The Devil Wears White... A Fisherman's tale

By Nii Ogbamey Tetteh (@ogbameytetteh on twitter)

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.”

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)

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

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

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

The Love Call

My six-figure salaried banker friend called me on the phone, hysterically wanting to tie nuptial knots with his girlfriend who was also a student nurse. However, he needed one crucial litmus test; a test to prove the quantum of love his girlfriend had in her love pot for him; whether it overflowed and touched the lid, or it formed just a drop at the bottom of the pot. He wanted us to take her through a little drill. I came up with a few ideas; we put our heads together and were set to put our idea on wheels. He called her and conferenced the call;

Banker: Sweetheart will you marry me if you heard I cheated on you two nights to our wedding with your best friend?

Girlfriend: Yes, I’ll forgive you and get even with your best man. Hahahahaaa…. I’d love to see the look on your face after that.

Banker: Will you marry me if you heard I lost my job.

Girlfriend: Yes, that wouldn’t be a problem because I’d also be working so I’ll take care of the family but if you don’t get a job within a year, we will start a business or some sort of trade with all the money we would have saved.

Banker: Will you marry me if I lost my legs?

Girlfriend: Sure why not. You’ll be 99.5% of the man I love and I wanted to marry and with my little knowledge in Math; you will still be ‘that guy’ for me.‘100 perfect.’

Banker: Will you still marry me if I became impotent?

Girlfriend: The devil is a liar!!! I’m afraid my answer to that one is no. how can I be the mother of your kids if you are firing empty shell casings at a fully armed woman like me?

Banker: Nii, did she pass the test?

Now that was when she realized that they had not been alone the whole time and asked if I heard everything. I answered in the affirmative.

This was what I told My Guy;

Dude, is this the girl you introduced to me as your girlfriend years ago? She is crazy but one thing is for sure, she loves you very much. Marry her before someone else does.

Then the girlfriend who couldn’t stop laughing asked, “Nii how much did I score?”
“Congratulations dear, you scored 99.5% which according to the lil Math I know is 100‘perfect”, I answered.

But before I leave you two love birds alone, who will that lucky best man be?

Then they both yelled “You”.
Oh hell Nooooooooo. They’ve got to be kidding.

By Nii Ogbamey Tetteh (@ogbameytetteh on twitter)

MAYBE… (My loud thoughts just decided to walk on paper)

MAYBE… (My loud thoughts just decided to walk on paper)

“Maybe the world is not fair. Maybe it is. Maybe you want a lover. Maybe love will wear you out someday. Maybe you are right. Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe you will be rich, maybe not.”

*I check my Facebook notification. Nii Abbey Ga Manste just sends me a message. Will reply later*

“Maybe you love that girl and not her friend. Maybe she might think you’re a dork. Maybe she knows you like her. Maybe she likes you too, but waiting. Maybe fate will bring you together someday. Maybe she will find another.”

*Hm. If only she even knew by a quarter. Thinking about …..!! I notice a typo in line one. Misspelled lover for louver. I correct that and continue typing*

“Maybe you want a good job, maybe get married and have kids. Maybe you want to live alone in a little chalet by the lake, fish and sip on red wine alone, watch the sky and count the stars alone. Maybe you want to solve the world’s problems. Maybe you are saving the world for selfish gratification. Maybe you want earthly eulogies …maybe you’ve seen how useless the world is, and want to live it at that. Maybe you want to die, maybe you want to live.”

*I lapse into mental stupor…thinking, “Can readers relate to what I am writing”. Decide on first three readers/writers to tag*

“Maybe you want to be a star…maybe you want to be the power behind the star. Maybe you wish to be on TV, maybe you don’t want to be known. Maybe there’s a heaven. Maybe there is extinction. Maybe there are angels with bright, flapping wings. Maybe your mother is your angel”

*Writers’ block. I pause to reply to Nii Abbey Ga Mantse on Facebook. He’s asking for money, or something of that sort, I ignore him. Naa Densua is on too with a more soothing line. I respond to her instead. Will be back in five minutes*

Five minutes later….
“Maybe your friends like you genuinely. Maybe they don’t. Maybe you love God. Maybe your actions say otherwise. Maybe God will pardon our transgressions. Maybe He’s wielding a big rod, ready to strike at the slightest profane thought we think. Maybe you will remain a virgin till marriage. Maybe you will lose it. Maybe your kids would be smart, maybe they will be smarter.”

*I laugh at myself and how I framed the last line. Do not wish my kids to be dumb. Another set of maybes just dawn on me; how we deceive ourselves, and cannot be honest enough to swallow the bitter together with the sweet pills. I continue…*

“Maybe you lie to yourself even in your closets. Maybe you’re not pretty, but everyone on Facebook comments favorably on your photo. Maybe they say ‘fresh girl’, ‘cute guy’…Maybe they are lying. Maybe you are not smart. Maybe you are not a good writer. Maybe you suck.”

*Pop. Diana sends a message and wants to chat. My sister wants her lunch. My mother calls and wants her walls painted. Women, is it all about what they want?*

“Maybe you will find a husband. Maybe you will be a single mother. Maybe you’ll have kids. Maybe you will adopt them. Maybe you will be a happy family. Maybe you will grow old together and play with your grandkids. Maybe you will get a divorce.”


*I imagine the number of “I refuse it in Jesus name” declarations from most spinsters…and a few bachelors*

“Maybe you will die in your sleep. Maybe you will be run over by a moving van. Maybe your friends will mourn you. Maybe they will forget about you, and be happy, as though you meant nada to them. Maybe your dream girl might never know you had eyes for her. Maybe she will never know you had wanted to marry her for keeps. Maybe you should send this piece to her, because maybe you cannot tell her what’s in there…”

*Well I think I have written enough…but I decide on a second part. Let me conclude for now*

Maybe you like this piece. Maybe you don’t. But our lives are lived on maybe’s, a lot of them…did I hear a maybe not??

“I decide not to edit or proofread. Post it raw, for the mind does not edit what inhabits it. Nii Abbey Ga Mantse is still bugging me with messages.”


Nii Moi Thompson