Poor Mother of Poor Twins

The sex was unlawful - sixteen year olds can't have legal sex in Ghana - and poorly executed (unprotected). I guess she didn't feel like a child then. The twins are lovely bundles of joy as children should be, except they're just one bundle! Suddenly their mother is a child; not mature enough to accept other children (her children) as they are. Then, again, I wonder if I'd be different.

Early Early Birds in the City of Accra

Is there still such a thing as stirring early at 7 am in Accra? The traffic has wrought wise owls of us all. We've had to push forward leave-nest time by 15 minutes every 6 months for the past 10 years. Now I wake up at silly-goose hour. The city flies the coop when a subway is suggested, and we're all chicken-livered at the idea of bicycles. But why should we ride and be a sitting duck for the trotro-bus to peck our limbs off? They swoop around the city as the crow flies. By the time the city authorities get their ducks in one row, the early-bird worm will wriggle out at 2 am.

How the Military Assaulted, Non-Assaulted, then Un-Assaulted a Journo

When you blow a cloud of dust on my face, or spill a cup of water down my back, tickle my pits, dribble your forefinger down my cheek, or trickle melted chocolate on my chest while I’m asleep, without my consent, you have assaulted me in law. So when videos went viral of Ghanaian G.I.s (hyperbole alert!) choke-holding, hammer-locking, strong-shoving and face-tossing a pussycat journo on Independence Day, I joined to shout the ‘shame’ refrain. And when the military opened Ostrich investigations, called as many as zero witnesses and played possum with the raw, stripped, naked truth, I dog-pissed on their decency. What did they go and do? They went to say sorry. I accept; I hope the victim does too.

Kantamanto - A Reason for a Fire

I recently favourited a tweet by @Be_Wisdom: “Surburbia is where the developer bulldozes out the trees, then names the streets after them ~ Bill Vaughan”. Some developer or interloper whooshed a flame through a tin-and-wood Central-Accra market that's crowded thick as fleas. The police won’t find the arsonist. I suspect strongly that the cinders are intended to make way for the construction of a capitalist, concrete-architectural crime-scene (how else to describe the explosive sprout of sterile office and apartment blocks in the least-green city that I know?). These traders are squatters in most of these settlements – we all know that; but usually squatters on governmental no-man’s land; permitted to settle for a decade or two or three. After the cinders, the riots, the cracked skulls, the lies, the justifications and the public loss of interest, a hideous and humongous habitat will hulk over the land that was known as Kantamanto.

A Set of What?

I bet your system includes a planet called Pluto. 

2 reasons I wouldn't buy that.

German Football Highs & Other Random Questions

Will all German teams now score 4 goals in their sleep?
Does live tv make court proceedings better?
Will Luiz Suarez grow up at last?
Will Apple's fortunes go down forever?

MPs' Pay & Other Random Questions

Do our MPs really identify with us?

Will Hillary Clinton 2016 happen after all?

Will the government buckle to the doctors or lecturers first?

Who does the thinking for the National Service Secretariat?

Illegal Chinese Miners & Other Random Questions

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?

Blogcamp 13...is about Tilapia

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.

Social Media

Year - twenty thirteen
Samsung - Tech Queen

Hangout - Facebook/Twitter
Reason - Flirt with not one jitter

Others? - Those mental dances
Pay-off - Network it enhances

You No Go Sort Me Out?

‘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.

I Don't Know What to Say

Are you saying somebody will find 100 Cedis and give it to the anti-social person? Are you really trying to stop a bad habit?

Flower Girl in the City of Accra

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.

Chewing-Stick

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.

A Galaxy of Clothiers in the City of Accra

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.

No More Ice Cream in the City of Accra

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’.

It's 'Success' We Want

... and they have sold students' books for ages!

Ghana's Brand-New Bastille

Electricity, water, fuel, crime, traffic jams, corruption. Right now, Ghana feels like a big, brand-new Bastille.

Please, Can They Dump It Dry?

As seen at Kuku Hill, Osu, Accra, yesterday.

Growing Old in the City of Accra

Dashing and hunching through the trenches of ‘37’, a soldier hops off a moving truck and almost scythes down a two-rider scooter. A driver and his puerile passenger disembark and force-push their cart of a van through the narrow slits between cars onto the pavements. And an old man and woman snail across three lanes five metres before the zebra crossing. They  trundle along hand-in-hand, smiling at each other, locked in some riveting powwow, ignoring jolting jalopy, wayward warrant officer and bemused blogger. Oh, how I loved them!