Tuesday, 9 February 2016


Corporal Frimpong waves Akosua to a halt at Madina market. ‘Park here!’ He commands, and then directs other vehicles though the traffic lights are functioning. Indeed, on other days the traffic lights just refuse to work. Akosua obliges and parks at the bus stop just behind a faulty Nissan Pickup. Her car, an old grey Datsun looks well kept except for a slight dent at the rear, just below the traffic indicator, and about two inches from the bumper.

The sound from the engine is minimal and light blue smoke swirl into the still air. The ‘C’ number plate is only evidence that the car had been in existence for close to thirty years. Akosua is in her mid thirties. The old horse is a family heritage handed down to her father, who in turn passed it on to her. She has however decided not to pass it on to any of her children but to save it as family relic in their garage.

“Officer, wetin dey happen? Why you stop me na?” she screams to get the Corporal’s attention.

“Na my office i dey oo” he turns around slightly, throws her a defiant look and turns around again to collect the Okada man’s rider’s licence. He opens the middle page and removes a five cedi note which he slots into his back pocket.

Akosua holds her lips loosely and theatrically “Akosua, don’t talk, don’t talk, don’t say anything” She says to herself

“Na only God go bless you. You never go chop gari. My God no go gree sef”  Corporal Frimpong prays while dipping his hand into his back pocket again to ensure the money is secured. “Away” he commands waving his benefactor to ride on. After this, he adjusts his beret and struts leisurely toward Akosua. He rests his arms on the driver side window, which is already wound down, surveys the insides of the car and gives Akosua a cold prolonged stare. She sees mischief and lust in his eyes as his bulky eyeballs settle on her chest.


“Ye...s, where is your licence?” he says hurriedly knowing he has been caught. She pulls out the licence and car documents from under her seat and hand them over.

“Your extinguishers?”

“Are you that blind” She says in her head, wondering if his eyes were shut when he initially surveyed the insides of her car. Without looking back, Akosua points to the extinguisher affixed at the rear, her eyes continually monitoring his to make sure she observes the lustful gaze of his eyes.

“Car papers?” 

“Car papers?...Officer, you no say u dey waste my time. I spend fifteen minutes for here already. The car papers? how?...” Akosua laughs for close to sixty seconds nonstop interjecting it with sarcastic grins. Officer becomes furious and impatient.

“Shut up there. I say where is your car paper? and you are giving me lectures” Corporal Frimpong interjects boastfully, leaves her side and goes the other way to occupy the passenger seat by her.

“eeii Akosua, don’t talk, don’t talk, don’t say anything” Akosua taps her chest to calm herself. Corporal lets a fake grin and grabs the Porridge and Beans cake on the dashboard. Akosua stares on as he consumes the food in the black polythene bag raving at it like a hungry pig. The sound from his throat and the up down movement of his adam’s apple disgust her. Then, he lets out a loud belch. Akosua’s stomach turns and her inside boils with rage.

“I like your bobby” he hasn’t finished speaking than his right hand touches her left breasts. She slaps it off immediately.

“Foolish man...foolish officer ...how dare you?” Akosua sparks. “If you be man, touch am again like you say see wetin go happen for here today”

Corporal Frimpong, short and stout is shocked. He cannot believe his ears. He may be wrong to have touched her but for a civilian to slap a man in uniforms is unacceptable. Letting the matter end there will signify his defeat. His bloated ego overcomes sound reasoning and his body must simply obey. Corporal Frimpong cannot control himself any longer. ‘If I must, it must be now’ he thought. Akosua, whose face has turned red with rage continue to hurl insults at him.

“Me? Corporal Frimpong?” He grabs her left breast again in protest but only for a split second, Akosua smashes his hand again with applied energy that sends his hand knocking hard into his own face. His beret falls off. He is dazed and his breathe become shorter but heavier. Akosua pushes her door open and steps out ready for a fight.

“You slap an officer of the state? Today, I go show you wetin we call jungle fight.” He threatens and steps out too. Akosua, twice his height and build unbuckles her shoes and firms her bare feet on the floor. A charged crowd form a circle around the two. Corporal throws himself at her with a punch to her tummy. She lets out a cry. The crowd shout in unison against the Corporal. She staggers backwards but regains her stamina quickly. Corporal straightens the turf of his shirt and folds his trouser up to the knee. Buoyed by the first knock, he runs into her again. She steps away slightly leaving her leg in his path. He trips, loses balance and falls to the ground. Akosua pounces on him; her knees get a go at his crotch. He lets out a shriek. The crowd boo him. They enjoy Akosua’s display.

The two trade a few blows on the ground and later get on their feet. Corporal holds his crotch in pains. Akosua run at him, encircle his waist with her arms and release a knee jab into his chin, drawing his blood instantly. The weight of the jab forces him to the ground but he pulls her along. A trouble-thirsty crowd cheer in admiration as Akosua’s body cover the full length of the Corporal.

“‘beat am! finish am! beat am”

Corporal knows that victory is slipping out of his grips. His back is to the ground as Akosua clamps her knee to secure his waist. This prevents him from getting into a position where he can hit her lower pelvic. He tears up her jacket to partly her white underwear. She in turn slaps his face repeatedly, her frame weighing heavily on him. The crowd mock the losing corporal.

“Finish am...finish am” somebody shouts from the crowd.

“make...she...finish...me eh?” Corporal replies through his blood filled nose yet unable to look in the direction of the call. He pummels some blows which are not strong enough to get her off him.

She powers some more punches into his sweaty face till he lets out a shriek like a trapped squirrel. She frees herself from him, allowing him the full diameter of the ground, picks up her jacket and gives the crowd a look as to say ‘thank you’. There is no crowd now but a team of police officers and their vehicle parked just behind hers. The crowd had actually dispersed when the Police Patrol arrived.

Corporal Frimpong and Akosua are handcuffed and put in the back of the vehicle; sitting face to face and sandwiched by police officers. Corporal’s head is bowed in shame. Akosua looks outside confidently as the vehicle speeds off. The Vendors, buyers and Pedestrians give Akosua a standing ovation, clapping and cheering such that it draws laughter off the police officers. They were sent to the regional police headquarters for interrogation. 

The following day, their story makes the newspaper headlines, prominent among them being ‘Macho Woman whips Fake Corporal’

Apparently, Corporal Frimpong is a tailor from Madina who could not stick to sewing church attires only but decided to sew himself a police uniform and station himself strategically to extort money from innocent and offending drivers. Beware of Fake Corporals!!!

Copyright (C) 2016


Thursday, 4 February 2016


Today, as I stepped out of the office premises to get lunch across the street, a speeding truck from the opposite side knocks Sherry, sending her off the ground and then effortlessly, her light frame drops to the ground dead. The speed of the truck minimised the sound of the thud, nevertheless, one could still hear it from ten metres away. She had joined her ancestors.

The crash was so sudden it was almost unnoticeable.  ‘Oooww’ was the simultaneous chorus from passers-by; others shouted ‘Jesus!’ What a gory scene on a Monday afternoon, I froze. My palms drew shade over my face and both jerked sideways as she landed on the hard surface. The afternoon was bright and the sun, biting. For a moment, I did not wish to uncover my face, that way; I could just turn around and return to the office as if nothing happened.

‘I should have waited a bit longer in the office’, I thought. I would not have witnessed the incident. In any case, the news would still filter into our office, which would be much bearable. After all, lunch break was a whole hour and half, beginning from 1pm. 

The shouts intensified as reality dawned on onlookers. Shop owners, passers-by and dog chain sellers who dominated the area drew closer. They accosted the driver immediately and would not allow him to park on the side of the road for fear he bolts away. The thought of finishing anything I began clouded my mind, so I told myself that I had to see this to the end even if it cost my entire lunch break.

Sherry’s body lay scattered over the tarred floor. Her head rolled towards the front of the beans vendor’s desk, collecting sand particles along the way till it stopped on the pavement and sending Aunty Mansa’s customers fleeing in various directions. Her eyes were no more in the socket. ‘Oh Sherry Sherry!’ Aunty Mansa was dazed, abandoned her stall to join the conversation at the edge of the road. Fresh blood escaped from Sherry’s lifeless body parts.

Her limbs were torn into shreds and her intestines sprawled on the road, two strands remained stuck to the bumper of the truck. By this time, the road had choked, sympathisers increased by the minute and the two-way lane had become one. Road traffic became dense. Each vehicle that passed sought to avoid going over Sherry’s mangled body while passengers in moving vehicles leaned over each other to catch a better glimpse.

There was Jackson, embattled, crying as he run around helplessly. He looked terrified, fearing to near the crowd for fear of being stoned. Apparently, he was in Sherry’s company. He assumed she was following him when he crossed the street. She did not. When she did, the truck approached from nowhere and smashed her. I recognised Jackson and Sherry immediately. They are friends whom I had seen together on two occasions, today being third.

Aunty Mansa told us of their love relationship. That Sherry was often lured by Jackson into them taking a stroll. That she often waited till everybody left home before she hopped off to her lover. The security officer was always at post yet never notices when Sherry leaves home since he was also busy engaging his lover, the charcoal seller. Those are opportune moments for both Sherry and the security officer. Each one got what he wanted.

Meanwhile, the truck driver, a man in his mid-fifties had the Almighty God to thank for not being stoned. He looked visibly pale and inwardly troubled. He admitted wrong doing, confessed that he was slightly intoxicated because his wife of thirty five years had passed on shockingly the previous night. The crowd agreed to let him go.

Jackson, the thin-face American hair terrier dog hovered around mystified. He belonged to the old goldsmith who lived at the tail of 17th Jakada Street. Jackson loved to wander and rarely slept at home. Sherry, on the other hand was a stout round-eyed Labrador retriever, the latest of dogs owned by the Minister of Agriculture who lived in the same area.

When the noise receded and traffic began to ease, the dog chain sellers scrambled for Sherry’s remains.

Copyright (C) 2016
Originally read at Citifm Writers Project Radio Show