Turning and turning in the shaking trotro
The mate cannot hear the passengers
Coins fall apart; the polythene bag cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the driver.
The blood-stained abuse is loosed, and everywhere
The innocence of the driver’s mother is drowned;
The insults lack conviction, while the worst of the passengers
Are full of passionate nkwasiasem
Surely some soldier is at hand;
Surely the Second Slapping is at hand.
The Second Slapping! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of The military van
Troubles my sight: three angry soldiers approach the trotro
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while at the same time
The mate and driver begin to say their last prayers
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of military training
Were vexed to nightmare by the cheeks of a repentant driver.
And what rough beatings, this driver had received.
Just because he made a wrong turn
To avoid hitting a pregnant lady who
Slouches towards maternity, to give birth.
She sits by the roadside – a mixture of calm and confusion.
Madness becomes her.
On her rock she sits, crossed- legged.
Her clothes, a myriad of silhouettes.
The light plays a number on her.
A revelation here, skin there.
Exposed? Yes!
Barely? Yes!
She sits on her rock smoking her cigarette – a mixture of calm and confusion
She is mad.
For as she blows her nicotine clad smoke against the wind
She mumbles some words.
She stops. Laughs. Shakes her head. And laughs some more
This time hitting her thighs so hard
She screams. Ouch. She weeps.
Barely? Yes!
She paces up and down the roadside – a mixture of calm and confusion.
“Is she mad?”
She says to herself.
How do you justify losing your husband to your sister?
How do you justify being ejected from your matrimonial home with your only child?
How do you justify camping for weeks close to the lotto kiosk?
Opposite the big choked gutter
How do you justify your only child getting so sick he rots away every day?
Starvation? Malaria? Cholera? Depression?
Maggots protrude from his hands to greet me every morning.
Like the foot soldiers they are, they spare no time in their salute.
Flies use his eyelids as a landing strip.
Their flight at par with a Raw-Lings skill.
Worms use his anus as an exit – the confusion.
An emergency greeted with tears and hopelessness.
How do you justify no one seeing a single mother beg?
Not with her mouth, but with her soul.
Do you not hear her cries?
“Help me please” she pleads.
He dies.
She sits by the roadside – a mixture of calm and chaos.
Madness.
She runs to the big gutter.
It is still choked
This time with her son’s body.
A floating mass of rot.
Oozing with many an unspeakable.
“He looks so calm”. She smiles.
“My beautiful son”. She bends down to touch him.
He slips from her hands.
“The Madness is over now”
He floats away.
She sits on the ground.
Laughter becomes her.
It was dark, very dark. Pitch dark heaviness- you could feel it; almost cut through it. He crawled on the floor so he could feel his entire surroundings with every extension of his body. He heard footsteps from a distance. His heart raced. “It’s in a distance.” He thought to himself. His heart still raced. He tried hard to remain dead silent, even controlled his breathing. He had made it to the center table at this point. “Lord please help me”. He held on to its legs and felt them. He let go and maneuvered his fingers to the right. There, he felt the couch or something soft enough to have been the couch. Was he in the right room? He thought to himself. He was totally blinded by the darkness that surrounded him and couldn’t tell.
He slid slightly again to the left, to find a way to shift the center table quietly, so he could have room to wiggle the rest of his body past that area in which he found himself. He extended his fingers. He heard leg movement again. Only this time they felt different. They sounded pretty close. Too close for comfort. His breath began to cease and come out in short sharp darts. He couldn’t feel his heart beat anymore due to the speed at which it raced. At this point, he could feel a heavy presence stand over him. Its breath was quite audible. He froze on the floor. He heard the legs move again. Something broke.
“I am sorry!” said the voice that hovered over him. The lights immediately came back on and what lay there…
His glasses were broken. And his short temper wasn’t having it. Richmond’s heart raced even faster and faster. His veins popped out from his neck. “You know I can’t see without my glasses! You just had to take them from where I usually keep them and put them on the center table of the living room. And now you have crushed them with your feet”. Richmond stood up from the floor. Amina felt sorry. She felt like crying. She had never seen Richmond this angry. “I am sorry Richmond…” She dared not call him “Darling” like she was used to considering his mood. “I was tidying up and your glasses were in my way.” She coiled in. “So I had moved them temporarily with the intention of placing them back in the usual position as soon as I was done. I didn’t know the heavy rains would cause our lights to go off or you would come looking for your glasses. I thought you were napping and hence wouldn’t need your glasses immediately. I am really sorry!” A tear found its way down Amina’s cheeks.
Richmond began to pace up and down the living room. He would stop in his tracks for a while, stare at Amina and continue pacing the room. His breathing got heavier. His face was red. Suddenly, he opened his hands so quick and stretched them close to where Amina stood. He…
Grabbed his inhaler. Amina began to cry. She blamed herself. “This is what I wanted to avoid. Please calm down Richmond. You know how your short temper and asthma can get and it’s raining too. I don’t want to have to carry you to the emergency room”. Richmond just stared at her unable to speak, but his eyes carried his every word. He began to calm down. He realized he was getting worked up over glasses he could replace. Glasses he had access to in the form of a second pair in his home office for situations like this. He began to feel stupid and afterall, his wife’s voice was like sweet nectar to him – soothing. He hated it when she cried. Richmond loved Amina dearly. Fifteen years of marriage.
He sat down in the couch closest to him and continued pumping his inhaler.
There was a knock on their door. “Who could it be at this time of the night in this heavy rain?” Amina went for the door. “Who is it?!” she asked loudly. There was no response. She proceeded to open the door. Richmond looked up.
Blood?!
This is not going to be one of my well scripted and edited pieces I usually put out there.
It is just going to be an outpour of my mind and emotions. I doubt I am going to publicise it.
If you happen to chance on this then kudos to you. You are a staunch follower of this blog. Before I start this I want my close family and friend’s to know I am at peace so they shouldn’t worry or think I am emotionally unstable. Don’t worry mom (if you read this). I am just “freeing my mind”.
I attended a very close friend’s funeral over the weekend. She died from a car accident while driving back home from running errands. Some school related, since she had just been admitted to Pharmacy school, and others personal.
There was an open casket. And as I stared into her face, which to me looked sad (probably from the final moments of pain due to the accident), so many memories came rushing into my mind. Some of her and some of the time I spent with her. That’s when I realized I was with her every step of all her major decisions from last year 2014 to the early parts of this year.
While I reminisced, I got bombarded with epiphanies of how much she influenced my perspective on life last year. I also came to the realisation life is too short for bullshit and drama. Something I already knew but got re enforced by the situation. Excuse my French but think about it. Most of the drama in our lives right now are human caused. Of Course sometimes circumstances beyond our control contribute to certain imbalances in our lives but certainly those imbalances are sometimes amplified beyond reach by human factors.
Factors that are unnecessary, can be avoided and intentional placed there because someone somewhere feels the need to be selfish or be the centre of attention to feed their ego. And it will surprise you most of the time the people involved know the right thing to do. They just don’t. Never underestimate the will power of a man.
The most outstanding of these epiphanies was how my friend, even though not entirely free of drama in her life being human afterall, avoided and also seemed to steer away from dramatic circumstances as much as possible while she lived. I realized it always kept her centred and focused. It always kept a smile on her face and a skip in her step. She would tell me, “Kwame, that’s some B.S (Bullshit) no one has time for.”
And I believe thats true. I always tell everyone around me I do not like drama in my life and try to avoid it. I took this position the minute my sister died about 3 years ago. She, even though very young at the time, also did not tolerate nonsense. She would tell you her mind on the spot if you crossed the line and move on with your jaw hanging-staring at her dust. That one was a Diva I tell you. The respectful-kind-yet-no-nonsense-type.
Why am I racing with you through my thoughts you might wonder. Well… firstly, its my blog. An encapsulation of all of my thoughts be it creative or features from others or personal. Just kidding…Or am I?
On a more serious note,even though I have referenced to so many I do not like dramatic situations; the demise of my friend and seeing her face one last time over the weekend and remembering the legacy my sister left me with have really opened my mind to how living a drama free life is not just possible but attainable. Not just attainable but also how it could steer you away from negativity and stress. Negativity is a cancer afterall.
What you put out there is what you receive and sometimes in double folds. Believe it or not its true and I have seen this countless times in my own life and around me. I am too young to create or encourage drama around me. Since my sister and my friend are proof of how short life is and how “No one is ever promised tomorrow” I have resolved to live life to the fullest. Live my life in a positive light and steer away from negativity – a cancer.
My mom once told me as a young child, “Take it one day at a time”. I am sure she has forgotten she told me that a long time ago but, those words stuck with me and still ring in my head every time life tries to overwhelm me.
I have come to appreciate the power of family and friends who have become family. I have come to appreciate keeping a closed and tight circle of people I can trust completely and vice versa. People who love me unconditionally and for who I am. People who will defend me to the teeth and call me later to ask for details or clarification. I try to live a drama free life but my friend has really opened eyes and taught me why I should still push for it and not give up in my pursuit.
Due to her stance on life I can confidently say SHE LIVED! No regrets, laughter, joy, companionship and family bond, she traveled, ate french fries at odd hours and never got fat (please dont try this if you are like me). She might not have experienced the 2nd phase of her life – Pharmacy School and Womanhood but I feel she is at peace.
I am pained she had to leave us and I will forever miss her but at the same time, she has taught me so much. Things I already knew but I have seen play out in her life and now encourages me to keep pushing in that positive direction. People will judge you even though they shouldn’t and call you all sorts of things even though their own true self stares them back through their tainted mirror. But what can you do? Its unexcusable human nature.
No one is perfect but it doesn’t mean you can’t try to attain perfection. It will take time and you might fall so many times, but if you still push, get up and dust yourself and push again, and like me and my family include a lot of prayer and the belief in the power of God through Jesus Christ, trust me you will get there and you will be a happier better version of yourself. Always remember God never makes mistakes. You are who you are – Flaws and all because it’s how you were made so love yourself and be yourself! Be true to yourself and be happy! Don’t let society tell you you are an anomaly or cursed. You don’t have to fit into society’s standards! Create your own as long as happiness is achieved at the end. That I learnt from my mother.
I am sad, but I am happy.
Rest in Peace Philomena. You might be dead but you cheated death because you lived and had Christ on your side so no regrets! I love you!
Like i said, this is unedited and unscripted and just a therapeutic way to mourn my friend by freeing my mind. If you find any errors please do forgive. I just had to do this. And for my staunch followers who come here on a regular basis for a creative escape through the stories, plays and poems I post or feature, soon u will have your fill. Normal creative writing posts resume after this. Cheers! and thank you for sticking with House of Asante.
As I lay my head to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
Poetry is not dead. They said.
Why should I waste my time then?
To dive deep into my sea-of-thoughts
And row my words to the shore of human intellect.
Adding up long winded nonsense of grammatical word play.
To what end?
So you think – Poetry is not dead?
Poetry used to be an escape for all. Poetry used to be a lover’s guide.
A preacher’s hand book; a teacher’s aide.
Aphrodite’s thunder.
What a waste of time they now say.
Hamlet swayed.
His heart ached. To be or not to be… that is the question.
Ophelia died.
Is Poetry dead?
No!
Pardon my boldness
Walk with me through the hall of understanding
Poetry is not dead.
It is but locked up in your core. Covered up by a lard of Amblyopia.
You just need to sit up, and on a day of love,
Show Saint Valentine a pack of compassion.
A box of Cliché maybe – yet highly effective.
From a cold child to your neighbor’s son or daughter.
Jump that wall of faith, and plant that seed of love.
Poetry shall aide your bid.
And a better soul you shall be.
Poetry holds the essence of society.
For in poetry love is found.
So as you read this piece not written out of love
But to direct you to love – A coy mistress it may be
Please drop your guard
And to thyself say this… I love you.
How poetic that sounds.
To my naySayers… what is the worst they could say to your love?
A no?
Then leave them be!
For maybe cupid – the angel of death it may be
Passes them over.
And refused to kill them with love.
Alas
I promised not to bore you with grammatical nonsense.
But in the spirit of love which makes no sense and holds no nonsense.
I bid thee well… but not without a cup from the refreshing well
Filled with refreshing water from the book of 1 Corinthians 13:4-8
For it is customary.
Love is Patient, love is Kind. It Does Not Envy, it Does Not Boast, it is Not Proud. It Does Not Dishonor Others, it is Not Self-Seeking, it is Not Easily Angered, and it Keeps No Record of Wrongs. Love Does Not Delight in Evil but Rejoices With the Truth. It always Protects, always Trusts, always Hopes, and always Perseveres.
Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.
Let these words be your guide. And love without judgement or remorse.
No one is perfect, love is unexplained. A scientific misdemeanor, hence from where, who and how it will pierce your heart – a mystery.
Be true to yourself… Always!
And
LOVE THY NEIGHBOR AS THY SELF – HATE BECAUSE WE LOVE DIFFERENTLY IS NOT THE ANSWER.
After the game, the King and pawn go into the same box.
(Italian proverb)
Abena walked past the porridge seller right in front of the only Ecobank bank in the Dansoman area. You would think the loud thumping of Daddy Lumba’s Abin Woha seeping through the vulcanizing shop down the bank’s road would distract her. At the very least, stop her from the continuous repetition of her mother’s heated words offered to her on a heated plate of desperation. “Good Morning”, Kwaku said with a broad smile: Kwaku has been her crush for two years in a row, His smile was enough to melt Abena’s heart into a watery mix. But Abena was determined not to be distracted even by Kwaku who was attending to a customer in his mother’s shop. She walked on with just a mere wave of acknowledgement. Kwaku was obviously hurt but what could she have done?
Abena had been sent to deliver a message to Auntie Memuna. She sold waakye close to the vulcanizing shop down the street. Like a trail of breadcrumbs, all Abena had to do was follow the loud music and voila “you have reached your destination”.
Business was very brisk for Auntie Memuna on days like this. The cluster of schools had just finished writing their exams and had about a week to go on vacation. So like clockwork, all the kids from Dansoman Basic School would throng to get their fill of her waakye as classes were done for the term. The workers from the Ecobank up the road were certainly not left out of the chaos that ensued as Abena arrived at Auntie Memuna’s Waakye Boutique. The Sun’s rays did a little dance over Abena’s face and with each increasing intensity of the heat that could be felt by all, she mastered the courage to speak.
“My mother sent me here to come remind you of the Fifty Cedis you owe her”. Silence was the response. Abena took in a second deep breathe. “My mother sent me…” Auntie Memuna quickly interrupted her. “Is it because of Fifty Cedis that your mother sent you all the way from her tattered two by four mud house to come embarrass me while I do business?” The confusion at this point was quite evident on Abena’s face. “Has she forgotten?” Abena asked herself. “Maybe I should remind her”. Abena mastered even more courage, “But Auntie Memuna, I just said I was sent to take the Fifty you owe….”. “Oh shut up over there! What fifty Cedis do you speak of? I don’t blame her anyway. That mother of yours!” Memuna said bluntly. At this point, all attention on the bank street was directed towards Auntie Memuna’s Waakye Boutique. Even the old woman, who sat in front of her house close by, and would not be phased even if a tornado passed, lifted her frail self-up to find out what was happening at Memuna’s kiosk.
“Oh! I know why!” Auntie Memuna gave out a short cheeky laughter. “No wonder she sent you to do her dirty deed. Her Waakye business is going down meboa? That’s what happens when you use juju to attract customers to buy your food! As for me, it is by the grace of God that I still flourish! See the customers I have?” She said with all the pomposity of the Eiffel Tower at night. “They have all seen the light and now walk all the way to me just to purchase my food instead of your mother’s dirty shop. Tell Adwoa, your mother – aka Abena Maame – that I have heard and equally, I will also send my son to return that puny Fifty Cedis I made a mistake of borrowing just because the banks were closed on Friday”. Abena just stood there feeling stupid and confused. She didn’t know what to say or do considering she knew Auntie Memuna was only acting this way because she had many customers trooping in at the very moment she decided to appear. Abena beat herself up in her head. “Wrong timing! Sigh!”
“But Auntie Memuna… the banks were opened on Fri…”Abena said in her defense. “Oh shut up over there…” Auntie Memuna screamed again. “In fact, here is the Fifty Cedis! Take it and go give it to your pauper of a mother! I know she only wants to embarrass me but go back and tell my enemies that it didn’t work! Tell her the fly she sent to come and destroy my business has been squashed like a bug!” Abena felt cheated. Why was she just insulted in front of all these people? Some of whom she knew very well and grew up with.
Obed, the youngest of the four kids was stricken with dysentery. Abena began to rumble, as she walked back home – “Mom didn’t sell any food today hence no money in her purse. So what is wrong with reminding you to pay back money that you already owe her so we use it for Obed’s hospital bills? I mean, you came begging for her to lend you some money so you could buy yourself a new glass window for your “Waakye Boutique”. To me, unnecessary but to mum a beautiful idea and since you are her friend, she wanted to see you flourish. Now that you are flourishing you have grown wings. Oh women! It seems trouble loves our company!
And just look at the way she embarrassed me in front of her customers! A whole me! Today of all days when I wore my Easter blouse that Father got for me. Oh God! And Kwaku was staring! Oh God oh God Oh God! Why did his mother’s provision shop have to be so close and why did he have to be the one to handle the shop today of all days?!… I hope no one on Facebook saw me”.
As her thoughts trailed off, she suddenly was startled by her brother, Obed, staring back at her. He looked pale and frail. The other siblings stood in the corner of the Master bedroom. Simultaneously yet unaware, they all heaved a heavy sigh of relief at the sight of the Fifty Cedi note. “I hope she didn’t give you much trouble when giving you the money. I know Memuna can be a bit extra when it comes to paying back money…” said Abena Maame. It’s typical to have mothers called by the name of their first born child with Maame (mother) attached to the name. This was done to signify their first child being their first blessing from The Almighty. And Adwoa – Mother of Abena – her first child of nineteen years – was no exception.
“Maame… she… hmmmm… she was ok and sends her regards” Abena lied. “Oh good, now help me take Obed to the hospital so we find out what exactly is causing this dysentery before our ancestors decide to carry your brother on their shoulders. Make sure you grab my purse as well”.
“Madam, I believe your son must have ingested spoilt food hence the dysentery. We try and educate the public on buying food from trusted sources and always look to their surroundings when buying food. Can you recount the last thing Obed ate before his first symptom?” Abena Maame looked very worried at this point. She fixed her wrapper even though it needed no fixing. She began to wonder if she had poisoned her own son with her own food. And to think that was the day she had decided to take a break for a while from selling so she could rest. She figured even if it was her cooking, the others including her husband, would also report sick. “Madam Doctor, indeed, you know I do cook and sell on a commercial scale. Mostly waakye and sometimes plain rice when I feel like it. But as you can see, all my kids apart from Obed are healthy and this is the same food I feed all of them including myself and my husband.
Akwasi! You are the one always playing with Obed, did you boys not eat the food I gave you yesterday morning?!” Abena Maame’s eyes were glazed at this point. A feeling of guilt washed over her but she needed to be sure she wasn’t the cause of what was happening to her son. She felt irresponsible at this point.
“Mama, we did eat the food you gave us… but…” If there was a poster for “guilt”, Akwasi would be the face on it. “Herh! Kasa!” retorted Abena Maame! “Speak!” she screamed this time! “Oh Abena Maame, calm down and let the boy speak, he will speak! Akwasi, we just want to know what caused this to your brother”. Akwasi looked very scared as he stared dead straight at the tiled floors. He knew what the doctor said was supposed to calm him but also he knew it had just made matters worse. His mother was now not only going to beat him for having a “but…” at the end of his statement while talking about her food, but also for embarrassing her in front of their doctor. Making her look like a bad mother. Yet, he knew he needed to say something.
With tears streaming down his high cheekbones down his developing teenage body, “After our breakfast, we went to play at Auntie Memuna’s house with Ahmed, her son. We played until 10am when Obed started complaining he was hungry again. Ahmed then said there was food in the house from the previous day and that he was going to heat it for Obed to eat so we could continue playing in peace. And so he did. I think it was the stale waakye from what his mother couldn’t sell the other day. He was fine Maame! Until this morning when he started vomiting! I promise!”
During supper that night, Kofi Takyi, Abena Maame’s husband ate in silence and would occasionally shake his head. “What’s the matter my husband?” she said. “Hmm the salary is still not in and it’s been 5 months already. I’m worried Adwoa”- Kofi calls her that when they’re alone and are planning for the future. After their “couple-conversation”, they reached a consensus that Abena Maame would sell cereals (wheat, tom brown, oats, etc) in the morning and Indomie noodles at night. She was done with the waakye business. It had nearly cost them their son and times were hard. The government was also refusing to reduce gas prices even though gas prices globally were cheaper now. Cooking on a large scale such as waakye was certainly out of the question. A new strategy was needed to generate more income.
Auntie Memuna was giving instructions to her son Ahmed to properly clean the glass covering the front side of her kiosk. “I want my customers to see my special waakye from afar”- she really stressed the “special”. One of her chat buddies, Serwaa, showed up- her eyes were filled with excitement- that feeling you get when you finally get rid of a product you thought will be difficult to sell.
“Abena Maame is no longer in the waakye business. She could not stand the competition…your competition. Your presence made her quit.” Exclaimed Serwaa. She had no regard for passersby whatsoever. They both laughed. “I told her she couldn’t win this battle. Ei…you joke with Memuna and you’re joking with kpakpo shito. Hmm she hasn’t heard of my exploits eh?” She tightened her loose wrapper. “In my last area, I made a macho man wail like a baby because I put shito in his eyes for calling me a slow woman”. She added, “She has not seen anything yet”. They both laughed and Serwaa asked for her leave.
The clouds were gathered. The wind was blowing profusely and light objects were flying all over. Everyone who owned a kiosk was closing early so they could make it home in time including the profit oriented Memuna. The wind wasn’t friendly at all. There was a downpour. This rain was quite different. It sounded angry- if I can put it that way. It was a pissed rain. It took some buildings’ roofing sheets off. Memuna was in her room with her son Ahmed. The rain interrupted the network receptions- no calls went through and no calls came in. It was one of those days you start reflecting on your sins and start confessing them because you’re sure God might appear any moment. Memuna’s kiosk was affected by the tenacity of the rain. Her special glass covering on the kiosk was broken. It could not withstand.
Unaware of the misfortune that awaited her, Memuna was humming the chorus of Shatta Wale’s Dance Hall Commando. Suddenly, “Maa…mmm…Maa…mmm…ajeiii”. Ahmed, her son, was in pains. He was holding his tummy and crying. “My son what’s wrong with you? Ahmed talk to your mum what’s the problem?” She said, alarmed. “My tummy Maa. It hurts!” Ahmed said painfully. He began throwing up in the room. The lights suddenly went off.
“Ei Ei my enemies want to kill my son and I ooo” she wailed. Memuna looked through the louvres and realized it was still raining profusely. Memuna was perplexed. She didn’t know what to do next. She tried tracing her steps so she could remember where she put her phone. She finally remembered. In her effort to reach the phone she stumbled on the center table. She didn’t bother about the pain, she was focused on getting hold of the phone. She used the petite light from the phone to properly look at the state of her son Ahmed. “Ahmed! What’s wrong? Please speak to mummy”. Tears run down her face to her thick lips. She sniffed. Ahmed was unconscious at this point and could not respond. At once, Memuna knew if she didn’t act fast she would lose her son. She tried calling the people who came up to mind in her confused state. The network interruption would not allow her reach the people. She broke down in tears.
“Memuna! Memuna!” “My ancestors, is that you?” Memuna whimpered under her breath. “Memuna let me in! it’s me, Abena Maame! I came to talk to you about something urgent”. “How did this woman make it through this crazy rain?!” Memuna opened her door. “Thank you my friend!” Abena Maame added. “I was on my way to buy drugs for my boy who was stricken with dysentery and the rains caught me off guard. Since your house was close by, I decided to seek shelter here while the rains danced their fill and fed our grounds with the joy of rain.” Abena Maame noticed Memuna hadn’t been listening to her the whole time. She figured whatever she had to say could wait. “What is wrong my sister?” Memuna was latched to the floor with Ahmed in her hands. Rocking back and forth as Ahmed continued to grow paler.
Abena Maame didn’t even have to think twice. She knew exactly what was going on seeing as her son had just been through the same symptoms two days ago. “Memuna, I think your son has dysentery.” “How do you know? Did you do this to him you devil? I knew…” Abena Maame cut into her statement.”Shut up and listen for once…” As she narrated the whole story as told by Akwasi, her son, Memuna began to scream louder as each fact was offloaded on her. She wailed even louder at the thought of what she had done to her own son who had obviously eaten reheated food she was supposed to throw away. She didn’t want to “waste money” in making a new batch of waakye every day, she had found herself reheating three day stale food to be sold to her customers instead of throwing whatever was left out.
Abena Maame was pained by this revelation. To think she gave Memuna the benefit of the doubt thinking it was an obvious mistake their sons had eaten spoilt food. She stared at the drugs in her palm. Then back at Memuna and her son. “Should I?”
…David Nyame!! We thank you for this mountainous edifice of food prepared by our very own in-house Chef, Kwabena Poison – The best Chef inside Dansoman. Dear God, we ask you to bless the farmer, the cooker and the eater! May3 fu nsh3 ma mpenpenso). (With one eye open) Ah the Holy Spirit has seized me, anuanom ne adofonom lets begin to speak in tongues over this meal… (The other boys begin to grumble). Oh boys, hold on hold on… be like we get visitors!
(Addressing readers) Oh hello there… you made it! Akwaaba…! You know, boys, before we dig into this big bowl of Banku and Shitoloo, let us first do the Ghanaian thing and graciously invite our guests who are reading this right now to enjoy our meal with us, as we entreat them to small talk about what we’ve been up to. That’s what they came here for after all.
(Slaps Tosin’s creeping hands over the meal) You know, there is always that sense of adventure when you and a friend decide to embark on a journey to a local market be it in Kigali or Lagos. Sktch, currently sitting to my right with an extremely hungry face, and I, did embark on such an adventure. And we have decided to narrate to you our hustle through one of such populated markets in Accra, Ghana. Sktch is a bit shy with words so he will employ all his words into a sketch which you shall see shortly while I do most of the narration.
Termed one of the biggest commercial markets in West Africa, Kaneshie market has become that go to market for almost every household living towards the Circle – Kaneshie – Mataheko – Dansoman – Mallam stretch. All of which are suburbs in Accra with Dansoman being the biggest. Google doesn’t support this statement you say?! Oh well… you don’t have a choice but to believe me now do you? You see why I refused to offer you a seat or even water when you joined us?
So as I was saying, Sktch was late as usual. Yes Sktch! YOU WERE LATE TO THE MARKET. But he eventually got there with the usual trotro breaking down excuse. I think he believes I was born yesterday. Sktch was to spend the weekend with me and the boys in my house (looks round at faces willing to murder just to enjoy their meal). We therefore decided to meet up in the market, buy a few food stuffs and prepare a huge “poisonous” feast for the weekend so we don’t have to give the Auntie Memuna’s and Fausty’s in my neighborhood our last coins in the name of buying food from them as vendors.
I am quite meticulous, so me… I had my list of what to buy. Sktch… not so much. He was supposed to remind me of a few things we might need that I might have skipped on my list. Contrary to popular belief of “boys don’t care what is digested by their stomach as long as they are full”, you would be surprised at how picky boys, especially the ones sitting in this house currently, could be. They can be very annoying when it comes to what they want to eat. That explains my list.
So our journey began. Josephine who lives quite close to the market, around the police quarters of Mataheko, had sang the praises of this one market lady – Fusena. Fusena was supposed to be that go to lady who would pile whatever you bought from her with extra ntoso) or food items even if you bought a single egg from her. The price of her “merchandise” was supposed to be the cheapest from the hills of Mampong and across the shores of Axim. Josephine’s words not mine.
For anyone who has ever been to Kaneshie, you’d be familiar with the two main footbridges. I met Sktch at the second bridge where almost all the trotros coming in from Mallam offload. After a few knocks and insults and the customary I’ve-missed-you-hugs, we embarked on our adventurous quest to find Fusena. According to our GPS in the person of Josephine, Fusena was based on the second floor of the biggest land mark in Kaneshie market which is the Maggi building. It’s called that because it’s branded by Maggi. The shrimps displayed in painting on the building to represent Maggi cubes are painted in such an agile fashion that you would think they could play for our national soccer team and actually score goals for us.
Anyway, the bridge is always highly populated with prospective buyers and traders who have decided to sell on any square foot they find even if it’s atop a moving vehicle. Once it’s in Kaneshie, they don’t mind. We got to the other side after a couple of people tried to stop us to view their wares or to tell us about a “service” they could render us. To top all this confusion off, there was a man of God preaching through his megaphone on the bridge about pre-marital sex. For the sake of the kids who might chance on this narration and for the fact that my ears bled even more from his vivid use of the Twi language to cut his message across, I have decided not to repeat what he said.
As we entered the Maggi building, I realized the scene in there was much calmer as compared to the craziness happening outside. Everyone was clustered in rows according to what they sold. From local print fabric to corn dough piled in heaps in metallic basins, it was quite an exciting scene. To follow the words of our human GPS Josephine, Fusena was seemingly close: to be found on the second floor of the Maggi building latched in one of the corners.
We did find her and it was quite easy; in fact, too easy. As soon as we got to that faithful second floor, we were met with a sound so distinct Sktch and I simultaneously looked at each other and exclaimed, “Fusena!” Haaaaa… there she was in full glory; the plump Fusena in full regalia. She didn’t look like your stereotypical market woman in old cloths, sitting idly singing tunes of “aaamoooo… aaammooooo” or “fresh ni eee… koobi”. No… Fusena had short natural hair with a scarf tied in to hold it up in an up do style. This effect made her cheeks very profound in its full cheeky roundness. Fusena had makeup on. Oh yes… not your typical Ghanaian style “apply- eye- liner- and- maybe- mascara- with- a- touch- of- excessive- blush – no face powder”.
No! She had the full works! Fusena had on eye shadow blended in to give a bright, almost Ghana flag looking effect. It had layers my friends. She also had long eye lashes. As to the authenticity of those spiky long lashes, I will leave that to the gods to decide. Her face was perfectly painted with the right kind of makeup and concealers (that’s what Josephine says they are called) so that her face looked like cream. A brown chocolaty smooth cream and I think I did spot a drawn on mole. Sktch insists there was none and per usual, I was just “making up stories”, but I swear there was.
Her lips were a bright red and glossy… and out of those very lips came the words we heard as we stepped foot on that sacred second floor…those words flew straight across the hall to an innocent “rival” market woman who sat across the floor to the side facing the car park behind the Maggi building.
“Ony3 Gbemi y3 j3n! kwashia! Ole mi? Ofee ohi3 nkp)tonkp)to tam) gbee fee ni ok3 ntagy3n k3n kw3 mi! ohi3 fl3fl3 onu?! Ony3 k3 Ots3 k3 Onanakansua f33 gbemi! Kwashia…” For those of you, who don’t understand these words; thank your stars you don’t. These words have given me sleepless nights. I can certainly tell you that they are of Ga origin and strong enough and piercing enough to make you question your mother for birthing you.
We felt very sorry for the lady across the floor. She looked on, screaming to the general public in a sing song tune the goods she sold, as if oblivious to the insults being rained on her. With caution, Sktch and I approached Fusena’s stall. Sktch almost broke out a laugh, but swiftly, I slapped him hard enough on the head to push it back into his lungs. This wasn’t the day I would be defiled and my whole ancestry questioned by the words of a market woman.
We arrived at the spot that read “Madame Fusena’s Food Boutique. The Lord will fight for you, and you shall hold your peace. Exodus 14:14”. Fusena stepped out with a whisk quick enough to make me take several steps backward. “Oh my brothers, welcome welcome welcome! Meni ny3baa he? What will you people buy? You have come to the number one boutique in town”. “Madame… eeerrrrmmm … w) baa he…” as I went on and on based on our list of groceries. I wasn’t going to make Sktch do the buying and bargaining. It could easily have led to the two of us paying for Ghana’s deficit if he spoke.
“Oh, is that all? I also have…” this is a typical Ghanaian thing (Please don’t fall for it). The market women will always suggest to you things that might compliment whatever you have bought. It’s almost like they know the meal you are going to make and they can scientifically calculate the extras you need. Well, this time we needed those suggestions from Fusena because a certain someone (Sktch) had forgotten to write down the things he was supposed to remind me off. “Enyi3?” as I asked how much the total was… “Oh, sistey Ghana cedi p3” she said with a broad smile revealing the silver covering her incisors.
“Ei Madame Fusena! Maaba? Mahama eba bi3 hu aloo?” I said, as I complained to her about the price. As Ghanaians, we never go with the first price we are told. Fusena being the seasoned market woman she was, immediately stepped in in a bid to counter my displeasure and pass her prices as legitimate and very cheap (thank you Josephine). “Oh, don’t say that my breda. Fine boy nakai?! Ah! Show me your car keys and I will load you my boutique…!” All I can say at this point is both Sktch and I were very flattered considering our mode of public transport to the market – trotro.
I paid for our “merchandise” and no sooner had I handed her the money than Fusena began speaking to us about how times are tough and that, we shouldn’t repeat the mistakes of past leaders and her generation’s mistakes. This generation can effect change for a better Ghana if we came together as one voice and pushed beyond what we thought our limits were she said. All of us chasing the same jobs just because we thought they paid well and how we the youth lacked the urge to pursue creativity in entrepreneurship and be our own bosses – we love quick money too much she said.
She continued by adding how most of us have become so westernized we have failed to even take time off to learn about our roots and everything about it from the music to the oral traditions. Even wearing our own traditional clothes had become a problem. She proceeded to say something that struck me even harder which when translated stated, “Even the Doctor and Lawyer must eat! If all of you become office people, who will grow food for you to eat…?”
These words really got to me and I came to understand how we as Ghanaians had lost our way instead of building on the foundations and positive precedents set up by people before us. Agriculture is indeed the life-line of Ghana and must be exploited by many. The West has seen many millionaires come out of that sector alone.
We left Fusena in her second floor “boutique” right after she had finished her advice session with us and complimented Sktch and I on how good we looked. Everyone knows I love to mix African styles and fabrics with a youthful twist (pops collar). She told us to keep it up and hug her. Who were we not to?! It was such an interesting and inspirational experience I tell you.
As we sat in the trotro bound for Dansoman where I lived, we realized we had left out something very important. What was this important thing you ask? We forgot to take a much needed selfie with Fusena of Madame Fusena’s Food Boutique. This really saddened us and going back to the market was just not an option then. Just look around at these hungry faces in my hall.
Sktch being the seasoned photographer he was, we vowed to carry his camera the next chance we got, to go in search of that one picture we needed so you all could bask in the glory of Fusena in picture form. Imagine! Our inspiration to be better Ghanaians in picture form! I was actually surprised he didn’t have his camera with him. ECG (Electricity Company of Ghana) was also at it as usual, so you know the battery situation for our camera phones was sad while with Fusena.
Considering all these factors, this is certainly a quest I am eager to embark on again and this time we will surely be prepared – Finding Fusena – Finding our Inspiration to be better Ghanaian youth and in effect cause a positive wave of change in our country.
I pray most of you will join us in finding her for this one special once in a life time photo. But please, if you do end up in Kaneshie market on any day, do pass by her stall and request for a picture with her. Hopefully you won’t mind sharing it with us all. Just post your pictures on Facebook or mention me on twitter @mr_asante or @sktchmathews with her picture. And don’t forget to add the hashtag #FindingFusena to the picture so we can let everyone know she has been found, even on Facebook.
Fusena could be anyone in your life who inspires you and works hard to keep people around them happy and highly motivated to be the best that they can. Fusena could be a mother, sister, father, brother, friend, neighbor, wife, boyfriend, boss etc. Please do take time of and share with the world through social media how these people have motivated and inspired you. And by sharing these stories, you just might inspire people to be great like we have.
For now, this is a piece of art work depicting the image of Fusena according to Sktch’s imagination. This might probably help us all on the quest to Find Fusena. Enjoy!
“If you go away on a summer’s day
You might as well take the sun away”
Words I recount as I sit at bay
Wondering, how her memory still fills this day
It was just yesterday that we swung and swayed
Now 3 years past, since you went back to Clay.
How life and death cheated us without play
Now you have left us on a journey Far-Away
I still hold you dear my sweet sister
My heart you shall never leave, like a mere visitor
Even though it races faster and faster…
The hour glass will surely bring us back together.
We really miss you my Dear One
Even though we know you are with the Great One.
Sleep well oh Beautiful One
For soon, we shall all meet as One.
Dedicated To Akua Adoma Ofori… 3 years ago today, you were taken from us but 3 years after you still remain with us and forever more in our hearts and minds! I love you Adoma! Rest in peace my sweet sister!
The scene is set in a barber shop (kiosk) in Taifa, a suburb in the Greater Accra Region of Ghana. Two old men play a game of cards right outside the kiosk. An orange seller sits right across the street from the kiosk.
Barber 1: Number 9! Come and clean up this mess! Why do I still see strands of pubic-looking-like hair all bundled up feeling free on my kiosk’s floor?
Aside – Where is this Ayigbe boy koraaa? (Looks around, then through the kiosk’s back window)
Spots Koku behind the Kiosk
Herh! Koku Segbefia! So you are here drinking tea behind my kiosk eh? Did you not hear me call you? Don’t you know you are supposed to clean the shop first before you do anything? How were you able to even sleep in this filth last night? Are you deaf? Eh?! *Tone rises suddenly*Do you not hear me speaking to you?
(Koku rolls his eyes and looks the other way with a sneer on his face yet speaks with an uppity voice)
Koku: oh massa! Ny3 bro! (He sips on his tea some more and chokes while speaking) It’s not like that oo. Hmmm massa, it’s the worms in my stomach. (Koku dips bread into tea and bites off a mouth full). They’ve been playing kyelensa too much in my stomach nowadays (he looks at Barber 1 at this point and lifts bread towards him). So I decided to take this light chicken feed to stop the gidigidi and too know they’ve been doing so that I can have some peace. Massa, it won’t happen again! Sorry. (Koku looks away with a sinister smile on his face)
Barber 2 and Barber 3 walk into the kiosk. Barber 1 turns his gaze away from the back window to look at them.
Barber 3: Ah onua! Na 3bazi nso ni? What is the meaning of this?(Puts his clipper on a table near him). You don’t pay us enough to work in this kind of hairy environment!
Barber 2 stares wide-eyed and intrigued at Barber 3 as he completes his statement.
Barber 2: But Boss, why is our work station still dirty? (Pauses and looks around) Has Koku “Number 9” run away again?
Barber 1: Onua, I am even shocked. And to think he sleeps here. He is behind the kiosk. Otwa tea.
(He spots something in the corner of the shop). Ah, my brothers… am I see correctly? I will kill this boy today!
Barber 2 and 3 look shocked yet amused. they stare at each other and then back at item in the corner.
Meanwhile… behind the kiosk
Koku: Tso! You people talk too much! Everyday number 9 this! Number 9 that!(Gestures similar to that of an animated coach on a touchline). I clean the kiosk everyday too before they come oo. Only yesterday! Yesterday only Selasie came here for me to show her that I have a spring in my waist and I forgot to clean the kiosk, these people want to do like I am some dirty boy. I know their every move too! If they try and fire me, I will show them that me too I am boss some! Suaaa… like… ma fl3 shop!! You let me give you an example.
You see that orange seller across the street (points outside). You think she is there because she can’t find any other place or because there is some market bi she is getting here? Twiaaa… if she wanted customers like she would have moved up the road closer to the T-junction. But noooo…! Massa is doing-doing her and making her smile with her pink lips every two days so she has kaa. The thing is sweet her too much. Massa’s wife too is my body-body so he cannot do me foko cos he knows I know and if he does fi, confusion will happen! In fact war!
(From inside the kiosk) herh Koku Segbefia! Report yourself here now!
Koku: Massa I am here (Koku pretends to be panting heavily)
Barber 1: Koku please explain yourself. What is this? (Points at a used condom in the corner)
Koku: o massa! At least I am using condom
Barber 3: don’t be stupid
Barber 2: ah! But he is right! Condom ho hia paa!
Barber 1: Koku! You know what? To cut a long story short, m’eyi wo adi!
Koku: Massa, I don’t understand oo. You know your Twi is too heavy for me, against your heavy accent.
Barber 1: You are fired!
Koku: (Lies prostrate) Oh massa I beg! It was just Selasie and me p3. We didn’t even do it like the way you and the orange seller have been doing it (Mimicks the act). It was sharp sharp!
Barber 3: Oh Massa saa?! So you are sleeping with the wife of the old man you’ve been playing cards with everyday in front of the shop?
(Loud scream from outside) What?!!
In enters first customer of the day.
The End.
Please tweet at me (@mr_asante) to let me know which kiosk we should feature next or comment below with some of your dramatic experiences in a kiosk or know of. It just might get featured. Thank you! Cheers!
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