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!

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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.

              

KOBY'S CORNER: WHY I WANT YOU TO DIE!

KOBY'S CORNER: WHY I WANT YOU TO DIE!: Haha. Guess I caught your attention. However, that doesn’t mean I am kidding. I seriously want you (yes you!) to die. I’ve been ponde...

WHY I WANT YOU TO DIE!

Haha. Guess I caught your attention. However, that doesn’t mean I am kidding. I seriously want you (yes you!) to die. I’ve been pondering on this for a while and I think it’s about time I told you why I so much yearn for you to die…  

We live in an overpopulated world of about 7 billion people (and still counting) where the basic necessities of life are extremely rare to come by, especially by a chunk of this whopping population. A lot more others, after struggling to have a sip of life’s necessities, are further oppressed, with the little they have, being wrestled back from them by the heartless, corrupt few.  

So… I somewhat began to side with nature. Because… in its own wisdom, it put in place measures to check and balance the population. These measures… we call natural disasters! Such disasters include floods, pandemics, hurricanes, name them. These ‘disasters’ are only means nature is trying to help us ooo… At least, with the existence of a checked-and-balanced population on Earth, maybe… each of us each day could have a three square meal and even more! 

However, let’s take a look at Africa. We slaughter each other every day at the least provocation. Most leaders oppress their subordinates to death. At almost every election, there’s some kind of shed of blood. So… we don’t even allow nature to do its own selection by way of the ‘disasters’. We do it ourselves!    

Does it then mean our population is balanced here in Africa? Hmm… maybe… maybe not! In spite of the natural disasters (especially drought) that have plagued our continent, we still have a chunk of us wallowing in abject poverty! Regardless of how much or few we are, we still struggle to survive; almost always doing so at the expense of baits called aids and grants. So… the matter of survival is not about numbers at all! Most continents far outnumber us yet, we dream of seeking greener pastures there.

I come back to ask… did I want you to literally die... then? Of course not! The more we die, the more sorrow there is, hence, the more our problems are even compounded. What I wanted to die was the tyrant within you, the greed that lurks in your heart, the hypocrisy that you carefully wear as a mask and of course, the corruption that has almost become your middle name! That’s you. I mean you (yes you!).

If we could share the little nature could provide and not push others around because they reposed so much trust and confidence in us, hence giving us power, our continent could be one we all could boast of. If you and I could be content with the little we had, and not desire those of others, to the extent of strangling them just to have theirs, our motherland could indeed be the destination for greener pastures for all. Think about it. It all begins with you and me…

So, if you still ask me… I would insist that you die… and I mean it! Because… at the death of the selfishness and corrupt you, we all begin to live! God bless Ghana!

I DON’T WANT TO REMEMBER ... MY VALENTINE ‘TATTERED SOCKS’ EXPERIENCE

I am skimming through my diary. Oh! It’s February 14th. I can see the ‘tattered socks drama’ shabbily scribbled here. Memories! I wish I just don’t remember this again!


It was on the evening of Val’s day. Most of the ‘campus couples’ had already gone on a night out. Like every Val’s day, there was a plethora of 'romantic' programs in and out of campus. The ‘Mr. Lonely’ that I was, I lay in bed listening to some dead, highlife ‘adadamu’ music. At least, that was how best I could while away my loneliness; I had nowhere to go.


Minutes after being engrossed in my ‘by- force’ nineteen twenty something music, a friend barged into my room with an offer; a campus fellowship was hosting a ‘lovers-and-singles night’.


My good friend, another bird of the same feather, insisted we attended this event at all cost because maybe… just maybe… we were going to find our missing ribs (one for each of us!).

I embraced the idea. After all, I wasn’t making any headway with my good old music. It wasn’t really my thing.


Attending the event was going to be great. However, there was one problem; I had washed all my clothes earlier that evening. All I had were my neatly-pressed shirt, pair of trousers and… oh… my pair of tattered socks!

Actually, I had planned on discarding those socks early the next day. They had long outlived their expiry date. Those socks had seen better days ooo!


From the look of things, I had to make do with that pair of socks because I didn’t have any other, neither did my friend have any to spare.

Both of us headed for the venue of the program. On reaching there, I spotted this beautiful lady sitting alone at her table. My heart leapt for joy.

"Probably that's my missing rib!"


I deserted my friend and quickly joined her. He gawked at me as he sadly sat at another table occupied by only guys. I knew I had played a fast one on him and was going to have a good laugh at him when we got back to our rooms. I engaged the lady in a hearty chat. Wow! It was so refreshing. We talked on and on.


No sooner than later, our chat was interrupted. The preacher man for the night had arrived. He soon began to preach. Thirty minutes into his sermon, he revealed that the Holy Ghost had just whispered to him to do something.


I smiled. "Tweaa!"

I definitely knew it was going to be about money… of which I had enough. Obviously… it was going to be an opportunity to win the heart of this lady by giving out as much as she couldn’t imagine.


The preacher man then continued that he had been directed by the Holy Ghost to anoint our feet. My heart skipped a beat!

“Anoint our feet at this time of the night!?” I thought aloud. I knew this anointing service was definitely a recipe for disaster. My socks were tattered beyond repairs and I couldn’t imagine displaying them publicly.

Everyone could clearly see the irreparable damage by way of the patches and ‘potholes’ (big enough to contain my grandmother’s cooking pot) on them. The pretty damsel on seeing them could easily mistaken me for one mentally-deranged folk.


The preacher insisted on coming over to our respective seats to anoint us individually. Alas! Our table was the first. My heart palpitated. The look I wore on my face betrayed my insecurity. I knew I was in danger… a big one of course!


I saw the preacher galloping to our table. I didn’t need the same Holy Ghost to remind me that danger was coming. I cocked my neck around and before anyone could utter the word jack… I had bolted… with the speed of Usain Bolt!