On the eighth day after the birth while the moon was yet to evanesce, kinsmen thronged the now famed compound to witness the miracle baby. It was a replica of a shanty town; unplanned cluttered dwellings with very good asphalted roads flanked by open drains.
"Did you find it easy to get here. Here, taste this." I was greeted at the wooden gate by my fiancee, Dede, offering a calabash of fresh, hot, dark corn wine she had fetched from the cauldron sitting on flaming logs, yet to boil fully.
"Oh yes," I slurped a little. "I told the driver I was headed for Asere in Ga Mashi...Lante..."
"Lante Djan We" , we synchronized. "Yes, yes!"
By now kinsmen and friends, all clad in traditional white had carved a crescent seating formation, leaving the middle of the compound bare, where I noticed a ring of ash. I took a seat.
"That's my Uncle Kwei Mensah and his wife, Ny3kw3 Kai", Dede nodded. They were old and grey; I could say almost or a little past three-score.
"It's indeed a marvel", Dede explained. "She has been childless for decades, and my grandmother has given her no rest at all."
"Your grandmother has patience the size of my baby finger", one lady behind us interrupted our conversation, unwelcomed. I could detect an ample doze of tartness in her voice. She sounded salty.
"I know, Ny3kw3 Amateokor. Let's not ruin today", Dede, skinning her teeth, was not one to take offense at a first jab.
A towering old woman came hobbling across the compound clutching a baby wrapped in a piece of white calico safely to her bosom. The rite was set in motion.
The moon was still blessing us with good light. She commanded much respect, for everybody either rose to bow or wave at her as she lurched into the ring of ash and rid the baby of its cloth.
She held the baby up towards the moon and chanted, "We present this infant to the Supreme Being", then laid the baby down in the circle of ash, repeating the process twice.
"Oh it's beautiful...it's lovely. Our ears will rest henceforth". Ny3kw3 Amateokor was still casting vengeful subliminals, this time echoing it across the entire compound.
A bowl of water, signifying rain was thrown unto the aluminum roofing sheet and allowed to dribble on the baby. Next, the aged woman gently tapped the back of the baby and repeated, "Never lie, steal or cheat. Take after me."
I stared at Dede. "She is held widely as the eldest kinsman of good repute," she explained. I nodded.
"This is water, and this is wine. Know the difference." I saw the baby suckle on the old woman's finger as both corn wine and water were put in her mouth.
"Henceforth, you shall be called Lamile...Lamile Amoaben-ajaaku."
The uproar which erupted was thundering.
I followed as the kinsman handed the baby over to her mother, slapped the cork of a bottle of schnapp and offered libation on behalf of the infant.
"Agoo Ataamei ke Awomei.“Tswa Tswa Tswa omanye abla'o Tswa Tswa omanye abla'o. Tswa omanye aba, Osoro (Osu) Ahatiri, Obu Ahatiri, Oboro dutu wokpe, Wodsebu wodse nu, Wo ye wo nu wo kodsii adso wo, Gboni bale etse yi ana wala, Enye yi ana wala, Esee tuu, Ehee fann, Eyi aba gbodsen, Ese aba halaann, Wekumei wona faa ni wo fa le, Eba tsu eha wo ni woye, Eko atasi ni eko aba, Ganyo humile koyo tsua dani owieo, Tsua Tsua Tsua manye aba,”
"Hiao!", the guests said Amen to that!
After the neighbours had chucked down enough meat and emptied the cauldron of its corn wine, and everybody was dancing to the E.T Mensah's "Abele", I noticed Ny3kw3 Amateokor had locked Dede's grandmother in a seemingly fond embrace, both swaying to good hi-life music.
"Look at them," Dede sniggered. "This baby has made brothers of Nanumba and Konkomba."
By Michael Nii Moi Thompson
About Writer : Michael Nii Moi Thompson is a US-based Ghanaian poet/ writer of fiction. His debut book of short stories Tooli Bibii, is scheduled for release soon.
Monday, May 8, 2017
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
On Strife and Voice (a review of BrymO’s “Prick no get Shoulder”).. Rated 18+
By Myers Hansen (@myershansen on twitter)
 |
| BrymO |
you’re old enough to fuck
you’re old enough to know
nobody gives a fuck
your wahala na your own
you’re old enough to know
nobody gives a fuck
your wahala na your own
BrymO has a new CD out Tabula Rasa (the gift), it is made up of great songs. BrymO has a brilliant new song out, Prick no get Shoulder; those are the first four lines.And in the end, this is why in my opinion; every true artist should go through the valleys of the shadows. Oh, it could be anything; a brutal accident, a sudden cancer, death of that one person who regulated their soul, or in BrymO’s case, a long sore tussle over contracts and consequences … anything. I don’t mind, as long as it provokes a return.
Look, BrymO can sing! His voice is unpretentious; it is characterized by odd familiar truth, a root. Have you heard “Good Morning”, from his Son of a Kapenta album? Ok then!
The man can sing, but perhaps until now, it is all he was doing –singing. Now though, he has our conscience and chest…today, he’s grown into an artist and has taken charge of his craft. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m sure all his songs before his last two albums, especially this last one, were written from deepness. But God, listen to Merchants, Dealers & Slaves, his very defiant 2013 album which was obstructed largely by his prolonged public legal battle with former record label, Chocolate City Group.
There were issues of an injunction and large possible fines. Even if no one would admit completely, someone was harmed. Publicity on M, D&S was not enough, which is why this is the first time you probably are hearing of it. It is wrong for such a strong project to be that unknown. It is wrong to soul, it is wrong to art, it is wrong to life –for then, art is incomplete…and that’s not a good thing. So, listen to M, D&S, and then let’s talk.
Meanwhile, BrymO has a new CD out; Tabula Rasa (the gift), it is made up of great songs. BrymO has a brilliant new song out, Prick no get Shoulder; these are words from the bridge:
For this world
Wetin you sowYou must reap
Na true thing
Nahin I talk
We no dey chop
For where we shit…
Wetin you sowYou must reap
Na true thing
Nahin I talk
We no dey chop
For where we shit…
 |
| BrymO |
Usually, an artist’s best work is their first album, or when evil spirits have visited them…because then, there is a flood of emotion and story waiting to be shed or shared. That’s where we usually find the artist, for then, he has witnessed purpose and wrestled with/ for his tabula rasa, his gift. There, he has interacted with a height and awareness…of beauty, of strife, of neighbors, of little things and vanities, of secrets and prophecies…of Merchants, Dealers and Slaves. His every word suddenly contains spirituality and is aimed at the bottom of our hearts. There, let them say “Kofi is going to school”, and we can relate to it. Let them say “…prick no get shoulder/ you put e head, the rest dey enter”, and it builds a lump in your throat and invokes thoughtful smile. When an artist is at that point, their truths converse with our truths, and god is achieved. Therefore, an artist’s troubles are a periodic requirement and their blessing.
BrymO himself said in a tweet that M,D &S was his best attempt at music, but then admits that Tabula Rasa is “something sweeter”. BrymO, within a year, has given us two albums which are undisputed chefs-d’oeuvre, both containing a voice which, in my opinion, he never may have found had the last two years not happened to him. An artist’s voice is their tool, their weapon, and whether they find it with their first or third album, it is still that perfect reward for their pursuit of happiness.
Nowadays, when BrymO sings, he’s naked, he’s bare. He does not intend to impress, he only attempts to converse. He keeps it short and to the point, and has become a disciple of the philosophy “the beauty of simplicity”. He feels live and here…like you can say stuff back at him, like you can see sweat on his brows and nose, like you can tell a what point in recording the song he smiled or lifted his left hand.
You like to kiss the ass
He hit you when he fart
You take am take fat
Your wahala na your own
You like to kiss the ass
He hit you when he fart
You take am take fat
Your wahala na your own
The people at Mikky Sounds Factory definitely facilitated that. It’s always good to have someone who can help make physical the atmosphere in an artist’s head. He too should be commended, he’s a musician too. He’s been able to listen carefully enough to hear what the artist hears in his head. They too are responsible for why nobody can rush through the album.
If e sweet o
I go take am slow slow
If e sweet o
I go take am slow slow
The album is gorgeous. I’ll come to Fe Mi, the first official single off the album, pure love on beats we call “Agbadza” here. I’ll talk about Dear Child, divine homage to an honorable grandmother, 1 pound, something which makes you love trumpets and whistles and reminds you of hunger and Fela, Back to Love, which invokes similar sentiments you would feel for Asa,Nothing’s ever promised Tomorrow, which is what the album is about anyway – honesty, courage, love…Life and living. It’s just, reviewing art as serious as this takes time. Finding words to describe 11 true songs requires patience.Tabula Rasa, which is of Latin origin, suggests a clean slate or the fact that training and observation make us. BrymO says the expression hit him deep when used by a judge during a hearing in his recent weaning troubles.BrymO has a brilliant new album out, Tabula Rasa (the gift), it’s a great album.Brymo’s single, Prick no get Shoulder. These are the words of the chorus:
Prick no get shoulder
E no get shoulder
Prick no get shoulder
You put e head, the rest dey enter
Prick no get shoulder
E no get shoulder
You put e head, the rest dey enter
Prick no get shoulder
E no get shoulder
Prick no get shoulder
You put e head, the rest dey enter
Prick no get shoulder
E no get shoulder
You put e head, the rest dey enter
Prick no get shoulder
The writer is a freelance journalist and art critic based in Accra, Ghana.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
The Devil Wears White... A Fisherman's tale
Losing a lover is a heart ripped off, losing a brother is a soul taken away. June 13 1982 was the scissors which broke Nii Lartey Tsuru III from his umbilical cord.
He was raised on the beaches of James Town where fishing was the oldest trade in the family and indulged every healthy looking male child. After his kid brother was outdoored Nii Tetey Yen II (after their grandfather), Lartey Tsulu made a vow to protect his brother till death. “I’ll go to the end of the world to keep you safe. No son of Adam or daughter of Eve shall ever come between us” The two brothers grew up like climbing plants, entangled in each other’s affairs.
They would leave for sea early in the morning and return with their shoal at night. But in the rainy seasons, they left around 6am and returned the following morning with a bountiful catch. The women in the community are solely responsible for marketing the fish. One Tuesday after my usual visit to the family house at Abolakpatashi, Nanaa packed fired Octopus and said “ kɔ mɔ mɔ lɛ fio fio kɛ ya shɛ shia.” Tuesdays are traditional off days for all the fisher folks.
They usually stay at home and mend their nets or service their outboard motors. I perched with half-buttocks on a bamboo bench at the shores of the sea, eating my snack and sipping on a bottle of club soda. After a few minutes, I heard a voice saying “Anyɛmi ha ma gbabo sane ko”. He introduced himself as Lartey Tsulu III and started his story.
He and Tetey Yen always went fishing together but on that sunny Thursday afternoon, he went to queue for premix fuel so they would have enough for the coming days. When the ‘Lɛ lɛ kɛ yaa’ was afloat, Tetey waved at him and shouted “tsne lɛ mli ye ni kpakpa, wɔ baa na loo waa”. Early the next morning Lartey carried a gallon of premix and set out to meet his brother. All the boats had returned with the exception of the Amugi’s and theirs. After 5mins, he saw Amugi’s boat approaching the dock but theirs was nowhere to be found. “Ngbɛ wɔ yaa yɔɔ,” he questioned Amugi. Ngbɛ Tetey wɔɔ …. The news sank his spirits. “Your boat capsized and Tetey drowned in the process”, Amugi narrated. “The boat sunk and his body could not be recovered.” Tetey who had won fastest swimmer at the annual James Town Homowo swimming contest got drown at sea? Amugi you must be joking, Lartey fumed. “Produce my brother now now oo me I’ve told you.” It took several hours to come to terms with the obvious reality that Tetey Yen II was no more.
Later that night after enough wailing, Lartey decided to take solace in the bottle. He moved to the blue kiosk near by and drunk his head off. Mostly, he drank his tears in place of the hot Apkɛtɛshi gin he was clasping. Lartey found himself floating on the sea clinching on to his green bottle.
Out of the blue he had a voice “Lartey Tsuru III do you want to join me here or do you want to know what really got me killed” It was Tetey dressed in a white suit –something which was very usual of him because he never liked the color white- . “Come, let me take you to where it all started,” Tetey said. As though in a trance, Lartey felt a sharp pain in the head and before he knew it, he and his brother were standing in their boat. Tetey put out his lantern and started pulling his net into the boat.
His net had caught a lot of fish, and was bursting at the seams due to the weight. Then they both heard a loud cry “Tetey jump, the ship will kill you…” before Tetey could heed the call, his boat was destroyed by a foreign ship. His body was drawn by the current from the super powered motor of the ship and was instantly sliced into two. In a split second, Lartey saw himself standing with his brother. “This is what actually happened, this is what killed me…The white man’s ship.” Lartey went blank, coming back into his body to realize he was lying on the floor in a bar, holding on to his green bottle. “So that is what happened to my brother… tell those politicians to stop drinking the FONKAR beer while they smoke the ‘all die be die’ weed” . “I lost a brother…. Another lost a father…another lost a son… some other lost a grandfather. I thought they said Pair trawling was a thing of the past? “Go out there and tell my story… tell the world how I lost my brother.”
Monday, January 16, 2012
Yearning for Rose Greenfield
My yearnings grapple for an invincible obsession
so strong like asthmatics yearn for oxygen
Not touched…not seen. Yet lurking in the dark corners of my mind
her beauty resonates from afar
There she sat in my garden among the lilies
Filled with life and love
a chunk to suffice the world
Halt! For my green eyes shall keep the chunk
her pink lips glow in darkness
And when she decides to paint them red
One will need Redbull before viewing them
She sat on a pot of loom; her dress woven from leaves
Treated with love, care and patience, she is the perfect ingredient to make the whole world smile
But maltreated and disrespected, she will get into your skin and come out like a pin
With a pain sharp to ache your heart and a few drops of your blood to make you pay
There you are my beautiful addiction
The one thing I yearn for, my rose flower
By Nii Ogbamey Tetteh (@ogbameytetteh on twitter)
so strong like asthmatics yearn for oxygen
Not touched…not seen. Yet lurking in the dark corners of my mind
her beauty resonates from afar
There she sat in my garden among the lilies
Filled with life and love
a chunk to suffice the world
Halt! For my green eyes shall keep the chunk
her pink lips glow in darkness
And when she decides to paint them red
One will need Redbull before viewing them
She sat on a pot of loom; her dress woven from leaves
Treated with love, care and patience, she is the perfect ingredient to make the whole world smile
But maltreated and disrespected, she will get into your skin and come out like a pin
With a pain sharp to ache your heart and a few drops of your blood to make you pay
There you are my beautiful addiction
The one thing I yearn for, my rose flower
By Nii Ogbamey Tetteh (@ogbameytetteh on twitter)
BROTHER, HARAM !!
Abu’s eyes shifted like the wipers of a windshield. His forehead was the fountain of steaming streams of anxious sweat on his face, and even his white robe-the purity of a martyr- could not reflect the heat rays hitting his conscience and drenching his body. He looked around.
There was a hovering hummingbird on a Hibiscus with hue as bright as its gorget, harnessing the flower’s sweet nectar without a spot of care. Lovely shades of green carpeted the rump all the way to its crown, contrasted by the whiteness of its neck. And with its long beak, it harvested the sweetness of nature, creating the ambiance of serenity in one lazy market at the heart of Lagos town. The hummingbird became his target. Abu wanted to shoot the bird. “You call that peaceful?” he asked. “Well Yusuf calls it exploitation.”
Good! His wavering eyes finally clinched the perfect spot for his act. There, at the center of the shopping mall was a little church with a dozen members, praising Jesus, using just a set of conga with battered hide, yet in the noisiest of fashions. Abu made sure his face did not betray his disgust before heading towards the wooden bench close to the church.
“Can I sit with you, my elders?” he asked two gray men who were perched on the bench working a lotto sheet. One looked Hausa and Moslem…the other was a lot different.
“Yoo…Kana Lafiya?” the Hausa man responded.
“Lafiya lau!” Abu had not forgotten his Hausa, though he has spoken Yoruba for a better chunk of his life. At age five his family migrated from Kano to Ogun, and since he had spoken Yoruba for his twenty-nine years on earth. His mother, teachers and test sheets had always told him he had a slow brain, thus scored beautiful zeros in almost all tests taken in class., yet he had perfect grades in local language tests. He was not dumb after all, and maybe he was going to prove to all today. He sat beside the old men, careful not to carelessly arm the fuse of the terror hanging around his waist.
“Look, I’m a Christian; a catholic…we don’t make such noise! These gods of men are back again with their cacophony, Abdul-Rahman.” The other man said to his friend. He gripped the pen in-between his teeth and spread the lotto sheet.
“I hate these breed of Christians, my brother. Walahi, I swear, if I had power eh….?” Abdul-Rahman licked the tip of his index finger and pointed outside the market square.
“See, sending them out of the market will not resolve the issue. I am a Christian, and I know my people. They will bring it to your backyard. The market is quite safe, I tell you,” the other friend left both Abu and Abdul-Rahman in pensive states.
By that time Abu thought he heard the Pastor holding a sermon, and blabbering something about Jesus being the only narrow way to Heaven.
“But Ola, do you believe your people are guaranteed heaven once they accept Issah as their saviour?” Abdul-Rahman had always wanted to ask this question.
Abu’s anxiety eased by just an ounce. He liked the new course of the discourse.
“Well…” Ola shrugged. “That is what their Good Book says”
Their good book, Abu chuckled. He deduced Ola’s loss of faith in the clergy and latter day Charismatic institutions. He was so engaged in audience that he nearly forgot his mission. Just as he took one last deep breath and was about to plunge headlong into the assembly, Abdul-Rahman gave him a violent nudge to gain his attention.
“My son…I can see you are Muslim too?”
Abu sighed reluctantly. “Yes I am.”
“Then tell my friend here to convert to Islam since there is so much chaos in Christianity.” Abdul-Rahman meant that to be a joke, but Ola did not quite grasp the punch line.
“And why do you people throw bombs if Islam is so peaceful??” Ola retorted impulsively.
Abu’s stomach churned instantly. He wanted to arm the fuse of the terror around his waist that minute, but something inside held him reluctant. So he could punish more of these Christians he needed to bide his time. He swallowed the anger painfully.
Abdul-Rahman was also swelling with fury. “Just look at the tricks that idiot is performing.” He pointed to the pastor of the petite congregation who Abdul-Rahman said was slapping the forehead of worshippers in a feigned quest to exorcise some evil spirits lurking somewhere in the dark patches of their lives. “If Issah had not come we would not have had all of you charlatans!” he added.
“And if Abraham had waited we would not have had Ishmael and you lots,” Ola was more sharp-tongued.
The little mobile phone in Abu’s pocket beeped. He had delayed thus his people wanted to know exactly why.
“I’ll kill you” Abdul-Rahman held his friend’s Polo shirt by its collar.
“You will go to hell first,” Ola was adamant, yet the frailer and weaker of the two.
“Walahi!” Abdul Rahman swore. I will die to defend Almighty Allah…Allahu Akbar,” he shoved his friend down.
“I will also die to defend my God…cow dung!” the fallen Ola sounded like he wanted to cry.
Abu was overwhelmed. He separated the two elderly men before there could be another scuffle.
“But why do you fight for your gods…eh?” Abu asked them. “Why can’t your gods fight for themselves…eh??”
Silence broke on everybody…Abdul-Rahman, Ola, some few passers-by and Abu himself. Suddenly the sun of reason and thought rose on him, but it was too late for re-consideration. He thought about his mothers…her tears…his late wife and their seven-month old son. At least the money could last them half a lifetime…he realized the vagueness of all those promises…of virgins in paradise…of feigned martyrdom…yet it was too late.
As he turned to go he heard the two old friends laughing together…Ola asking Abdul-Rahman to predict the lucky numbers for that evening…and the latter muttering something like, “1,2,3”.
Yes! On the third count he would dine with luck, and try to defuse the terror around his waist without detonation.
After ensuring he was out of human reach, Abu tried to take off the bomb wrapped around his waist, on the third count… but it was so wired that any such attempt would automatically arm its fuse and detonate. Abu tried anyway, and the blast that followed was deafening, sending fragments of his body into mid-air, to the shock and awe of the two old men, as well as all around the market square. The hummingbird quit hovering around the hibiscus with bright, red hue, and fled.
Abu had missed his target…deliberately…and really proven to that entire lot that he was not dumb after all.
Nii Moi Thompson
There was a hovering hummingbird on a Hibiscus with hue as bright as its gorget, harnessing the flower’s sweet nectar without a spot of care. Lovely shades of green carpeted the rump all the way to its crown, contrasted by the whiteness of its neck. And with its long beak, it harvested the sweetness of nature, creating the ambiance of serenity in one lazy market at the heart of Lagos town. The hummingbird became his target. Abu wanted to shoot the bird. “You call that peaceful?” he asked. “Well Yusuf calls it exploitation.”
Good! His wavering eyes finally clinched the perfect spot for his act. There, at the center of the shopping mall was a little church with a dozen members, praising Jesus, using just a set of conga with battered hide, yet in the noisiest of fashions. Abu made sure his face did not betray his disgust before heading towards the wooden bench close to the church.
“Can I sit with you, my elders?” he asked two gray men who were perched on the bench working a lotto sheet. One looked Hausa and Moslem…the other was a lot different.
“Yoo…Kana Lafiya?” the Hausa man responded.
“Lafiya lau!” Abu had not forgotten his Hausa, though he has spoken Yoruba for a better chunk of his life. At age five his family migrated from Kano to Ogun, and since he had spoken Yoruba for his twenty-nine years on earth. His mother, teachers and test sheets had always told him he had a slow brain, thus scored beautiful zeros in almost all tests taken in class., yet he had perfect grades in local language tests. He was not dumb after all, and maybe he was going to prove to all today. He sat beside the old men, careful not to carelessly arm the fuse of the terror hanging around his waist.
“Look, I’m a Christian; a catholic…we don’t make such noise! These gods of men are back again with their cacophony, Abdul-Rahman.” The other man said to his friend. He gripped the pen in-between his teeth and spread the lotto sheet.
“I hate these breed of Christians, my brother. Walahi, I swear, if I had power eh….?” Abdul-Rahman licked the tip of his index finger and pointed outside the market square.
“See, sending them out of the market will not resolve the issue. I am a Christian, and I know my people. They will bring it to your backyard. The market is quite safe, I tell you,” the other friend left both Abu and Abdul-Rahman in pensive states.
By that time Abu thought he heard the Pastor holding a sermon, and blabbering something about Jesus being the only narrow way to Heaven.
“But Ola, do you believe your people are guaranteed heaven once they accept Issah as their saviour?” Abdul-Rahman had always wanted to ask this question.
Abu’s anxiety eased by just an ounce. He liked the new course of the discourse.
“Well…” Ola shrugged. “That is what their Good Book says”
Their good book, Abu chuckled. He deduced Ola’s loss of faith in the clergy and latter day Charismatic institutions. He was so engaged in audience that he nearly forgot his mission. Just as he took one last deep breath and was about to plunge headlong into the assembly, Abdul-Rahman gave him a violent nudge to gain his attention.
“My son…I can see you are Muslim too?”
Abu sighed reluctantly. “Yes I am.”
“Then tell my friend here to convert to Islam since there is so much chaos in Christianity.” Abdul-Rahman meant that to be a joke, but Ola did not quite grasp the punch line.
“And why do you people throw bombs if Islam is so peaceful??” Ola retorted impulsively.
Abu’s stomach churned instantly. He wanted to arm the fuse of the terror around his waist that minute, but something inside held him reluctant. So he could punish more of these Christians he needed to bide his time. He swallowed the anger painfully.
Abdul-Rahman was also swelling with fury. “Just look at the tricks that idiot is performing.” He pointed to the pastor of the petite congregation who Abdul-Rahman said was slapping the forehead of worshippers in a feigned quest to exorcise some evil spirits lurking somewhere in the dark patches of their lives. “If Issah had not come we would not have had all of you charlatans!” he added.
“And if Abraham had waited we would not have had Ishmael and you lots,” Ola was more sharp-tongued.
The little mobile phone in Abu’s pocket beeped. He had delayed thus his people wanted to know exactly why.
“I’ll kill you” Abdul-Rahman held his friend’s Polo shirt by its collar.
“You will go to hell first,” Ola was adamant, yet the frailer and weaker of the two.
“Walahi!” Abdul Rahman swore. I will die to defend Almighty Allah…Allahu Akbar,” he shoved his friend down.
“I will also die to defend my God…cow dung!” the fallen Ola sounded like he wanted to cry.
Abu was overwhelmed. He separated the two elderly men before there could be another scuffle.
“But why do you fight for your gods…eh?” Abu asked them. “Why can’t your gods fight for themselves…eh??”
Silence broke on everybody…Abdul-Rahman, Ola, some few passers-by and Abu himself. Suddenly the sun of reason and thought rose on him, but it was too late for re-consideration. He thought about his mothers…her tears…his late wife and their seven-month old son. At least the money could last them half a lifetime…he realized the vagueness of all those promises…of virgins in paradise…of feigned martyrdom…yet it was too late.
As he turned to go he heard the two old friends laughing together…Ola asking Abdul-Rahman to predict the lucky numbers for that evening…and the latter muttering something like, “1,2,3”.
Yes! On the third count he would dine with luck, and try to defuse the terror around his waist without detonation.
After ensuring he was out of human reach, Abu tried to take off the bomb wrapped around his waist, on the third count… but it was so wired that any such attempt would automatically arm its fuse and detonate. Abu tried anyway, and the blast that followed was deafening, sending fragments of his body into mid-air, to the shock and awe of the two old men, as well as all around the market square. The hummingbird quit hovering around the hibiscus with bright, red hue, and fled.
Abu had missed his target…deliberately…and really proven to that entire lot that he was not dumb after all.
Nii Moi Thompson
CLINGING TO HOPELESS HOPE
08: 42am Somewhere in Amamole, Accra…
Emefa’s strident cry sent Dela racing from the backyard with a sharp pace, spilling the chicken-feed on the ground without thought, and stumbling into the corridor without caution. His fears met reality. There, on the cemented floor, was his brother Atsu, sprawled on the ground, gasping desperately with the black of his eyes almost escaping from the piercing throbbing of its owner’s heart.
“Get his medicine, quick!” Dela ordered and cupped Atsu’s head in his arms, slapping his cheeks and shaking his head roughly. ‘Wake up…Atsu wake up.’ He let the tears stream down his face.
‘There are no pills in this container, Dela,’ Emefa sniffed sorrowfully. She turned the container upside down, and not a single pill or tablet dropped.
“Here, hold him this way,” Dela left Atsu in the arms of his sister and hurried to the safe on top of his suitcase. His wobbly hands held its key, and inserted it after several clumsy failed attempts. There was GH¢15 in the safe. He would need that, at least.
Atsu was still breathing when he came back, albeit slower.
“Get his insurance card.” And while Emefa was at it, Dela strapped his younger brother cautiously to his back and headed towards the hospital.
Times like this made him blame a father he never knew. With GH¢15 in his pocket, from a isolated vicinity, and bearing a sick brother, Dela dragged himself a few yards before they arrived at the public transport station. He was drenched.
“Hospital,” he tried to hail a taxi. Initially the driver peered at them uncertainly, but finally pulled over some meters away, and motioned for them to draw closer.
“Small…where are you going?” he was gnawing roasted corn indifferently, probably because he could not decipher whether the water on Dela’s face was sweat or actual tears.
“General Hospital…how much is your fare?” Dela knew he had to manage thus was ready to bargain as a miser would.
“10 Ghana…” he did not see Dela’s shock at his exorbitance. His eyes were affixed to the corn.
“10 Ghana cedis? Please sir, won’t you take five…look, I have a sick brother.” The driver paused briefly to assess the sick boy, and finally snorted, “Okay, pay eight cedis. Eight cedis and that is all. Imagine the traffic I have to endure.”
Dela could not afford eight cedis, and while he contemplated hardly, the driver murmured something and sped off. He tried to call the hospital ambulance.
“Hello, we are sorry our ambulance is broken down…” It sounded like an automated response. Nothing or nobody was kind. Even the sun scorched fiercely, burning the fat in their skins without mercy. Dela bore the brunt of his brother on his back, and walked on, sobbing, hoping…
10: 15am Somewhere around Ridge, Accra in a State Bungalow…
“How could a whole Minister for Equality and Justice catch such common flu…just before his encounter with the press?” the mistress teased, and sensually tongued the Minister’s ears.
“Ha-ha…I bet you gave me that silly flu,” he sounded nasal, much to the disgust of his mistress. “I have to go to the hospital,” he continued. “I must cure this flu before tomorrow. I think I am having a fever too.”
“Should I call you an ambulance??”
“Brilliant. Tell them to come without delay. The Minister for Equality and Justice is sick,” he said and laughed like a pig.
The mistress inched closer to him, baiting him until the minister could no longer tame his eros, and clutched her hips with a lustful grip. She placed a finger on his bushy lips. Right! He was sick and must take his time. A sick man needs to gain energy, and not to lose it.
Just as the mistress turned her voluptuous frame to make that telephone call to the hospital, the minister smacked her backside gleefully.
“Call the medial superintendent himself…tell him I need an ambulance without delay.”
12: 10pm at the General Hospital…
Dela gulped at the queue of patients and the way it snaked from the registry, way down the reception to the access way for the disabled. His eyes swept along the entire queue and after sometime realized that no one else present carried the burden he was heaving on his back. He went straight to the registry.
“Madam…” the nurse did not budge.
“Please I have a dying brother…he needs immediate attention”
The nurse stopped counting the cedi notes.
“Does he have a card?”
“Yes madam. He’s covered by insurance,” Dela said impatiently. He could feel his brother’s ache. It was as though they shared a heart, for he Atsu was hurting, Dela was hurting more.
The nurse counted the last notes before replying, “Well join the queue.”
“No madam,” Dela was ready for a paroxysm. He leaned forward with a mean disposition which drove a chilly sensation down the nurse’s spine, but she quickly mustered composure. This little boy cannot ruffle her emotions nor exercise control. She was in charge.
“Look, sit over there, young man. Join the queue, and then I will call the emergency unit. They should be here shortly.”
Dela agreed to the compromise. He unsaddled Atsu and rested his head on his laps, stroking his back from time to think as though that could ease the pain eating the poor boy inside.
“This boy looks very sick…has the nurse called emergency?” The janitor was curious. He was a tall man who wore gray hair, carrying a broom in one hand with a machete tied around his loin. He carried a small radio which was playing a popular tune: ‘He who jumps the queue, dies first…he who skips the line, meets first the curse.’
Dela chuckled and shook his head. He remembered the lyrics of that song from an old book he had read way back in secondary school.
“But where is your mother…and father?” the janitor was concerned.
“My mother is dead…and I have never seen my father,” Dela forged a smile.
The janitor shook his head sadly. Just as he was about to offer gratuitous empathy, the General Hospital ambulance pulled over, and the Minister for Equality and Justice was wheeled in on a stretcher. He suddenly beamed and flashed a phony smile, waving at the patients and assuring them they would be taken care of. He passed them by and entered directly into the doctor’s office…without a card…without discourse…without even a hello to the nurse at the registry.
Atsu’s breathing was now dreadfully slow…beating like the heart of a fatigued infant crossing over to the land of celestial beings.
“Nurse, when are the emergency people coming?” Dela burst out.
“Sit down, young man...” the nurse’s response was sharp and cruel.
“His eyes are reddening, Dela. He has stopped breathing…” Emefa screamed.
It was as though the whole scene and timing were divinely orchestrated, for just as the minister came out of the doctor’s office, laughing and looking as healthy as a horse, the janitor also strolled by Dela, who rapidly seized the machete tied to the janitor’s loins, and quickly, with the speed of light, sunk very deep wounds in the Minister’s neck with just two powerful swoops. He slashed the nurse and spurt her blood on the glass counter, before finally laying down his weapon. The Minister’s feet gave way, and he fell with a face still masked in horror.
“This sick man should be sent to the psychiatry…not here,” one nurse said before security arrived to whisk Dela away, with Emefa tailing them, weeping, and Atsu lying in the hospital bench, his hands and feet cold from twelve minutes of death.
The janitor turned the volume knob on his radio…louder. The music was still playing: ‘He who jumps the queue dies first…he who skips the line, meets first the curse’
Nii Moi Thompson
Emefa’s strident cry sent Dela racing from the backyard with a sharp pace, spilling the chicken-feed on the ground without thought, and stumbling into the corridor without caution. His fears met reality. There, on the cemented floor, was his brother Atsu, sprawled on the ground, gasping desperately with the black of his eyes almost escaping from the piercing throbbing of its owner’s heart.
“Get his medicine, quick!” Dela ordered and cupped Atsu’s head in his arms, slapping his cheeks and shaking his head roughly. ‘Wake up…Atsu wake up.’ He let the tears stream down his face.
‘There are no pills in this container, Dela,’ Emefa sniffed sorrowfully. She turned the container upside down, and not a single pill or tablet dropped.
“Here, hold him this way,” Dela left Atsu in the arms of his sister and hurried to the safe on top of his suitcase. His wobbly hands held its key, and inserted it after several clumsy failed attempts. There was GH¢15 in the safe. He would need that, at least.
Atsu was still breathing when he came back, albeit slower.
“Get his insurance card.” And while Emefa was at it, Dela strapped his younger brother cautiously to his back and headed towards the hospital.
Times like this made him blame a father he never knew. With GH¢15 in his pocket, from a isolated vicinity, and bearing a sick brother, Dela dragged himself a few yards before they arrived at the public transport station. He was drenched.
“Hospital,” he tried to hail a taxi. Initially the driver peered at them uncertainly, but finally pulled over some meters away, and motioned for them to draw closer.
“Small…where are you going?” he was gnawing roasted corn indifferently, probably because he could not decipher whether the water on Dela’s face was sweat or actual tears.
“General Hospital…how much is your fare?” Dela knew he had to manage thus was ready to bargain as a miser would.
“10 Ghana…” he did not see Dela’s shock at his exorbitance. His eyes were affixed to the corn.
“10 Ghana cedis? Please sir, won’t you take five…look, I have a sick brother.” The driver paused briefly to assess the sick boy, and finally snorted, “Okay, pay eight cedis. Eight cedis and that is all. Imagine the traffic I have to endure.”
Dela could not afford eight cedis, and while he contemplated hardly, the driver murmured something and sped off. He tried to call the hospital ambulance.
“Hello, we are sorry our ambulance is broken down…” It sounded like an automated response. Nothing or nobody was kind. Even the sun scorched fiercely, burning the fat in their skins without mercy. Dela bore the brunt of his brother on his back, and walked on, sobbing, hoping…
10: 15am Somewhere around Ridge, Accra in a State Bungalow…
“How could a whole Minister for Equality and Justice catch such common flu…just before his encounter with the press?” the mistress teased, and sensually tongued the Minister’s ears.
“Ha-ha…I bet you gave me that silly flu,” he sounded nasal, much to the disgust of his mistress. “I have to go to the hospital,” he continued. “I must cure this flu before tomorrow. I think I am having a fever too.”
“Should I call you an ambulance??”
“Brilliant. Tell them to come without delay. The Minister for Equality and Justice is sick,” he said and laughed like a pig.
The mistress inched closer to him, baiting him until the minister could no longer tame his eros, and clutched her hips with a lustful grip. She placed a finger on his bushy lips. Right! He was sick and must take his time. A sick man needs to gain energy, and not to lose it.
Just as the mistress turned her voluptuous frame to make that telephone call to the hospital, the minister smacked her backside gleefully.
“Call the medial superintendent himself…tell him I need an ambulance without delay.”
12: 10pm at the General Hospital…
Dela gulped at the queue of patients and the way it snaked from the registry, way down the reception to the access way for the disabled. His eyes swept along the entire queue and after sometime realized that no one else present carried the burden he was heaving on his back. He went straight to the registry.
“Madam…” the nurse did not budge.
“Please I have a dying brother…he needs immediate attention”
The nurse stopped counting the cedi notes.
“Does he have a card?”
“Yes madam. He’s covered by insurance,” Dela said impatiently. He could feel his brother’s ache. It was as though they shared a heart, for he Atsu was hurting, Dela was hurting more.
The nurse counted the last notes before replying, “Well join the queue.”
“No madam,” Dela was ready for a paroxysm. He leaned forward with a mean disposition which drove a chilly sensation down the nurse’s spine, but she quickly mustered composure. This little boy cannot ruffle her emotions nor exercise control. She was in charge.
“Look, sit over there, young man. Join the queue, and then I will call the emergency unit. They should be here shortly.”
Dela agreed to the compromise. He unsaddled Atsu and rested his head on his laps, stroking his back from time to think as though that could ease the pain eating the poor boy inside.
“This boy looks very sick…has the nurse called emergency?” The janitor was curious. He was a tall man who wore gray hair, carrying a broom in one hand with a machete tied around his loin. He carried a small radio which was playing a popular tune: ‘He who jumps the queue, dies first…he who skips the line, meets first the curse.’
Dela chuckled and shook his head. He remembered the lyrics of that song from an old book he had read way back in secondary school.
“But where is your mother…and father?” the janitor was concerned.
“My mother is dead…and I have never seen my father,” Dela forged a smile.
The janitor shook his head sadly. Just as he was about to offer gratuitous empathy, the General Hospital ambulance pulled over, and the Minister for Equality and Justice was wheeled in on a stretcher. He suddenly beamed and flashed a phony smile, waving at the patients and assuring them they would be taken care of. He passed them by and entered directly into the doctor’s office…without a card…without discourse…without even a hello to the nurse at the registry.
Atsu’s breathing was now dreadfully slow…beating like the heart of a fatigued infant crossing over to the land of celestial beings.
“Nurse, when are the emergency people coming?” Dela burst out.
“Sit down, young man...” the nurse’s response was sharp and cruel.
“His eyes are reddening, Dela. He has stopped breathing…” Emefa screamed.
It was as though the whole scene and timing were divinely orchestrated, for just as the minister came out of the doctor’s office, laughing and looking as healthy as a horse, the janitor also strolled by Dela, who rapidly seized the machete tied to the janitor’s loins, and quickly, with the speed of light, sunk very deep wounds in the Minister’s neck with just two powerful swoops. He slashed the nurse and spurt her blood on the glass counter, before finally laying down his weapon. The Minister’s feet gave way, and he fell with a face still masked in horror.
“This sick man should be sent to the psychiatry…not here,” one nurse said before security arrived to whisk Dela away, with Emefa tailing them, weeping, and Atsu lying in the hospital bench, his hands and feet cold from twelve minutes of death.
The janitor turned the volume knob on his radio…louder. The music was still playing: ‘He who jumps the queue dies first…he who skips the line, meets first the curse’
Nii Moi Thompson
Boko Haram
Peaceful?
A hovering hummingbird on a Hibiscus with bright red hue harnessing
Natural nectar from a nodding plant
Gods of men and market mongers meandering miserly through the masses;
Connoisseurs at craving kalabuley coins, even kobo kobo from careless Christians
Call that peaceful, Yusuf calls it exploitation
Mother Nature allows the hummingbird to exploit the Hibiscus
While the gods of men exploit bloody Christians
Wrap the terror round about Abu’s waist
And blister his brains with the bad books that breeds the bloodbath
And watch his act
Adorn Abu in white boubou
The purity of a martyr
On his way to celestial rest,
In the bosom of seven virgins,
And watch his act
And a prayer,
And an Allahu Akbar,
And a Ka-boom!!
Nii Moi Thompson
A hovering hummingbird on a Hibiscus with bright red hue harnessing
Natural nectar from a nodding plant
Gods of men and market mongers meandering miserly through the masses;
Connoisseurs at craving kalabuley coins, even kobo kobo from careless Christians
Call that peaceful, Yusuf calls it exploitation
Mother Nature allows the hummingbird to exploit the Hibiscus
While the gods of men exploit bloody Christians
Wrap the terror round about Abu’s waist
And blister his brains with the bad books that breeds the bloodbath
And watch his act
Adorn Abu in white boubou
The purity of a martyr
On his way to celestial rest,
In the bosom of seven virgins,
And watch his act
And a prayer,
And an Allahu Akbar,
And a Ka-boom!!
Nii Moi Thompson
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