AKOSUA FLOGS CORPORAL FRIMPONG

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.

“Officer?”

“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

#thestoryteller

SHERRY

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
#thestoryteller

Originally read at Citifm Writers Project Radio Show

My Wife is a Thief. My Husband is a Liar

Akwasi and Belinda my neighbours ruined my day with their marital matters. I am still trying to figure out a good reason for why two individuals sheltered under a roof can be as bitter and hostile as to hurl vitriolic words at each other for almost a fourth of the day. Waking up around 11am, I desired to grab a final round of snoring and sleeping before I face the ever-waiting laundry. The noise, poisoning the quiet afternoon overpowered me so I quickly abandoned the idea of more sleep. I decided that it was in my own interests to begin the day’s task immediately and to just find a way to ignore their rout.

Though we have been neighbours for two years, I had never set eyes on them except for the images that formed in my mind’s eye. Akwasi, average-height; chocolate-skinned; a broad chest; sunken eyes and a generally imposing figure. Belinda is light-skinned; has short-hair, a heavy bust-line sitting partially on a lean waist and curvy backside.

They occupy a chamber and Hall rented apartment, their window facing my cubicle. My room stands just about a meter away from theirs, only separated by the landlord’s special water gallons. Initially, I got furious. I reasoned that I would have broken no law if I proceeded to deliver to them a gross lecture on Tenancy regulations. That I should have a good case of what to say, I decided to snake my left ear against the side frame of their window to listen. I rejected the idea immediately; rather, an obstinate desire to be wowed by their escapade grew in me.

The chatter from their apartment rose and filled my room like smoke from a bush fire. Akwasi was here accusing his wife of having stolen his money. He insisted that he had folded the money into the back pocket of his jeans trousers the previous day. Belinda would not take the accusations likely, dismissing his every attempt to label her a thief. I reasoned that a wife cannot be a thief in her matrimonial home, she could be a taker.

The anger in Belinda’s voice was raw and fresh. She reminded her husband of saying he had no money when she requested for some the previous night. He would not answer the question but to dismiss it with rounds of sarcastic laughter and then repeat his accusations. She was her own lawyer. He was his own judge. I, ‘the audience’ was enjoying the courtroom affairs.

Belinda dared him to hit her, slap her and do whatever he wanted with her because she couldn’t cope with his attitude anymore. She threatened to leave his home but he doesn’t give a hoot. Rather, he laughed, chuckled, and then expressed shock at her comments. Akwasi seemed to press Belinda’s infuriation button by his sinister grins. She pushed herself into his face. “You are wicked and heartless. Kill me! Kill me!! Foolish man!!! I asked you for money and you said you had none; now you accuse me of stealing your money. How do you expect me to cook in this house” she ranted.

Akwasi swallowed the insults, resisting the temptation of applying the weight of his heavy palms to her face while equally resisting the temptation to walk out of the room. Most men avoid nagging wives by avoiding their presence. He knew his being there hurt her more and he was prepared to satisfy that inner desire to the fullest. If he smacked her, she would cry sore, attract the attention of other tenants, which he reasoned would simply curtail their arguments and of course his quest to retrieving his money.

To my amazement, the couple went on for another hour after the other, driving each other nuts with insults and counter insults. Around 4pm, Belinda began to wear out; her voice shook as she struggled to deliver her verbal punches, her voice straining under her throat with every subsequent utterance. Akwasi, buoyed by her being close to tears reminded her that this was his home and that he had the final say. Out of nowhere, he averred that since she claimed innocence to not taking his ten ghana cedis, he would resort to the assistance of a fetish. Fetish?

Fetish to retrieve ten ghana cedis? I could not hold back my awe at the goof. What is doing laundry to hearing all over the cause of the couple’s struggles? I admitted that doing laundry was totally insignificant to the case at hand. Luckily, he repeated himself in that condensed Ga accent. “It’s okay, don’t worry woman, since you said you did not take my ten ghana cedis, Okomfo Do Wonders will find out whom.” Wow! What a waste of my ears and time.

Copyright (C) 2016

WHAT A PHENOMENON!! (STATE OF THE NATION ADDRESS)

Today I visited a couple who married this year. They are very good friends of mine and I had not paid them a visit since they tied the nuptial knot in August. I went in the company of Kwame and Vero who are also friends of the couple. At their place we helped ourselves to juice drinks, biscuits, chocolate cake and buttered bread plus a good dosage of laughter.

We engaged in a hearty chat about our families, friends, church, work, and the upcoming elections. We spent quite a good amount of time discussing the brow-raising chronicles of political parties going heaven and hell to snatch votes from every tom, dick and harry.

Damn!! Our favourite Scooby doo, champions’ league fixtures and African magic have been crowded out with campaign adverts of all forms and lengths. Can you imagine? An aspirant sits behind the cameras at Labone kanda somewhere, appears before my screen, talks and talks several minutes of the hour till my head aches. He ends by asking us to vote for him and his party. How I wished I could also ask him a question! 

Komla! Have you heard rumors of aspiring candidates distributing gifts all over the place just to win votes? Then I must suggest to you the country isn’t as broke as we are being made to believe.

See, I have come to the conclusion that if someone desires to control you, his first aim will be to capture and subject your thinking to his by telling you how miserable you are. When he’s done that, he can now hurt and loot you as much as he pleases, but remember "…to resist oppressors’ rule". Simple!

A chip in! I heard the story of a Danish student who came to Ghana some few years back to conduct a research towards her Master’s degree thesis. Her topic was something about Democracy and Elections in Africa.

During her interviews, she was told that in election years, political parties were their best and that they gave gifts to party supporters and floating voters in order to win their thumbprints on the d-day. She was shocked to learn that such gifts included bags of rice, tubers of yam, garri and shito, cash for pami (palmwine) and deodorant spray among others.

About a month after returning to Denmark, rumour started flying all over the place that she had no option but to manufacture her own set of findings for submission. (lol) The information she gathered here I believe was too difficult to swallow.

A close friend of hers confirmed the story but emphasized that the danish fellow later rescind her decision not to submit the original findings about tubers of yam for votes blah blah blah.

Back to the point, this year arguably has been the most dramatic to say the least. I dare say without a shred of doubt that 2012 would comfortably make the shortlist of top five worst years in the country’s history books beginning with the Woyome Brouhaha as the lead catalyst.

On 2nd June, we are met with this breathstopping news: ‘Cargo plane hits bus in Ghana airport crash’ was how BBC captioned it. ‘Airplane crashes around 37 military hospital, trotro hit, 11 die instantly, several injured”, others declared.  

Simultaneously another airplane in neighbouring nigeria crashes into a skyscraper leaving all passengers dead. Both news indeed broke the nation and Ghana wept. You could almost reach out your hand and touch the pain that swept the country. My friend and former coursemate Evans tabariyeng aka Popo was one of the 11. May his soul rest in peace!. We had barely recovered from the shock when the first man of the land, having battled with an ailment passed on. The brouhaha surrounding his death leaves much to be desired, Surprised? Forgot he died many times before his death? Forgot the reasons attributed to his demise were as much as the people who spoke about it? Rest in Peace your Excellency late John Evans Atta Mills. The next day H.E John Mahama was sworn-in to step into in his boss’ shoes. Law and constitution? Yes.

It wasn’t long after returning from the graveyard than we had to return to it again to bury 18 men and women who lost their lives when the Melcom Achimota building collapsed. Workers of ‘where good things happen fame’ were trapped under concrete slabs as young men and women rushed to the scene to salvage our brothers and sisters. The salvation campaign lasted 4 days and nights so some survived. Komla, let’s snap our fingers for the Israeli government who sent in almost 24hours an 8-man team with a dog onboard a flight straight across the oceans to come help the rescue mission. NADMO is indeed grateful.

Komla, to think that  building came down flat as if it stood on no foundation still baffles me, the last time I saw such a spectacle was in a movie. My goodness!! This tragedy caught international attention and I am convinced it should be the first of its kind the world over. Just this november, His Excellency Aliu Mahama the former vice president under Mr. John Agyekum Kuffour having battled a heart disease for a while finally gives up the ghost. Remember he was predicted to have died 3 days earlier? At this point, our BP’s rose and set to explode, my sincere condolence to his dear family. Our beloved country Ghana was going through turbulent times, on the back of elections perching in the corner i suppose on one leg, or two legs?

From nowhere Mr. Ayariga steps in legendarily to curtail the gloom by sending us into days of uncontrollable laughter and fun. As one of 7 presidential aspirants seeking the highest office of the land, he was obliged to participate in the Institute of Economic Affairs Presidential Debate at Tamale, one of two to be held before eligible voters went to the poll.

To our shock, Mr. Ayariga singlehandedly stole the night, bombarding 25million Ghanaians, the diaspora and online community with his own set of English grammar and conjured expressions. Making a mess of his subject-verb agreement, we suffered severe ear damages on both occasions.

Komla, ghanaians are becoming just as complicated as EPL fans. See, individuals and groups threatened to boycott the second IEA debate if Ayariga was not attending.

He had in the morning informed Joy fm radio station that he had caught a severe cold and would therefore not attend the debate to be held at the Accra International Conference Centre. Three hours later, he changed his mind, confirming his participation and the dulled ghanaian social media sprang to life again.See, most people thought he was a joke ever thinking of becoming the president of this country and suggested he considered a career in stand-up comedy. Well? What do you think?

‘Operation feed yourself’, ‘we don’t have oil, they have sold the oil’! ‘Ayarigarism! Ayaricough!’ ‘We will encourage their salaries!’ ‘My father my brother and my brother!’ ‘We will employ soil scientists! Agrikalcha!’ he declared. Mr. Ayariga’s popularity has shot up far more than the enemies he made overnight in the People’s National Congress (PNC). Some Executive members have since called for his head ahead of the Presidential Polls claiming he was out-of-touch on issues and that he brought upon the party irreparable damage. Mr. Ayariga seems unperturbed, a cause to worry.

I thought presidential hopeful Hassan Ayariga would remain tightlipped after the second debate in which many say he literally coughed Nana Akufo Addo out of his submissions; he went a step further during the Otumfuo-IDEG Kumasi Peace Declaration. Ayariga halted his campaign and got himself busy with preparing his speech. When it was his turn to speak, he took to the stage, acknowledged the teeming cheering crowds, defined Ayarigate as the latest word in the dictionary to be ‘someone who makes a whole nation laugh, smile and JOY’. So at that, Otumfuo, Rawlings and Kuffour smiled. See, I almost agreed to folks’ views sooner than i envisaged that the PNC flagbearer will consider a change of career, it would be stage or showbiz.

My friend, tension is high between ruling and opposition parties, scores of propaganda flying at each other, Issuance of Press Statements and counter Press Statements, Pockets of violence at Kyebi and Ashtown, Nana Akufo Addo and John Mahama rounding up their campaigns. Mr. Sakara and Papa Ndoum are also on the ground taking it slowly but surely. Komla, as it stands, the best our media houses can do to minimize the tension is to play sound bites of Mr. Ayariga’s IEA speeches. I bet it will do more good to the vain peace blabbering all over the place, which is forgotten as soon as it’s uttered.

The year has indeed been replete with bad news but we should be happy that we can still laugh together as a people despite our political differences, thanks to Ayarigate Worldwide. My final word, good luck to all aspirants. God bless our homeland Ghana and make our nation great and strong. Let’s meet at the Jubilee house come January 7, 2013 in one piece and not in pieces.

3rd December, 2012

Copyright (C)

Title Credit: Nana Kofi Owusu (Above)

Photo: Rhymepixels 

MY SONS ARE NOT

Drums don’t beat anymore

The once noisy night has gone dumb

so our hearts

The town is as quiet as a graveyard, even

Jimmy Jimmy the drunkard has gone to sleep

Where is the youth leader? Nobody knows

Has he travelled to visit his in-laws? No

Has he gone to see his concubine? No

Has he gone in search of our enemies? No

 So where is he? Where is she? Nobody knows

Fathers cannot find their sons, and mothers their daughters

There is no one to go and bring firewood

They have gone to the city, says Dzifa the village gossip

Who will go in search of our men and tell them of our dying farms?

Who will leave his plantation to go in search of our missing sons?

So mothers sit to eat

They eat the bread of sorrow in tears

Humming songs in limbo

They know all is not well

The men don’t know what to do

Fireside stories no more drips from the lips of the aged

Fireside stories today sit in history books’ corolla

The dusty market square is beseck with silence at night

No music is heard, no one is there to sing and dance

The place of the chief linguist is vacant and exalted with dust

No one will take his place; No one is there to take his place!

Elders know all is not well, they sing the same chorus

Where is my son? Where is my daughter?

Fathers cannot find their sons, and mothers their daughters

There is no one to go and bring firewood

They have gone to the city, says Dzifa the village gossip

Who will go in search of our men and tell them of our dying farms?

Who will leave his plantation to go in search of our missing sons?

So mothers sit to eat

They eat the bread of sorrow in tears

Humming songs in limbo

They know all is not well

The men don’t know what to do

Fireside stories no more drips from the lips of the aged

Fireside stories today sit in history books’ corolla

The dusty market square is beseck with silence at night

No music is heard, no one is there to sing and dance

The place of the chief linguist is vacant and exalted with dust

No one will take his place; No one is there to take his place!

Elders know all is not well, they sing the same chorus

Where is my son? Where is my daughter?

Copyright (C) 2012

All Rights Reserved