Has Bantama Come? No, it’s Tain

I’ll gingerly invite my former lecturer and first mentor, Ama Ata Aidoo, into the matter at hand today. Why? I need wisdom. In her collection of short stories, The girl who can, she wrote that “The mind is a country-side, cluttered with rubbish.”

I’ve tried all I could to push into my mind’s backyard, the political events (some of it being nothing but constipated rubbish) leading to the election of the third President of the Fourth Republic but the more I try, the more the thoughts pop right back at me. So dear reader, allow me to digress today, and return to the election saga (before Asaga landed the word saga firmly at the center of our core vocabulary).

The brain is like a minefield. It vomits out stuff from odd streams of consciousness and unconsciousness. Even trauma has its flip side of wild laughter. Se let’s return to Election 2008 with our laughter muscles relaxed. The following are from a collection of real and imaginary odd stream of conversations comprising questions and weird funny answers in actual eavesdropping of various people which are just sitting in my brain. I need a brain flush.

From dawn until dusk: December 8, 2008
“Ketu has messed things up.”
“But as for Ketu, we know.”
“I swear, when Bantama comes, all will be well.”
“Hmm, my heart can’t take it oh.”
“You alone? I’ve been to the toilet five times in two hours. But I don’t have diarrhea. And I continue to feel like urinating but when I go, nothing comes.”
“You are talking about urinating and toilet. As for me, I’m sweating ‘by-heart’. My armpit is wet none-stop. The surest deodorant can’t help surely.”
“As for me, it’s my heart, oh! My heart keeps pumping. I think my blood is over-flowing. I feel like my heart is about to jump out of my chest. Eh, this thing can kill, oh.”
“Hey, turn off the radio. Ehhhmm, and the TV too. No more phone calls. I can’t continue to listen to all this. I’m going to sleep. If I don’t, I go die oh!”
“Eh, you’re already awake? I thought you were sleeping for real. Why, are you having restless sleep and sleeplessness?”
“Eh, GTV says Bantama has come. But Radio Gold says it has not come. Joy FM is playing music. Adom, Peace, Choice, City, Hit, Hot ………”
“Hmmmm. Democracy is tough oh.”
“Is it better than coup?”
“As for coup, tofiakwa.”
“But why should either Bantama or Ketu alone decide who becomes President?”
“Because Ghana is polarized.”
“Pola-what?”
“Polarized – as in a big pole, with the Volta Region people holding on very tightly to one end of the pole while the Ashantis stubbornly clasp on to the other end of the same pole.”
“So what happens to other Ghanaians?”
“Well, the Ga-Adangbes, Northerners, Mills-people, Muslims and all the Zongo-people and their Mamas follow the Volta-people to cling on to one end of the pole. This disparate group constitutes about 50% of the population”
“So the other end of the pole has all the other people?”
“Yes, the other 50%, for the most part, constitutes Twi speakers, the select elite and all those who are still nursing very deep never-to-be-treated-and-or-healed wounds and story-telling jagged scars, inflicted at the hands of AFRC/PNDC cohorts in the very ghastly days of the revolution – have teamed up with the Ashantis to hold on rigidly to the other end of the pole. That is the meaning of polarized.”

“What happens if they pull the pole too hard that it breaks; it goes kaput?”
“Oh! So why did Ghana go through more than one year of campaigning? Since these people are holding on to their own ends of the pole, does it even matter what the political parties tell people? And, ehhmmm, what’s the use manifestos?”
“Eh, you ask too many questions. But you’re right. The campaign hulabaloo promises and manifestoes are sheer nonsensical nonsense of the highest degree; fun trash-talking.”

“It’s really fun. Idle energetic youth who have nothing doing become temporarily gainfully engaged by following the entertaining campaign trail with the empty hope that it might take them somewhere. (It never does but they’re too young to know that.) They do have a good party in the sweaty dusty intoxicated tropical heat of politics. It keeps them busy (briefly) and away from unneeded mischief. Oh, they get Tee-shirts and some cash too for providing a ready-made exuberant crowd of supporters.”

“So, it’s a win-win situation? The politicians get the chance to burn-up some of their ill-gotten cash of never-never-disclosed never-never-explained sources and the kids have fun in the hot sweaty sun with Tee-shirts and cash.”
“Oh, then Ghana should just organize a Pole Pooling Gala to determine the winning political party and presidential candidate. Just like fishermen drag the net. The whole country would just scream ‘chooboi hey, chooboi hey. Then Doctor EC will announce the winners. Very simple."
After December 29, 2008
“Well, Bantama and Ketu couldn’t find us a president. One touch didn’t touch. What a trip when you don’t touch!”
“Yes, I hear that now it’s going to be Tain.”
“What?”
“Tain. It’s somewhere in the bushes of Brong Ahafo.”
“Did you say Ten?”
“No, Tain, as in AI. We must all learn to pronounce it well because very soon, Tain will become the center of Ghana.”
“Eh, the capital of Ghana? Why Tain?”
“Because basically, Ghana is an agricultural country. But we’ve chosen to forget about growing what we eat and eat what we grow. Instead, we import our food, and just about everything else we need on this land plus all the white man’s junk we don’t need.”
“Oh, domestication?”
“Yes, domestication and much much more that are beyond our own bizarre version of civilization.”
“Is this God’s message to us that Tain, a little-known hard-to-pronounce farming community should give us our President?”
“Yes, this is a message from above. But wait and see. The politicians will abandon them after they’ve used them for their ways and means elections.”

Postscript: March 6, 2010
“So what happened to Tain?”
“Which Tain?”
“Oh, that Tain that got us a President and by that, resolved our election saga (before Asaga was). They need schools, roads, hospitals and a tall list of life-improvement things. Oh, and two-square-meals a day.”
“Square meals? How about round meals! As for you! Tain gave us a President, so what? This is politics. It was just a vote. The politicians long moved on. Tain people should continue farming. It is corn and yams today. They might as well add plantain, rice, tomatoes, pepper, onions and even potatoes tomorrow. If they are so motivated, they can grow salt too. Who cares!”
“Hmmm, if Bantama, Ketu, Oda, Cape Coast, Tamale, Ada and all the hungry folks in the forgotten armpits of Ghana could not select a president for Ghana but little-known hard-to-pronounce Tain did it, then we dare not forget them. Campaign promises must be fulfilled. This is show time! Or else……..”
“True. Tain, a victim of Ghana, saved Ghana from the outskirts of a stinky cemetery.”
Hear Alice Walker in, In search of our mothers’ gardens. “All history is current….. Progress affects a few.” Even Mrs Sarah Abraham of those matriarchal bible days will heartily agree.

Dizzying thoughts about the Third World

We are Third World people. Third as in three – class three. So there is a First, Second and then – there is a Third. There is no Fourth World, Fifth World, or Sixth World. We are among the vast collection in the bottom classification of the world. Or, they might have re-classified the worlds without telling us that Ghana’s status has long dropped from Third World way down to …….. Hmmm!

Here is how it all happened. When it was decided that we are in a ‘global village’, it was also quickly figured out that not all the villagers are of the same status. Some live in shacks without the dignity of toilets, some live in half-way houses, while some live in mansions. So quickly, classification was thought of as a clean necessity for demarcation.

So therefore at some point in time, purely out of self-interest and simple mathematical convenience buttered lavishly by greed, some spoilt white folks sat their ‘somewhere’ and chop-chopped the world into parts. And we made it way down on the totem pole of global village classification that marks progress (also known as under-development).

Third World people are mostly dark complexioned (as in black, dark brown, yellow). Looking at the world through the prism of economic geography reveals some fascinating trends. Most Third World folks have origins and/or live in the hot climate southern region of the globe. Well, even if they move away from the South to live in the North among First World people, they never dodge the third class status.

Africans who live in Europe and America carry the Third World badge. Likewise, the descendants of Africans who have never known Africa because their ancestors were grabbed, enslaved and yanked from our shores long ago and therefore are citizens of countries like Britain, Canada, America and Norway, are all considered Third World people.

But here is the freakish thing about the demarcations. The original inhabitants of lands conquered by First World people are also considered Third World. Take for instance, the native people of America, displaced and denied on their own land. Some live on poverty-stricken reservations. On every third Thursday of November, while America celebrates Thanksgiving Day (thanking God for the land), Native Americans mourn, almost invisibly, over their deep losses.

Third World people love colour, fun, music and dancing while others prefer the bland. You want some serious waste wriggling of carnival proportions? Don’t go to First World people. Go down to worlds below. There, amidst deprivation, you’ll witness side-splitting activities. Who says poverty is only misery? We Third World people live low but large, making merry as if in defiance of poverty.

Oh, Third World people know how to mourn. Chest-beating, tear-raining, crowd-gathering funerals are common because after all, it’s an opportunity for letting a good time roll. The waste-wriggling merry-making tendencies may explain the population explosion of the Third World in sharp contrast to the depleting populations in rich privileged countries. Someday, First World people would become endangered species and Third World people will take over the world, and have the last laugh.

But here is what makes these externally-determined classifications really troubling. As if it’s not enough to be categorized as last, we, on our own sorrowfully freakish terms, senselessly bear witness everyday to our Third World classification. We go out of our way, with such audacity, to give credence to the externally-imposed third, fourth or fifth class status.

Take Accra. Take Kumasi. Disorder galore! Filth galore! Lawlessness galore! Anyone can leave a broken down vehicle by any roadside and walk away and no one (repeat: no one) can say ‘tee’ about it. The vehicle is broken down and the supporting law is equally broken down. Any other vehicle could drive into it and see off unsuspecting people into the cold arms of their maker. Later, we have funerals with extravagant ‘gbonyo’ parties and accuse aging female relatives of witchcraft. On any approaching birthday, it strikes me that I’m swaggering my way toward the witchcraft club.

The way things are carried on in international relationships, you’ll think that First World streets are paved with gold, and for good effect, decorated with diamonds. But there are poor people there too, some incredibly stuck in stinky poverty with one-third-teeth lost, one-third-teeth rotten, and the remaining one-third-teeth in suspiciously shaky condition. In the USA, this category of desperately poor people is derogatorily referred to as ‘White-Trash.’

Despite this reality, Third World people go out of our way to entrench the sharp perceptions of inferiority to First World people. We take cups in ‘logoligi’ out-stretched hands to beg for drip-drip from affluent development honey. They give us financial help to either assuage historical guilt or to further cement their superiority. And with most of these Trojan-Horse offerings come ‘conditionalities’.

A feature of our toxic relationship is that some ‘White-Trash’ are sent over as mercenaries (Consultants) to ‘help’ solve our myriad problems. Usually, most of them know nothing about our problems. They are, as John Perkins has appropriately called, Economic Hit-Men (EHM) who scheme to re-colonize us to create a new world empire. The EHMs come for the money (lots of it). Usually, such people are nothing and will never amount to anything in their countries of origin.

We are like candles in the wind – sun-torched, rain-soaked and wind-blown. We’re in a deep hole and that truth should bring us to tears and awake in us, the will – no, the defiance to change directions. We are loosing (lost) whatever shred of grace remains after years of actual and perceived inferiority.

So, what to do? The most audacious will be to claim our space and cut off the apron strings from First World people. Third World people should go ‘cold-turkey’, meaning, abruptly cut off the begging relationship which has proved unhelpful. We should go way down to ground-zero of our nation-building and force ourselves to figure things out by ‘any means necessary’. Whenever they offer help, as they would, let’s say with deep pride, “No, thank you”.

And then, of course, we should clean up our acts – bring an end to all grades of foolishness in leadership and followership – national and individual, which we have excelled at for so long. The foolishness includes corruption/thievery, dependency, lawlessness, indiscipline and all others by which we send stench to the highest heavens. So far, whatever we’ve been doing have not worked and will not work. We’ve been layering several multi-sized layers of development over under-development with each forming a hard crust of impermeable and nonsensical layer that at times, is not even recognizable.

We probably should look up to good old libido and have more inter-world marriages to diffuse the classifications. Blacks should marry whites, yellow or whatever. A friend from Benin married a Chinese American from Hawaii. If you’re not ready to think outside the box, you’ll say that there’s something unnatural about their children that might confuse the Old Man Upstairs. The benefit is that we’ll diffuse the races. Then, after a while, no one can comfortably look down on another without looking down on him/her own self, the essential DNA.

Well, a bi-racial guy, Obama, is President of America, so probably, the world is already on the path to further scatter world and class demarcations. It’s all in the mix-mix.

Underdevelopment and the Toil of Sisyphus

It is only about 70 to 100 kilometres from Kumasi – the Garden City. Yet, it is the backwoods of Ghana. It is said to be the second largest producer of cocoa in the Ashanti Region. Yet, it is trapped in the drudgery of poverty. The inhabitants are engaged in the grind of back-breaking farming and by that, are primary contributors to the national cake. Yet, they are conveniently forgotten when the cake is shared – a classic case of ‘monkey dey work but baboon de chop’.

Road in Atreso at the beginining of 2009 rainy season

Last week, I bore witness to decades of neglect in the Amansie West District of the Ashanti Region with Manso Nkwanta as capital. The experience reminded me of the myth of Sisyphus in Greek mythology. Sisyphus, King of Corinth, was condemned by the gods to push a boulder /rock up a hill forever. Each time he toiled to successfully push the mighty rock up the hill, it rolled back down only for him to repeat the drudgery all over again, far into eternity.

Several rural parts of Ghana have suffered neglect since 52 years of Independence and by implication, denied entry into Ghana and the larger world. Yet still, politicians enter the most difficult-to-enter parts of the country in their quest and greedy hunger for votes.

Parts of the District have not changed much since the beginning of time, tightly locked up in conditions not different from pre-colonial Ghana. If their ancestors who died 50-100 years ago should pop back up from the beyond, they will recognize everything. They can find their way home; just that many will find their old mud-houses in dilapidation.

Underdevelopment hurts in diverse ways. Owing to unmotorable or non-existent roads, rural areas can be cut off from Ghana. As I entered a thirty-five town cluster of the District, I could not help but wonder, “Is this part of Ghana?” Last year, floods cut off eight communities (Dawusaso/Gyegyetreso, Fahiakobo, Kobriso, Hiamankwa, Edwenase, Ayiem, Assamang and Essienkyem) beyond River Offin for three months. They literally went ‘abroad.’ Oh, but we love their cocoa and everything else they contribute to the national cake!


As some Accra residents suffer from floods again this rainy season, the rural underprivileged will also suffer their own unique but painful experiences, including floods. Unfortunately, the plight of the rural population does not make it much into the national public and political consciousness.
A journey into the District will cause you to shudder, and even suspect the strength of your bladder.

Where roads exist, they are so bad that after every few minutes of ride in a top-class four-wheel-drive vehicle, you would feel an urgent urge to urinate because the roughness of the road necessarily forces your bladder and probably other internal organs to shift out of place.
Some parts of the area are cut off from Ghana technologically.

Where there is no electricity, people cannot watch television. Besides, there is no community FM radio station (some Kumasi stations reach them) and no mobile telephone network reception, rendering the residents permanently out-of-coverage area.


The absence of electricity also probably results in an increase in childbirth. When nature’s light (sun and moon) go off and there’s nothing to do, and you’re left in pitch frightening darkness in a thick tropical rain forest, the only solace is in someone else’s bosom to play hanky-panky. Then, pop – a child is born. It’s as simple as A-B-C. Population growth in such areas is therefore very high.


I came across some people who live on one cedi or less a day, whose meal is nothing but cassava, more cassava, periodic plantain and whenever God wills, a blessed piece of fish or meat for flavour. This is also an area where buruli ulcer rudely entered and causes untold pain and suffering. Much of the area’s roads have never had a touch of tar. So therefore any person who is born and lives in the area until death, will never know what a tarred road looks like.

The youth of the area, joined by migrants from afar, are engaged in ‘galamsey’, the ecologically destructive illegal mining of gold. On a light note, I saw a man shaving another man’s armpit by the roadside. I’m yet to deconstruct that experience to glean deep meaning.


Oddly, even in their plight, the people have remained loyal to the so-called Danquah-Busia tradition. These are die-hard NPP folks. Yet, despite eight years of President Kufuor’s NPP administration, their circumstances did not change. Road construction work that began was clearly put on a go-slow no-hurry low-priority low-track timeline and might remain so for a long time to come. The big bad villain in this matter is the government – all governments since Independence have failed them, big time. Unconscionable!


In life, every now and then, there comes certain things you read or experience that are so compelling that they impact on your life forever. Two years ago, I read a speech by Elie Wiesel, a survivor of Nazi concentration camps entitled, “The perils of indifference.” Read the following quote a number of times and feel where within you it touches the most. Without a doubt, it will touch you at the very heart of the matter.

“Indifference elicits no response. Indifference is not a response. Indifference is not a beginning; it is an end…… it benefits the aggressor, never his victim whose pain is magnified when he/she feels forgotten. The political prisoner in his cell, the hungry children, the homeless refugees – not to respond to their plight, not to relieve their solitude by offering them a spark of hope is to exile them from human memory. And in denying their humanity, we betray our own.”


Enters a project, which some in the District affectionately call, ‘Milinom.’ The Millennium Villages Project is a saving grace for the Bonsaaso cluster of villages, extending loving help to them. Funded by a consortium of three international donors – the United Nations Development Program (UNDP), the Earth Institute at Columbia University and the Millennium Promise, the project seeks to assist, in a guided and systematic manner, with interventions to holistically improve the human condition of the people by 2015 on the basis of the UN Millennium Development Goals.


This project has, at best, scratched the surface of the developmental challenges of the area considering the fact that our political leadership has committed the twin crime of indifference and fraudulent neglect since Independence.

If you have ever doubted that the global credit crunch cannot stretch its long and ugly arms across to Ghana, think again. This week, the International Monetary Fund slashed its global economic outlook from bad to gloomy. Any cut in funding and/or abandonment of this project will result in the evaporation of the few gains made in the past two years of the project’s life and return the already vulnerable population quickly back into the rocky bosom of pre-colonial Ghana. They then would have to remain on bended knees, relying solely on divine intervention, or to simply stay put until………ad infinitum.

By that, they will remain the victims of indifference and as the Sisyphus of our country, forever drag the stone up the steep hill and then helplessly watch it roll down – exploited, ignored while we continue to build Ghana on their tired backs.

For a Bowl of Soup

Images of a sea of youth providing ready-made mammoth audiences for political party rallies during last year’s General Elections are glued in my aging memory. For the most part, these young people are the offspring of the under-privileged. So, a bowl of soup, the chance to get anything – just anything at all – for free is at once exhilarating and intoxicating, and can bring smiles where there was only tension on a glorious sunny sweaty Easter Sunday.

The life of a migrant can be tragic. The crowd at Joy 99.7FM’s 2009 Easter Soup Kitchen was predominantly female migrants from the three Northern regions. If I was a young girl growing up in a rural area, I would just about now be having a strong urge to move from the vast but narrow parameters of underdeveloped Ghana. My destination of choice would have been Accra, the city of contradictions, where choked gutters and heaps of refuse can grow in privileged East Legon.

An unsolved mystery at the event was the absence of the poor and needy from southern Ghana origins. To the best of my knowledge, poor and hungry folks from Ga, Ada, Krobo, Ewe, Akuapem, Ashanti, Brong, Twifo, Denkyira and Fante ethnic groups live in Accra. Why didn’t they attend the Easter Soup Kitchen? Are they not desperately poor too?

The Easter Soup Kitchen bore testimony to the urgency to develop the three northern regions and rural Ghana. Fortunately, Team Mills and his NDC administration’s manifesto promises to embark on a grand accelerated Savannah area development project. It will include the development of a Master Plan aimed at harnessing the potential of the vast underdeveloped Savannah belt of Ghana that stretches from the three northern regions down to the northern parts of the Brong Ahafo and Volta regions. Of course the potential includes the human capital as well as the varied natural resources.

This promise is exciting. It is a promise that soothes the aching heart. So now, we just must keep all fingers and toes crossed for change to happen. But specifically, we must hold the Government accountable. Promises must be fulfilled. The international son of our land, Kofi Annan, said this about Africans: “We have the means and the capacity to deal with our problems if only we can find the political will.”

So long as the Savannah belt and the rural areas remain in a sorry state of underdevelopment, the youth will continue to troop down to the bright city lights in search of non-existent greener pastures. These are our own modern day explorers. The will is strong to relocate to the cities where they won’t have much of substance to do so will end up sitting by the roadsides – idle, watching, waiting. They will sleep in conditions not meant for humans and our slums will grow.

And when drugs beckon them, some will try it and get hooked either as sellers or users. Crime will beckon them too! And some will scale walls and knock down burglar-proof doors and windows to make grand dawn-time visits to the privileged in the comfort of their homes – at gun point. It will be nothing but an exercise in sharing. Wrong, but difficult to stop. But, I digress.

The Easter Soup Kitchen was not just thought-provoking. It was fun. Participants were treated to lots of free stuff. Vitamins, anti-malarial medication, toothpaste, de-wormer, contraceptive pills, condoms, powdered milk, yoghurt, an assortment of food and of course water were distributed.

There were several scenes of greed meeting freebies, eyeball-to-eyeball. The urge to pack more than was due was apparent, probably to save for tomorrow and the next. For many of the participants, it was a day of looting anything and everything. It would be interesting to find out what proportion of the loot was sold for cash.

There were many hilarious scenes. Infants in the two-year age bracket who have just gained walking skills could not sit still at the live band music. They lost it on the floor, letting go of their unique dance moves with no inhibitions whatsoever. By mid-day, several faces at the event had a powdery appearance from sucking Nunu Instant Filled Milk Powder.

A fragile aging man who appeared to be recovering from stroke went in line to collect a pack of condoms from the Women’s Initiative for Self-Empowerment (WISE) stand. Of what use would that be to him? Well, that was his pot of soup!

As the day rolled by, humanity began to degenerate, regressing toward the ugly mean. People who had been calm in the morning increasingly lost their dignity. Some broke into running toward anything others run toward and in the process fell, rose and run again, sweaty and losing it at the mind.

Women are wonderfully creative when it comes to packing stuff into non-existent pockets. The under-belly bosom regions and back-sides are all convertible sites for packing whatever floats a woman’s boat. So it was that bowls of food, second-hand clothing, fruits, drinks and anything-for-free made it as body backs. One woman succeeded in making a back-pack look just like a perfect baby.

The participants who were on a quest for free ‘soup’ were mostly women, girls and infants. The number of young women (some pregnant) who were no more than girls themselves with their own babies tugged at the back was worrying. These are the babies who will grow up on the streets to perpetuate a vicious cycle of streetism.

An interesting global phenomenon is that literate and privileged people have imbibed the message of family planning and as a result, have fewer children while the non-literate, underdeveloped/developing poor cast family planning to the dogs and pop out babies with reckless abandon. The outcome is that the population of developed countries and the elites of the world continue to drop. So therefore, someday, underdevelopment will take over the world as the developed become endangered species.

Here is one way to explain the phenomenon. When you can’t self-actualize from the neck-up, at the brain, then you’re left with the option of concentrating on self-actualizing at what appears to be the only viable site of choice – the groin. The outcome is the over-population of the earth because children become the tangible signs of success. After all, they are the products of the groin and therefore of joy, regardless of quality.

But in spite of the motivation for populating the earth even when one cannot afford it, it is important for Ghana to return to a family planning campaign. Fact: our population has doubled in two decades, from 12 million in the late 1980s to the current estimated 23.2 million. The meek shall not inherit the earth!

Easter Soup Kitchen goes beyond bringing together more than 1,000 hungry mouths for a good Easter free feeding and medical care. It promotes volunteerism and philanthropy. The sheer number of volunteers who spent the day helping out was heart-warming.

But here are a few enduring questions: What is the long-lasting impact of an event of the magnitude of the mega Easter party? One eats ‘soup’ today just to go dry tomorrow? Are deep-seated needs of participants being met? But then it’s beyond ‘soup.’ The health checks and counselling are priceless for the participants who take the time to go through them instead of rushing for free food.

Tuesday with Daddy President

It’s not everyday that one gets the chance to be under the same roof with a President. But on Wednesday, March 17, 2009, yours truly, together with 22 other media leaders ‘invaded’ the Osu slave Castle to meet with President Mills.

I set out all pumped up in a well-engineered brazier, a well-pruned well-primed Afro-punk hairdo, a pair of wicked high-heeled shoes and hanging earrings to complete my bold look.With the frightening December General Elections experiences as a backdrop, we were on a mission to touch on issues of national importance in relation to the media landscape.

Personally, I was excited because it marked the first meeting with my new Daddy the President; TV doesn’t count because it’s only technological magic. (He is your Daddy too. Remember?) But the visit was a fiasco. You know what they say about first experiences!

It was also my first time in the residential quarters of the slave castle. I felt haunted. I saw dead people. I smelt dead people. I felt the presence of dead people. Castles are horrible places. They constitute the belly of the beast – the very beast of our nation’s history. They mark the trauma of where we’ve been as a people. With even a dull sixth sense, you should be able to feel evil hovering over such strange places.

Castles and Forts are sites of murder and unsolved (never-to-be-solved) mysteries. They are also places of numerous imperialist, immoralist, beastly misbehaviours of rape that resulted in numerous unwanted pregnancies. Blacks in the Diaspora appear to have a more alert sense of this weird history because they carry the essential DNA of their ancestors, our kith and kin, who were snatched from our shores and used, misused and abused to build other people’s civilization while our rot in a developmental funk. But, I digress!

So while we waited in the slave master’s (Governor’s) quarters, now the President’s crib, trying hard to manage my ‘deer-in-the-headlight’ look and posture, wondering about Ghana’s past, present and future, and about the Golden Jubilee Palace – whether it will ever be used by President Mills or will be left to be burgled and rot (and as the spectacle of choice for motorists), Madam Zita was ushered in. No greetings with media delegation; nothing! That was my first red flag. I hoisted it. I should have run for my life at that point. But, I sat still, my brain running wild with questions, thoughts and ideas. I just sat there.

Then, my President, JEA Mills walked in. Very civil. He took turns to shake hands with each of us. I dropped the flag. After a few formalities by the Chief of Staff (was that him?), Ransford T and Bright B, just when I expected our agenda to be placed before the President of the land, he cut in to speak. My flag was still down.

Then, I began to follow the flow. President Mills had his own agenda for the scheduled meeting with senior media leaders. The President granted us audience just so he can preside to use media leaders as a megaphone to deliver an indirect message to his political rivals. He wasn’t there to listen to us. We could even have been lemon trees in well-tailored business suits and my Afro punk hairdo! His utterances were nothing but opposition politics all the way. He therefore delivered a message for the political opposition and imaginary rival, not to journalists, the proverbial ‘watchdogs’ of society and agenda setters.

Despite the apparent weaknesses of the journalism profession in Ghana, one cannot deny the fact that we have made substantial contributions to the development of our democracy. That is the reason we have a seat at the table, albeit at times, just to gather the crumbs from the masters’ tables.

A few minutes into the President’s tirade, I re-hoisted my imaginary red flag. Danger! I felt like a fish out of water. I felt like a complete idiot. Maybe I am an idiot to have set out to meet my President. As a member of the wrong audience for his message, I couldn’t help but translate it to mean, "Yaa Doris, get out of my presence, you despicable little woman." As soon as he was done with his ‘kasantwi’ invective, he insisted on taking some really odd photos for the sake of political posterity albums and before I could say hello Daddy, he had de-coupled from us. Daddy was gone! Just like that! We had no chance to present our agenda. We could not even ask him any questions.His approach was snobbish. It was a top-down outburst. It was debris flying out through words, from the thick privileged cloud down into the maddening inconsequential crowd.

It was a hawkish shrill-wagging teeth-showing who-the-cup-fits-let-him/her-wear-it moment. While listening, if you felt like a piece of crap, so be it; deal with it!Yet, we were supposed to be some of the leading media leaders in the country. What are the far-reaching implications of this incident for the future relationship of the media with the Mills administration? I don’t know.

What I know for sure is that what happened on March 17 was a poor sell by the President; a below pass grade performance. That incident was a lost opportunity for him to reach out and warm out to the media, the proverbial "Fourth Estate of the Realm". Instead of engaging us, he used the opportunity as a bully pulpit to settle political scores.Clearly, my President was on heat. From what? More than one full week after the fiasco media visitation, the true target of his message is still being deconstructed by his side-mouths – Ayariga-Anyidoho and disparate Company. The jury is not yet out; still struggling to make sense of the outburst.

For a developing country that, for all intent and purposes, is damn ‘broke’ in the midst of a global economic crunch, should we spend days of energy and brain power to second-guess what the President meant and who his message was directed at? Why did I have to struggle out of my home in the warm waterless armpit of Accra, with a widely open-mind open-heart and genuine professional excitement, just to engage in guess-work to glean meaning from a message?

But more especially, what is the communication strategy of President Mills? Is he even on message? If yes, what message? Or, he’s just floating in a grumpy reactionary mode? His communication efforts appear clogged like Ghana’s choked gutters, and crowded like heaps of trash by the roadside. Why does he have all these communication operatives hanging on, sending mixed messages, contradicting and stepping over each other, chirping chirping chirping?

Lousy communication management was one of President Kufuor’s (sorry, former President Kufuor’s) undoing. Don’t ever forget that, President Mills. Everything communicates. Everything!

OK, so the President tells us that he is tough, not timid. Now, what? Dear reader, if you’ve ever wondered where my edginess comes from, now you now. President Mills is my Daddy! I can’t afford to be timid. Periodic edginess and ranting is in my blood. I just can’t help myself.

So Daddy Professor President, the next time you feel very edgy, let me know. I’ll hurt all your ‘enemies’ with my wicked high-heeled shoes and Afro-punk hair-do. I promise on my honour, to be faithful and loyal to my one and only President JEA Mills. So help me God!

dorisdartey@yahoo.com

When Watchman Sleeps for Massa

The Case journalism embededness with politicians and others.


About 3 am, the man of the house, Massa Oppong, wakes up, looking all funky, and swaggers sleepily to the kitchen to get something to drink. He hears noises outside and calls out for the watchman who was lying on his duty-post bench outside. After yelling out his name several times, the watchman responds in a start, “Massa, Massa!” Then, the man of the house yells back at him, “Owusu, you are sleeping again? What kind of watchman are you?” Owusu responds, “Massa, I dreamt that you’ve made plenty plenty money. Madam make plenty plenty babies. You go build big house.” Was the watchman sleeping or keeping watching? Go figure. Can you be awake, snoring and dreaming at the same time? Not a chance! That will be unnatural. So the watchman was telling a big lie. The dream ‘toli’ was meant for him to get into Massa’s good books. But worse of all, the dream was a ploy to get Massa to ignore the watchman’s unwatchfulness.

The media of mass communication is said to be ‘watchdogs’ of society. A watchdog watches keenly, alertly, ferociously and at all times, and doesn’t allow anything untoward to get close to the precious objects for which it’s ‘hired’ to watch. Journalists have a mandate to watch out for society and protect it from hounds, who with insatiable craving, are always ready to pilfer and plunder. The hounds (Massas) include politicians, businesses, foreigners and ordinary unsuspicious individuals among the citizenry. The role of the journalist is to expose wrong-doing. How do you expose people you are in bed with? When you are ‘paddy’ with someone, you tend to ignore or not see what they do wrong.

In the past week, a politician asserted that he ‘knows’ the media. What is it that people ‘know’? What is the nature of their knowing? It sounds like the kind of ‘knowing’ that is nothing but dirty; like prostitution. It sounds like intimate knowledge that boarders on over-familiarity. Do they ‘know’ journalists because they give them bribes, nicely nicknamed ‘soli’? Do they ‘know’ journalists because they have a corrupting relationship with them?
Once journalists are corrupted, what does this country have left? Nothing! Ghana will be at the mercy of various categories of plunderers. When that knowing occurs, then watchman actually sleeps with Massa – right inside his bed, snoring and drooling. But watchman doesn’t belong in Massa’s bed. No way!

Perception is rife that since the NDC administration came into office, some journalists have conveniently flipped allegiance to the party in power and have begun a sing-song praise-singing relationship with the government of the day. How does the watchdog do a great job at watching if it praises the armed robbers it’s supposed to watch out for? To keep heads up, journalists must stay away from the cushy beds of politicians and all other sorts of plunderers who can privatize our democracy.

There are also accusations that state-owned media leaders are busy bending backwards to please the new Massa. People suspect that NDC folks are doing their thing, and pushing journalists to throw professionalism to the dogs. But a possibility is that some journalists and media leaders might be doing self-censorship, the most insidious form of censorship. Just from ‘knowing’ the NDC from its not too shiny history with freedom, some media people might be posturing as a survival strategy. It’s a simple matter of ‘behave well for big intolerant Massa’ so he will leave you in perfect peace.

Many enduring questions: Do we have NPP journalists and NDC journalists? There is a school of thought that journalists who experienced oppression and repression under the PNDC/NDC eras were too comfortable with the NPP administration. In effect, they become NPP journalists. Is it also true that during the past eight years of the Kufuor administration, NDC journalists who work in the state-owned media went underground to chill and have since January 2009, resurrected from slumber and in full bloom and full flight?

So now that an NDC administration is back in office, do NPP journalists go into hiding, or be transferred into media ‘Siberia’ to wait for the day their party returns to power? While waiting, do they rot as punishment for having been too comfortable with the NPP? Such a situation will imply that there are too many journalistic deaths and resurrections for a small country like ours.

Is it also true that journalists are readily labelled as either NPP or NDC? So journalists are expected to have political colouring and leaning, and be polemic, as if standing at one end of a pole? That makes journalism as polarized as political Ghana? Troubling!

Perception, they say is reality. What is it about the NDC which instils such fear in people? Why is it that since the NDC was declared winner and ruler of Ghana, I keep receiving ‘advice’ from friends and loved ones (and those who probably don’t care a hoot about me) cautioning me to be ‘careful’ about what I write in this column with regard to this government? I’ve heard comments like, “watch your back, oh” – whatever that means. ‘Don’t drive home late, oh. They can hire someone to follow/hurt you.” Fact: I have zero tolerance for fear. Lion’s paw!

There are many strategies repressive and quasi-democratic governments use to stifle the mass media. Arresting opposition politicians is one of them. When journalists hear of the arrest of Dr Bawumia and the confiscation of Nana Akuffo Addo’s vehicle, the message is clear: if the high and mighty can be nabbed, then little inconsequential journalists should be ware because they can be squashed.

The Ministry of Information is archaic and does not belong in this democratic era just to breathe heavily down the thin necks of journalists and media practitioners. It is too much of big Massa. That ministry began as the propaganda machinery of President Nkrumah’s CPP. But subsequent governments, even, those who claim to be super-democratic (Busia, Limann and Kufuor), all held on to this ministry. They use it, abuse it, rape it, and when all is said and done, the government of the day shamelessly wipes off its hands and moves on. President Mills has clearly joined the party.

The just-appointed Minister of Information (Madam Zeta) is the tipping point as far as that ministry goes. Her vetting left a sour taste in many tired old mouths. She must be the very last Minister of Information. President Mills should have the courage to dissolve this ministry as part of his promise to cut down cost. And it should happen before the end of 2009. It is unconscionable for a ruling government to use tax payers’ money to do blatant propaganda work. The Kufuor administration did the same, with the election period being the shameless peak.

The Information Services Department and all other relevant administrative arms should go under the Ministry of Communication. The state-owned media belong under the National Media Commission, a better umbrella which, if strengthened, can support the growth of journalism in Ghana. Fact: If journalism does not thrive, Ghana’s development will continue to be suspended in a development funk – half awake, half asleep – in the cushy filthy arms of strange Massas.

For the next four years, journalists cannot afford to ‘sleep for Massa’. All eyes must be opened.

dorisdartey@yahoo.com; dorisdartey.blogspot.com

Broken Windows Theory and Ghana's Development

Consider this maxim: "If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it." But I hear that it’s only ‘normal people’ who believe this maxim. On the contrary, I hear that engineers believe that "If it ain’t broke, it doesn’t have enough features yet". So, putting these two sayings together, the question to ponder over is – Is Ghana broken? After 52 years of nation-building, does Ghana have enough features for some or all to be broken to the point that they need fixing, re-tooling and re-engineering? Is it time for real change?
During my life’s short school journey, I picked up a theory which I’ve referred to before in this column – the Broken Windows Theory. Coined by two guys, Wilson and Kelling, the theory posits that brokenness attracts more brokenness until the object is completely destroyed beyond fixing.
The theory provides rich explanation to how slums are created out of nice and tidy neighbourhoods. It takes just one for brokenness to begin. It is initiated by one person, with one act that is tolerated and allowed to become entrenched, not challenged, not corrected, and not stopped. That one act becomes the symbolic permission, an approval and a signal that brokenness is the new and acceptable order. Then, hell breaks loose and everyone joins in the big party to add his/her own cacophony of brokenness until the neighbourhood becomes unrecognizable from its previous nice state.
Facts: Brokenness is costly. Brokenness is ugly. Brokenness is filthy. Brokenness leads to more brokenness.The following is an example provided by the thinkers of the theory. "Consider a building with a few broken windows. If the windows are not repaired, the tendency is for vandals to break a few more windows. Eventually, they may even break into the building, and if it’s unoccupied, perhaps become squatters or light fires inside. Or, consider a sidewalk. Some litter accumulates. Soon, more litter accumulates. Eventually, people even start leaving bags of trash from take-out restaurants there or break into cars."
Periodically, I reflect on this theory and wonder the extent of its relevance to Ghana and if it has the potential to deepen understanding of our national quagmire. But especially, I mull over its usefulness to solve some, if not most of our national brokenness. Many failures over several years have brought us to this point of vandalism. I also struggle to identify what aspects of Ghana do not exhibit signs of brokenness, and work as they should. I love our ability to laugh and love, but with regard to systems that work, I’m still looking.
Here is a quick run down of a few sings of brokenness. Please add your own to this list. Street lights go off and stay off for days, weeks or months, rendering parts of our towns dark and dangerous, making room for vehicular accidents, robberies and fear of road users. Fixing a light does not require brain surgery. Yet, the problem at times could just be a faulty fuse that could be replaced easily.
Cracks in good roads are left to widen, growing from pot holes into manholes until the entire road becomes a vehicular hole that is not passable/usable. The carnage on our roads with over 300 deaths since January is nothing but a sign of brokenness, fully packaged as a recipe for disaster. Drivers drive as if they have death wishes and are desperate to take others along with them. The engineering wisdom behind the design of some roads is suspect. Indiscipline is tolerated. Policing is corrupt, inadequate or non-existent. Some roads are not even car-worthy. The profile of the typical driver is frightening – school drop-out, non-literate or semi-literate, lousily trained who views the steering wheel as a symbol of power and gleefully uses it as a veritable weapon of choice.
Our national sanitation crisis is probably the most visible and symbolic portrayal of a national state of brokenness. It probably suggests a certain state of national depression which shows itself in the way we throw rubbish around ‘by heart.’ The troubling fact is that we have no clue how to manage the filth that seems to be engulfing us. The current state of environmental sanitation might be a national cry for help. It was Mahatma Gandhi who said, ‘Sanitation is more important than independence.’ Similarly, Victor Hugo wrote in Les Miserables, that "The history of men is reflected in the history of sewers…. The sewer is the conscience of a city." Chew on these.
The ongoing scandal that the last Speaker of Parliament literally cleaned up a government bungalow of everything that could be packed into a truck and took away as personal property points to brokenness in our system. What is missing in the discussion of this scandal is that laid down procedures of the Public Works Department were not followed. It does not appear that an inventory was taken before he moved in and also at the time of departure. In the absence of abiding by the rules of before and after inventory, who knows what might have been stolen on his behalf in the hurry and shuffle of exiting the residency?
An enduring question: With Regard to the new political leaders who are currently greedily grabbing state-owned vehicles – are procedures being followed to save Ghana from becoming a victim of good old thievery? Or, we’ll wait till this government is out of power and then we again examine what went wrong?
Our educational system is another area that is crying for fixing. Other areas are: Law and order has broken down. Corruption reigns. Meanwhile, in recent years, we have become enamoured with a fashion to develop policies: for water, sanitation, energy – for everything. Then what? Nothing!
Enters Broken Windows Theory. A major implication of the theory is that when the appropriate measures are taken to promptly fix manifestations of brokenness, one could deter low-level anti-social behaviours as well as major crimes, and keep society on its toes. It calls for commitment and consistency to do things right.
Once upon a time, New York City Mayor Rudy Giuliani of September 11 terrorist attack fame, adopted the theory as part of general reform measures to clean up the then scary crime-ridden and filthy financial capital of the world, which was fast losing its shine because of anti-social behaviours of crime, filth, graffiti, public intoxication, nuisance and urination.
As part of the measures, the city authorities first zoomed in to symbolically solve some of its challenging problems including regular cleaning up of graffiti. Next, it began to enforce the laws, even laws for petty offences, if just to convey a symbolic message. The result of the initiative was the reduction of both petty and major crimes. The message was clear: no foolishness tolerated. And the message sank in with people who had hitherto, been disrespectful of the society, its laws, its morality and everything it stood for.
Did I hear that Team Mills won the 2008 elections on the ticket of change? What change? Will nonsensical acts of leadership and followership be purged? For instance, will the NDC government have the courage to tackle two politically taboo D words – Demolition and Decongestion – that are symbolic of the chaos that characterizes our cities? Take Accra and Kumasi. Disorder galore! Or, will Prez Mills run Ghana like a casino? We watch and wait for change to happen.

dorisdartey@yahoo.com

Cedi Weeps in a Credit Crunch

Cedi Weeps in a Credit Crunch
I crunch. You crunch. We all crunch. Ghana gets locked up in a crunch primarily because the high and mighty of the globe are in an economic crunch. In financial-speak, this means that the rich developed countries have maxed-out their piss-pots full of money. But worse of all, their crunch is spilling over, no – rushing across, through distant lands and seas, to a street near you.
Simply put, the credit crunch is an economic hurricane that is sweeping through the world carrying poverty flags. Wherever it arrives, it hoists flags up on the highest elevations and moves on hurriedly to the next location. After vanquishing the mighty of the world, it is making a grand entry into Third World countries to mess up already messed up desperate situations. The credit crunch, like a horrible disease, has many not-so-nice names. Economic Downturn, Slump, Meltdown, Repression and Second Great Depression. Scary names!
It was caused by elite sleaze-balls, swindlers, plunderers, high-tech burglars and pickpockets as well as various types of human sharks, who, with their own sophisticated package of greed, exploited the inherent greed of innocent people and rob them of money they have, don’t have and will never have. The crunch originated at the headquarters of the developed world, USA.
The fact that major world economies are on a melt-down should indicate to us that they don’t fully know what they are doing. Last year, the aging chief fetish priest of global finance, Alan Greenspan, shocked the world when he expressed astonishment about the melt-down of the US economy. He, the guru, didn't see it coming? Damn! The handwriting was on the wall for many years because the extent of credit dependency was not sustainable. No brainer!
From America, Britain, France, Germany, through China, Russia, Japan to Thailand – stock markets have fallen sharply and major companies have collapsed. On the human side, innocent persons are suffering. There are record-breaking job loses. Homelessness is up because houses have been foreclosed for inability to pay. People have committed suicide. Divorce rates have increased. And – there is a strong suspicion that what is happening is only the tip of the iceberg.
If fraud and collapse of such magnitude can occur in parts of the world where checks and balances are supposed to exist, then what could happen to Ghana, the very porous Gateway into Africa? Banks and financial concerns are blooming like flowers that have been well watered and fertilized. I’m nervous, and you should too. Who owns the bank where you keep your money? To what extent are you exposed to danger? We could, by default, be nurturing our own version of home-grown indicators to create an internally-generated credit crunch to add to the one that, like a tsunami, is coming to us from the developed world.
One concept the credit crunch brings into sharper focus is bottom-line. Somehow, this word has been clothed in decency. How can a bottom have a line? Not mine! Maybe yours! On the flip side, can a line have a bottom? What kind of a bottom will that be? A thin bottom? I don’t know; knowledge gaps exist.

In this credit crunch world, at this very low bottom, you don’t expect our national leadership to recklessly run down the economy by speaking evil and mockery to the cedi. But that’s exactly what the Prez Mills administration did in January when on heat from exuberance at assumption to office. Behaving like children with new toys and as if they were still on a campaign trail to undo their NPP rivals, mouths run wild not realising that they were rather undoing Ghana.
Sometime during my brief life’s school journey, I learned that the true value of money is in the mind and not in the paper on which it’s printed. So when the government declared jubilantly that Ghana was broke, psychology took over and the cedi responded fast and furious, very fast, into the gutter. Or, is the economy (ecomeny) resilient? It doesn’t appear so otherwise the cedi will not be floating in a poverty piss-pot.
‘Ghana is broke’ is an abusive statement, akin to a whip-lash. It’s like telling a child, ‘You’re useless and will never amount to anything.’ After a while, the child believes it; innocence lost, forever. Words are powerful. Ghana is broke is a vulgar language, akin to telling someone, (taflatse) ‘Your mother.’ On the surface, it doesn’t sound like much of an insult. But deconstructed and broken down to the core, it’s one of the most loaded vulgar insults to utter to anybody.
So therefore with such reckless, toxic, abusive, subversive, pessimistic language thrown at it, the cedi, like coffee, began to percolate, oozing out its fine juice. So, right now, the cedi is deeply unamused. It’s weeping hysterically; bruised and bleeding. It’s in shock over the disrespect, over the slap, over the vulgar language, over the undeserved nasty kick in the bottom. The upset seems to be deepening. The cedi is undergoing a severe stress test and things do not look good.
Question: The government’s mouth ibe gun? Yes! The mouth of every government is the biggest and most dangerous gun in that country. So, President Mills, you and your people must begin to speak love to the cedi and bring back some confidence. Having the World Bank and their super-power donor partners pump in borrowed credit-crunch infested foreign currency stimulus into Ghana will not be enough. You and your people injured our darling cedi and it’s crying for a cushy bear hug. Show the cedi some love, please.
But if you decide not to pamper the cedi with love, here are other cool strategies to consider. 1). Mount an all-nation Cedi Prayer Camp to pray over, pray to, pray into, pray for and pray around the cedi to kick it out of recession back into life. Please invite all pastors; no discrimination whatsoever! Lavish sprinkling of Holy Water and frivolous smearing of high-grade Olive Oil will be acceptable.
2). The entire country must have a toast by raising calabashes to drink pito or palm wine to speak recovery to the cedi. If alcohol and good old drunkenness will be inappropriate because of our overly Christian pretentiousness, here is the coolest strategy.
3). Daddy Prof President, my darling Hannah Tetteh and Company must do this exercise to directly apologize to the cedi! First, clear your throats, take in some hefty breaths to calm down, then, shake yourselves into your deepest sense of sincerity and slobber kisses to a bunch of cedi notes of all denominations. Place the pack of increasingly dirtying cedi notes on your chest wherever you think your heart is located and then slowly, say after me:
“Dear cedi, we are sorry for talking trash to you. We admit that we mocked and trivialized you. We didn’t know better then but now we know that we hurt your feelings. When you know better you do better so now we’re ready to do right by you. This is not Zimbabwe and we don’t want to return to the old smelly cedi. So New Ghana cedi, please return to your pre-January glory. We love you. We respect you. And always will. Kiss. Kiss.”
dorisdartey@yahoo.com; dorisdartey.blogspot.com