SIR SKELEWU’S ‘ABAA’....

It was class four (4). Sir Skelewu was all we knew him as; his real name most of us dared not to us. As fearful as his name sounded, his sizeable, long ‘rod’ was one thing he barely spared, lest spoil us. 

Most of us would ‘load’ piles of books or even used clothing into the backs of either our shirts or shorts, but all those weren’t enough to salvage us from the endless pain of his ‘abaa’, to wit, cane. Countless times had we tried to steal that deity of his that caused us so much discomfort, yet all to no avail. 

This time around he had asked us to go find out the name of someone who mowed lawns. He was definitely going to verify the answers any moment from that day.

Early next morning, Sir Skelewu was brandishing his ‘abaa’ at us. “Yes Yaw John, your answer.” 

He stood up. “The answer is gate man, sir!”

Before he could bat an eyelid, two heavy strokes had travelled back and forth his back, with the speed of lightning. He yelled.

As of this time, the class was dead silent. Everyone’s heart thumped in their chest. The last thing anyone wanted to hear was their name. 

“Yes. Kofi Paul, tell me what you discovered”

Kofi Paul was visibly shaking.  “Errrrm. Errrrm. Goat, sir!” he quivered.

“Eeeeh?” 

He repeated it, this time louder.

“Dog, not goat! Fool!”

In the twinkling of an eye, Sir Skelewu had mercilessly unleashed his cane on him, too. No one dared laugh, funny as it seemed. After all, one didn’t know whether what they were thinking was right or not.

 

“Kwesi Boh, what do you think the answer is?” 

“Grass cutter!” he swiftly replied.

“What!?” Sir Skelewu wondered.

“Ah! My mother told me. Grass cutter!”

The lanky teacher’s deafening lashes suddenly resonated with his three-syllabled answer, Kwesi Boh bursting into tears and dashing out of the class. 

Sir Skelewu continued with his whipping spree.

In no time, Kwesi Boh returned with his furious mother. The Goliath-like physique, who was famed for flooring even the strongest ‘Area Macho’, struggled to enter the door of the class. Painstakingly she did. 

“Where’s the teacher?” she roared. Kwesi pointed at him.

“Give me that ‘abaa’ now and let me show you how sweet it feels like!”

Sir Skelewu’s feet were wobbling. “Oh! But Kwesi, you should have told me your mum was the English professor!”

   

    

PANTY-LESS ME!

I had been combing almost all the companies and schools in Accra for employment after university. As long as three years on, there was still none. My hallowed, hard-earned undergraduate certificate was becoming nothing more than an ornamental memorabilia with little or no use.

These were times my breakfasts were intentionally delayed, and either my lunch or supper kept on diminishing by a morsel day after day. “Get a job like your friends!” I was indirectly trying to be told.   

One morning, thankfully, I had a call to come teach in an all-girls’ school the next day. My goodness!  The enthusiasm was great. First, I would be able to own a radio set at long last, and second, I would meet girls; a lot of them.

Exactly 6am I was at the bus terminal. There were scores of several others who had one important schedule or another to attend to; all of us anxiously waiting for a trotro.

The first came. As expected, only a few strong ones made it; no place for neither the gentle nor weak. Second trotro; same story. 

It was obvious my gentleness was only going to get me standing there till another eclipse occurred in GH. Those in tuxedos even joined in this ‘survival of the fittest’ (which looked nothing new to even the ladies), how much less yours truly dressed in an oburoniweewu long sleeves and trousers, and of course... panty-less.  

Walking about panty-less (antipé) wasn’t anything new. It went far back to my SSS days and was one enjoyable legacy my single sex alma mater had successfully ingrained in me.

Third trotro came. I forcefully made my way amidst battering and insults from some aggrieved co-passengers. I hastened to the headmistress’ office and then sped off to the class I had been assigned to. 

The students unusually giggled on seeing me.  

“I look that good?” I wondered. “Maybe I look like another John Dumelo.” 

I poured on and on all that I had ‘chewed’ some years ago. The class even giggled the more. To my bewilderment, all those from behind had suddenly moved to the front seats… whispering to each other.

“Oh! I guess I am that good a Biology teacher,” I soliloquized, with such a great sense of fulfillment. 

On realizing how impressive their interest in the topic was, I didn’t leave anything to chance; not even the ‘biological’ demonstrations. They burst into laughter after each of such theatrical moves. 

By some stroke of luck, I cast my eyes on the flap of my neatly-pressed adigidon trousers. Alas! There my hair- adorned ‘heavyweight’ was unperturbedly minding its own business. It had been staring into everyone’s face all that while! 

I heaved. “Close your eyes,” I paused. “Say the sinner’s prayer!”

SARCASTICALLY SARCASTIC!

• Is it not sarcastic how those who yesterday complained so bitterly of the then politicians have successfully become the same ‘public purse- looting’ politicians of today? Chop chop nkoaa!  

• In GH, doesn’t it beat one’s mind when we all cry for so much change yet complain so bitterly at the least change effected by one government or another because we prefer to do things the same old traditional way?

• Indeed you get to know what sarcasm is when those who can talk loudest and make ‘plenty’ promises are regarded as ‘true, visionary politicians’ when others who would tell the facts as they are, hence, make promises based on such, are regarded otherwise. 

• Is it not sarcastic when the poor, ‘ordinary’ Ghanaian who’s supposed to be served, pays for almost every service provided when the politicians who are supposed to be ‘servants’ are instead exempted from quite a number of such? Law of inverse proportion!

• Truly it is sarcastic when the opposition party almost always seems to find something wrong with everything the incumbent government does and vice versa!

• If this is not sarcastic, then nothing else is- we lambast politicians at the least opportunity yet… literally bow to them at every social gathering!

• Sarcasm in GH is when a government worker works lackadaisically yet expects the government to wave a magic wand to suddenly change the economy and pay him/her as much as only Gods knows.

• What is more sarcastic than a politician preaching ‘sacrifice’ yet would want to be exempted when it comes to its practice!?

• Tell me if this is not sarcastic. In church, everyone is urged to sow all their earnings except he who preaches it- the pastor. Halleluiah!

• Sarcasm is well defined in GH when one who speaks his/her local dialect very well but the Queen’s language poorly is ridiculed when he who does otherwise is regarded genius. The proverbial butterfly that wants to be a bird!   

• You know what it is like to be sarcastic when one insists on good reading habits yet never reads manuals of their new gadgets or quickly flips over ‘terms of agreement’ of any software. Boys abre!

• It is sarcastically sarcastic when women, especially, would so much wish the sermon ended so they could go home… even when they came to church late. And when service has closed, too, they would sit down with their friends and converse all afternoon. Girls kasa!

• Is it not sarcastic how we’re taught little or nothing about money in school, yet society wants us to be a master of it?

• Of course, you get to know another definition of sarcasm when employees expect young graduates to have close to a decade work experience when they (graduates) never get employed until almost after a decade. A decade of inexperience!   

•  Is it not sarcastic how some Ghanaian women would buy expensive Brazilian hair and use them for only some months yet buy very cheap Chinese phones and desire to use them forever? Maybe our women need Chinese hair!

‘

KOBY'S CORNER: HOLYGOES FIRE!

KOBY'S CORNER: HOLYGOES FIRE!: Rev. Fr. Okpojah sanctimoniously stepped into the class. The noisy class immediately became as silent as a cemetery.  The Religio...

A LETTER TO MY FATHER-IN-LAW

Retired Major Boateng I presume you would be called

I bring you good tidings from my home, especially my kid sister

I guess you have seen me with Baaba, your daughter, a few times

Yes, I’m not her course mate, if that’s what you think

I’m neither her church member, I barely even go to church

As a matter of fact, I want to make her the bearer of my ten seeds

And… are you serious about the dowry?

Did you say I needed to pay a thousand Ghana cedis which was the worth of a bottle of Schnapps? Like seriously?

That buys an ultra-modern laptop ooo, you know!

And, I don’t even have a second- hand desktop, not to talk of a laptop

If only a drink for the gods is costing that much, I’m not surprised you say I should pay two thousand Ghana cedis for only six yards of GTP  

If you care to know, I’ve been wearing affordable ‘the-white-man-is-dead’ for as long as I can remember because I know very well I can’t afford Printex, Woodin or even GTP

Baaba even loves the ‘oburoniweewu’ more than I do. Ask her

She showed me a tall list of other to-buy items on the dowry form

Let me ask you, Mr. Boateng. You say you go to church. Don’t you want us to fulfill God’s task of us multiplying and filling the Earth or you’re just trying to be rebellious?

How much did Adam pay to God for Eve? If even the father of all men, who lived in the abundance of food in the Eden garden under God’s economy, paid nothing for the first woman, how heartlessly can you ask an unemployed graduate like me to pay as much as five thousand Ghana cedis for bride price, under such suffocating Mahamaic economic conditions?  

Do you care to know how much the Brazilian hair she wears costs? As much as eight hundred cedis! I pay for it every two months.

I guess she asked you for money to buy skin-toning creams like ages ago. It’s not as though she doesn’t use them any longer. I pay at least two hundred cedis for them every three months.

I paid for her one thousand Ghana cedis worth iPhone last month.

When last did you pay for her lecture notes and church offertory? Of course you can’t remember but I took over from where you stopped.

When you were in other war-torn countries fighting for peace, I was doing same here in GH, warding off blood-thirsty mosquitoes from her succulent skin.

I have paid half of her fees before; that was somewhere last academic year, when you used all your peace-keeping earnings on lotto.

Retired Major, I’m not well- versed in calculations but if you sum up all my expenses made, I suppose you even have a deficit to pay me.

I won’t talk. I’ll just give you my account number for you to deposit into it the about two thousand Ghana cedis, after deducting your five thousand cedis.

As I said, I won’t talk because I‘ve seen your son, Fiifi, around my kid sister, whom I’ve been taking care of for some time now.

He comes here in the name of studying with her but I know Nana Akua is a medical student and Fiifi studies archaeology; unless he wants to tell me that archaeology is a synonym of medicine. 

Have you heard of the latest Samsung Galaxy tablet? Ask of the price because that would be the least item he’s going to buy on my dowry list.

I even want him to buy the latest Mercedes C class when the time is due but because he runs errands in calling Baaba for me sometimes, I’ll have pity on him; he would buy only two Hummers!

Ask Baaba for my account number. I’ll be expecting my money by the close of working day tomorrow because I need it to buy some diapers for my first seed she’s carrying.  This is your yet-to-be son and father-in-law *feeling annoyed*!

Reply from Retd. Major Boateng: Oh, you should have said all of these all this while. As for my son Fiifi, he definitely would be your son-in-law, too. He just told me about his marriage plans yesterday. And did you say I’m going to be a grandfather? Goodness! Look, Baaba is even here. I’ve been forcing her to marry you as soon as possible. Come for her any day, anytime. In fact, come for her today. I was only testing you with that supposed dowry list. You have passed. Just forget bride price. If you have any two- sure, let me know. Ok?  Son-in-law papapaaa!

NB; When coming, prepare for your funeral, too. I would test my never- used AK- 47 on you. Let me see if you pass that, too *feeling anxious*!

HOLYGOES FIRE!

Rev. Fr. Okpojah sanctimoniously stepped into the class. The noisy class immediately became as silent as a cemetery. 

The Religious and Moral Education teacher walked leisurely in the aisle and asked, “What did we study the last time we met?” The class remained silent, as though no one heard him. We had an idea of the previous lesson which was about something fire but almost all of us had forgotten. 

Kwaku Peter, a pastor’s son, raised his hand. We heaved. Someone had come to our rescue. “Holy…” he began. The priest interrupted “Clap for him!” even before he could finish. 

 

We all chorused “Headmaster!” amidst the resounding applause. Kwaku Peter was so called because of his unusually big head. The cheers soon died out.

“Who can spell Holy ghost fire?” the priest dared. The class was silent again. Headmaster swiftly raised his hand once again, to our greatest pleasure. The reverend father sighed.

“Kwaku Peter, kindly stand up and walk up here” he instructed him. “Look at the serious student” he admired. Headmaster strutted to the front.

“If these we-refuse-to-think colleagues of yours have decided not to use their heads, I would force them to. Go round and show them how to think; a knock each!” he yelled.

Headmaster smiled. “Today you will see!” he whispered to Taiwo and me; the first seat occupants.

Taiwo, a Nigerian who after staying home learning a trade for God knows how long, had come to Ghana to school with us as a class three pupil. Goodness! He was old; as old as Olele.  

It was Headmaster’s payback time. Our sins? Earlier that morning, Taiwo had denied him a morsel of his gargantuan loaf of hard, crunchy tea bread. I, on the other hand, had also denied him the pleasure of playing my tselensa football a day earlier during break time.  

Headmaster paced menacingly towards us. There was no way either of us could feign illness to avoid his vengeance because the teacher had caught both of us arguing briskly earlier.

Headmaster grabbed Taiwo’s head and in a matter of seconds had already sunk two hefty knocks into his brain. Taiwo whined “Chineke. This boy don kill me finish!” 

The surprised priest cautioned “I said just one oo!” Headmaster nodded, grabbed Taiwo’s head and revengefully gave him another knock.

“Ah!” the priest exclaimed. “You said one so I started again!” Headmaster explained. “Ok. Just go on” he was hinted. 

All too soon, he was done knocking all thirty of us; heartlessly. He was panting for breath. “Now show them how to think. Spell it” the teacher demanded.

“H-O-L-Y-G-O-E-S-F-I-R-E” Headmaster screamed exuberantly. 

“Heeeerh!” the priest gaped. “This boy paaa!” he imagined. “Everyone should give him a knock, starting from Taiwo” he added. 

“I don kill this Headmastor boy today!” the infuriated Taiwo swore. Headmaster quickly dashed out of the class; the last that was ever seen of him.