Excursions in My Mind

05/01/2018

Reading this book on Twi grammar by Christaller. Published in 1875. Note the bit on Wasa. No 5. Gold eh 😊

05/01/2018

Up Atop My Roof So High: Notch 1 - My Year of Taxtion

by Nana Awere Damoah

When the harmattan hits you in both nose and pocket, when your nose and your pocket begin to bleed simultaneously, when your dry face begins to do you 'who are you, who are you', then you start to believe those who say that this year 2018 has been declared “The Year of Taxtion”. Welcome to the Nanamattan.

In secondary school, we used to say “last days are dangerous”. What we failed to realise to realise is that first days are equally deadly. And 2018 has brought this truism to perfect light. I don’t know what our leaders ate during the Crossover, Crawlover, Shoutover, Rollout, Boozeover or whatchamacallitover. But whatever it is, that thing caused them to start 2018 with Taxtion! A clear intent of action to tax! Ah, I get it. Someone just whispered in my ears that the Scripture read at the leaders’ stepover was 1 Kings 12: 11:

My father laid on you a heavy yoke; I will make it even heavier. My father scourged you with whips; I will scourge you with scorpions.

So, as soon as 2017 turned its behind and waved ‘ba-bai ooo!’ the taxtion taps were turned on. The first taxtion came from the house of my neighbour Gustav Tsatsu Vroom, popularly known in our hood as GTV.

GTV was managing his matter small small without wahala. He and his wife could even afford to use their Xmas decorative lights as disco lights till March of the next year. Hakuna matata. Then he decided that his house was too quiet so took a decision to throw an open invitation to the GTV party, with gate fees starting from GHS 36. For two or more family members, one could pay GHS 60. And stay for a year mpo. Come and see the people who have entered with binoculars, magnifying glasses, white clothes to wipe the louvres to check for dirt, etc. This party will pap papa! Ei, I just saw Rodney Nkrumah-Boateng looking under the carpet! Asem aba!

When the party fee was mentioned, many were the voices that rose to lambast GTV for his yeye things. The calls of yentua reverberated across the nation. Then, cantankerous people like Rodney said to themselves with wicked grins “Why not? GTV has been keeping its heavy drapes drawn so that none of the neighbours could peep inside. What an opportunity to enter and do mfifiimu!” This stance started to gain currency. Some were also stimulated by their love of freedom and hatred for embarrassment. For, the man GTV is both wiry and wily. He needs the party fees not just to maintain his house, but also to buy food for the guests, hoping that some will remain for his own nourishment and that of his family members, who are many, it is rumoured. To make plans double sure, he convinced the head of the courts to issue an edict to encourage the neighbours to pay up, or else…

So, to the house of GTV the neighbours trooped, to pay or rant. The payers increased and the ranters remained. Some ranters joined the payers and some ranters dug in. Well, we live to see.

But this reminded me of another incident, again as the year started. In my 2016 Sikaman Awards, the Yɛ-Wɔ-Kromer of the Year was Bozoma Afiba Saint John (née Arthur), who was then Head of Marketing for Apple Music. Currently, she is the global Chief Brand Officer of Uber. An icon and a leading voice. A Ghanaian, she was in town for holidays and the African Leadership Initiative West Africa (ALIWA) was organising a brunch with her at the Labadi Beach Hotel. The moderator was to Kwaku Sakyi Addo. The flyer for the event started appearing on Facebook with a number to call and a question like ‘Are you in town next week? Would you love to have Brunch with Bozoma?’ Of course! Who wouldn’t love to have a close interaction with Boz (as her friends call her) and break bread, with a little waakye thrown in? Then, as people called the number and found that the Akans were not joking when they said that beautiful things seen by the roadside are not built, propped up and maintained with air but with money, a few grumbles were heard. What is Ghana without a few grumbles, eh? We were born to rant. I smiled.

Yesterday, 4 January 2018, the event took place. And it was a well-attended session, the nuggets shared were deep and the attendees were from diverse backgrounds, creating the avenue for awesome networking. I learnt a lot, and loved Boz more. How do I know all these? Because I watched the playback on Facebook Live, on the Citi FM (TV) page. A good lesson reinforced. Cry your own cry. As my parents taught me years ago, when in hard straits, say “I am suffering”, not “We are suffering”. I always tell people that the real movers hardly talk or make noise. And those who will actually take action rarely have time to talk plenty.

As we saw in the attendees at the GTV party.

But the taxtion taps still flowed. This time, we heard a big burst and the sound of rushing water. We rushed to the house of Daniella Victoria Larteley Ankrah and found red bags floating in the river of aid that flowed from her office. Auntie DVLA, as her admirers called her, was sitting at the base of the big tap and smiling. She had decided to distribute copious amounts of first aid to all: one citizen, one first aid bag. You only had to drop a token of over GHS 108 for the privilege.

This year will be fun. I like this Year of Taxtion already.

Afehyia pa!

10/10/2017

For immediate release
Accra, October 10, 2017

DAkpabli Readathon Outdoors Martin Egblewogbe

Radio show host and author, Dr. Martin Egblewogbe, of Writers Project fame, has been announced as the latest guest reader for the National Book Reading Campaign. Dubbed the DAkpabli Readathon, the initiative seeks to promote book reading for pleasure across Ghana as well as local authorship.

"I have been observing the progress of the Readathon train and I am happy to have been offered a place on it” said an excited Martin who holds a PhD in Physics. The author is the sixth guest in the programme and he joins Rodney Nkrumah-Boateng, Elizabeth-Irene Baitie, Ruby Goka, Alba K. Sumprim and Empi Baryeh, who have all left their marks on the Readathon train.

During his guest-tenure, Martin is expected to feature along the main Readathon stars, Kofi Akpabli and Nana Awere Damoah in their public reading activities for the next three months across the country.

“We look forward to the dynamics of an all-male reading team again. Martin is solid on Ghana’s literary scene and our fans will be thrilled to have him,” said Damoah who is co-founder of DAkpabli.

Martin is the author of the collection of short stories "Mr. Happy and The Hammer of God and other Stories". His writing has appeared in a number of collections, such as the 2014 Caine Prize Anthology, PEN America’s "Passages Africa" (2015), the collection of short stories "All The Good Things Around Us", and "Litro #162: Literary Highlife". Several others of his stories have appeared in newspapers, magazines, and online.

Martin also co-edited the anthologies of poetry "Look Where You Have Gone To Sit" and "According To Sources". He is a co-founder and director of the Writers Project of Ghana. Martin brings onboard the Readathon train deep insights and knowledge about the literary scene and passion for literature, which will be particularly beneficial during the interactive sessions of the Readathon.

Photo credit: Jane Akomea-Agyin

30/09/2017

Nana Elikem writes...

Nana Awere Damoah and Kofi Akpabli deserve even greater commendation for braving the challenges the literary set up in Ghana is facing to pull these readathons off. As a member of the team, I know firsthand how challenging it is to organize one event. In fact, I do not need to be a member of the team to know. Anyone who has ever organized an event in Ghana knows how difficult it is to pull it off. Starting with little or no help, they have brought it this far and I can confidently say it will go farther and grow bigger than this.

I am confident about the future because gradually the readathon is beginning to become attractive to sponsors. Individuals, organizations and corporate bodies are beginning to see the need to invest in (i.e. sponsor) reading events.

Over the years, we have had companies like WearGhana, Norte Sobolo, Storefoundry, THREADEX, Aky3de3, MultiPIXEL, Type Company, Biggles, VividStream, Breakthrough Express, Masoko Impact, FlyAfrika Magazine, SERAMA, Kobby Blay Photography, Bestie Liha and www.2eweboys.com support the readathon in different ways.

Another wave of sponsors the reading event has attracted is hotels and guest houses that provide accommodation to the team when we travel to other cities. Starting with the Shekinah Glory Hotel in Sogakope when we went to Ho, to the Axim Beach Resort when we went to the Western Region for the first time and then the Red Mango Apartments Hotel which will be hosting us on the latest trip.

It is also stirring to have the VIP Transport services coming onboard as sponsors to help us travel across the country. VIP is the second transport sponsor after Unicorn Car Rentals which sponsored our trip to Ho.

With the help of these sponsors, DAkpabli can do more. We can go to more places and affect lives through reading.

The Read-A-Tour train stops at the SSNIT Hall in Takoradi today. If you are in T'adi, meet us 3 pm for a wonderful experience with books.

06/09/2017

Inside the Sikaman Dustbin..issues we have swept aside for more "current affairs"

1. Conflict on interest charges against Finance Minister in bond issue

2. Electoral Commissioners saga

3. Wisa's Pistol Show on stage

4. Valerie Volleys

5. SSNIT Saga

6. Kwasi Botchwey Report

7. Delta Force 8/13 Case in Court

8. Ayariga Bribery Issue

9. General Mosquito vs Armed Robbers

10. Kintampo Falls Disaster

11. UT/Capital Bank GCBilisation

12. AMERI investigations

13. Missing Cars - Retrieved or Not? True or not?

14. Spate of Suicides

15. US Embassy Indebtedness to ECG - true or not?

16. Diplomatic passports and Embassy privileges

17. Woyome Cash

18. Killers of Major Mahama

19. Ex-gratia payments

20. 43 presidential cars from Dubai

21. Mahama Bangalow Saga

22. New Vice Presidential Bangalow cost

23. Adwoa Safo New Community SHS Role

24. BOST Out-of-Spec Oil Sale
..to be continued.

Ghana: Where we rarely pursue a matter to conclusion. Where we are more concerned with dribbling rather than scoring.

Nsempiisms. My mouth is refusing to fall.

28/04/2017

Sebiticals Chapter 40: Sikamaliamentary Palava

I bring you very foamy greetings from the shed of Akwasi Sorfree, the best palm wine tapper in Wasaman, where, departing from his regular practice, Wofa Kapokyikyi is having a calabash of palm wine. He told me that from time to time, even Memuna gets tired of fula. No Liberty Fun Club visits today.

Wofa was quite pensive today. Me, I just sat and enjoyed the conversations around the benches under the shed.

“A fool in a pensive mood is not making any judicious plans; he is still a buffoon,” Wofa whispered, almost to himself.

“Ei, Wofa Kapokyikyi! Please explain.” I had no incline what he meant by that.

“My son, a rich man who becomes poor is still better than a poor man who is trying to become rich.”

“Ei! As for today, you are really swimming in parables.”

Wofa was not finished. “A mad man who gets cured still have some tricks with which to frighten children. And a fool who is assumed wise only has to open his mouth to clear any doubts.”

I had to get closer to Wofa Kapokyikyi to confirm whether he was in the spirit. He wasn’t. He was very sober, which was even more dangerous. For what a man says when drunk, he thought about whilst sober, and Wofa’s thoughts, when being cooked in his fertile mind, were caustic.

Oh yes, I bring you greetings from Wofa Kapokyikyi, who told me that Kotei the jack-of-all-trades, who recently graduated from village electrician to cable TV fixer, has finally come to install the apotowiwa on top of his roof so that his television set can now receive images from the capital.

Wofa says he has been following the proceedings, news, discussions, accusations, fights and all the drama from the House of State this year, and his mind was still trying to manage all the twists and turns.

“I love the state of our Parliament now. For every story, there are about four versions of the near-truth. And then the truth. I love it more when each storyteller calls the other a liar. Makes it even more colourful when the lied to is not believed, when he states his version of the truth which cannot be distinguished from the lies which the liar tries to discount.”

“Ei, Wofa, son of Premang Ntow and grand nephew of Bassanyin!” That was all I could say. I started to think that the palm wine wasn't getting on well with the physiological mechanisms of my Wofa’s metabolism.

It is getting tangled and mangled and appearing far from simple eh? It is sounding convoluted and you are getting discombobulated eh?

Exactly! That's the idea, to make you appreciate my confusion with the train of thoughts that Wofa was peregrinating today.

“You see, my wofaase, our big men in the House of State have given onto themselves the ‘Insult Privilege’. They have arrogated to themselves alone the power to disrespect MPs. To insult MPs. To fight MPs. They say to the ordinary people, ‘You have no right to disrespect us or to speak ill about us. We don't need your help. We can do it ourselves. To one another.’ Who am I to disagree?”

Wofa paused and took a sip from his calabash. The foam formed a white line above his upper lip. I wondered how that line would have formed if Wofa had an Andamic moustache. He didn't give me much time to wonder.

“You remember the accusations and counter accusations about the black polythene courier bags? You remember the naadoli-cowric statement that was covered with a polythene sheet? Did you see the fight that brought us good memories of the zoom-zoom days?”

I nodded. I did remember all of them, I answered.

I asked Wofa if the continuous use of the Insult Privilege wouldn't dent the image of Parliament.

He chuckled.

“How can you dent further a milk tin that has been used for various rounds of chaskele?” He said this slowly, nodding slowly.

He was done with his palm wine. Just one calabash. He stood up and held one of the bamboo pillars holding the roof of the shed in place.

Amakye the town crier who was sitting across us and had his transistor radio glued to his ears just increased the volume as we heard the latest news from the House of State. The voice within the radio said some of the big men of the house had used their special nkrataa to take some people across the cornfields and left them there. The radio voice said the man making the accusation was called Jon. Not John o, not any of the former Odikros.

We all said “Hmmmm”. Except Wofa, who said “Oyiwa!”

“Did you notice that in the visa matter of Jon vs the MP4 (apologies to Efo Kofi Gbedemah),” Wofa asked, beginning to walk towards the police station junction, at which we would turn left towards home, “ that only ‘nieces’ and ’wives’ were carried along, and not nephews or brothers?”

I followed him down the road, with my mind made up on one thing: palm wine is not good for my Wofa Kapokyikyi.

Till I come your way again, hopefully when Wofa Kapokyikyi reverts to sampling the normal spirits at the Liberty Fun Club, I remain:

Sebitically yours,
Kapokyikyiwofaase

22/03/2017

Brother Bartholomew stared at us with his smouldering eyes. It had rained earlier and the flying ants attracted to the classroom ceiling lights were buzzing above his head. Some of them dropped onto his head and crawled down his shoulder. He didn’t notice. He raised his hands and clasped them towards heaven.

“We are still receiving the gifts of God!” He roared. “And the main one is the gift of the Holy Spirit! Everybody―ask for the Holy Spirit!” The sixty or seventy students gathered in a small classroom raised their voices and began to pray.

“I can feel it!” Brother Bartholomew declared after a few minutes of deafening prayer. “You have all received the Holy Spirit. And the sign is you will speak in tongues now. Unlock your lips and pray in the Spirit!”

People began jabbering around me. I didn’t know what to do. I said the Lord’s Prayer in English. Then in Twi. Then I recited the Apostles creed― five times over. Was Brother Bartholomew satisfied? No.

“Loosen your tongues!” he commanded. Around me, the prayers rose to a roar:

“Hey shammababa jawara!”
“Sholosohamamamarabama!”
“Masonomohalamababaraka!”

At least that’s what it sounded like to me. I opened my eyes a crack and peeked out. Kojo Poku Larbi was in the room too. He wasn’t praying. He was just staring at me and blinking.

Brother Bartholomew walked down the centre of the room.

“Shaharobokomalama!!” he bellowed. “Listen! Listen! The Rapture is upon us. The day has been revealed to me. Before midnight on the 6th day of the 6th month The Rapture will be upon us! People will be snatched away! The End Time is here!!”

The room fell silent, and we looked at each other uneasily. In the front row, I saw Prefect David and the other Fellowship leaders exchange glances.

“Yes,” Brother Bartholomew said. “You are surprised. You are looking at each other’s faces― but look within yourself, into your own heart!!”A shiver ran through me. Brother Bartholomew stalked to the front of the classroom. His fists were clenched by his sides and his voice low and smooth.

“I know what you are thinking,” he said. “The period of blackness has not come to pass. It will! Six days before the sixth day, the period of blackness will fall, and great mischief will rule. You must reach a higher level of spirituality to have a hope of being among the first fruits, the chosen, the Raptured. When the Rapture begins, the world will turn to a level of evil that we haven’t seen before. Murderers, armed robbers and rapists will run rampant. It will be terrible for those left behind. Do NOT get left behind! Pray! Pray to be taken!!”

The room exploded with the sound of frightened students praying to be raptured. Some students clenched their fists and hopped from one leg to the other shouting out their prayers. Some dropped to their knees and flung their arms heavenwards.

“Pray!” Brother Bartholomew shouted. “These are evil times! The devil wants us all to perish. He wants the whole school to perish! Banish the devil and his dark demons!”

That sounded frightening. I really didn’t want to perish. By now some students were rolling on the ground, and I realised this was simply no time to be ladylike. I had to speak in tongues too.

“Hey shokorakaka.” It was surprisingly easy. I repeated it, being careful to change a few syllables so I didn’t sound too much like those around me. I didn’t want to be accused of copying someone else’s prayer. I could hear Brother Bartholomew coming closer and I felt a twinge of anxiety.
Can he tell I’m faking it?

“Mesha hallaabababao laiieee! Oh hasha mala!” I cried out. He passed me and relieved, I opened one eye to see him pause beside Kojo, put a hand on his shoulder, and lead him to the front of the room. He clapped, and the babble in the room gradually died down.

“I sense that some people are unable to receive the Spirit within them. Please step forward. Some of you have ancestral spirits that are blocking you from receiving the Spirit. You are called by their names and they have bonded with you.” No one went up, so Kojo stood in front, all by himself, in his crisp white shirt, while Brother Bartholomew prayed for him.

“I command the seven demons of ancestral control, stubbornness, idolatry, tradition, fe**sh, backwardness and rebellion that have set up a stronghold over you to be released from you now!” he thundered.

“Amen!” we shouted.

Brother Bartholomew laid his hands on Kojo’s head and commanded demonic horsemen to be thrown into the sea. He broke curses, rebuked and cast out generational spirits. He annulled covenants made with false gods and demons, and all agreements made with agents of hell. He
scattered satanic and demonic conspiracies and confederacies. And each time we yelled “Amen!”

When Brother Bartholomew had finished, Kojo walked back to his seat. He was shaking like jelly.

~ Elizabeth-Irene Baitie, The Dorm Challenge

*Come listen to Elizabeth-Irene and the DAkpabli team on Legon campus on 25th March. Reading some starts at 5.30pm. Bring a friend! Admission is free.

19/03/2017

Sebiticals Chapter 38: A Quiver Full of Deputies

In the school that Osagyefo built, up the Menya Mewu Hill, we had an electrician who was quite difficult to get to undertake maintenance work, especially to replace burnt out fluorescent tubes. One of the popular stories was that he was afraid of heights. This story was most prominent when there was the need to replace the fluorescent light on the wall of the Junior Block that faced the Administration Block. That fluorescent light suffered downtime mostly because it provided illumination to the most popular 'tapping site' on campus, tapping well defined by one of the old girls of Ghanacoll, Nana Shirely, in an interview with Abeiku Santana (a product of Menya Mewu, himself) on Okay FM, as "an intimate communication process". Tapping usually happened between the end of supper and the start of evening preps and said intimate communication was best done in dum.

However, it was soon discovered that one of the quickest ways to get the electrician to respond to maintenance requests was to call him 'Electrical Engineer'. Just say 'Oh Engineer, we need so and so to be fixed or replaced' and he treated the request with dispatch.

Wofa Kapokyikyi brought this story to mind this week when I went to his house to discuss the latest Sikaman festival of deputies and how Odekuro had just returned to the Ahenfie with a quiver of ministerial arrows. Wofa told me that even Odekuro Kantinka was said to have stated that a messenger in the house of a sitting Odekuro was better than a sub-chief in the house of a former Odekuro whose sun has set, no one wanted to be called a messenger. A minister sounded much better.

I bring you greetings from Wofa Kapokyikyi, from a Sikaman which is cruising into the future at a speed of 110km/hour, which my friend Kofi Yankey says is the required speed for anyone who wishes to be in a comfortable lead.

So it came to pass that when the deputies in Odekuro’s quiver were counted, they, together with the senior arrows, amounted to five score and ten. Odekuro Odieasem Nana Tutubrofo Dankwawura, the first Odekuro under the fourth Empire of the State with a compound name, had blessed us with a compound full of sub-chiefs and deputies. Wofa says the main lesson learnt is this: don't install an Odekuro with a double-barrelled name. Like Osei-Kyei Mensah-Bonsu.

As Wofa Kapokyikyi discussed this matter behind Auntie Esi’s chop bar, Teacher Johnson joined us on his way home from school. As usual, his mind was in that acrobatic mode where numbers and figures did akoni aba like the flies behind the Zongo meat market. Teacher Johnson submited that Odekuro Tutubrofo had multiplied his percentage in the elections by two, added the number of his attempts at the annexing the throne, and rounded it down to the nearest whole number to arrive at the number of ministers and deputies in his quiver. Typical of Teacher Johnson, he just said this with the attitude of someone who wanted to offload the output of his mental excursions. As he left Wofa and me to continue our deliberations, he muttered that Odekuro had kept his best promise from Sikaman as to the intent of his reign going forward: one district, one minister.

Wofa was emphatic: the traditional council of chiefs and sub-chief is just too large. He wondered if there was any law barring the Odekuro from appointing two or more deputy Krontihene as well?

Wofa added: “My nephew, let me remind you that one of Odekuro’s main plans is to create new subdivisions in Sikaman. So assuming y is the number of subdivisions to be created, we can expect an additional number of sub-chiefs and deputies, mathematically expressed as 2y”.

Ei, Wofa, I remarked. He just smiled and told me that one cannot walk daily with the billy goat without acquiring some nunu scent; and that surely his association with Teacher Johnson has taught him to also appreciate equations, mathematically speaking.

Wofa also asked me if I had ever seen a lean elephant, even one that has been chased into the bush and returned after eight market days. I had no answer.

The next day after the sighting of the quiver full of deputies, Amakye the town crier was heard in the village square with a message from Odekuro. The message was to the point: the village was so dirty, the streets so cracked, the farms so weedy and the barns so empty that Odekuro needed many hands to rebuild as quickly as possible. Amakye didn’t say anything about how these workers were to be fed, seeing that the barns were so empty.

As I listened, I was reminded of another story, this time told me by Obaapanyin Potisaa.

A boy fell into a well with weak walls. The men of the village gathered around and debated now to rescue him. Kofi Antobam gave the best suggestion: “The walls are so weak but the rescue is so urgent that we need ten men to descend into the well to rescue the little boy”.

But who is to understand the ways of the royals who get to occupy the Ahenfie? It has been said that electoral campaigns are done in poetry and governance conducted with prose. How true. I am not disappointed at the predictability of these royals. Tells me my healthy suspicion of political talk and gymnastics is still relevant.

I can only speak from the point of view of the farmer that I am. If I have my farm and I am able to harvest my cocoa with twenty ‘by-day’ (pronounced baa-day) workers for a period of time, my peers would wonder at me if I suddenly increased the number to thirty but argue that you should judge me by how much I produce for the period without necessarily having planted more trees over the previous year.

My friend Mike Tyson (not the boxer) would scream overheads, and labour efficiency. Input is important per benchmark or trends over the years.

But Odekuro says the cocoa trees need more hands as they have grown taller and the farms have become more weedy than in the previous years. So we can only give him the benefit of the doubt. He says he wants Sikaman to become kra bɛ hwɛ so we should allow him some painters and designers as well. But we cannot ignore this, that one of the problems we have is the power of our parties over Ahenfie policy and resourcing, and its way of deriving political payment after election of the Odekuro. This garguantuan size of the traditional council cannot be said not to have been influenced by this consideration.

The debate continues in Sikaman, under the trees where dami is played, in Liberty Club where Wofa’s favourite is swallowed (and not drank), in the market place where the value of the cowries is still doing see-saw, and on the benches as the citizens sip Auntie Memuna’s kooko in the mornings. Some have said the end justifies the means whilst others say the means should have consideration of the size and state of the purse which is said to be the reason why we need to move fast, to restore to vitality. As the elders say, we use money to get money. Or do we, in this case?

One bright spot in this saga, however. How quickly Odekuro himself hit the village square with his explanation behind his quiver of deputies. Eish, brofo paa!

My friend Maame Ekua Boakye said it best: "Brofo, brofo saaaa na yɛ forgeti numbers no!"

Till I come your way again with another sebitical, I remain:

Sebitically yours,
Kapokyikyiwofaase

16/03/2017

07/02/2017

Award-winning author Elizabeth-Irene Baitie Joins DAkpabli Readathon Train!

The DAkpabli team is excited to announce the Guest Author for the first quarter of 2017!

Elizabeth-Irene Baitie is a Medical Laboratory Director and a multi-award winning writer of contemporary children's and Young Adult (YA) fiction.

Her first book, A Saint in Brown Sandals, was published by Macmillan in 2006 for junior readers and was awarded the Macmillan Writer's Prize for Africa that year.

Her YA novels - The Twelfth Heart, The Dorm Challenge and Rattling in the Closet - have all been awarded the Burt Award for African Literature.

Elizabeth-Irene lives in Accra and is married to Rami. They have three children.

Join us welcome Elizabeth-Irene onto the reading train and do catch her at an event near you soon!

26/01/2017

"I have argued that it is not true that Africans don’t read; I believe that we don’t have enough books that speak to our minds and souls at the same time. It is like eating food you are not used to. You might be filled up physically but not satisfied emotionally. My books bring you both intellectual and emotional satisfaction and edification, because I write about issues that touch Africans and their situations and elicit positive actions."

A quote from my interview with Kwee Literary Magazine, Liberia. You can download it via link below and read the full interview:

http://media.wix.com/ugd/00e8f9_4f711ff468cc4742bcf7d3d2a42e7d2c.pdf

22/01/2017

Sebiticals Chapter 34: The Departure of the J

Kojo Mɛtɛɛ was a notorious thief in my holy village. It was rumoured that when he entered a room, he could smell exactly where money and valuables had been hidden and go straight for the kill. Or rather, straight for the steal. Those were the days when bank vaults resided in the inner entrails of mattresses, the ones made with straw. When there was fire, mattresses burnt with expensive swag.

One day, my big brother Joe Base, in a bid to protect his savings from Kojo and The Gang, hid his money in such an obscure place that he forgot where he had hidden it! After hours of trying to find it, he gave up and called Kojo, who stepped into the room, closed his eyes, sniffed the air a bit and laughed.

“Bra Joe Base paa, it is under the carpet,” he pointed.

Kojo loved stealing the coconuts from the backyard of the local rich man, Opanyin Nemi. He would scale over Opanyin’s high wall and climb the coconut trees, plucking the coconuts so they fell outside the compound for his gang members to collect. He did so with his eyes looking out for Opanyin, whose single-barrelled gun, also called ti aborɔferɛ (pluck down pawpaw), was feared.

One afternoon, as Kojo was up a coconut tree, he perceived movement in Opanyin’s house. His friends whistled to warn him but as he craned his neck to investigate, he lost his grip and started falling…

Tum!

Silence…

One of his pals whispered over the wall, they were afraid Kojo was either badly hurt or was dead.

“Kojo Mɛtɛɛ, w’awu anaa?” (Kojo, are you dead?)

The response came in, slowly…

“Mi nwu yɛ o, na pua na mɛ pua.” (I am not dead, but I have been shortened!)

I bring you greetings from Wofa Kapokyikyi, who has been following the issues in The Gambia over the past weeks from his stool at the Liberty Fan Club.

Ei, Wofa said it o. He predicted that Papa Jammeh, like Gbagbo, baa gbo last show. Papa Jammeh, like the proverbial fly which didn't listen to advice, has followed the co**se into the grave.

After losing the elections and conceding and dis-conceding, Papa J wanted to copy the senior Papa J but he didn't follow The Handbook well. You negotiate indemnity clauses and transitional provisions before the elections and not after. It was Haillemariam Lemar who said that Jammeh was so sure of winning the Gambian elections that he didn't even attempt to rig it! That surely must explain why Papa J missed the sequence.

Then, he proceeded to dig his feet in. The regional Council of Chiefs said no but only Papa J said yes. Even when his akyeame and sub-chiefs said a new dawn had come, Papa J still said the sun was shining brightly on his coast.

One of the key weaknesses of dictators is that they do not realise it when the applause is either gone or it has become fake. They refuse to get it when they lose favour. In leadership as in life, you need to know when to move before you are pushed.

I always get amused and surprised when African leaders don't want to step down honorably after service. My reason is that we have so few ex-Presidents for the many opportunities that exist for such experience in the international community.

That was my position with Gbagbo.

With Papa Jammeh, I am not that clear. Perhaps he analysed that bit, apart from his fear of not resting in peace, and came to the conclusion that he is not employable after stepping off the stage as Head of State.

After advising the fly for so long, the regional Council of Chiefs decided to show the co**se to the fly, to let the fly know its potential sleeping partner. The co**se was escorted by soldiers from the land which had carved out a bit of its belly for The Gambia and which almost enveloped the small nation. Other nations, including Sikaman who had ancestral spirits crying for retribution, also provided troops. Amalaman provided iron birds, who could spit fire. These troops started marching “left, right, left, right”, singing “O-zami-namina-mina-mina”, in that deep voice of the senior Papa J and came knocking on the doors of The Gambia. It was a sight to behold, numbers stretching from the East to the West.

According to the BBC, “The Gambia's entire armed forces are made up of only about 2,500 troops.”

Let me sikamanise that for you. The entire Gambian Army will not fill 100 VIP Yutong buses. Our National Theatre and the Conference Centre are all we need to sit the entire army personnel in the Gambia.

The story is told of a new Inspector-General of the Ahenfie police who was informed about some of his men extorting palm wine and cowries from citizens as they returned from their farms. He disguised himself one day and went out to investigate. One of the policemen gave him such a tough time and took all his palm wine at a checkpoint. When he removed his disguise and the policeman recognised him, the junior kotiman saluted clumsily and blurted, “I sack myself, sah!”

When the Chief of Papa J’s Army saw the multitude of soldiers from accompanying the co**se, he weighed his options and stated that the palaver at hand had nothing to do with soldier matter. “I won't commit my men to any stupid fight”, he said, and proceeded to take selfies.

Wise man. The toad should not sweat on behalf of the lizard which chews pepper.

Most armies that spend their time terrorising their own citizens spend less time actually preparing to fight real soldiers. I hope the Gambian Army still knows how to fight.

You should consider the size of your head before you challenge Etikelenkele to a Head War. When Etikelenkele was a child, he was restrained by his parents from watching birds fly above his head. That act disturbed the equilibrium of his body. His head was that gargantuan.

Wofa Kapokyikyi told me that it was an African proverb that eventually make Jammeh to jɛ jɛmɛ.

“It is a Mozambican proverb”, he said. "If you want to swallow a mango seed, you first of all calculate the diameter of your a**s."

So, I am told that in the heat of the developments, Papa J asked for Teacher Johnson who brought a pair of dividers and took the dimensions of the posterior or***ce of the J. It was less than pi.

Papa J just gave up.

One of Papa J's main demands for his days outside The Gambia will be the provision of a good washman. Spare a thought for those white gowns. If that request is not met or if the new washman cannot wash with Omo so it shows, Papa J may have to change to khaki gowns. Afterall, our elders say that sankofa is not fatal.

One clear bright news is that the Home-based African Herbalists Association (HAHA) just gained a high-profile permanent member.

Papa Jammeh eventually was uprooted like a seedling. Initially I wanted him to be uprooted like a yam but he got lucky. This was a seedling approach.

See he has been transplanted! W'apua! He has been shortened!

I see the Jammeh cloud has a silver lining paa. His silly move makes it much much easier for him to be made to account for his atrocities in the past. What he feared, that he would be tried when he handed over, that must have led to this stance, will come on him. On a better platter.

In the end, at the final exit point from The Gambia, Jammeh should be given a ride in a wheelbarrow across the border.

Till I come your way next time with another sebitical, perhaps atop a wheelbarrow, I remain:

Sebitically yours,
Kapokyikyiwofaase