2008 in review: Sanitation, pair-trawling, oil find, free maternal care and elections

The 12 months, 52 weeks, 366 days, 8,784 hours, 527,040 minutes and 31,622,400 seconds of the year 2008 has come and gone! This column takes a cursory look at five of the noteworthy events of the year. They are: sanitation, pair-trawling, crude oil, free maternal care and the elections.

Sanitation: The UN declared the year 2008, the whole 12 months of it, as the first International Year of Sanitation. It was such a great opportunity for Ghana to make a dent in our deplorable environmental sanitation situation. But we couldn’t scratch the surface of the problem. We are in a new year. All fingers and toes should be kept crossed that as we usher in a new political administration, God will raise leaders to champion the fight to bring sanity into our insane sanitation situation.

Pair-Trawling: During the year, we were introduced to a new vocabulary – pair-trawling. It took me a while to understand it. Here is my elementary explanation of pair-trawling. It is tantamount to taking a gigantic double-edged broom, dipping it into the ocean and doing a grand sweep of the very bottom of the Ocean. During the cursed sweep, anything and everything the great broom touches is up for grabs. In the process, grandfather fishes, grandmother fishes, uncle fishes, aunt fishes, cousin fishes, baby fishes and distant relatives of fishes the teeth of the broom can touch is caught. If the eggs of the fishes are trapped in the great pair-trawling broom, so be it.

If only this sort of grand sweeping of the ocean floor would be applied to clean out our gutters and streets and backyards and schools and homes and businesses, Ghana would become a better place.

As a ‘fishtarian’ (I don’t eat meat), naturally and probably selfishly, I’m very concerned because this situation sounds like big trouble. Fish is my key source of protein so if pair-trawling is not stopped, I can see malnutrition coming my way. Days before the December 7 elections, news trickled in about definite efforts to stop pair-trawling. But if history and experience are anything to go by, this might be another nine-day wonder with electioneering colouring. If we can’t put an end to pair-trawling that potentially takes fish from our cooking pots, then we should be very concerned about the crude oil our politicians and their cronies have salivated about with bizarre promises as the one-item-covers-all solution to our myriad problems.

Crude Oil: Apart from Jubilee House that beckons, one key matter at stake in our elections is the crude oil find. Last July, when the frenzy of elections was at a fever pitch, crude oil was selling on the world market at $147 a barrel. The price has dropped to a five-year low of $36, bobbling up and down. We are toast! We have carelessly counted the chicks of Ghana long before the hens got down to the business of laying the eggs and to even decide whether they should commit to pausing their lives to spend precious time to provide needed body heat so nature will respond and hatch those eggs! With oil money, we might all have resorted to eating salad everyday with cake for desert and Champaign to wash it all down. But now, we might have to settle for cassava and ‘kobi’.

Free Maternal Care: During the year, through a British grant to reduce deaths during child birth, free maternal care was introduced. There are unintended consequences of well-intended policies. Free maternal care is a bonanza to irresponsible men who just impregnate women and move on as if life is just one big party. It is an everyday-Christmas gift to them; they sing the hallelujah chorus with impunity. Then, they gift the pregnancy to Ghana. They might later brag, “This is my child,” and you just want to slap the foolishness out of them.

Irresponsible men are those who are stingy, who view pregnancy and child birth as the financial responsibility of a woman. Some are damn broke but some are not – just irresponsible. I’ve heard gut-wrenching stories of vulnerable pregnant women whose men have drastically cut down chop money because hospital care is free.

There is a possible impact of free maternal care on population growth. Consider the frightening fact that Ghana’s population has doubled in a generation – from about 12 million in the late 1980s to the current estimated 23 million. This policy might be a license to keep unwanted pregnancies and indeed to excuse bringing about unwanted pregnancies with the laughable and dismissive explanation, “It’s free!” There is also the inevitable increase in the sheer numbers of children who must fend for themselves in all sorts of unacceptable ways, least among them being selling Chinese-made products by the road-side.

Elections: During the year, we ate and drank politics so we can select a fresh bunch of parliamentarians and a new president. We voted in a re-run for president to select one of two men to occupy the new palace. The December 7 elections turned into a December 28 round-up, run-on, run-off or just running. And then Tain came along! So we wait!

Let the truth be told – the past few weeks, especially the last few days, have been so tense and nerve wracking. We have sat on tenterhooks. Whatever tenterhooks are, they are definitely uncomfortable. Those hooks have pinched us in places where it hurts the most. We’ve been afraid.

All the prayers for peace and talk of peace and advertisements for peace and admonitions for peace and marches for peace assume that we are close to the opposite of peace and the opposite of peace does not sound peaceful. When going to the polls and counting votes sound like a preparation for war; when our boarders are closed tight; when the security agencies are placed on high alert; when you hear any mention of a group of young people wielding cutlasses and/or stones; when gloom is over-cast on a nation; when the rhetoric of NDC and NPP supporters, Radio Gold and Oman FM sound like war drums – you can’t help but be afraid; very afraid.

We don’t have this part of the democracy thing figured out – yet. Our democracy is fledgling like an egg, still being hatched. The egg shell is tough with naughty NPP and NDC and the many other baby political parties stuck in between the hard shell cracks. Fact: We’ve got a long way to go on this democracy path.

But on the bright side, as a people, we showed our political sophistication and maturity through the elections. First, we showed that none of the political parties or presidential candidates is a phenomenon. They don’t have what it takes to take our breath away. No wonder the results indicate a split for the two leading parties and presidential candidates. The next president will have a slim margin of victory.

Mighty trees fell during the December 7 elections. Nkrumah’s baby girl, Samia Yaaba, whipped NDC’s giant Lee Ocran. It’s a beautiful thing when a pint-sized woman whips a grown man who is thought to be ‘unwhippable.’ Ouch! NPP’s arrogant Asamoah-Boateng was booted out by his home town folks to save Ghana from his annoying ranting on our air waves. Thank you, Dear Lord for a good, funny and interesting year!

dorisdartey@yahoo.com

Christmas and New Year Wishes for Ghana: No More Open Gutters

For the past few weeks, this column has been dense. Mighty toes have been stepped on, pushing some soft buttons of society. So in the spirit of Christmas, and as is the tradition of this column, we break for a soft issue – gutters. Here are two gutter tales.

Man meets woman. Man and woman wait – for love to happen. Then, boom, it happens. In the early days of love, they hold hands to walk. He holds her hands delicately. Reason: she is delicate. She needs protection. When crossing a road, she is shepherded, lest she hurts herself. Is it happiness? Yes, it is nirvana. In our world of gutters, you need protection from gutters to get to nirvana. Your legs, my legs, our legs are in constant danger, with gutters staring threateningly. So man holds woman’s hands to cross the smallest of gutters. He says, “Darling, watch the gutter,” long after woman has crossed. Well, she is an experienced gutter-crosser. She knows the ways of gutters.

Then, time passes. Love grows dim. Rust sets in. Love fatigue looms. Love wanes. Hand holding ceases, left firmly in the distant past. Now, man and woman simply walk, crossing gutters on waned love’s journey. Baby gutters, grandfather gutters, mama gutters, uncle gutters, cousin gutters. Woman walks slowly, pained from many life’s ordeals. Then it happens. One day, man walks with woman. Man walks past hurriedly from woman. Woman trips, falls in gutter. Man continues to walk on. Then looks back and yells at woman, “You fool! Have you gone blind? Didn’t you see that big gutter?”

Man continues to walk away, into the gloomy distance – dulled antennae reigning supreme. Clueless! Woman drags her sore self out of gutter – mud and all. Woman continues walk, limping on, deeply hurt. She leaves remnants of love behind – in the gutter. A severe love body-blow has just occurred – a watershed moment with gutter as principal witness. Gutter is also the smoking gun.

Another gutter tale. This girlish woman I know was driving a pack-of-tin, an engineering feat called a car. Her cell phone rings. She picks up. The caller was a very close friend, a sort of boy friend. He needs to talk, so badly. She needs to talk, for no particular reason. Smoothly, she drives on, yapping, not paying attention to the world around as if a vehicle is nothing but jelly. Soon, the conversation settles in a place between the devil and the deep blue sea. Meanwhile, she was dodging pot holes, baby coffins, bounces hunch-back speed bumps, and sidesteps several careless but confident road-crossers and many other categories of predators in-built into our roads. She slows down, wallops and gallops on.

Then suddenly, it happens! She drives car into a muddy gutter. In the cell phone distraction, she did not notice the accident so kept accelerating, wheels spinning, until yells and teasing laughter from youthful passers-by brought the message home. So she got off the phone to see to the predicament. It took more than a dozen men and a gutter engineering feat, with planks, to yank car out of gutter. She thanks helpers with some cedis and speeds off, still yapping on the phone. Within minutes, car begins to lose power. Then, yells from a new batch of onlookers bring another message home – the car was puffing out smoke, almost burning. She parks the car, shaken.

What are the lessons from these gutter tales? It is plain folly to drive and talk on the cell phone. It could even be suicidal. But more so, there are too many monstrous gutters waiting with smiles, to suck us into their gaping mouths. And, there is no one to sue if you become a gutter casualty. Decentralized assemblies? Let’s explore that!

Open gutters are a prominent canvas on our landscape. Gutters here, gutters there, gutters everywhere! Gutters have drawn battle lines between humans and nasty falls. The battle rages on as more gutters are constructed with cement cast firmly into the earth. The more our development and civilization take shape, the more roads we construct. And wherever there are roads, gutters with gaping holes appear.

What makes our gutters unique is that they are open. In developed countries, gutters are not seen. Well, gutters are not meant to be seen. They belong in the underworld. So I asked a gutter expert, Engineer Kofi H (he begged me not to disclose his surname) why our gutters are not covered but left open to stare at us rudely, teasingly and dangerously. If our goal is to become a middle-income country by 2015, when will it show in our gutters?

His responses were instructive. He said bluntly, “We’re not ready for covered gutters. We’re not there yet!” In shock, I exclaimed, “What!!” He explained: “What we call gutters are ‘drains’ constructed for storm/rain water. There are roadside drains (small gutters) and storm drains (large gutters). But our gutters are choked with garbage and silt. Covered gutters are so difficult to clean.”

I retorted, “If gutters are covered, the bad people of Ghana will not be tempted to dump garbage into them.” He responded, “Some bad people go to the extent of lifting slabs of covered gutters to push in their garbage!” He insisted that until behavioral change occurs, our gutters will be left uncovered! So I’m left wondering – how about enforcement? Set example with some culprits through arrests, stiff sentencing and publicity. Let’s name and shame the bad people, consistently.

It is Christmas and we are on the cusp of a New Year. Yet, I’m grumpy about open gutters! You should too! They are inelegant; no, they are ugly. And, they are stinky, spewing out nasty leachate. Gutters are dangerous. People, animals and vehicles fall into them. Besides, gutters are at the heart of our sanitation dilemma because they are receptacles for strange things including obnoxious ‘take-aways’ of people who live in homes without toilets. When it rains, gutters become turbo-charged and gush out water and the numerous things stashed in them. Choked gutters cause floods which lead to misery and death.

I’m terrified of gutters. They stare at me menacingly and with such intensity that I suspect they beckon me to enter whether I’m driving or walking. I suspect that gutters are living beings with eyes, ears, mouths and brains. And souls too! And, living beings breed and/or live in them. Gutters provide comfortable home for insects, frogs, weeds, germs and many despicable creatures of the underworld.

A little gutter psychology. When you go through life seeing the insides of gutters over and over again, and they stare right back at you, how does that experience affect the way you think, your world view and your very psyche? Are open gutters messing us up psychologically in such a deep way to the point that we don’t find much wrong with overwhelming our environment with filth? Could it be that open gutters have become like tumors on our national conscience? In Les Miserables, Victor Hugo said: “The history of men is reflected in the history of sewers…. The sewer is the conscience of a city.” Wherein lies our collective conscience? Chew on this. Merry Christmas!

dorisdartey@yahoo.com

Christmas and New Year Wishes for Ghana: No More Open Gutters

For the past few weeks, this column has been dense. Mighty toes have been stepped on, pushing some soft buttons of society. So in the spirit of Christmas, and as is the tradition of this column, we break for a soft issue – gutters. Here are two gutter tales.

Man meets woman. Man and woman wait – for love to happen. Then, boom, it happens. In the early days of love, they hold hands to walk. He holds her hands delicately. Reason: she is delicate. She needs protection. When crossing a road, she is shepherded, lest she hurts herself. Is it happiness? Yes, it is nirvana. In our world of gutters, you need protection from gutters to get to nirvana. Your legs, my legs, our legs are in constant danger, with gutters staring threateningly. So man holds woman’s hands to cross the smallest of gutters. He says, “Darling, watch the gutter,” long after woman has crossed. Well, she is an experienced gutter-crosser. She knows the ways of gutters.

Then, time passes. Love grows dim. Rust sets in. Love fatigue looms. Love wanes. Hand holding ceases, left firmly in the distant past. Now, man and woman simply walk, crossing gutters on waned love’s journey. Baby gutters, grandfather gutters, mama gutters, uncle gutters, cousin gutters. Woman walks slowly, pained from many life’s ordeals. Then it happens. One day, man walks with woman. Man walks past hurriedly from woman. Woman trips, falls in gutter. Man continues to walk on. Then looks back and yells at woman, “You fool! Have you gone blind? Didn’t you see that big gutter?”

Man continues to walk away, into the gloomy distance – dulled antennae reigning supreme. Clueless! Woman drags her sore self out of gutter – mud and all. Woman continues walk, limping on, deeply hurt. She leaves remnants of love behind – in the gutter. A severe love body-blow has just occurred – a watershed moment with gutter as principal witness. Gutter is also the smoking gun.

Another gutter tale. This girlish woman I know was driving a pack-of-tin, an engineering feat called a car. Her cell phone rings. She picks up. The caller was a very close friend, a sort of boy friend. He needs to talk, so badly. She needs to talk, for no particular reason. Smoothly, she drives on, yapping, not paying attention to the world around as if a vehicle is nothing but jelly. Soon, the conversation settles in a place between the devil and the deep blue sea. Meanwhile, she was dodging pot holes, baby coffins, bounces hunch-back speed bumps, and sidesteps several careless but confident road-crossers and many other categories of predators in-built into our roads. She slows down, wallops and gallops on.

Then suddenly, it happens! She drives car into a muddy gutter. In the cell phone distraction, she did not notice the accident so kept accelerating, wheels spinning, until yells and teasing laughter from youthful passers-by brought the message home. So she got off the phone to see to the predicament. It took more than a dozen men and a gutter engineering feat, with planks, to yank car out of gutter. She thanks helpers with some cedis and speeds off, still yapping on the phone. Within minutes, car begins to lose power. Then, yells from a new batch of onlookers bring another message home – the car was puffing out smoke, almost burning. She parks the car, shaken.

What are the lessons from these gutter tales? It is plain folly to drive and talk on the cell phone. It could even be suicidal. But more so, there are too many monstrous gutters waiting with smiles, to suck us into their gaping mouths. And, there is no one to sue if you become a gutter casualty. Decentralized assemblies? Let’s explore that!

Open gutters are a prominent canvas on our landscape. Gutters here, gutters there, gutters everywhere! Gutters have drawn battle lines between humans and nasty falls. The battle rages on as more gutters are constructed with cement cast firmly into the earth. The more our development and civilization take shape, the more roads we construct. And wherever there are roads, gutters with gaping holes appear.

What makes our gutters unique is that they are open. In developed countries, gutters are not seen. Well, gutters are not meant to be seen. They belong in the underworld. So I asked a gutter expert, Engineer Kofi H (he begged me not to disclose his surname) why our gutters are not covered but left open to stare at us rudely, teasingly and dangerously. If our goal is to become a middle-income country by 2015, when will it show in our gutters?

His responses were instructive. He said bluntly, “We’re not ready for covered gutters. We’re not there yet!” In shock, I exclaimed, “What!!” He explained: “What we call gutters are ‘drains’ constructed for storm/rain water. There are roadside drains (small gutters) and storm drains (large gutters). But our gutters are choked with garbage and silt. Covered gutters are so difficult to clean.”

I retorted, “If gutters are covered, the bad people of Ghana will not be tempted to dump garbage into them.” He responded, “Some bad people go to the extent of lifting slabs of covered gutters to push in their garbage!” He insisted that until behavioral change occurs, our gutters will be left uncovered! So I’m left wondering – how about enforcement? Set example with some culprits through arrests, stiff sentencing and publicity. Let’s name and shame the bad people, consistently.

It is Christmas and we are on the cusp of a New Year. Yet, I’m grumpy about open gutters! You should too! They are inelegant; no, they are ugly. And, they are stinky, spewing out nasty leachate. Gutters are dangerous. People, animals and vehicles fall into them. Besides, gutters are at the heart of our sanitation dilemma because they are receptacles for strange things including obnoxious ‘take-aways’ of people who live in homes without toilets. When it rains, gutters become turbo-charged and gush out water and the numerous things stashed in them. Choked gutters cause floods which lead to misery and death.

I’m terrified of gutters. They stare at me menacingly and with such intensity that I suspect they beckon me to enter whether I’m driving or walking. I suspect that gutters are living beings with eyes, ears, mouths and brains. And souls too! And, living beings breed and/or live in them. Gutters provide comfortable home for insects, frogs, weeds, germs and many despicable creatures of the underworld.

A little gutter psychology. When you go through life seeing the insides of gutters over and over again, and they stare right back at you, how does that experience affect the way you think, your world view and your very psyche? Are open gutters messing us up psychologically in such a deep way to the point that we don’t find much wrong with overwhelming our environment with filth? Could it be that open gutters have become like tumors on our national conscience? In Les Miserables, Victor Hugo said: “The history of men is reflected in the history of sewers…. The sewer is the conscience of a city.” Wherein lies our collective conscience? Chew on this. Merry Christmas!

dorisdartey@yahoo.com

The Twists and Turns of Presidential Saga

For the history books: In the year of our Lord 2008, grown men in Ghana danced the ugliest inelegant dance moves ever, without feeling shy. Who would have thought that decent men, desperate for high public office, would imitate kangaroos in motion! We don’t even have kangaroos in this part of the world! Why Samuel Essiene has not claimed exclusive rights to the kangaroo dance moves and loads of money from the NPP is beyond me.

And then there is the awkward rotational hand movements, quite meaningless but for the sake of symbolism to get the message out, respectable men with their eyes firmly focused on the ultimate political price, pretend to love such awkward tongue-biting dance moves. The things people will do for gains! And for love too!

D.H. Lawrence’s poem, entitled “GOD” sums up this phenomenon best: “Only man can fall from God. Only man! That awful and sickening endless, sinking sinking through the slow corruptive levels of disintegrative knowledge…..the awful katabolism into the abyss!”

So it appears that we have arrived at the crossroads of rotational politics in which we give one party the chance to rule for the limited duration as enjoined by the 1992 Constitution. Then, when their time expires, the very next time around, we automatically reverse to the other party so we can try them too, applying the rule of “Moko aya ni moko aba” – a Ga expression for taking turns. Attah Mills and Akufo Addo are contemporaries who in their days, danced twist; so they have set up a nation to dance twist with them – a game of musical chairs just so one of them would become president.

In a bizarre way, this appears to be the best way for the political elite to share the national cake, a ‘You chop small, I chop small’ arrangement. Meanwhile, the situation of the ordinary person does not change in any significant manner under either of the two parties; and we know it.

What we are yet to figure out is how to get the best out of our leaders. We vote for them, place them on pedestals as lords so we can’t touch them or hold them accountable. Even when we witness or suspect that they are taking us for granted, that they are amassing wealth at our expense, we don’t seem capable of doing much to stop them.

For instance, since we know the temptation of leadership and their cronies to become corrupt, why is it that the assets they declare do not become public knowledge so at the time of exit from office, we can openly compare their before and after wealth status? Why is it that we just complain but are helpless in stopping corruption, and the annoying display of pride and hooliganism?

So three days after Christmas, we will return to the ballot box to cast votes in our characteristic bi-polar fashion, for either Akufo Addo or Attah Mills with petty reasons informing our choices. The winner may win the vote not for reasons of superior ideas. Sadly, the win may be due to good campaign songs, awkward and ugly dance moves, and uninspiring and meaningless candidate-centred slogans. The good songs and exotic dance moves only act as balm to soothe our deep-seated wounds, albeit temporal.

There is the pretence of using words and slogans which are not clearly defined but used as anchors for deceit. Take for examples the campaign slogans of moving forward and change. Why is it that many people are still stuck in poverty without any significant success chalked in the poverty alleviation realm? What categories of our people have so far moved forward? Is it that the privileged are moving forward while the poor majority cheer them on? As they cheer, what are the definite plans to push them forward so they don’t stand still in stinky poverty? The NPP campaign theme does not answer my deep-seated questions.

But the NDC change rhetoric makes me nervous. Change! What change? The funny thing is that the change rhetoric was borrowed from Obama. It migrated to Ghana when it caught on so well in the USA. Clearly, it was taken out of context without any relevant retrofitting.

One of the frightening things about change is that it can be mismanaged, a lot. When mismanagement occurs, the system is left worse off than it was before the implementation of change initiatives. Also, beware of change that is implemented just for the sake of change. It is said that ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’. Just crying wolf about change can end up running a system aground. As a country, we are at a point where the least we need is for our progress to be run aground.

Professor Mills, why have you not dropped Koku Anyidoho, the head of your Communications team, like a load of garbage? He and his likes, through their reckless pronouncements, are the type of characters who can run our beautiful country aground.

We’ve been bombarded with other weak slogans during this lengthy campaign season. When one of the presidential candidates claimed that he is the “Best man for Ghana”, the other quickly hit back with claims that he is “A better man for a better Ghana.” These claims have left me wondering if the presidential bid between Akuffo Addo and Attah Mills is a mere context in erectile functioning and/or mal-functioning. It is as if they are rubbing it in for us women that it takes a man to rule Ghana and that the presidential election is nothing but a show and test of manhood. Damn!

A demand on manliness clearly eliminates lip-stick-wearing, high-heeled shoes stomping and kaba-slit head-gear spotting females. Meanwhile, women have become endangered species in political leadership. From 25 parliamentarians in the out-going parliament, women’s representation has dropped to 15, a mere 6.5% of the 230 membership of the law-making fraternity. Ouch!

So this Christmas, as we celebrate the birth of Jesus the Christ, whom Christians and Muslims revere and call Lord, we dare not break into singing certain religious songs or dance carelessly, lest we betray our political leanings and be charged in God’s house as NDC or NPP supporters. Woe unto you if you insult the sense and sensibilities of your pew neighbours! Christmas is a season to be Christ-like but we quickly turn around to crucify the Christ without blinking an eye lid or feel any sense of guilt and shame.

While waiting for the presidential run-off elections next week, the naughty part of me is tempted to suggest that we should place the two men in a boxing ring and let them slush it out. After all, once upon a time, Nelson Mandela was a boxer! Or, we should put each person at the end of a tight rope and leave them to pull until one of them pushes the other to the ground or the rope breaks. Whoever falls first, or whoever the rope breaks closest to, should be declared the loser. Preferably, the iconic Mohammed Ali or flamboyant boxing promoter Don King should referee. And, the context should be broadcasted live on large screen TVs throughout the country. It will be so much fun.

dorisdartey@yahoo.com

The Twists and Turns of Presidential Saga

For the history books: In the year of our Lord 2008, grown men in Ghana danced the ugliest inelegant dance moves ever, without feeling shy. Who would have thought that decent men, desperate for high public office, would imitate kangaroos in motion! We don’t even have kangaroos in this part of the world! Why Samuel Essiene has not claimed exclusive rights to the kangaroo dance moves and loads of money from the NPP is beyond me.

And then there is the awkward rotational hand movements, quite meaningless but for the sake of symbolism to get the message out, respectable men with their eyes firmly focused on the ultimate political price, pretend to love such awkward tongue-biting dance moves. The things people will do for gains! And for love too!

D.H. Lawrence’s poem, entitled “GOD” sums up this phenomenon best: “Only man can fall from God. Only man! That awful and sickening endless, sinking sinking through the slow corruptive levels of disintegrative knowledge…..the awful katabolism into the abyss!”

So it appears that we have arrived at the crossroads of rotational politics in which we give one party the chance to rule for the limited duration as enjoined by the 1992 Constitution. Then, when their time expires, the very next time around, we automatically reverse to the other party so we can try them too, applying the rule of “Moko aya ni moko aba” – a Ga expression for taking turns. Attah Mills and Akufo Addo are contemporaries who in their days, danced twist; so they have set up a nation to dance twist with them – a game of musical chairs just so one of them would become president.

In a bizarre way, this appears to be the best way for the political elite to share the national cake, a ‘You chop small, I chop small’ arrangement. Meanwhile, the situation of the ordinary person does not change in any significant manner under either of the two parties; and we know it.

What we are yet to figure out is how to get the best out of our leaders. We vote for them, place them on pedestals as lords so we can’t touch them or hold them accountable. Even when we witness or suspect that they are taking us for granted, that they are amassing wealth at our expense, we don’t seem capable of doing much to stop them.

For instance, since we know the temptation of leadership and their cronies to become corrupt, why is it that the assets they declare do not become public knowledge so at the time of exit from office, we can openly compare their before and after wealth status? Why is it that we just complain but are helpless in stopping corruption, and the annoying display of pride and hooliganism?

So three days after Christmas, we will return to the ballot box to cast votes in our characteristic bi-polar fashion, for either Akufo Addo or Attah Mills with petty reasons informing our choices. The winner may win the vote not for reasons of superior ideas. Sadly, the win may be due to good campaign songs, awkward and ugly dance moves, and uninspiring and meaningless candidate-centred slogans. The good songs and exotic dance moves only act as balm to soothe our deep-seated wounds, albeit temporal.

There is the pretence of using words and slogans which are not clearly defined but used as anchors for deceit. Take for examples the campaign slogans of moving forward and change. Why is it that many people are still stuck in poverty without any significant success chalked in the poverty alleviation realm? What categories of our people have so far moved forward? Is it that the privileged are moving forward while the poor majority cheer them on? As they cheer, what are the definite plans to push them forward so they don’t stand still in stinky poverty? The NPP campaign theme does not answer my deep-seated questions.

But the NDC change rhetoric makes me nervous. Change! What change? The funny thing is that the change rhetoric was borrowed from Obama. It migrated to Ghana when it caught on so well in the USA. Clearly, it was taken out of context without any relevant retrofitting.

One of the frightening things about change is that it can be mismanaged, a lot. When mismanagement occurs, the system is left worse off than it was before the implementation of change initiatives. Also, beware of change that is implemented just for the sake of change. It is said that ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’. Just crying wolf about change can end up running a system aground. As a country, we are at a point where the least we need is for our progress to be run aground.

Professor Mills, why have you not dropped Koku Anyidoho, the head of your Communications team, like a load of garbage? He and his likes, through their reckless pronouncements, are the type of characters who can run our beautiful country aground.

We’ve been bombarded with other weak slogans during this lengthy campaign season. When one of the presidential candidates claimed that he is the “Best man for Ghana”, the other quickly hit back with claims that he is “A better man for a better Ghana.” These claims have left me wondering if the presidential bid between Akuffo Addo and Attah Mills is a mere context in erectile functioning and/or mal-functioning. It is as if they are rubbing it in for us women that it takes a man to rule Ghana and that the presidential election is nothing but a show and test of manhood. Damn!

A demand on manliness clearly eliminates lip-stick-wearing, high-heeled shoes stomping and kaba-slit head-gear spotting females. Meanwhile, women have become endangered species in political leadership. From 25 parliamentarians in the out-going parliament, women’s representation has dropped to 15, a mere 6.5% of the 230 membership of the law-making fraternity. Ouch!

So this Christmas, as we celebrate the birth of Jesus the Christ, whom Christians and Muslims revere and call Lord, we dare not break into singing certain religious songs or dance carelessly, lest we betray our political leanings and be charged in God’s house as NDC or NPP supporters. Woe unto you if you insult the sense and sensibilities of your pew neighbours! Christmas is a season to be Christ-like but we quickly turn around to crucify the Christ without blinking an eye lid or feel any sense of guilt and shame.

While waiting for the presidential run-off elections next week, the naughty part of me is tempted to suggest that we should place the two men in a boxing ring and let them slush it out. After all, once upon a time, Nelson Mandela was a boxer! Or, we should put each person at the end of a tight rope and leave them to pull until one of them pushes the other to the ground or the rope breaks. Whoever falls first, or whoever the rope breaks closest to, should be declared the loser. Preferably, the iconic Mohammed Ali or flamboyant boxing promoter Don King should referee. And, the context should be broadcasted live on large screen TVs throughout the country. It will be so much fun.

dorisdartey@yahoo.com

Election Awards for Hooliganism, Pomposity, Courage and No-Nonsense go to .......

Nerves frazzled. Sleep lost. Patience tested at wrist-splitting proportions. A nation is election-fatigued. If you’re thinking that democracy is tough; that it takes forever to vote and count votes; that it costs too much money, energy and time; and that it is taxing on our emotions, then try dictatorship in which one son-of-a-gun issues decrees and terrifies the hellish life out of a nation! So, we will stick with democracy and the bonus of free speech.

As we extend the pangs of birthing a president through a second round of elections, four people are hereby awarded for Hooliganism, Pomposity, Courage and No-Nonsense. The citations are:

Hooliganism Award: For committing the most irresponsible act of hooliganism, the award goes to Koku Anyidoho, Head of Communications of Professor Mills’ campaign. At 3am, just 10 hours after the close of the polls, he issued a press release titled, “We shall tolerate no nonsense”. Anyidoho, a poster-child of the NDC, caused me to tremble when he taunted the nation with a temper tantrum. He was on a fury-venting rampage, oozing a load of crap and ugly sticks.

Anyidoho insulted our electoral process, challenging the integrity of the agency which we, in our collective wisdom, have chosen to conduct and determine the outcome of our elections. Through his action, he sought to incite the electorate by claiming that the NDC had won the elections. He also threatened Dr Afari-Gyan and by extension, this country. How such an act of low-cost textual hooliganism can erupt from the office of a potential president is in itself troubling. Anyidoho must therefore apologize to Ghana for threatening to hijack our electoral process.

Pomposity Award: Personality matters. Asamoah-Boateng, a poster-child of the NPP, sounds more like a piece of ugly cloth torn from the blue-book of military autocracy. He has the capacity to be dreadfully rude, arrogant and annoying, not caring a hoot about what anyone felt or thought. His utterances easily made enemies for himself and the government. No wonder his constituency voted him out. The Pomposity Award therefore goes to Asabee, unopposed.

Why President Kufuor should place such a character at the helm of affairs at the propaganda arm of his government, the Ministry of Information and National Orientation, is difficult to understand. Asabee was the worst face and voice of the NPP. It was as if the Kufuor administration lost its head and officially embraced the ridiculous arrogance for which Asabee is highly reputed.

At 51, Ghana has come of age and the voice of the people has become the voice of God. We might be desperately dirt-poor, half-baked literate, unapologetically unsophisticated, but don’t walk over us. The Day of Thumbs has come to symbolize the day we speak our truth to power quietly, boldly and clearly.

From the Anyidoho immature gangster-style press release to the Asabee posture of disrespect and arrogance, the two leading political parties have shown that they suffer from the cancers of forgetfulness and power-drunkenness. Not surprisingly, Ghana is bi-polar, split – sharply divided at the middle of the centre with the NDC and NPP on either side. Neither party is a movement. Both parties are nauseatingly arrogant, crooked, greedy, selfish and stuck in thievery, pomposity and hooliganism, forgetting that public office is about public service. Our political leaders have become neo-colonialists, and like chiefs, sit in state, expecting us to become beholden to them and address them as Honourables despite their dishonourableness.

Our country is polarized because neither the NPP nor NDC has a mandate to rule us. Fact: we are suspicious of their rhetoric and actions. The lessons from the Pomposity and Hooliganism Awards of Asabee and Anyidoho are testaments to the maturity of Ghanaians. These are some of the cautionary tales of national governance, with deep lessons. When we vote for anyone, we expect to be put at the centre, and benefit. Watching politicians and their cronies improve their lot while the majority of our people go hungry is unacceptable.

No-Nonsense Award: At the centre of these elections is the Electoral Commissioner, Afari-Gyan who, together with his team, carry Ghana’s democracy. They are the unsung heroes. Afari-Gyan, a little-man giant, chain-smokes “cancer-sticks” (cigarettes) to carry Ghana’s democracy on his back. Contrary to the annoyingly flamboyant posture of politicians, Afari-Gyan is simple in appearance, unassuming, and easily approachable, with no colourful frills to show off. He has a healthy sense of humour, with a unique ability to make fun of himself.

But don’t be fooled; he is no push- or walk-over. He is principled, firm, opinionated, direct and no-nonsense. He is sharp at the brain and brilliantly engages in rhetorical but almost insulting line of questioning, searching and challenging intelligent adults to find answers. He operates in a tunnel vision with sharp focus and with one agenda only: to get the job done, and done well.

Not surprisingly, he comes across as a man with dictatorial tendencies. Such tendencies tend to protect him from being bullied by manipulative politicians with conflicting and often selfish motives, and render him functional in our indirect and often lackadaisical culture. His unique personality makes him most suitable for the position. Anything less and this country would have degenerated into chaos. Little wonder that he can work with opposing political parties. So Afari-Gyan and his team win the No-Nonsense Award for successfully managing Ghana’s elections.

Courage Award: Samia Yaaba Nkrumah wins the Courage award. She came from no-where (almost) and with audacity, entered the mud of politics with shit-bombing and all. A pint-sized 48 year-old journalist with a surname to die for, Samia returned to Ghana tagged with daddy’s name and entered the Jomoro constituency by way of Half-Assini, the hometown of her gold-smith grandfather. The hearts of her people melted in unison, for the only daughter of Osagyefo Nkrumah. Although she ran on the ticket of the CPP which failed miserably in the elections, Yaaba is poised to become the Yaa Asantewa who has emerged to finally salvage her father’s name.

She has uprooted an old tree, Lee Ocran, whose wife, Sati Ocran, is a known close associate of Konadu Rawlings. That in itself is a great feat. Samia’s win makes me wanna cry. It has brought a certain touchy-feeling of nostalgia about our first president, as if to re-echo the phrase, “Nkrumah never dies.” So finally, out of the seed of Nkrumah, a fresh flower has bloomed to exude fragrance to counteract stench in parliament.

She’ll be one of 23 women in the next parliament, constituting a sorry 10% female minority. This in itself is a sad commentary on us as a people – that women, who constitute 50% plus majority of the population sit precariously on the fringes of society cooking and cleaning, while the male majority rules.

Footnotes: The tribal colouring in the results from the Volta Region is disturbing for national cohesion. Why should it be predictable that people from a certain tribe will consistently vote for a certain political party because its founder is one of their own?

The Ghana Journalists Association (GJA) is commended for kicking out the political parties from the International Press Centre after the first night of the vote count. They were using what should be the safe haven of journalists as a place to trade ugly punches, drag journalists into their mud and by that, undermine hard-earned sane press freedom.

Joy FM redeemed the sorry image of Ghana’s electronic media (radio, TV and Internet) with passable election results coverage.

Email: dorisdartey@yahoo.com; Blog: dorisdartey.blogspot.com

The Day of Thumbs – for progress or a load of wood

Ghana is like a great tree in leaf. The branches have tell-tale signs of birth and rebirth, of pain and misery, of joy and hope. Tomorrow’s presidential and parliamentary elections are nothing but a branch formed out of the mighty tree; part of our history writing exercise – the fifth elections in the Fourth Republic. But there should be no more counting of the republics. All counting must cease; have ceased. One independent nation; one republic!

We were colonized once; yes, we were. After years of living in a colony, one of the then sprawling back-yard premises of England, we successfully fought for and won our independence; yes, we did. Whatever has happened since then have been growing up pains, akin to teething problems. During the period, we have had seasons that can be likened to a pile of rained-on manure. We hated it. So praying folks got onto their knees and some have remained there as the story of our beautiful great tree unfolds.

The beauty of democracy is that the ‘Kayayo’, manager, politician, Imam/Pastor, the privileged and downtrodden, literate and non-literate, young and old, tall and short, male and female, wise and semi-idiot – if considered to be of sound mind (who determines that? What level of sanity/insanity is acceptable as sound?), and above 18years of age – all have one vote – with the thumb. No one is superior. The thumb is the great equalizer.

So, tomorrow is the big Day of Thumbs. The thumb will rule, as it must. The collective thumb will select our next president and parliamentarians from across the country. What power! I suspect that if the other four fingers don’t normally envy the thumb, on Election Day, they frown in envy.

The thumb is special. It is the first digit of the human hand; and of the monkey too! The thumb differs from all other fingers. While the four fingers have three parts (phalanges), the thumb has two. The thumb is short and stout. Yet, despite what might appear on the surface as disadvantages, the thumb is the most flexible finger with the greatest freedom of movement. It can do what other fingers cannot dream of doing. The thumb can touch each and all the other fingers; the others can’t. Try it!

The thumb has gripping power. It is when the thumb joins forces with other fingers that we can hold things. Just imagine a handshake without a thumb! And cleaning and eating! So the thumb is the power-house in finger-land. It can grip to express love and it can grip to express hatred beyond measure. Some even use the thumb to insult, as in, ‘taflatse,’ – “Your moda!”

But some thumbs are berry-sweet and great suckers! The thumb appears to be the preferred sucking finger of all-knowing babies. The thumb has, from time immemorial, given solace and rocked many to sleep. It is likely that some adults secretly indulge in thumb-sucking for one reason or the other, not excluding bizarre enjoyment.

But thumbs vary. Some are messed up, crooked and disfigured with no semblance to a thumb at all. There are hunch-back thumbs with ugly bunions oddly sticking out. Some thumbs appear flat and lifeless as if pressed on, run down by a truck. On the contrary, some thumbs are fleshy and juicy as if picked out from the other fingers and overfed. Some thumbs are stiff, worn out from aging, arthritis and the victim of many other life’s ordeals. And, there are ailing thumbs with rotten nails, eaten up by fungus, leprosy or other funky possibilities.

Some thumbs appear directionless, absent-minded and might confuse their owners tomorrow whether that is the right finger to use in the voting booth. So what should be an easy task of using a specific finger to cast a vote could become complicated for some who will quietly suffer the challenge of figuring out which finger to use.
Some thumbs are shrunk like old tree stumps. Sadly, some are lost through accidents and other acts of living. What is the EC’s policy on those who are unfortunate not to have thumbs? Would they cast their votes with any other existing fingers? Thumbless folks should not be disenfranchised for after all, thumbless people are people too!

I do have a thumb, but a funny thing happened on my way to the polls. I’ve been on my way to the polls a long long time but have never had the privilege of voting. This one time, I was so close to experiencing the democratic act of casting a vote but the EC came in like a rough bully and stole my vote. I was disenfranchised before December 7 because of the unruly manner in which the limited registration exercise was organized. But I’m not bitter. I trust the electorate. My vote lies in the collective thumb. Once all the votes have been counted, all our individual preferences become mute and we must give way to the voice of the collective. After all, an election is nothing but the central nervous system of democracy and helps nations to stand tall.

Here is an important matter to consider tomorrow. While in the voting queue, woe unto you if nature calls you! Question: Should you get a pressing need to pee-pee, what would you do? Answer: Men will face bushes, walls and target gutters. Don’t imagine what women will do because it is one messy, lousy embarrassing exercise. Well, pee-pee is messy but poo-poo is indescribable.

On November 19, we celebrated World Toilet Day. As a country, our toilet situation is nothing to write home about. So you are likely to lose your dignity if while in a queue to vote nature calls you to do the big one. So before you set out on tomorrow’s Thumbs Day, cure yourself of pee-pee, and especially of all poo-poo matters. You should resolutely avoid loading on fluids, keeping in mind that whatever goes in must come out and force you to contend with nature in strange places. Riddle: why is it that chickens drink water but don’t pee?

Over 2000 years ago, a witty ex-slave, Aesop, told simple clever stories known as Aesop’s fables. Hear him in The Seaside Travellers. “Some travellers, journeying along the seashore climbed to the summit of a tall cliff and looking over the sea, saw in the distance what they thought was a large ship. They waited in the hope of seeing it enter the harbour. But as the object on which they looked was driven nearer to shore by the wind, they found that it could, at the most, be a small boat and not a ship. When however it reached the beach, they discovered that it was only a large faggot of sticks. One of them said to his companions, “We have waited for no purpose for after all, there is nothing to see but a load of wood.”

Moral: “Our anticipations of life usually outrun its realities.” Those who win the votes might not succeed in changing the circumstances of your individual life. Today, the elections might sound like such a big deal and worth hyperventilating over. But tomorrow, it might turn out to be less than a pimple on the face – here today, gone tomorrow. So in times like these, let your anchor hold. Below the surface and below the radar – stay grounded.

dorisdartey@yahoo.com

The Day of Thumbs – for progress or a load of wood

Ghana is like a great tree in leaf. The branches have tell-tale signs of birth and rebirth, of pain and misery, of joy and hope. Tomorrow’s presidential and parliamentary elections are nothing but a branch formed out of the mighty tree; part of our history writing exercise – the fifth elections in the Fourth Republic. But there should be no more counting of the republics. All counting must cease; have ceased. One independent nation; one republic!

We were colonized once; yes, we were. After years of living in a colony, one of the then sprawling back-yard premises of England, we successfully fought for and won our independence; yes, we did. Whatever has happened since then have been growing up pains, akin to teething problems. During the period, we have had seasons that can be likened to a pile of rained-on manure. We hated it. So praying folks got onto their knees and some have remained there as the story of our beautiful great tree unfolds.

The beauty of democracy is that the ‘Kayayo’, manager, politician, Imam/Pastor, the privileged and downtrodden, literate and non-literate, young and old, tall and short, male and female, wise and semi-idiot – if considered to be of sound mind (who determines that? What level of sanity/insanity is acceptable as sound?), and above 18years of age – all have one vote – with the thumb. No one is superior. The thumb is the great equalizer.

So, tomorrow is the big Day of Thumbs. The thumb will rule, as it must. The collective thumb will select our next president and parliamentarians from across the country. What power! I suspect that if the other four fingers don’t normally envy the thumb, on Election Day, they frown in envy.

The thumb is special. It is the first digit of the human hand; and of the monkey too! The thumb differs from all other fingers. While the four fingers have three parts (phalanges), the thumb has two. The thumb is short and stout. Yet, despite what might appear on the surface as disadvantages, the thumb is the most flexible finger with the greatest freedom of movement. It can do what other fingers cannot dream of doing. The thumb can touch each and all the other fingers; the others can’t. Try it!

The thumb has gripping power. It is when the thumb joins forces with other fingers that we can hold things. Just imagine a handshake without a thumb! And cleaning and eating! So the thumb is the power-house in finger-land. It can grip to express love and it can grip to express hatred beyond measure. Some even use the thumb to insult, as in, ‘taflatse,’ – “Your moda!”

But some thumbs are berry-sweet and great suckers! The thumb appears to be the preferred sucking finger of all-knowing babies. The thumb has, from time immemorial, given solace and rocked many to sleep. It is likely that some adults secretly indulge in thumb-sucking for one reason or the other, not excluding bizarre enjoyment.

But thumbs vary. Some are messed up, crooked and disfigured with no semblance to a thumb at all. There are hunch-back thumbs with ugly bunions oddly sticking out. Some thumbs appear flat and lifeless as if pressed on, run down by a truck. On the contrary, some thumbs are fleshy and juicy as if picked out from the other fingers and overfed. Some thumbs are stiff, worn out from aging, arthritis and the victim of many other life’s ordeals. And, there are ailing thumbs with rotten nails, eaten up by fungus, leprosy or other funky possibilities.

Some thumbs appear directionless, absent-minded and might confuse their owners tomorrow whether that is the right finger to use in the voting booth. So what should be an easy task of using a specific finger to cast a vote could become complicated for some who will quietly suffer the challenge of figuring out which finger to use.
Some thumbs are shrunk like old tree stumps. Sadly, some are lost through accidents and other acts of living. What is the EC’s policy on those who are unfortunate not to have thumbs? Would they cast their votes with any other existing fingers? Thumbless folks should not be disenfranchised for after all, thumbless people are people too!

I do have a thumb, but a funny thing happened on my way to the polls. I’ve been on my way to the polls a long long time but have never had the privilege of voting. This one time, I was so close to experiencing the democratic act of casting a vote but the EC came in like a rough bully and stole my vote. I was disenfranchised before December 7 because of the unruly manner in which the limited registration exercise was organized. But I’m not bitter. I trust the electorate. My vote lies in the collective thumb. Once all the votes have been counted, all our individual preferences become mute and we must give way to the voice of the collective. After all, an election is nothing but the central nervous system of democracy and helps nations to stand tall.

Here is an important matter to consider tomorrow. While in the voting queue, woe unto you if nature calls you! Question: Should you get a pressing need to pee-pee, what would you do? Answer: Men will face bushes, walls and target gutters. Don’t imagine what women will do because it is one messy, lousy embarrassing exercise. Well, pee-pee is messy but poo-poo is indescribable.

On November 19, we celebrated World Toilet Day. As a country, our toilet situation is nothing to write home about. So you are likely to lose your dignity if while in a queue to vote nature calls you to do the big one. So before you set out on tomorrow’s Thumbs Day, cure yourself of pee-pee, and especially of all poo-poo matters. You should resolutely avoid loading on fluids, keeping in mind that whatever goes in must come out and force you to contend with nature in strange places. Riddle: why is it that chickens drink water but don’t pee?

Over 2000 years ago, a witty ex-slave, Aesop, told simple clever stories known as Aesop’s fables. Hear him in The Seaside Travellers. “Some travellers, journeying along the seashore climbed to the summit of a tall cliff and looking over the sea, saw in the distance what they thought was a large ship. They waited in the hope of seeing it enter the harbour. But as the object on which they looked was driven nearer to shore by the wind, they found that it could, at the most, be a small boat and not a ship. When however it reached the beach, they discovered that it was only a large faggot of sticks. One of them said to his companions, “We have waited for no purpose for after all, there is nothing to see but a load of wood.”

Moral: “Our anticipations of life usually outrun its realities.” Those who win the votes might not succeed in changing the circumstances of your individual life. Today, the elections might sound like such a big deal and worth hyperventilating over. But tomorrow, it might turn out to be less than a pimple on the face – here today, gone tomorrow. So in times like these, let your anchor hold. Below the surface and below the radar – stay grounded.

dorisdartey@yahoo.com

The Day of Thumbs – for progress or a load of wood

Ghana is like a great tree in leaf. The branches have tell-tale signs of birth and rebirth, of pain and misery, of joy and hope. Tomorrow’s presidential and parliamentary elections are nothing but a branch formed out of the mighty tree; part of our history writing exercise – the fifth elections in the Fourth Republic. But there should be no more counting of the republics. All counting must cease; have ceased. One independent nation; one republic!

We were colonized once; yes, we were. After years of living in a colony, one of the then sprawling back-yard premises of England, we successfully fought for and won our independence; yes, we did. Whatever has happened since then have been growing up pains, akin to teething problems. During the period, we have had seasons that can be likened to a pile of rained-on manure. We hated it. So praying folks got onto their knees and some have remained there as the story of our beautiful great tree unfolds.

The beauty of democracy is that the ‘Kayayo’, manager, politician, Imam/Pastor, the privileged and downtrodden, literate and non-literate, young and old, tall and short, male and female, wise and semi-idiot – if considered to be of sound mind (who determines that? What level of sanity/insanity is acceptable as sound?), and above 18years of age – all have one vote – with the thumb. No one is superior. The thumb is the great equalizer.

So, tomorrow is the big Day of Thumbs. The thumb will rule, as it must. The collective thumb will select our next president and parliamentarians from across the country. What power! I suspect that if the other four fingers don’t normally envy the thumb, on Election Day, they frown in envy.

The thumb is special. It is the first digit of the human hand; and of the monkey too! The thumb differs from all other fingers. While the four fingers have three parts (phalanges), the thumb has two. The thumb is short and stout. Yet, despite what might appear on the surface as disadvantages, the thumb is the most flexible finger with the greatest freedom of movement. It can do what other fingers cannot dream of doing. The thumb can touch each and all the other fingers; the others can’t. Try it!

The thumb has gripping power. It is when the thumb joins forces with other fingers that we can hold things. Just imagine a handshake without a thumb! And cleaning and eating! So the thumb is the power-house in finger-land. It can grip to express love and it can grip to express hatred beyond measure. Some even use the thumb to insult, as in, ‘taflatse,’ – “Your moda!”

But some thumbs are berry-sweet and great suckers! The thumb appears to be the preferred sucking finger of all-knowing babies. The thumb has, from time immemorial, given solace and rocked many to sleep. It is likely that some adults secretly indulge in thumb-sucking for one reason or the other, not excluding bizarre enjoyment.

But thumbs vary. Some are messed up, crooked and disfigured with no semblance to a thumb at all. There are hunch-back thumbs with ugly bunions oddly sticking out. Some thumbs appear flat and lifeless as if pressed on, run down by a truck. On the contrary, some thumbs are fleshy and juicy as if picked out from the other fingers and overfed. Some thumbs are stiff, worn out from aging, arthritis and the victim of many other life’s ordeals. And, there are ailing thumbs with rotten nails, eaten up by fungus, leprosy or other funky possibilities.

Some thumbs appear directionless, absent-minded and might confuse their owners tomorrow whether that is the right finger to use in the voting booth. So what should be an easy task of using a specific finger to cast a vote could become complicated for some who will quietly suffer the challenge of figuring out which finger to use.
Some thumbs are shrunk like old tree stumps. Sadly, some are lost through accidents and other acts of living. What is the EC’s policy on those who are unfortunate not to have thumbs? Would they cast their votes with any other existing fingers? Thumbless folks should not be disenfranchised for after all, thumbless people are people too!

I do have a thumb, but a funny thing happened on my way to the polls. I’ve been on my way to the polls a long long time but have never had the privilege of voting. This one time, I was so close to experiencing the democratic act of casting a vote but the EC came in like a rough bully and stole my vote. I was disenfranchised before December 7 because of the unruly manner in which the limited registration exercise was organized. But I’m not bitter. I trust the electorate. My vote lies in the collective thumb. Once all the votes have been counted, all our individual preferences become mute and we must give way to the voice of the collective. After all, an election is nothing but the central nervous system of democracy and helps nations to stand tall.

Here is an important matter to consider tomorrow. While in the voting queue, woe unto you if nature calls you! Question: Should you get a pressing need to pee-pee, what would you do? Answer: Men will face bushes, walls and target gutters. Don’t imagine what women will do because it is one messy, lousy embarrassing exercise. Well, pee-pee is messy but poo-poo is indescribable.

On November 19, we celebrated World Toilet Day. As a country, our toilet situation is nothing to write home about. So you are likely to lose your dignity if while in a queue to vote nature calls you to do the big one. So before you set out on tomorrow’s Thumbs Day, cure yourself of pee-pee, and especially of all poo-poo matters. You should resolutely avoid loading on fluids, keeping in mind that whatever goes in must come out and force you to contend with nature in strange places. Riddle: why is it that chickens drink water but don’t pee?

Over 2000 years ago, a witty ex-slave, Aesop, told simple clever stories known as Aesop’s fables. Hear him in The Seaside Travellers. “Some travellers, journeying along the seashore climbed to the summit of a tall cliff and looking over the sea, saw in the distance what they thought was a large ship. They waited in the hope of seeing it enter the harbour. But as the object on which they looked was driven nearer to shore by the wind, they found that it could, at the most, be a small boat and not a ship. When however it reached the beach, they discovered that it was only a large faggot of sticks. One of them said to his companions, “We have waited for no purpose for after all, there is nothing to see but a load of wood.”

Moral: “Our anticipations of life usually outrun its realities.” Those who win the votes might not succeed in changing the circumstances of your individual life. Today, the elections might sound like such a big deal and worth hyperventilating over. But tomorrow, it might turn out to be less than a pimple on the face – here today, gone tomorrow. So in times like these, let your anchor hold. Below the surface and below the radar – stay grounded.

dorisdartey@yahoo.com