The bells are simply not jingling

‘Tis the season, isn’t it?! Merry Christmas, my darlings! I hope the notification of this publication brought you some joy. Also, I have other Christmas themed stories from years past that you should read/ re-read, right here. Happy reading!

‘Peter can dance? Who knew?’

‘Alcohol can do all things, my friend!’

They were overworked and emotionally abused, but like Kwakyewaa always said, ‘For the time being, it pays the bills’. They had bonded over their shared trauma over the last two years and a friendship was birthed through that.

Now, they were watching their colleague whine his waist in sexually suggestive ways in front of Senior Management and some members of the board. Almost everyone was in a hearty mood, conversing over drinks and grilled meat.

Regina took another sip of her cocktail and whispered, ‘Promise me you will drag me off the dance floor if I ever do something like this.’

‘So long as you don’t spring a surprise resignation on me by March.’

‘Hey, hey. Just promise.’

‘Wow, that sounds like an ‘I am leaving in February’. New year, new role vibes.’

‘Leave me alone. Peter is putting on a show. Focus on that.’

‘Dancing and drinking are always tricky in a work situation. You can very easily go overboard when you get too excited, and there is usually no coming back.’

‘I can already picture HR pushing back when his boss puts him up for promotion.’

‘Right?! Something about him not demonstrating leadership.’

‘-which we all know is corporate for I don’t want a Dancegod Lloyd in management.’

‘I will give it to HR though. They know how to throw a party.’

‘That is how they keep us in this abusive relationship. A party here, a well timed bonus there.’

‘I knew it! You are definitely resigning soon. Only those resigning think about when the bonus will be paid.’

Regina laughed. She didn’t have any offers lined up but she was hopeful that her next Christmas would not involve watching Peter audition for a spot in DWP.

It was Christmas Eve but the whole house was quiet.

Last year, there was an all day party at the Asante-Boasiako residence. People were dropping in throughout the day for either breakfast, lunch or dinner. One thing about Madam was that she loved having people around, which is why none of the staff were able to take an actual Christmas break.

Ewuresi didn’t mind. Ever since her mother passed away, she had not been to the village. The way her mother’s brothers behaved had radicalized her and she knew she could never see them as family again. She liked living with the Asante-Boasiakos. This arrangement worked well for everyone.

The house had been quiet since Vice President Bawumia conceded defeat in the Presidential elections. Nobody saw this coming, especially Daa and Madam.

Madam instantly had a migraine and locked herself up in the guest room. Ewuresi could hear her frantically speaking on the phone to a number of people for the 8 hours or so that she was locked up in there.

Daa stayed in the living room with the TV on, listening to the Joy FM folks talk about the election results. He had one arm across his potbelly and his other hand cradling his chin. Every now and then, he would sigh and shake his head.

Ewuresi knew that something had changed when they lost the election but she didn’t expect this much of a drastic change. The worst period before this was when the news of a house help stealing her boss’ money leaked. Madam looked at her suspiciously for about 3 weeks, as if she was an accomplice to the theft. But this- this was bad.

First of all, the people who used to line up with their children, CVs, business plans and fake smiles literally vanished. They were gone and she hadn’t seen any of them since then. Then Madam had her packing all sorts of things into boxes that were going to be shipped away to her daughter’s place in Vancouver. She also dismissed half of the staff at the beachfront property.

Then there was Christmas. No lights, no family portrait session, no party, no hampers. Madam would typically start receiving hampers by the 2nd week in December. They had everything in them- from customized kente and some exotic things she could not pronounce to whiskey and all sorts of gadgets. There were none this year.

Abu made the mistake of watching a Tiktok with the NDC Kwenkwen song playing in the background. He had to go to bed earlier than he intended to. The only thing that saved him from being fired was that he knew all of Dada’s secrets and Madam relied on him to update her on Dada’s extramarital affairs.

‘Pick up this phone, you damn liar!’

Nasiba paced up and down, with her phone in her hand. After 30 minutes, her cousins had had enough. This was supposed to be their annual catch up and they had not done any catching up yet.

‘Are you going to tell us what is going on?’

‘No, some of you will never let me hear the end of it.’

‘By some, you mean Barimah and Laura.’

Barimah looked up from whatever was entertaining him on Twitter and smirked.

‘You know I will find out whatever it is, so just say it and let’s move on.’

Laura chimed in, ‘We listen. We don’t judge. We do appreciate the tea though!’

‘My boyfriend is a liar. He just posted his Christmas family photo and his wife is at least 5 months pregnant.’

Hell broke loose. Laura jumped off the bed and shut the door. Their parents were catching up outside but nobody was going to risk them walking in on this discussion.

‘Start from the beginning.’

‘Wait! You have a boyfriend but you don’t seem surprised that he is married.’

‘Barimah, that is not the shocking part. She is Facetiming him on Christmas Day when he is most likely with said wife and kids.’

‘If you guys don’t calm down, we won’t get all the details.’

Every catch up was chaotic and loud, but it looked like Nasiba was ready to set her own Guinness World Record with this one.

‘Fine. I know him from Twitter. We hung out a few times and it became more than that-‘

‘Sister, get to the part where you found out about the wife.’

‘I always knew about the wife.’

‘This girl! When we are breaking demonic patterns, you are here amassing curses for our bloodline.’

‘Relax, he told me they were separated and that he was just waiting for the second child to turn 3 so he could leave. Something about not wanting to affect the child’s formative years. Meanwhile he was busy impregnating her!’

Barimah let out one of those laughs he usually reserves for his God of War Ragnarok opponents.

‘No be small child psychologist oo! So the pregnancy too is for the formative years experience eh? Listen, if it is any consolation, these pyjama pictures are cute but they rarely signify a happy home.’

Naa Djama spoke up for the first time.

‘You people are hating. I personally live for the me and mine content at Christmas time and I can’t wait to recreate them with my family.’

‘Djama, two things can be true. Love is sweet, no doubt about it. That doesn’t automatically mean that these pictures mean that everything is well.’

‘You people need therapists. Everyday, negativity. This is why Jesus came to die.’

‘Ohemaa, rest! As I sit here, I have two children in other people’s Christmas photoshoots. One is 2, the other is 3.’

It was Nasiba’s turn to laugh.

‘I thought my news was chaotic. You have two children?’

‘Yep, and their assistant fathers are posing with them for family portraits. Each of them has my nose. No DNA test needed.’

Naa Djama grabbed her tote bag and stood up.

‘Yeah, I am not sitting with heathens during Jesus’ birthday celebration.’

‘The Jesus you are referencing found time to sit with sinners wai. I am not wrecking anyone’s home. Just keeping wives happy and giving families nice children. Anyway, back to the matter at hand. Nasiba, you deserve better. Take it from me.’

‘Why exactly are we listening to Assistant Satan’s advice?’

‘What happened to ‘we listen, we don’t judge’, guys?’

‘Too late, Barimah. We are judging you, your baby mamas and their husbands all at the same time!’

Sigh.

If I hear ‘It is the most wonderful time of the year’ one more time, I will scream. There is nothing wonderful about this time. I am a divorced woman but nothing makes it more glaring than Christmas.

Ethel wiggled herself out of her dress and wore her favourite boubou.

They were right. Once you start wearing boubous, you can’t stop.

The church service had been draining. It was only because she knew God would disapprove of her leaving in the middle of the service that she stayed. She opened the bottle of wine and pushed the leftover noodles into the microwave. She had had the same thing for dinner the night before.

The tears dropped without warning. She knew they were coming but it felt like her tear ducts were betraying her. She ignored the beeping of the microwave and sat on the kitchen floor.

This wasn’t supposed to be my life. I was supposed to divorce this man and move on to a richer, fuller life. Why am I crying?

She noticed the sinking feeling on the last day of work. That had become her escape, zoning in on one project or another. It worsened when she realized that her car had started giving her problems.

How do I explain that I miss my abusive ex-husband at Christmas time, without looking weird? Is it that I don’t know how to be alone?

Her mind kept replaying moments where his charm was irresistible, how he could make all the older women at church laugh, how he would drag her to parties and make a show of dancing with her in front of everyone. She couldn’t talk to anyone about it- not her mother who had insisted she endure the physical abuse, not her friends who were probably juggling their own burdens, not her pastor, not the therapist whose calls and emails she kept ignoring. All the events that could distract her were filled with couples and families. It would be extra depressing to sit there alone. It didn’t help that people kept saying that ‘Afe sesei‘ thing around this time of the year.

Afe sesei what? I can barely get through a week, and they are expecting me to look forward to what the new year could bring?

She opened her mouth and did the only thing she could do these days- pray.

God abeg! Emeka almost killed me. You said you hate divorce but I know you still have love for divorced people. My heart needs to stop hurting. Please make that my Christmas gift.‘

When she was done, the rumbling in her stomach reminded her that she had lunch waiting for her. As she ate, she made a plan. First a nap, then an episode of one of those Netflix shows, and finally a praise jam with that Spotify playlist she got from work.

Nothing will steal my joy.

The rock, the hard place and the slippery slope

I have a theory. My theory is that unless some drastic changes are made here in Ghana, it won’t matter whom we vote for in the presidential and parliamentary elections in the grand scheme of things, whether it is December 2024, December 2028, or December 2032.

In about six months’ time, some Ghanaians will queue to vote for a new government. As expected, prior to that, the ruling party will merge campaigning with governance, blurring the lines of party and state and racing to complete projects to prove the competence that eluded us all during their reign. They will have the most prominent billboards nationwide and the most radio ads with lots of ‘goodies’ to distribute during rallies. No questions will be asked about how they can afford to do all this when the people are suffering- after all, they are in power. 

The opposition party will showcase everything the government is doing wrong and attempt to show how they are a better choice. The advantage any opposition party has is that ability to accurately diagnose the problems of the ruling party, that reality check to feel what the citizens are feeling, which allows them to say the right things. 

Elections and power- if we are being honest, those are the only things our leaders truly care about; after all, power sweet die! Power puts this nation’s resources at your feet- money, influence, business deals, diplomatic passports, the luxury of never having to queue for anything, the attention of world leaders, name it. 

Unfortunately, it also insulates our leaders from our problems, giving them comforts they sorely miss in opposition, hence the desperate attempts to win elections every four years. The people supposed to represent us and lead the charge for change have built empires for themselves and their families on our blood, sweat, tears and silence, while our quality of life as a nation continues to plummet. 

When you move from place to place in a convoy with a police escort in a 4×4 car fueled by virtue of your position, you won’t notice the potholes, the fuel prices, or the sorry state of our traffic management system. You will not realize that the number of older adults and strong young men begging for alms has increased exponentially over the last two years. 

When you live in government bungalows furnished by taxes, you won’t feel the cry of the 34-year-old gentleman who has to empty his savings account and borrow some more to be able to afford a place to lay down his head. You will be indifferent to the rising costs of an essential meal because your pantry is always well stocked. 

If you have lost contracts because of the power situation or had to stay awake 3 nights in a row because your 6-month-old baby has a bad case of heat rashes, you won’t spend precious time arguing about semantics. Those suffering don’t care whether or not you call it dumsor or whose track record is worse; they expect you to fix it, and rightly so!

It is said that you should never tell your new boyfriend all the things you tolerated with your old boyfriend because it apparently gives him a list of things he can get away with. In our case, our abusive boyfriends have taken turns exploring new limits of our tolerance with the scandals, the thievery, the nonchalance, the gaslighting and the lack of accountability. 

Somehow we have allowed successive governments to continue the cycle because we do not seem to have the collective spine to say ‘enough is enough.’ Even when we vote them out in one election cycle, they know they will be back in no less than 12 years. They return hungrier than when they were last in power, armed with mountains of evidence that ‘it was worse in so and so’s government’ and a heightened awareness of how much more of Ghana’s money they can siphon under the radar. They know that nobody will hold them accountable in the long run.

We have become so accustomed to attributing the lone voices to the opposition. It seems strange for someone to criticize the government just because they are a citizen of Ghana. It must be that they are boosting their profile for public office in at least 4-8 years, or they stand to gain something (a contract, easy access to national resources). In most cases, it does appear to be for their own selfish interests.

When the lone voices calling out the subpar standards and incompetence are not swayed by the gifts or promises of ‘settling them once we come to power’, it becomes a fear-mongering agenda. Too many people I know have had to relocate or silence their justified demands for better because their livelihood and loved ones have been threatened. Why?! Simply because they dare to expect more than the barest minimum from those who promised to give us the world. 

‘How dare you hold us to our campaign promises? How dare you take our words seriously?‘

It is almost as though this country and its ‘spoils’ are their birthright, and the rest of us are just casualties in this war between our political parties. 

In an ideal world, the nation should have a nonpartisan nationalist 100-year plan, drawn in collaboration with experts across the world, that spells out what we want to achieve in education, tourism, town planning, sanitation, trade and investment, creative arts, and development. In that ideal world, each political party will show how it intends to execute that plan with actionable steps and tangible expected results by specific timelines, and that alone should be the basis of comparison for the elections.

Instead, we have these parties throwing up quotable quotes, hashtags, and sound bites to excite the electorate, with no clear plan or expected results that we can hold them to. And even when they say things we should hold them accountable for, they present such porous defenses that one cannot help but wonder just how daft they think we are. If it is not excavators disappearing, it is guinea fowls. I mean, come on!

There may be truth to the infamous quote ‘Ghanaians have short memories’ because I believe that in a perfect world, none of our major presidential contestants in the 2024 general election would have the nerve to run for the land’s highest office.It is easy for them to rebrand and ask us for the mandate without fully accounting for the grave misfortunes, scandals, and utterances they have been associated with in the not-so-distant past. 

We are operating a system of each man for himself (and his children). Nobody is sacrificing for this country. It doesn’t make sense to die for a country that will not even pause to give you the respect of a moment’s silence. There is no point in dying when the next day it will just be business as usual, corruption pro max and blatant lies by foot soldiers and government officials alike. That is the real tragedy!

Where are our museums for highlife and traditional storytelling?

Who are we holding accountable for the catastrophic damage Galamsey has left in its wake? Are our leaders really not powerful enough to stop this disgrace, or are their interests more important than the quality of water and air in the next 10years?

What are the prospects for a budding hockey or tennis legend in this country?

What kind of support systems does a child born with special needs have to be able to live a full life?

What is our strategy for ensuring that Ghanaian businesses are able to thrive and scale successfully?

Where are our policies on climate change management?

What campaigns is the National Commission on Civic Education running to educate citizens on their rights? Why are they not advocating for a review of our constitution?

When will we explore variants of onions, tomatoes and plantain that can be produced all year round?

What will it take for us to be able to ensure that our towns and villages are well planned and interconnected so that one can live in Nkrankwanta and comfortably travel to work in Accra every day?

Why should the insensitivity of those who plead for us to give them the mandate lead us to our early graves?

Who is ensuring that the interests of all Ghanaians are protected 100 years from now when we sit to discuss mining deals and trade agreements?

Where is the justice when the judge, jury, the prosecutor, and police are all appointed by the person we are supposed to be prosecuting?

Why do our parliamentarians suddenly unite to approve salary increments and ex gratia payments, but they cannot unite to call ministers and state leaders to order?

Where are the statesmen whose voices are respected? Why are they not calling for us to unite as a nation and head in the right direction?

Why are ministries, state institutions, and pivotal positions handed over to people as rewards for loyalty and forcampaigning the loudest, not based on competence or ability to deliver results? 

What does it take to have roads that remain fully tarred, with street lights that stay on?

Why are we being taxed to pay people who are clearly not delivering on their mandate?

Why should we be in a country where one has to tear his hair out to get access to electricity, water and a home that does not get flooded when it rains?

The reputation and prospects of this nation are in shambles, and before anyone says ‘Year of Return’ and ‘Beyond the Return,’ what exactly are the people returning to? The all-day brunches, all-night parties, adowa dances, and kente stoles can only distract them for so long before the flaws in our health, education, housing, law enforcement, transportation, and natural resource management rear their ugly heads. 

We are rapidly heading towards a situation where everyone who can will leave the shores of this country and then reminisce from a safe distance once a year, with the flag on social media. With every passing day, we are losing our musicians, writers, artists, footballers, presidents, innovators, and scientists simply because there is only a future in Ghana for those who are in power and those close to them. It is easy to leave Ghana behind and not look back- until Philip Gbeho’s masterpiece of an anthem tugs at your heartstrings once every 2 years. 

I am just a girl who wants to thrive in her motherland. I am just a girl who wants to be able to live a decent life in my own country without having to know the powers that be. 

That is not an unrealistic desire. 

It is not impossible to rebuild Ghana. Nations have come back from wars, tsunamis, bombings, genocides, recessions, pandemics and unspeakable things.

There is no excuse under the 4.5 billion-year-old sun why Ghana cannot rebuild and thrive, but it starts with all of us collectively caring about this nation’s future and holding those who lead us accountable.

Who is with me?

Hey fam! The blog is turning 10 in October and we will be outside! Keep your eyes on our socials for updates regarding that. Also, join our Whatsapp channel so that you won’t miss a thing- be it updates or surprises! See you in the next one!

4×4 Supremacy

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!’

Collating ideas for the anniversary celebration. We are definitely going outside this year! 💃🏾 If you have an idea on how we should celebrate, hit me up in the DMs on socials, join the WhatsApp channel or vote on the blog IG page.

Costly Silence

Freedom and justice.

That is what is inscribed on the Ghanaian coat of arms.

Now, allow me to tell you a story about a modern day fight for freedom and justice.

On the 21st of September 2023, the first day of a three day peaceful demonstration dubbed #OccupyJulorbiHouse, Ghanaian citizens took to the streets to express their grievances about poor governance, terrible economic conditions, the silence that follows the multiple scandals of corruption, the ineffective healthcare system that is claiming lives rather than saving them, the burdensome taxes and the general ‘i don’t care-ism’ of successive governments of the 4th Republic. This was my birthday but also the birthday of Osagyefo Dr Kwame Nkrumah, Ghana’s first President. Talk about poetic symbolism!

The night before, the Police issued a statement that they had filed an injunction to halt the demonstration. Never mind that they had received over a month’s notice about the intention to demonstrate on this day. It almost seemed like an attempt to water down the efforts of what seemed like a rising wave of citizen activism.

On Day 1, 56 protesters were picked up from the start point even before the protest officially began. They were locked up, stripped of their clothes and some of them were beaten. Innocent bystanders were picked up in the haul and detained all day. That opened the floodgates of support and solidarity as lawyers, doctors and online activists donated their time, skills and resources to ensure they were accounted for and released.

With every passing hour of the 72 hour demonstration, hope sprung forth. Heroes and heroines emerged, mobilizing resources to cater for transportation, food, emergency health care, traffic management, waste management and information dissemination. This protest may have started with the Democracy Hub, but it soon became an entire army of youth fueled by a desire for actual change.

It was beautiful to see, this united fight against the canker of the current Ghanaian ecosystem. The synergy was electric. Even the rain was conquered with brass band dancing, raincoats and cups of hot beverages. Others kept the online army in line with ‘check the hashtag’, ‘use the correct hashtag’, ‘if you can’t be on the streets, amplify online.’

The rhetoric was that this ‘noise’ was solely fueled by the opposition, as if to say the only people who would find faults with the government’s track record were those attempting to wrestle power from their hands. Some of them resorted to mocking the efforts of the protesters to call the government to order. It would appear as if they lived in a different Ghana, not the one the protestors were speaking about.

‘You are just being used by NDC to push an agenda.’

‘We are all on these social media streets. We will see your motives soon.’

‘My uncle says I should warn you to stop fueling this thing.’

‘We know where your family lives.’

‘If you get arrested or lose the contract, don’t call me.’

‘What will this achieve? You are just disturbing us.’

These thinly veiled threats, ‘advice’ and reactions are not surprising. You see, for a long time, most of us have been silent. After all, ‘Akola nka opanyin asem’.

Over the years, Ghana has had a culture of brushing the mistakes of adults under the carpet to protect the ‘family name’. Enɛɛ lɛɛ shia sane.

The political leadership of the country is used to us moving on, going silent, shaking our heads and ‘hmm-ing’.

Even when we did speak in the past, it was not loud enough to disturb the carefully curated image of ‘ Ghana- the gateway to Africa and the beacon of democracy’ that our leaders had sold to the world and benefited from over the years.

We were silent when successive governments came in to reset the wheels of development, abandoning projects with no explanation or apology, hampering the growth of our nation with quotable quotes and petty mood swings.

Our children and siblings have been subject to this game of educational ping-pong, with no long term strategy or the resources to back the shortsighted ideas of our leaders. The SHS duration was three years, then four years, now barely two years.

We grumbled to ourselves as our leaders, year on year, failed to address us on significant national issues, failed to show any sense of accountability or solidarity, used mere words to clear corruption allegations, insulted our intelligence and mocked our demands for a better life. After all, Ghanaians ‘have short memories’ and were bound to move on after 7 business days.

We watched our political leaders enlarge their appetites and their bank accounts while our roads, our hospitals, our schools, our drainage systems and our living standards continued to plummet.

We settled for ‘even if you will steal, at least do the work too?’, as if we had somehow made peace with the fact that every politician, regardless of their party flag, would enrich themselves first. Never us, always them.

Year after year, we would post updates on #AccraFloods and yet political appointees responsible for putting an end to this remained at post. Remedies would only be spoken about on morning shows and shoved back into the cupboard until the following year while our loved ones lost their lives and properties.

We didn’t say much as we watched our non-partisan institutions, our pressure groups and the voices of reason in the religious and traditional circles seemingly favour one government or the other. Today, their selective activism and deafening silence in times like these speak volumes.

Dear Christian leaders who are silent in these times, the Biblical prophets of old told the kings the truth, even at the risk of death and imprisonment. They spoke the mind of God, the God who is against abuse of power and oppression of the poor. Jesus spoke the truth to both the religious and political leaders.

To quote Mordecai’s advice to Esther when the Jews were in distress:

“For if you keep silent at this time, relief and deliverance will rise for the Jews from another place, but you and your father’s house will perish. And who knows whether you have not come to the kingdom for such a time as this?””
‭‭Esther‬ ‭4‬:‭14‬ ‭ESV‬‬

Silence is too costly.

Our parents are dying not just from diseases but from the emotional burden of losing their savings, of watching their children wallow in unemployment.

Our businesses are collapsing, not just because of the non-existent climate for commercial growth but also from the burdensome, insensitive taxes that suffocate us.

Our hospitals are death traps and with every passing day, our medical personnel flee this country. To make matters worse, we can barely afford to pay for medication, and in some cases like the vaccines for children, the medication is nowhere to be found.

Our rivers are discolored beyond recognition, our tourist sites are an eyesore, our cities are covered in filth and dirt. When it comes to holes that cost a fortune, we are battling galamsey on one side and the National Cathedral on the other side.

If this was an ideal world in which our leaders valued the mandate they have received and the people who delivered it into their hands, our leaders would offer a listening ear, an acknowledgment of our plight, some sort of concession. Surely, they must be seeing what we are complaining about. This is clearly not an ideal world.

We deserve a system that works for all Ghanaians, not a select few. We deserve to dream of a better life right here in our motherland, to have a country in which we and our children can safely live and meaningfully contribute to. We deserve a country with a wholistic 10 year plan, drawn and collectively owned by all stakeholders and not determined by the election-driven whims of political parties.

That is why this protest is special. Strangers usually divided by banter, social, tribal and intellectual differences, have been united by a collective ‘enough is enough’, by pain and frustration. Alliances and friendships have been formed in this fight. Some may have even found their life partners. Nothing like a common enemy to fuel the ‘us against the world’ romance.

Collectively, our voices will be heard. We will not be silenced. Silence is too costly.

We will not be cowered into silence and forced into muted grumbles. We will not comfort ourselves with ‘Ebaahi’ or ‘Ɛbɛyɛ yie’.

We will not be held to ransom by political actors who pledge allegiance to their party flags, who place premium on their party cards and inner circle alliances.

We will not be bullied into accepting crumbs in a country where our leaders stuff their bellies to their hearts’ contentment.

This country will kill you and dance to the wails of your family members. This country will wound you and question the authenticity of your cries. This is why we are making noise.

Ghana must do well. This is why we can’t afford to be silent.

I for lef Ghana: the case of evaporating patriotism

Patriotism has left the blood streams of Ghanaians. Everyday on social media, at least five people on my feed type the words ‘I for lef Ghana’ (pidgin for I have to leave Ghana), simply because they don’t see a promising future here. There is very little to believe in, to hope for, to be proud of.

In 1994, my father booked a ticket from Germany all the way back to Ghana, with his family of three. Everyone thought he was mad – I was just a year shy of getting German citizenship, my sister had just been born, and he was living a comfortable, impactful life, working with the Ecumenical Mission.

‘Stay a little longer. At least give the children the option of getting another passport.’

But his mind had been made up. He left the very week his appointment ended. He wanted to come back home, where kwadaa and kani were easy to find. He wanted to wear his agbada and cloth everywhere, nod his head to the rhythm of highlife music, and contribute his quota to the development of his beloved Ghana.

For him, Ghana was home.

You see, he had broken bounds with his fellow Ɔdadeɛ to watch Nkrumah pronounce Ghana as ‘free forever’ in 1957. He had ardently followed the stories of all African leaders who were pushing for an authentically African rebirth. He gave his children authentic names that told the stories of their birth. Patriotism was oozing out of his veins. Daddy unfortunately passed away in 2012, but I can only imagine what he would have thought if he were alive today.

Today, people take more pride in associating with their tribes or the high schools they attended than the land of our birth. At least, those associations provide some sort of benefit. The same cannot be said for Ghana.

Every sector – education, health, transport, sports, arts, trade, tourism, and the Godfather of them all, finance – is riddled with a plethora of problems. There are the officials who have blocked the nerve endings of their consciences with corrupt money, a system that stifles and frustrates change, and a people who have reluctantly accepted and adjusted to the status quo.

Ghana should not be where it is. We have had several pivotal moments in history where people had hope in the future of the country – in recent times, when Mahama took over after Mills’ passing in 2012 because he did not have the burden of pleasing his kingmakers; the Occupy Ghana demonstration in 2014 because a movement of intentional citizens were rising and when Akufo-Addo won the 2016 elections, because the insensitivity of the then Mahama administration.

Time has shown that each time hope arose, it was deflated as quickly as it sprung up.

I recently saw a tweet about important first date questions, including how close you are to the national cake. It has become apparent that our leaders, irrespective of the colours of their party flags, are not thinking about the future of the country.

The focus seems to be on making as much money as soon as possible while in power. The closer you are to the national cake, the bigger the slice you get. Even if you are just a foot soldier, the crumbs will find their way to you.

This is why the fight to claim or retain power is a fierce one. No government can deny how being in power somehow insulates you from the problems of the ordinary Ghanaian.

I for lef Ghana.

We think it every time our cars struggle to claw their way out of potholes deep enough to pass for dams in pitch black darkness, only guided by our headlights and ‘pothole memory’.

When we turn on the radio and hear politicians defend the indefensible while we and our loved ones bear the brunt of their short-sighted decisions, we shake our heads and mutter it under our breath.

It crosses the mind of the doctor who has to use the torchlight from his phone to perform surgery.

The young man, whose salary can no longer support the very basic life he and his wife live, tunes into another YouTube video on how to immigrate to Canada before his first child is born.

The old woman who has saved and invested all her money in order to have a fairly decent life and pay for her medical check ups has lost all her money, with no remorse or empathy from those who lost it.

The business owner contemplates closing down a business that is suffocating under the weight of multiple taxes.

The average person is gradually being priced out of everyday things- a good meal, a cold drink.

The dreams of working hard to buy a house or piece of land for the average working professional look more and more unrealistic, with every wave of inflation.

The young professional who wants to enter politics to change the course of the nation is faced with unpalatable choices – work your way up the existing corrupt parties or suffer the heartbreak of watching citizens exchange their votes for a 200 cedi note and three cups of rice.

The regular citizen who is not interested in politics is even afraid to point out that the barest minimum that any self respecting government provide should not be a campaign point, for fear of being attacked by a legion of loyal foot soldiers.

The voices of those who constantly speak out are getting dimmer. They are getting tired of speaking to governments that refuse to be accountable to citizens, tired of pointing out the patterns of corruption and double standards, tired of the insensitivity and arrogance of those who can’t feel our suffering. They are tired of fellow citizens whose loyalty is based on tribe, personal benefit and tradition.

With every passing day, the people of Ghana bury that love under a rubble. They brush away that nudging feeling that the future looks bleak. Feelings of patriotism are no longer invoked when they hear the national anthem.

Some day soon, everyone who can, go lef Ghana.

‘Where are you going?’

‘This is your home. There is no place like home.’

My home wants to kill me. The house is on fire and the people who should be leading the fort to turn off the fire are fascinated by the flames and are dancing to songs of celebration, because somehow power makes our leaders blind, insensitive and obstinate.

Yen ara asaase ni.

With every passing day, this feels more like fiction for the ordinary Ghanaian.

Keni Ribeiro is a storyteller who has chronicled hundreds of Ghanaian experiences in short stories on her award winning blog, http://www.keniribeiro.com.

#7daysofXmas 7: Muted Cedi

Hey fam! Been a decade! No time like the present to catch up. This story has been sitting in my head for a while. Finally found a moment to put it down on paper. And as always, Merry Christmas and happy reading!

‘See, this reminds me of when people were wearing nose masks and sanitizing their hands at the entrance, just to take the masks off when it was meal time. Starting with vim and throwing caution to the wind when it matters the most.’, Akuba paused to take a sip of her Malt.

‘Ei madam, what correlation does COVID have with my boy troubles?’

‘Everything. Ghana started so well with COVID protocols but couldn’t keep up the energy. Addo Deezy was on a roll! Weekly updates, a clear plan, subsidies, vim that will give you hope. Same thing with Kwekuma. How can you go from breakfast, flowers, random gifts and hourly texts to silence? Nakai afeɔ lɛ? Who sent you to start what you knew you could not sustain?’

The girls were catching up in person for the first time in a year. The friendship had been formed over a common Pharaoh of a boss and when they eventually both left that office of oppression, they kept in touch via IG DMs and FaceTime calls every now and then.

‘Ei Naa, look at something. Come and see who is doing ‘me and mine’ on Instagram- Elikem!’

‘Elikem who? Fiadzoe?’

‘One and the same. Same person who was promising to leave his wife if I would just say yes. Same person who said their last baby was by accident.’

‘Abi you didn’t promise? So he is managing the wife like that. Also, why haven’t you blocked him by now if you are not interested in him? Don’t make someone turn you into a prayer topic oo. And with all these boy issues, first Kwekuma, then Elikem, perhaps it is time to turn to Alpha Hour sha! Your destiny must change. Pass me the atsɔmɔ.’

‘Boss, park. Park, park.’

He instantly wished that he had taken his wife’s car instead. The car seats were always an easy way to get out of trouble. He could make up an excuse of a family emergency and he would be let go. But the police officer walking towards his car looked aggrɛ, like a cock and bull story would make him even more upset.

He muttered a ‘Jesus, help me’ under his breath, seeing as it was his birthday season and all. Other cars drove past him with speed and he was slightly irritated that the harmattan dust was making his white shirt not as white.

‘Officer, good afternoon.’

‘Boss, get down. Your offenses are many. Speeding, reckless overtaking, running through a red light and you were blasting that Odoyewu song. Nobody plays jams in an emergency. It is either silence, gospel or prayers for God to have mercy.

Richmond wanted to laugh but he knew it would worsen his plight. People had a short fuse these days. The silent cedi was really messing the Christmas up. A notification popped up on his Apple Watch. Everyone was at the meetup point except him.

‘Officer, this one dieɛ I no try at all. How we go sort am out?’

‘Something heavy. Nothing less than 200 cedis. If you no get cash, we fit do am MOMO. Add the charges and the e-levy. Krom ayɛ hye.’

Awurade! No be small cash out the police man dey come do.

‘Officer, I send am oo. Merry Christmas.’

‘Go and sin no more!’

Akyea was in a mood.

When her husband walked in, she made sure he had no way of missing her displeasure.

‘Baby-’

‘Don’t baby me. You have been away for weeks. You came back last night and went off again for 5 hours. Today too, you are now coming back. If I knew that this was how you were going to behave, then I should have just married a pastor. At least with that one, I can say he is working for the Lord.’

Her words stung but he knew what she was really saying. That was the thing about Akyea. She would hardly ever say what she really means to say.

He walked up to her and pulled her close, knowing that the smell of his perfume always calmed her down. He gave her a forehead kiss and sat in the armchair, pulling her into his lap.

‘What happened today? Tell me.’

The first word that came out of her mouth came with tears. He kept rubbing her back so that she would let it all out.

‘I feel lonely. Every one of my friends has a family now. When we were all newly married, it was easy to organize a hang out and flaunt our ‘Hot and married’ status wherever we went. Now they have kids. Everyone has one or two kids, everyone except me.’

The tears stopped the words from coming and he patiently waited. As he tucked her head under his chin, he looked up at their wedding pictures, once again proud of himself for snagging such a babe. It was the very peak of Covid, at his cousin’s traditional marriage.

‘You are beautiful’ was the opening line. A risky one because it was just her eyes he could see. What if the rest of the face was a disaster? But she had that confidence fueled by pretty privilege, that ‘I know I am fine’ swag. When she eventually indulged him and took off her nose mask to take a selfie with him, he knew he had hit the jackpot.

‘They don’t have time to hang out and when we finally schedule some time to ourselves, they have to cancel or rush back because there is something happening with their kids. On top of that, everyone has a Christmas themed shoot and you were not here for me to book our session. Then I called Auntie Adwoa to wish her a merry Christmas and she decided to remind me that I wasn’t getting any younger and I should have kids by now, or else you will look elsewhere’, Akyea continued.

He tightened his jaw and said nothing, still rubbing her back. His wife’s family was so toxic and yet she insisted on always getting in touch with them. Every family reunion left her feeling insecure or sad and yet she remained fiercely loyal to them. These kinds of people are best loved, long distance.

‘God gives children. We have been to the doctor, there is nothing wrong with us. We have loads of sex when I am here. We are happy and we will have babies when it is time. Auntie Akyea should know that we are not all like her husband. Now about those Christmas pictures, we will take some PG18 ones tomorrow. Now smile, fine girls don’t cry.’

‘Herh, Ghana ayɛ hye! Me ampaa na, no back to back plans for Christmas? Even if I had the plans, how will I get there? Trotro, expensive and uncomfortable. Last week I sat in a trotro in my white kaftan, barima fashionista. Only for the grease filled, sweat laden duster to fall on my shoulder. Chale I went back home.’

‘I feel you, bro! Last week, I paid 150 cedis from the office to the house. Yeah, the budget is not budgeting. This year, I will attend the events on Snapchat and TikTok updates. Mesee, I will sit at home saaa my mother will even get tired of me eating all her food. Yes, I will run errands saaa but I will eat without debit alert.’

‘Today is 24th oo. My dad has not received a single hamper. Engineer papa paa, nobody has brought him a hamper. Back in the day, I could do my own shopping from the hampers, without detection, because there were so many. Now my mother has even locked the storeroom. It is rationing season anka by now one breakfast, one sardine tin, one milk tin.’

‘Do then marry. You still dey worry your old girl.’

‘The savings all make beans bro. How can I afford a wedding? I can barely afford to live every month. I remember how we laughed at the MenzGold squad. Now we are the laughing stock. Most enlightened with the mutual funds, treasury bills, pension schemes and stocks, and to top it all, Addo D really said we should give the cedi words of affirmation.’

‘Don’t affirm and see. One of my investors from Netherlands pulled out at the last minute two weeks ago. I honestly don’t blame him. I would have pulled out too, if I were him.’

‘Oh slow!! Speaking of wedding, that your crush, she marry oo. Some nice, exclusive ceremony bi.’

‘Yeah, she married the ‘He is just my friend, don’t worry about him’ guy from when I was pursuing her.

‘Oh Thelma dieɛ, I believe her. If she said he was just a friend, then that is what he was to her. The guy dieɛ, he was on high alert. To him, she was meat and he was lurking and waiting for the right time to pounce.’

‘Minister of Japa!’

‘By all ways and means! Chale, I for lef Ghana. Every day after work, I spend hours on YouTube gathering all the info I need. Las las by 2023 December dieɛ, Canada, Sweden or Netherlands will be my portion in Jesus’ name.’

‘I get it but me moom dieɛ, I can’t leave. Not only is my mother here, but I told you about my political ambitions, right? Every year I stay away, I give both my internal and external opponents ammunition to say that I fled when things got tough.’

‘How about going to learn how the greats have done it so that you can come and replicate it?’

‘Sister, all our leaders have gone to see better. They know better but we can all see the evidence. I will stay here sha! Besides, if we all leave, who will be here when you miss fufu and waakye and want your children to get acquainted with their culture?’

‘Ampa moom. Chale, it is tough. Me sef, I am claiming global citizen, but during the World Cup, I teared up every time I heard the national anthem. Just the tune sets me off. Ghana for life.’

‘Ghana for life, but Canada for the time being eh? Lukewarm tendencies! Be hot or cold. Choose one.’

‘Sis, I am just trying to survive. My motherland is killing me when it is supposed to be my very sustenance.’

‘Ei Ama Ata Aidoo in the building! There nɔɔ, random poetic outbursts. You dieɛ, let’s go and eat the fufu na you won’t get cassava fufu with smoked fish and goat light soup in Vancouver.’

Merry Christmas again guys!  If you are new here, welcome! There are hundreds of stories that will make you laugh, cry and reminisce on those authentic Ghanaian moments. This particular series is about life in Ghana around Christmas. This year, Christmas is not very Christmassy and it is reflected in the stories. Regardless, keep faith alive. The dry seasons will end and rain will come regardless! 
You may have also noticed that the domain name has changed from Kenikodjo to KeniRibeiro 😉 Same girl, same stories, just keeping the brand consistent. See you in 2023 with more stories and so many other exciting endeavours. Love always, Keni! 💜

Akosua Rona 6: Vogue And Vibes

Hello again my people! Been a while since our paths crossed. I trust you are keeping well and staying safe. Over here, Baby Bero and I are gradually settling into a rhythm. If you didn’t know about Baby Bero, this probably means you don’t follow the blog on Facebook and IG. Today is a good day to remedy that. All the filla dey there! 😉 If this is the first post you are stumbling on, this is Part 6 of a 10 part story series on life in Ghana during the COVID-19 pandemic. As always, happy reading and see you in the comment section!

‘So you were not in love with grandpa when you got married?’, Aya asked in between bites of the freshly baked rock buns her grandmother had offered her.

‘No, I respected him. But love, that came with time. by the time we had a second child which was barely 2 years after we got married, I had begun to fall in love with him, with his kindness, with his interesting way of apologizing, with his laugh. That was a different time. I respected him and more importantly he respected me. These days you young people place so much value on how well he dresses and how much money he spends on you, instead of emotional intelligence and kindness. You prefer – what did you call it- packaging. Anyway how is that Michael guy you’ve been seeing?

‘Definitely no mutual respect there, just vibes and packaging.’

‘Vibes? That’s a new one. You come up with new terms every day. Okay so how about some pancakes?’

‘Grandma, you just gave me rock buns. You keep trying to make me gain all the weight I lost during the lockdown in just 4 days.

‘You don’t eat well enough and you spend too much time calorie counting. You should fight with your mother more often if that will make you come and visit.’

‘She’s just too old-fashioned, she can’t let me live my life. I can’t wait for her to realize that I am 25 not 5. She has a problem with every single thing I do.;

‘Well, I don’t know about old fashioned. I just know that banning you from going for parties where people don’t have masks on is wise and prudent. Imagine if you had the virus and didn’t realize it, you would have passed it on to your grandfather and I 10 minutes after entering this house. With your grandpa’s kidney problems and my weak heart, only God knows how badly the virus would have hit us.’

Aya started panicking as the truth in her grandmother’s words sank in. Two nights ago, she snuck out of the house to go for one of the parties her mother had said no to. Nobody in that air conditioned room was wearing a mask and some of them took turns inhaling shisha from the same mouthpiece.

What have I done?

‘You mean to tell me a nose mask, a simple nose mask with sequins is 600 Ghana cedis? Bɛɛ virus ɛ ebaagbe mi!’

‘Oh customer, don’t talk like that. We have to take our time and sew it well. The detailing is a lot. The design you want us to copy isn’t a simple one. We also need to thread the sequins and the beads one by one, and this is also short notice.’

‘You, it’s okay. I will wear the blue nose mask everyone wears like that. It won’t cost me more than 10 cedis. It is not like this customized nose mask has the breath of life in it.’

‘Oh madam. This your nice dress dieɛ, we can’t add blue nose mask oo. The custom made mask will be really nice with the dress. You dieɛ bring 400.’

‘Which part of the I don’t have that kind of money do you not understand? Sanitizer is taking my money, Veronica bucket and soap too. And yet my business loses money everyday. Nakai 400 ɛɛ I can do a lot with it.’

‘I understand. The Covid is worrying all of us. So many people have called to cancel their orders because their events have been postponed. The only thing that is selling is the Fellow Ghanaians cloth. Ahaaa, by the way, I also sell face shields masks. That one also protects your eyes. That is even better. You can slay and still show off the make up.’

‘But doesn’t that expose your nose and mouth area? Do you have an agreement with the virus? Has it signed a contract with you?’

‘Ole noko? It is okay. Sorry for left.’

‘He has stopped picking up my calls, Ako. It has been radio silence for 5 weeks. Unless he is dead or in a coma, there is really no logical explanation for this.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘Erm, just before lockdown. After that, we were mainly chatting via Telegram and Snap.’

‘Mmh so no text trail.’

‘Ako, I am going crazy just thinking about it. Every week during lockdown, I was sending him stew and soup via dispatch. He even had specifications- no shrimp powder, more goat meat, extra pepper. And now no call, no reply, nothing.’

‘Wait, was he paying for this?’

‘Don’t make me think about this mistake again. No he wasn’t. I was buying the ingredients with my own money. Well, he paid for delivery.’

‘Ei! Wahala for who no fall in love before! I hate to break it to you but you were just his lockdown chef. Also, judging from all those specifications, he should be well able to cook his own food oo. Well, what do I know?’

‘This Covid help me pass!’

Isaac smiled and shook his head, silently praying that his boss would return from the bank soon so that this security man would stop running his mouth.

‘Eeeh?’

‘Oh yeah. Ebi now wey I dey chop my post proper.’

Isaac’s eyes were following a girl who looked like she was pretty. With the masks these days, you couldn’t really tell. He realized that the security guard was waiting for his response.

‘Really? How-‘

He didn’t even need to finish his question. A few people walked up to the bank and Isaac got to see Mr Security Guard on show.

‘Madam, stand back. You have to wash your hands first.’

‘Boss, let the mask cover your nose.’

‘No, you can’t use your own sanitizer. Use the one here.’

‘Mommee, your temperature is high oo. Let me check it again.’

‘Chairman, one by one. Relax.’

Isaac did his best to keep the laughter from spilling out.

Regardless of who walked towards the bank that day, they had to do whatever Mr Security Guard said in order to enter the building. Before Covid, they would probably have not given him the dignity of a ‘Good morning’; now, they couldn’t even access their money without his say so.

No be small post you dey chop ampa.

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Akosua Rona 5: Pandemic Baby

Long time no see! 5 months later, the coronavirus is still with us and the number of cases are rising. Please be safe out there! Mask up, wash your hands and stay home unless it is critical. Many thanks to everyone who checked on me when I was unwell. I am much better now and itching to get back to storytelling. Also December is almost here. Isn’t that exciting? *does happy dance* If you follow me on Instagram, you probably know I have been ready for Christmas since April and it is finally here! Happy reading, ladies and gents!

‘Pregnant? How can I be pregnant?’

Adede stared at the second red line, scowling as hard as she could.

‘This isn’t supposed to happen.’

The second line wasn’t going anywhere. She picked up another test and tried again.

Maybe the test is faulty. Or the urine has something in it.

That is a thing, right?

She started sweating.

I checked my fertility app, didn’t I?

She stopped for a moment to try and recall what she saw when she looked at the app. The day before she packed her bags to go for what Kwame called ‘Quarantine Harem’. She was too excited to be practical and sensible. Kwame’s family had a nice getaway in Aburi with the works- privacy, the most amazing view, a chef, a gigantic pool and all the comforts that regular life in Accra could not give her. All 14 of them who headed up to Aburi had the same agenda- Forget Covid. Chop life.

And chop life they most certainly did. Barbecue parties, movie marathons, every kind of drink, every flavour of shisha, midnight swimming. It was a blast, especially because she and Kwame were back in a good place. Perfect timing too, or else she would have died of envy holed up in her apartment while the rest were having the time of their lives.

Wait, we were there for 2 weeks. I menstruated just before I left. Oh my goodness, I definitely ovulated during that time.

‘There is no way Kwame would believe me. I don’t even believe it myself. I am always so careful.’

I blame Nana Addo for all this. I forgot what day of the week it was because he said we should stay indoors. How was I supposed to remember that Week 2 of the lockdown was baby making season? Was it the night we watched Miracle in Cell No 7 on Netflix? That movie was so emotional!

She called her brother, Nene. He was always the person to call whenever she did something stupid or reckless, which was rather often.

‘Nene?’

‘What did you do?’

‘Wow! No ‘how are you, sister?’.’

‘What for? We all know you are always up to no good. What could possibly be different?’

‘I’m pregnant.’

Nene let out a loud laugh.

‘Ei, no be small be fruitful and multiply. Nana Addo said you should stay home and practise social distancing. You chose to go out of town to make a pandemic baby.’

‘Pandemic baby? That’s what we are calling it now? I feel like throwing up. Oh goodness! Is my life over?’

‘On the contrary, your life just got ten times more interesting.’

Lawrence stared at the phone for a good 5 minutes, long after the line had cut. It was Brother Sedem, his accountability partner from church.

It wasn’t that he had a problem with him. He just didn’t have the heart to lie to Brother Sedem about why he didn’t tune in to church service or to bible study this week.

How could he fit ‘I have started masturbating again’ or ‘I haven’t opened the Bible in 3 weeks’ into his response? Brother Sedem would probably die of shock and everyone would blame COVID-19.

It was easier to blame his absence from church on the internet connection not being stable (funny enough it never buffered on the porn websites). He felt like he was drowning but opening his mouth to call for help was so difficult.

For the first time, he really understood what the Bible meant by ‘not forsaking the gathering of the brethren’. The first Sunday of the lockdown, he had woken up early and dressed up for the online service like he was actually going to church. The Sunday after that, he decided to cook some Indomie during the worship session because he had not had any breakfast. By the 3rd Sunday, he was lying in bed with the sermon playing like background music. He almost never made it through any of the services without falling asleep.

It was so much easier when he could attend services and bible study sessions during the week. There was so much to occupy his mind and there was so much accountability that he didn’t have the luxury of being idle and the burden of dealing with temptations. Last week, he had told himself that he could at least try to pray in tongues for 10 minutes a day to edify his spirit. He never even finished the first 10 minutes and yet everyday he opened his Bible app to maintain his streak.

Get it together, Lawrence! God isn’t relaxing the marking scheme just because it is a pandemic. Get help if you need it.

He picked up the phone again and dialled Brother Sedem’s number. There was something his father always said- there is nothing like taking the first step in the right direction. He was lucky enough to be in a church community that wouldn’t ostracize him.

‘Brother Sedem! Yes, it’s been a while. I am fine by God’s grace. Actually, I am not……’

Stephanie pulled down her nose mask for a few seconds and inhaled the fresh air. Every two hours, she made her way to the rooftop of the building just to breathe in some air. In a way, that was what was keeping her sane.

Every morning at 6am, she put on a nose mask and got out of her car. Her day revolved around providing care to the COVID-19 patients in one of the government treatment centres. She checked vitals, noted changes, ensured that the patients had taken their medication and followed the doctors on their rounds to monitor progress. There was no official lunch break and when she remembered to eat, she didn’t have the appetite to go through with it.

One of her colleagues had a 3 year old child and nobody to leave her with, so she brought her to work and left her with some of the kitchen staff, popping in when she could to check on her. They were all making sacrifices and she was wondering how much more they could handle. She had heard rumours that some of the health personnel in some of the centres were not even fed and had to look for food on their own. She was due for her annual leave but there was no way she could ask for the time off. Her HOD was already under enough pressure as it was. She could not do that to him.

The week the lockdown was lifted had left her with the biggest pit in her stomach. The woman in the ward just ahead of her was literally fighting for her life after one afternoon in the market. The old man who had asthma had contracted the virus from his grandson who went for a party without a mask. One of the young men had gotten it from his work colleagues because he felt secure around them. The teenage girl that they had just discharged could probably have dizzy spells for the rest of her life.

My people are very Nyame bɛyɛ. Even simple things like not littering or not crossing the road at unauthorized points was difficult, how much more wearing masks and observing social distancing. God help us all!

The meeting was giving her a migraine and it had just been 5 minutes. Akorfa muted herself and walked to the fridge to pour herself a glass of water.

Whose idea was it to have a virtual PTA meeting? It was probably one of the overzealous parents who criticized everything, from the contents of the school newsletter to the seasoning that was used in the children’s meals. Apparently the concentration of MSG in the seasoning powders were detrimental to a child’s development. Yeah Mrs Koomson was the definition of thorough.

She was the same person who was concerned about how inclusive a Zoom meeting would be. Mind you, she had a laptop and tablets at her disposal but she was concerned about those who didn’t. She was also the same person who had a problem with having such a lengthy meeting via WhatsApp because of the number of people who had something to say. She had something to say about everything.

The headmaster, Mr Adu, was having a hard time justifying the new timetable and the new schedule of fees.

‘Mr Adu, are you expecting us to sit our children through the lessons, supervise their work and monitor their progress, while paying almost the same amount of fees? If I am doing the teacher’s job, why should I pay the teacher’s salary?’

Mrs Koomson had a point there though…

Mr Adu wearily responded, ‘I know that we are not in normal times and the current arrangement requires a lot more effort on the part of the parent, but I assure you that we are not trying to rip you off. The teachers are the ones who prepare the lesson notes that you use and they are also the ones who take the children through the online classes.’

Mr Heidelberg, one of the more easygoing parents also spoke up.

‘I for one, think the teachers should be paid even more. Sitting through a 45 minute lesson with my twin boys is physically and emotionally draining. Having to go over lessons and assignments with them shows me how much we take these teachers for granted. I definitely appreciate the efforts of these teachers more than I did before.’

Mrs Koomson’s rebuttal was swift.

‘I understand where you are coming from. You are an expatriate who is not as directly hit by the pandemic as the rest of us are. Some of us have lost our jobs, contracts have been renegotiated, where on earth are we supposed to get the money to pay teachers who are doing half the work they usually do.’

Akorfa nearly choked on her water. She quickly reached for the unmute button.

‘Mrs Koomson, I think that is a very inappropriate comment to make. Nobody is in a position to determine who has been more affected by the virus. At the beginning of the year, nobody here had any idea that this was going to happen. We simply have to adapt to the situation. I will be the first person to admit that it is far from ideal, but we need the teachers just as much as they need us. I think we should try and make Mr Adu’s work easier.’

Some of the other parents chimed in their approval and Akorfa hit the mute button again.

She did notice that Mrs Koomson had left the Zoom meeting.

Till we meet again, Mrs Koomson!

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