The flavouring flourishes into a fine, addictive tang. And teeth have never stood with more integrity after such tender care.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
This threadbare city supplies its own golden gifts. Clothiers, clusters of them, in kiosks are hung on the corner of every street. Caftans, kabas and cardigans; suits, skirts and slits; jumpers, jackets, jumpsuits and jeans; they make them all. Frocks, tunics and pajamas too. And there’s a tailor/dressmaker for every epoch, pocket and preference. Only downside, your clothes will be ready in two weeks or three or six; it all means the same thing to them.
Friday, March 1, 2013
There is no AC/DC in the city of Accra. Electrons don’t crackle through our coils. There is no mint chocolate chip, lemon custard, raspberry ripple. No strawberry or vanilla. It’s difficult to know who to electrocute with ten thousand volts of blame (if you can find one volt, that is). Our city is hot and chock-full with hordes of idiots. Bubble gum, pistachio almond, blueberry cheesecake, egg nog, daiquiri ice, Neapolitan! There’s no frigging frost in your Frigidaire to keep the ‘ice’ gellid in your ‘cream’.