Happy new year, my people! This blog turns 10 in October this year. What a journey this has been! We did this together, my people! We will definitely celebrate! Follow the whatsapp channel for all the details here. Cover photo by the gifted Gerard Nartey!
This is a short story about dispatch riders in Ghana. As always, happy reading! 💜
‘Boss, I catch your destination.’
Etse was impressed. This okada rider had been nothing but professional. When Aboagye told him the engagement kaftan would be delivered via okada, he was dreading the 35 phone calls to repeat the same directions, the tone of rudeness and frustration, the usual assumption that everyone understood Twi, the ‘I will deliver at my own time’ attitude and the exhorbitant delivery prices associated with okadas these days.
This dispatch rider had called him at 7:30 to ask for his Google maps location and which time he would prefer to receive his delivery. When it was 11:30, he called to say that he was on his way and would be there in 25 minutes. True to his word, he was at Etse’s office just in time for the lunch break.
His respect for the man soared as he exited the elevator to meet him. The guy was wearing the appropriate protective gear- shin guards and all. He was well dressed and he looked like someone who spoke impeccable English.
‘Boss, you try for me waa. This be the best okada service I receive in my life. Time conscious and efficient delivery. This be your full time job?’
‘Yes boss. Full time for about a year and half now. Makes me some decent money. Serious businesses are always looking for an efficient delivery guy. Individuals are always looking for a reliable person to deliver documents from one point to another. Reliability is my niche market.’
‘Pardon my saying so, but you speak really well. What were you doing before this?’
‘I worked in a logistics company but I was laid off because of politics. I am working to expand my force. I have two guys in training now. You will be amazed. Those 30 cedis fees add up pretty quickly to make a decent amount.’
‘I can imagine, especially when you are making multiple drop offs in the same area.’
‘Yep, which is why I call ahead of time to plot my route.’
‘Edey make sense waa!’
‘Only downside is Ghanaians are rude to service providers. People talk to okada riders anyhow and keep us waiting for long. The stories are juicy though.’
‘Yeah I can imagine.’
‘People underestimate how much access you give to an okada rider- name, number, location, even the time you will be home. On Valentine’s Day, I delivered the same item with the same message from the same guy to 5 different ladies.’
‘Ei! Imagine if you had given the wrong item to the wrong lady. No be small explanations!’
‘Mate, bus stop!’
Kwansema grabbed her laptop bag and the paper bag containing her heels, ready to jump off the bus. Experience had taught her that the regular mate did not have the patience to wait for her to get down. Even if he did, the wrath and impatience of those trying to beat the Opeibea morning rush traffic would be unleashed on him, not to talk of the anger of the driver, who seemed to be racing with the other drivers to pick up the highest number of passengers on the Madina-Accra Central stretch.
She heard the honk just before she saw him.
‘Kw3! Onaaa ni?’
She bit her lips to stop herself from responding. She was wearing one of the bank’s polo shirts and the last thing she needed was a video of her all over social media insulting an okada rider who obviously had a death wish. Her boss was already looking for a reason to either query her or fire her.
His eyes were bloodshot and she caught a whiff of akpeteshie on his breath. He had a bulging bag behind him and he was arguing with someone on the phone about the wrong turn she had told him to make.
It reminded her of many things.
Her father’s addiction to alcohol and his bad temper.
Her mother’s fear that she and her brother would never break the family pattern of never reaching their full potential, just like her father.
The bad guy in her neighbourhood who gave her a ride on his big motorcycle. Not the okada kind, the kind that the rich men got when they got to that midlife crisis stage.
Cedric. That was his name.
She hadn’t forgotten how thrilling the ride home that Sunday afternoon was- hoping that her mother would not see her clinging to a guy on a motorcycle, wondering if he could feel her heart racing, trying to stop herself from enjoying the thrill of the wind through her hair and the feel of his body against hers, all of it.
Sigh.
Another honk brought her back to reality. That Monday team meeting with her Pharoah of a boss was waiting for her.
‘Ah, dispatch die3, anka Tiktok fa wo ho ben?’
‘Dey there! The dances dey get mileage waa.’
‘Then go to DWP? Guy wei paa! So you dance in between drop offs?’
‘Yeah. Edey help my mental health.’
‘Ei!’
All of them burst into laughter. It wasn’t a planned thing but every now and then, most of them who worked in the Sakumono-Spintex area would either meet at the 18 Junction KFC or the Melcom Mall. They would catch up and trade dispatch stories.
Today the spotlight was on Stephen. His actual name was Ibrahim but he rebranded after a year in Accra.
Stephen was clearly just using dispatch delivery as a way to save money for his next big move. It was clear from the way he worked. Rumour had it that he wanted to relocate to Dubai.
During the day on weekdays, he was in the 37-Airport area, delivering documents, passports etc. There were a few times when he dropped people off at the Airport, barely seconds before the check in counter closed. For those rides, he would charge extra. He had a way of seeing the desperation in their eyes and taking advantage of it.
On the weekends, he moved to Spintex. The workers were usually too tired to cook over the weekend so he had Glovo, Bolt Food and Hubtel installed, ready for whoever would call first.
‘But forget Stephen. You people no see Onukpa for the gym there?’
Again, laughter filled the air. Stephen was happy that the spotlight had moved to someone else. He looked again towards the counter to see if his order was ready.
‘Kwɛ, feemɔ steady!’
That was Onukpa, man of a few words. Always aggressive. The one to call if anyone ever got into a fight.
He specialized in delivering heavy things- television sets, ACs, batteries, crates of drinks, ice chests full of food, etc. No wonder he spent his weekends weightlifting.
‘Chale, you sef, that your waakye madam, you go propose to am this year?’
‘Hajia? No oo, in this life, you cut your coat according to your size. I dey feel am but I no fit maintain am.’
Just before they could pick on the next victim, the security man walked up to them and asked them to move from where they were standing.
‘Can’t you see the ‘No Parking?’
A few seconds later, he proceeded to direct a Toyota Prado to park right in front of the sign.
‘Ei wiase!’
‘So we, we no be people? This be what dey worry Stephen ein mental health no’
‘Ah but you paa. Look at your bike and look at the Prado. If ebi you anka, won’t you do the same?’
‘Police sef dey do some. We all dey traffic inside but the side with the 4×4 in front go live first.’
‘Yeah, 4×4 dey reign.’
One of the attendants opened the door and belted out ‘Order number 54!’
‘That be my own. Chale e do aa!’
Keni Ribeiro 