KOBY'S CORNER: WHY KOMLA DUMOR'S GHOST HAUNTS ME!

KOBY'S CORNER: WHY KOMLA DUMOR'S GHOST HAUNTS ME!: Cardiac arrest is not my name. Stress is not my nickname either. Never have I crossed the borders of Ghana. I don’t even know where Lon...

SO… WHO SAID ‘TWEAA’!?

In Africa, tell you what, titles are a big deal. From religion, through academics or politics to even herbal medicine, inappropriately making mention of someone’s ‘hard-earned’ titles can cause you a lot of discomfort. 

Get to any university and call the name of any professor or doctor by only his/her first name; without their enviable accolade. There you would see fire!

Even when one is dead, it is abominable to exclude their titles on the obituary. Besides, the living whose names would appear on the said obituary might even refuse to attend the funeral if their necessary titles are not rightly mentioned. 

So… was it anything out of the ordinary when one of our own ranted (and subsequently boycotted a function) when someone heckled at him, insisting that the culprit wasn’t his co-equal? Of course not!

 

Our society has ingrained into us the ritual of clinging passionately unto our titles; even in death. Our ranks mean everything to us, trust me.

I know how hard it is to climb the social status. Yes I do. Especially in this part of our world where only a few others in the higher echelon would do all they can to remain the only ones there, attaining a status is the hardest thing one can think of.

But… is life not more than titles? Of what profit is/are title(s) when there is no performance. It’s only in GH that you hear of a name preceded by titles upon titles (which in themselves can be another name), yet the said person might not even had contributed a single idea to his/her field of specialization.

Of course, we celebrate titles, not performance! Little wonder we are still the same old people struggling with the same old challenges. Did I hear someone say ‘tweaa’?

Come to think of it, the names of great people are often mentioned without their titles at all. They do not need such accolades to tell whoever the weight of their impact on society.

Frankly, I rather would prefer a ‘title-less’ generation with great ideas that would move the nation forward to another generation with all the titles, yet ‘development-less’. And… as long as we have limited our lives to titles, the latter would almost always be hard to find.

The society we live in has no space for the ‘title-less’. World- changing ideas might have been churned out of many of these who are not even listened to. Believe you me, there are many inventions by many ‘lay people’ right here in GH when some professors so-called, can’t even boast of a single modification of what has already been invented- everything is theory! 

Ghana has all it takes to be a force to reckon with; not only in football but in all other fields. Maybe if the supposed dwarves sitting on our money would let us be (laugh out loud). 

Geniuses are born to us day in and out. We often successfully kill the ingenuity spirit in such (in the name of what we call titles) and leave them to be either beggars on our streets or on the streets of the Western world. 

I would sparingly make mention of my title(s) if my laurels are nothing to write home about. Unlike the typical Ghanaian who would satisfactorily walk about head high in the name of one title or another, I would preferably do all within my might to leave an indelible footprint in my field. 

But until I do so… the mysterious question that lingers on my mind is… who indeed said ‘tweaa’!?  

 

PALM NUT SOUP BAPTISM

Saturday morning it was. The long-awaited Science Festival was finally here. This had long been touted as the event with the most gathering of students. Our single-sex senior high school was going to host many students, especially girls.

The fever of excitement that had caught us was inexplicable. All those who had suspended their baths for weeks had to break their vow. Those of us who didn’t give a hoot about looks had become fashionistas overnight. 

Every soul wanted to look good; even if it meant borrowing another’s look. Those who had to be lent white long sleeves at the expense of their valuables had to do so. And… I was one. 

I had been lent a neatly-pressed Calvin Kleen (guess it had its roots somewhere in China) long sleeves and I couldn’t wait to impress my Adwoa Smart, whom I was going to meet the first time ever after writing several romantic letters to each other.   

Since the program was going to last long, lunch had been scheduled to be served earlier. On my table, as usual, were seniors Abenkwan, Immortal and Mugabe. 

Snr. Abenkwan was so-called because of his undying love for palm nut soup. “I won’t miss any Saturday’s rice and palm nut soup for all the A’s there ever is or ever would be,” he would always remind us.

Snr. Immortal, as aged as he was, knew exactly what ‘economics’ meant. He was faithfully present at every dining hall sitting. 

The diminutive-statured Mugabe had in his chop box all that any student would covet; as to why he was more a staunch dining hall attendee than Snr. Immortal or Abenkwan was a mystery to me.   

The pantry man could be seen heading towards our table. I was really famished. All I had in my chop box were empty Milo cans and books; a lot of them. 

I had placated Snr. Obanzy, my Chinese long sleeves owner, with my last tin of sardine. I had no hope. If there was any at all, it was found in nothing else but the content of that approaching pantry. 

I stole glances at my seniors, each of them stealthily advancing towards our savior meal. Before the meal could be placed on the table, Snr. Immortal and Abenkwan had pounced on it. I joined, too.

“Let me have mine first!” Snr. Immortal yelled, trying to have a grip on the pantry.

“Nonsense! You know this is my field. No way!” Snr. Abenkwan retorted. 

I held the pantry as the man left it. It wobbled. I tried to balance it and, probably cheat gravity. I slipped. It overturned. Alas! There I was… drenched in salmon- garnished, warm palm nut soup!  

Immediately, someone yelled from behind.  

“There he is.”

I turned. There, in our dining hall right beside me, stood a bevy of beautiful ladies.

“Is that Adwoa Smart?” I imagined.

“I thought you told me you were allergic to palm nut soup.”

I froze. My heart beat loudly against my chest.

“Yes. Yes. Errm... Errm… April f-o-o-o-l!”

“Heerh! So you gave me an expired tin of sardine eeh. Where is my London long sleeves!?” the heavily-built Snr. Obanzy could be heard barking from a distance.

I heaved deeply.

“Oh Lord. Into your hands I commit my spirit”

I lost consciousness… consciously.

KOBY'S CORNER: WHY KOMLA DUMOR'S GHOST HAUNTS ME!

KOBY'S CORNER: WHY KOMLA DUMOR'S GHOST HAUNTS ME!: Cardiac arrest is not my name. Stress is not my nickname either. Never have I crossed the borders of Ghana. I don’t even know where Lon...

WHY KOMLA DUMOR'S GHOST HAUNTS ME!

Cardiac arrest is not my name. Stress is not my nickname either. Never have I crossed the borders of Ghana. I don’t even know where London is. I have never been convicted of raising any finger against anyone; at least not in my adulthood. I was a naughty teenager, though.

I am a young Ghanaian who believes in the Ghanaian dream (maybe if there’s one). I love Ghanaians and especially, I love my Ghana (do I even have any choice?). If for nothing at all, I get to everyday hear from our ‘savior’ politicians the ‘second’ coming of a better Ghana of which I so excitedly want to be a witness.

Human as I am, I have ever wished the death of my enemies though I have never committed manslaughter or caused the death of any man. But… today I can barely have a good night sleep because another man’s ghost just won’t let me be!

My nightmarish, sleepless nights have become so obvious. Like the president trying to unravel the ‘economic jigsaw’, my eyes are kept wide open each day from dawn to dusk. Ei! How I wish to be haunted no more! 

I have a confession to make. Let me tell you why I am having insomnia…

LIFE NEVER BEGAN AT 40!

Some of us grew up (or are still doing so) with the myth that life begins at forty (40). They would while away time, after all they are not yet forty (40) to get serious. Like seriously?

Komla’s life ended a couple of years after forty (40) and stressing that it was a well-lived one will be the greatest understatement of the millennium. If you are waiting to be forty o take life seriously, you might as well wait till sixty (60)!  

A couple of our youth sit in the comfort of their homes looking up to some non- existent employment-reeling government to wave its magic wand to make them the bosses overnight.

After grabbing a degree from wherever and patiently waiting upon this ‘heroic’ government for God knows how long, two scores would have been long gone!

Life may or may not begin at forty (40)… after all… when the supposed dream job (after all the wait) would shatter your dream asking for nothing less than a decade of job experience; the same decade you might have spent in ‘household-keeping’.

The point is… your destiny, as a youth, is in the hands of only one person- you! The youth that Komla was, even in his grave, is daring me and every young person out there to go out there and restlessly chase their dreams; with or without the government’s help.

Whether or not you have a degree, start something on your own as much as you can. Dream big; start small. Be creative like Komla was. Everyone can complain; only the purposeful work instead singing choruses of challenges!       

MR. AND MS. SLAVE ARE NOT OTHER NAMES OF THE AFRICAN!

Today, every young person’s dream is to go to ‘abrokyire’, foreign land, to wit. The church won’t let our ears rest with every prophet promising almost everyone of God blessing them with a visa. And… all I wonder sometimes is if that’s the only way God can bless the African, as portrayed by our anointed men of God. 

Gone are the days slave masters came with those rusty ships to yank us to their homeland. Now, we throng the embassies queuing up endlessly to beg our ‘slave masters’ to be fair in considering this generation, too, like they did our ancestors. 

The visa has become more hallowed than errrm… the cedi or even a degree. Can you imagine? For the cedi, at least, we can blame it on the dwarfs… but not the degree!   

Many of our folks, both young and old, would dare risk their lives on deserts and all sorts of unthinkable means… just to be the slave of another of his kind. Ah! Many wouldn’t even mind starving the souls out of them on the cold seas… all because of… seeing some white man! 

Our governments aren’t any different, crouching at the feet of their western co-equals begging for what they already have. Independence? Tweaa!

‘The Boss Player’ has proven beyond every doubt that the black man is as good as (if not better than) the white man. He’s daring every young man (and… oh woman) to see the white man’s land as another place like our homeland GH; one that doesn’t deserve that much ungodly attention given to it.

Playing ‘hide-and-seek’ and ‘catch-me-if-you-can’ games in a foreign man’s land (when your brains never got used up) never got anyone to the top!    

GLOBAL; NOT LOCAL STANDARD!

One can’t help but burst into laughter when the ‘local’ news is being read. Aside beating about the bush, some of the facts are adulterated. Very! The news items are presented with no emotions attached and you wonder if that’s what ‘local’ is actually meant to be. 

Fact is, many of us ‘professionals’ (not only broadcasters though) perform our duties with no global touch at all; not even one. “This is GH!” would be spewed in your face. I didn’t make mention of any missing baby oo.

You and I knew Komla Afeke Dumor was going to be a ‘thing’ considering how he went about his duties even here in GH; he had the bigger picture in mind. He was only rehearsing on the ‘local’ stage, and I wish we all would dare do same in our various professions. And… what a world our GH would have been!

The world we live in is such a small global village. Tell you what, if you haven’t gotten this bigger picture in mind, like Komla did, all this while you only have had at heart a single room- GH.

 

PROPER PREPARATION; PERFECT PERFORMANCE

“The worst tragedy,” it is said, “is not death but opportunity knocking at the door of an unprepared person.” I know how badly most of us, young and old alike, would want to be the talk of town sooner or later. Of course, we want to make it!

Most of our youth only end up frustrated with their ‘wishful’ thoughts because they are not ready to prepare for those opportunities, which definitely would always come.

Volunteerism is not in their dictionaries. They want to start their first jobs in a plush, heavily-decorated office strutting all over the place in tightly-fixed ties. Hello! It happens in the movie theatres. GH is not a movie stage!

The Komla we all are admiring today was the same Komla of yesterday who paid his dues under the scorching Sun on the streets of Accra all in the name of something he was referring to as his passion. He loved it even though his remuneration (even if there was one) then would have only been a pittance. 

He had one thing in mind- proper preparation! I wish every young person would have the genius in their inside spurred on by this. Truth is, no sane employer would let an ‘experienceless’ dude be at the helm of affairs in their sweat-built firms. However, preparation is experience enough! 

If you’re still at home as an unemployed graduate (how that title thrills me!) waiting to be a ‘boss’ overnight, I guess you can contact the movies- that’s where it does happen! 

NO RISK; NO REWARD!

Life has no place for the timid. Should every great thing come on a silver platter, all men would have been great. Life has a place for those who go the extra mile of risking something others wouldn’t- then the reward comes.

If our nation wants to be great, there should be a risk taken. If anyone would want to chart that path, too, they ought to do same. It’s worth risking something (wisely though) and losing than saving it and remaining same.

Komla Afeke Dumor, the achiever, took the risk of investing where he hadn’t been formally trained; and he didn’t lose after all. The secret in this life is that risk takers are always the gainers! Where little men fear to tread, great men rush in.    

Life is meant to be lived just once; it ought to be lived best. Life is never unfair. It gives everyone the opportunity to be great, that is, if they are willing to take the risk of being great. Food for thought.

HAUNTED ME; TAUNTED YOU

Sleep is still taunting my eyes but I am not giving in this soon. I dream of one day being an achiever like Torgbui Komla. If I get to bed, I would be haunted by him to get back to work. It’s my desire to leave a legacy in my beloved homeland and I know it is yours, too. 

So… you see why Komla’s ghost haunts (and taunts) you, too? I know it haunts every well- meaning Ghanaian out there on our streets who truly wants to be ‘independent’. As a matter of fact, it haunts the entire nation. 

The GH that would someday be someone’s ‘abrokyire’ is what you and I can make it today. We can build a nation that promises a great fortune to whoever passes through. Yes, we can, too! 

The ‘abrokyire’ over which our compatriots literally call for their own heads was so made by the ideas of like men. 

As I try to take a nap, my prayer is, “Komla, kindly haunt our youth who so badly want to go into exile… wherever they may be hiding. Amen!”

THE BEATITUDES: SERMON ON AFADJATO...

1. Blessed are they that control their temper, they will definitely be free from ‘tweaa’!

2.     Blessed is he that will not expect too much from ECG (Electricity Corporation of Ghana), for he shall definitely not be disappointed!

3.     Blessed are the dwarfs who would decide to hijack the ‘freely- fallen’ cedi yet not spend it, for they have no where to invest it except our own GH!

4.     Blessed is the bald man who has the hope that there ever would be Brazilian/ Peruvian hair that would one day come to his rescue. Behold, such a manner of man has the strength to hold unto the promises of a politician!

5.     Blessed is she that will not exchange the worth of a plush, fully-furnished house for Brazilian hair. Her reward will be a never- complaining, landlord husband. After all, what shall it profit a woman if she gains every ‘natural’ hair there ever will be, yet complain that the cedi has fallen!

6.     Blessed is she that will not fill her hand bag with an entire wardrobe, for back ache shall always be far from her!

7.     Blessed is she that will not beef up her beauty (especially when there is none) with expensive accessories, clothing among others, for after marriage she will not be accused of examination malpractice!
 
8.     Blessed are they that take bribes on our roads, never would their dreams run out of ‘accident’ ghosts!

9.      Blessed are they that demand bribes to undertake duties for which they are paid, for they would wear guilty conscience on their faces all the time… for easy identification!

10.   Blessed is that gentleman who, on behalf of any woman, won’t spend his lifetime savings on every smartphone that emerges on the market, for his portion will be a healthy, well-built body!

11.   Blessed is he that would spend a chunk of his earnings on lottery, weekend partying, among others, for his children’s fees would continue to soar to almost be at par with Ghana’s debt!

12.   Blessed are they that would consider politics as their source of employment, at least, they would have a heap of insults on their heads as often as they can’t imagine!

13.   Blessed is the graduate who is patiently waiting upon the government to grant him/her a job, their enviable portion would be a decade experience of home-sitting!

14.   Blessed is the wife who would spend all her leisure on soap operas, telenovelas and what have you. She would always call her husband by a Mexican name!  

15.   And… blessed is the nation with close to a thousand presidential staffers. For in as much as there will be abundant wisdom and a cut in the rate unemployment, there will be sporadic utility price hikes and little or no salary increment!

GHOSTLY GHOST!

Third year. Legon. University of Ghana campus. Commonwealth Hall. F Block. Room 13. We had lost a roommate. 

Ten roommates we were. We all were down. Very! The late, affable Kofi Dade Snr. had shared everything of his with whoever was willing to ask. Malaria had betrayed him to death.

That week had been a hard one for all nine of us. Some of us had that unquenchable faith that he was going to be back sooner or later. One of us had even dreamt that he had been revived from dead. Another had been prophesied to in church that he was going to see with his bare eyes someone rise from the dead that week!

Our hopes had been raised. 

It had only been three days since our Archaeology pal passed away. 10 pm. ECG had done what it loved doing best- lights out. Most students had retired to their beds.

Someone banged ferociously at the door. 

“Who the hell is that!? Can’t you see it’s late?” one of us chided.   

   

“I am coming for my mattress! I can’t sleep very well where I am.”

“Who are you?” we all chorused.

“Kofi Dade!”

We looked into each other’s faces. Our hearts thumped in our chests. There was dead silence in the room. 

“Eeeh? Come again. Please, who did you just say you were?” I quivered.

“You heard me right. You think I’m kidding? Kofi Dade the archaeologist I was and am!” 

Everyone started screaming; most of us dashing into the inner room to seek refuge. No one was man enough to dare go near the door. 

“I am damn tired. Don’t waste my time. I want to go back to sleep. Do you want me to break this door?” he threatened.

“No. No. Just a minute,” we prayed.

The same religious ones who believed in the biblical Lazarus miracle had already started chanting in tongues, rebuking the devil at the door. 

The one who had dreamt a day earlier inched closer to the window and shiveringly peeped through, with the aid of his phone’s torch. 

He flinched. The figure he saw was exactly what he had expected. 

“Chaley. It’s true oo. It’s him!” He bolted.

Two friends immediately passed out.

The figure at the door, probably running out of time, forced the door open, amidst our echoic screams. Suddenly, the lights came on. We froze.

“I am Kofi Dade Jnr.”  I passed out, too.