chapter 24: mad about mugabe

there's something of a dictatorial impulse in african politics.

news flash!

ok, i know that's nothing new, but it seems the list of african tragedies will never end. in addition to the well-known long running disputes, we have the recent violence in kenya.

the zimbabwe election saga looks increasingly likely to go from laughable to bloody. mugabe is holding on with both arthritic 80 year old claws and his decrepit false teeth. the opposition mdc says 15 of its supporters have been killed in post-election violence. and more than 200 of its activists were arrested during a police raid on its headquarters on friday.

the cartoon basically encapsulates mugabe's attitude towards competition.

and cameroon could be next. the country's 1996 constitution enshrined two seven year terms as the limit for presidents. but parliament recently adopted amendments that will allow the current president, who's been in power since 1982, to continue indefinitely. and even better, another amendment shields the president against prosecution for anything he does while in power! yay accountability!

so what the deal, yo? do african leaders tend more towards dictatorship, or do the societies as a whole?

interestingly, many people i speak to blame the lack of development in ghana on too much democracy...yeah, that's right, they would prefer a bit more of a dictatorial style from their leaders. it's not a scientific poll in any way, but it's interesting, given most ghanaians were alive during the bloody reign of flt lt jerry rawlings. and stranger still, rawlings still carries a lot of influence. i think he should be in jail myself...but maybe that's the difference between them and us?

chapter 23: the highs and the lows

8:30 pm, and all is well. i'm sitting on the front stoop of the house, enjoying rare moments of peace and quiet. the air is heavy and fragrant with the greenery of kumasi's lush backcountry, away from the teeming humanity and choking pollution of the busy metropolis.

the lights have gone out again, and the stupefying heat has forced me out of the house. in ghana, sundown signals near perfect darkness, as most of the country is without street lights. tonight, with the lights out, the darkness is so thick that i literally can't see five feet in front of me. the black hole of the night is punctured only by the light of my headlamp, as i read and enjoy a gentle breeze. i greet people passing by, and speak with my housemates as they come and go. the light are out, but for the moment, it's not unpleasant.

inside however, is another story. it's like an oven, and when i finally go to bed, i toss and turn all night. there's no running water at the moment either. we're basically camping, but not by choice. this is unpleasant.

and this morning when i wake, there are red eyes and yawns all around. these are the highs and lows of life in west africa. pleasant and peaceful one moment, uncomfortable and primitive the next.

chapter 22: april fool's! the anatomy of the worst joke ever

i've done it. i've managed to wash away six months worth of goodwill in one day. i am public enemy number one in the kumasi metropolis, all due to a made-up occasion which i've always thought was stupid.

reconstructing now for the record, the ignominious fall of luv fm's favourite (and only) obruni contribuor.

monday, march 31st, 8:47am: luv's producer/host/promotions guru extraordinaire nana benin pulls me aside and asks me to participate in a hilarious april fool's day hoax. i blindly agree.

8:49am: i am to appear on anita's show, the metro mix, to promote a fictional scholarship to an information technology school in chicago. the school is called christian centenary university. it doesn't exist.

11:27am: i head into the studios, and am handed a fake press release. apparently, i have arranged the scholarship through a friend of mine. aren't i great? she works for an ngo called microchip organizational development structures incorporated. which, also, exists neither in the present nor the past.

11:33am: rhianna's “umbrella” (the remix!) finishes playing for the gazillionth time. i'm given a glowing introduction. i give my shpiel. we both cover our microphones with our hands and titter like idiots.

11:35am: anita tells people they have to bring their resume to the station, and do it today! now! this was not discussed with me. then call a certain number for their code. i feel a twinge of guilt. but surely, nobody will rush over on such short notice!

11:45am: after a few more songs, probably akon, then rhianna, and rhianna again, i sign off.

11:46am: nana's phone rings. he answers and gives the info. gives out the code. luv-apfl/01. a. p. f. l. april fool's! now that's clever. surely people will catch on.

11:47am: nana's phone rings again.

11:48am: nana's phone rings again. getting the idea?

12:12pm: fresh off air, anita rushes over to me, breathless. “my phone keeps ringing! you were so good!”

12:17pm: my phone starts ringing. i am officially going to hell, i say. everyone around me laughs. nobody disagrees.

12:18pm: i busy myself with editing stories, catching up on writing, and hiding in the newsroom. the resumes have started arriving.

4:02pm: nana has taken 63 calls, has gotten seven text messages, and missed 44 calls. gulp.

6:12pm: i head home.

11:33pm: i fall asleep. nightmares of lynching ensue.

tuesday, april 1, 6:31am: i wake up. shower. brush teeth. begin preparing mental list of large friends who can serve as bodyguards.

9:11am: after morning editorial meeting, i poke my head in nana's office. he looks harried. his phone is stuck in his ear. i lift an eyebrow as he tells someone: “your code is l-u-v-dash-a-p-f-l-slash-one-one-one.”

9:13am: i lock myself in the bathroom. i retch. Rinse, repeat.

11:35am: i'm back with anita. akon finishes telling everyone “nobody wanna see us together...” and we're on. we have dozens of resumes. dozens. we read some. they're passionately written, and so sincere. we laugh off air. we're not only going to hell, but soon. after an extremely painful death.

11:45am: we take some calls. people tell us why they want the scholarship. there are computer professionals, other kinds of professionals, students, the unemployed.

11:49am: nana gives us the final tally: 127 codes given, 84 missed calls, ten text messages. in about a day. we have underestimated demand. severely.

11:56am: we break the news. it's a hoax. nobody has caught on. all were blinded by dumb hope. i suck.

11:58am: a young man who applied is dragged forlornly into the studio. he had no idea. he's disappointed. he looks like he's about to cry. i stab out my eyes.

12:05pm: i finalize my bodyguard list.

12:08pm: angry mob is forming at the gates.

12:11pm: i stride out bravely to meet them. they tear me apart.

or;

12:11pm: i stride out timidly in an upright fetus-like position. see the definition of supplication. i plead for mercy. i cry. the crowd disperses disgustedly.

6:06pm: in reality, i am carried out in a mail sack, placed surreptitiously in a car trunk and smuggled away.

6:12pm: clear of mob, i promise to confine myself to news and good deeds.

6:35pm: heading to local rice spot, i consume a rare weekday alcoholic beverage. restaurant attendant asks “why did you fool the people like that?”

6:36pm: sigh.

chapter 21: witchcraft, black magic and the law

ghana is a very superstitious land. religions familiar to westerners abound, with a side order of zealotry here and there. but i've been consistently fascinated with the indigenous beliefs that hold tremendous influence here, like black magic, wizardry and witchcraft.

to me, it always seems like their version of the boogeyman. as a child i was told "go to bed, or the boogeyman will get you!" of course, i eventually realized it was just a scare story, designed to get kids to obey.

but ghanaians never seem to reach that stage.

most people still believe there are some people who can communicate with spirits, perform curses, perform voodoo or juju, even enlist spirits to exact revenge on those who have wronged them.

"you will see what will happen" is the ominous threat that spiritual payback is coming.

there was a hilarious example of how traditional beliefs can collide with modern life during a legal seminar at luv fm yesterday. a few shows on the local language station, nhyira fm, specialize in stories about the supernatural. the company lawyer was warning presenters not to use names when a guest is accusing someone of witchcraft or wizardry. in some parts, such an accusation can lead to serious consequences; ostracism, banishment to witch camps, or even deadly mob action. there have been lawsuits. said the exasperated lawman: "how can i prove she is a witch in court? she will deny it!"

i was the only one laughing. this is a weighty legal issue in ghana, and british common law is not equipped to deal with it.

Fetish Priest Nana Kwaku Bonsam.

fetish priests are sort of a catch-all for traditional spiritual beliefs. i've been wanting to see one in action for a long time, and yesterday i finally got the chance. i returned to the station after a story assignment to find a fetish priest giving a demonstration. he was clothed in traditional white cloth, muttering incantations, supposedly turning leaves into money. as far as i could tell, he was simply pulling money out of a covered basket. everyone was watching in amazement. i have to admit, i was underwhelmed.

but then he did something a little more dramatic. he took a knife, and started slashing his arms, stomach and even his eyes. no blood spewed, and not a mark appeared. then he took a tree branch and easily cut through it with the knife.

hmmmm...

later i saw his assistant putting the leaves-into-money basket away. the top slipped a bit, and not surprisingly, i saw both leaves and money inside. much to the annoyance of my colleagues, who expected me to abandon my stubbornly rational disbelief, i now believe these individuals are not practising black magic, but are simply accomplished illusionists.

but i'm warning you all right now: don't cross me!

"you will see what will happen!"

chapter 20: feelin' fine

i have been slightly neglectful of the blog lately, n0t because i've been particularly busy, but because life has assumed a strange, unlooked-for peace.

six months in, with my time here now flying towards "the end", life almost seems normal.

not to say i've come to love bucket showers, water scarcity, burning garbage piles, poverty and all the other challenges here. it's just become a part of life. i'm more or less comfortable with the routine, having finally aquired the wherewithal to forge a normal routine in this environment that seemed chaotic at first.

i walk down the streets, hardly noticing the myriad and sometimes bizarre things being hawked by the roadside. i smile at those who greet my in the typical way, although most of them recognize me by now.

i stop by the european market to pick up mangoes, pineapples, oranges apples...all costing the equivalent of a few dollars! fruit guy is always happy to see me. those few dollars are important to him, and to me it's a ridiculous bargain. take that, safeway!

i eat rice at a food stand while talking to my friend who sells used clothing in the business district. i've never bought anything from him, but he's always happy to chat for a few minutes.

i feel like the king of kensington, minus the baldness, and replacing the cheesy soundtrack with a funky hip life beat.

there's gotta be a tv show in there somewhere.

chapter 19: sex and chocolate

ghana is a strange place when it comes to sex and sexuality. people are embarassed to talk about it much, but they do it alot.

case in point, masturbation. i know, it sounds like the beginning of a joke, but it's not. a radio presenter at love asked me what i thought about masturbation. i said i figured everyone had done it at some point in their lives. so we asked some other people, and nobody would admit it in person. but almost everyone admitted it on the radio, having had the chance to conceal their identities.

there's also a huge variety of herbal potions to enhance sexual pleasure, often being sold by street hawkers who can't even read the labels. if they happen to be in english. i remember when tristin visited, someone tried to sell her a little bottle of 'sex juice'. it had a picture of a couple having sex. and that was really all the information to be gleaned from the bottle.

women are especially frowned upon if they admit to having had muliple sexual partners. it's gotten so bad that they've resorted to an herbal potion that changes their organ, and makes men think they're virgins. oh yeah...the potion causes cervical cancer and hiv.

it reminds me of bon jovi. "your love is like baaad medicine..." really, really bad medicine.

on a lighter, sex-related note, ghana chocolate is good. pure cocoa, very few chemicals. cadbury will never taste the same.

now that's orgasmic!

chapter 18: the paradox of being an obruni

every day, i fight an ironic battle between choosing to enjoy the advantages of being a while man in ghana, and accepting the same drawbacks that come with being a regular kweku or amma.
ducking out of the office in mid-morning for some delicious fried yams with pepper sauce, i greet the man and wife who sell them on the street just outside the office. as usual, their adorable three year old son squeals in fear when he sees me, shouting “obruni” and ducking for cover behind his father. as always i laugh, and feign a snarling lunge at the boy, which never fails to send him into delirious fits of pleasure and horror.

the white man is scary! but he's paying attention to me! wheeee!

it's okay when kids call me obruni, and i don't even mind it when adult strangers do it, even though the cute factor goes way down when that cursed word emenates from between the jack o' lantern like teeth of a wizened old market woman. call me an asshole, but it seems downright undignified. nevertheless, i shrug it off.

what happens next, however, is a whole different ball of banku, and some days i can barely contain myself. i have told my luv colleagues repeatedly i don't want to be called obruni. “i have a name, use it!” my smile is friendly enough, but my eyes mean business. a few of them don't get the message. today, one of the more stubborn members of that tribe strolls in and calls me the dreaded “o” word. i look at him and say “why do you always say obruni, obruni...that's for children. you know my name, but every day you call me obruni!”

he appears to be hurt, explaining that it's not negative, i am white man, he is black man. i explain that i know that, but why should we separate eachother based on race? he says, “that is how we do. we separate you because the white man is up here, and we are down here. you are rich, we are poor. you are better.”

i feel mortified.

trying to be treated as an equal is a losing battle. just because i'm rich (compared to him) am i better? he says yes.

“was it hard for you to get a visa?” “no,” i admit.

“you saw how bush was treated on his visit? would people care that much about the president of
ghana?” “no,” i say again.

it's hard to argue that kind of logic, even though i'm living an working beside ghanaians precisely because i don't believe race matters when determining an individual's worth.
but the truth is, i often feel like a hypocrite.

every day, someone insists on carrying something for me, serving me first, and my protests are always futile. case in point: at the post office yesterday, i arrived at 3:45, and quickly waded into the disorganized mess of humanity, intent on picking up a so-called “instant money transfer” from accra. i'd been there twice before, but had to leave because i didn't have the required information once, and because i didn't have all day to wait the second time. after waiting and watching three giggling employees gossip among themselves for half an hour, we were informed the office was closed, and told to come back tomorrow.

uhh, no. no signage and lazy employees = angry brennan.

i start yelling.

yes, yelling.

“it says instant money transfer! we've been waiting half an hour and not one person has been served. i left work early to come, and i want my money now!” they took my slip and disappeared into the back. everyone else was told to come back. five minutes later, an agent taps me on the shoulder, and spirits me around the corner, taking covert glances over her shoulder to make sure none of the angry crowd has noticed. i get my money.

i'm mollified, but somewhat guilty.

i've gotten used to the lax customer service standards here, and have often seen employees sleeping on the job. but if things don't run properly, and i get served because i'm white, am i taking unfair advantage of my status? it doesn't seem unreasonable for operating hours to be posted, for employees to work while a crowd waits, or at least be conscious.

there goes my dream of equality. i guess i'll never be a real ghanaian.