When loved ones are called home

In the past week, I’ve been in the general neighbourhood of death and dying. Three deaths were out and about in my space. On Saturday, July 2, my favourite senior cousin, Mina Adobea Appeah, was buried. On the same day, a very fine journalist, one of my many famous former students whom I’m so proud of, Sammy Okaitey, was also laid to rest. Two days earlier, last Thursday, June 30^th, the Editor of this newspaper, and the writer of one of the best and longest-running columns, Merari Alomele, checked out and with that, brought an abrupt end to the Sikaman Palaver column.

Cousin Mina:

My cousin Mina was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known. Tall, gorgeous and with a face you can’t forget. There I was, holding my mother’s hand, to watch as she was pushed into her coffin. This was the second time ever in my fifty-something years of life I’ve witnessed this grand farewell act of pushing a dead body into a coffin. I couldn’t cry. I was frozen. I watched with intensity as the ‘handlers’ struggled to force and fit Mina’s stiff body into the coffin which suddenly appeared to be too small!

I so dearly loved Mina but as I watched the bizarre farewell scene, it hit me that it’s been a long time since I spent any quality time with her. With shame, I realised that I’ve been too busy with my career –teaching, consulting, writing, television and traveling! I doubt if Mina knew how much I loved her, adored her, and looked up to her as an older cousin.

But it was too late to tell her my heart message. All I could do was to take in the privilege of being one of six people to witness her final moment and the nailing of the coffin. I stood there, alive but stiff too, wondering, ‘Mina, is that it?’ Apparently, that was it! So, when would it be my turn since this is the fate of all living beings? What a troubling life (death?) question! Mina was 68. Her funeral was packed with church-goers. I moved from Mina’s funeral to the next – Sammy’s

Sammy Okaitey, a fine Journalist called home!

Gone too soon, of course! At just 52, Sammy has checked out into eternity. I’ve never thought of the Accra Sports Stadium as a site for a funeral! But Sammy Okaitey, a fine sports journalist, literally commandeered hundreds of people to the stadium for his funeral and to see him off next door at the Osu cemetery. Having worked up the rank from a reporter (with specialization in sports) to become the News Editor of Ghana’s leading newspaper, the Daily Graphic, Sammy Okaitey’s funeral was packed with journalists and media practitioners as well as the who-is-who of the sports world in Ghana.

Boxer Azumah Nelson was a solid presence. So were Kabral Blay Amihere, Akoto Ampaw, Kofi Nyantakyi, Ransford Tettey, Affail Monney, Kwasi Gyan-Appenteng, Kofi Yeboah, Cofi Koomson, Enimil Ashon, and many many more. Much of the staff of the Graphic Communications Group as well as leading journalists from the Ghana Broadcasting Corporation, the New Times Corporation and the private media showed up at Sammy’s funeral. It was a farewell party for one of our own and by that, a get-together for the living.

Sammy’s funeral was a place to find journalists who have been lost in action for as long as Abraham was a school boy. After all, Sammy was for almost three decades, a permanent fixture on the media scene and exceled himself. I do not understand sports but I could understand him, and by that, he succeeded in cracking a little window into sports for me. But another funeral awaits!

‘The Sikaman Goes Home’: The Book

The hearts of many readers of the ‘Sikaman Palaver’ column are broken over Merari Alomele’s death. His was a unique name. There are many who buy or pick up The Spectator just so they can read what Alomele has written. But now he is gone. Fortunately, despite the fact of his death, he has left jewels of himself behind through his writings. Dear reader, what would you leave behind on the day you’re called ‘home’? What impact are you making in your corner of life?

Dear reader, if you’re one of the lovers of the ‘Sikaman’ column, won’t you buy a book – ‘The Sikaman Goes Home’? Alor, as he was affectionately called, has written so much week after week, year after year. If his classy pieces, including his award-winning articles, are compiled, a couple of books could come out of him even in death. Amazing! Impressive!

For several years, Alor passionately touched on issues from A to Z about the state of Ghana, which he nicknamed ‘Sikaman.’ A compilation of his writings into a book would be a hot sale and the proceeds – the cash, ‘sika’ – could be used to bless his young children.

Enduring Questions:

So last week was an emotionally packed week for me. Tough! These were human stories that woke me up about beginnings and endings. Life is definitely very short. Here is an enduring question to ponder over. If you were reliably informed that you (me) have three hours, three days, three weeks, three months or three years more to live, what would you do? What activities would you choose to engage in and which ones would you abandon? Would you continue to waste your precious hours, days, weeks, months and years on inconsequential activities and thoughts?

All these deaths have reminded me of the brevity of life. Home going! Call to glory! Glorious walk to eternity! Home call! Transition! Call to higher service! These are flamboyant phrases used in newspapers to announce death. This death and dying thing is for all ages, all genders, all races – and all living beings. Eh, where is ‘home’? Oh, so where we live is not ‘home’? Yet, we spend much time and effort to build concrete homes? What is the ‘call’? Why the ‘call’? These are spooky thoughts. As you grieve the death of loved ones, you vicariously grieve your own.

So much love is displayed at funerals. If only we could show as much love to the living, the world would become a better place. These past weeks, a person I’ve considered a very good friend betrayed me. Being around these three deaths teach me the importance of forgiveness and redemption. When would you die? When would I die? The answers to these questions can never be known.

But one thing we should know for sure is that while we’re here, we should never treat others as if they’re trash and don’t matter. It’s unnecessary to hurt your loved ones. For now, there is one life to live. If, as scripture says, there is another life, then that would be a bonus. For the time being, we’re to live this life we currently have to the fullest and in goodness; in full acknowledgement to the brevity of this current life. Don’t neglect what is truly important. So, what is truly important to you? Go figure!

Rawlings Mystique, Fear, Love and Fatigue

He is an enigma, Rawlings is. Some love him. Some hate him. Some will die for him. Some wish him gone. Some understand him. Some wonder – W-H-A-T? Life is a mystery. It’s not every puzzle you can solve. So some things should just be left in the realm of mystery. Yet, on Saturday, July 9, ‘Congress TV Day’, we witnessed a fascinating phenomenon in Ghana’s history. The Rawlings Mystique seemed to have melted away and gave way to Rawlings Fatigue. Or, it didn’t?

The fear factor:

A few weeks ago during the celebration of the June 4 uprising, Flight Lt. turned ex-President, served notice for yet another ‘boom’ speech during the NDC Congress at which his beloved wife, Nana Konadu Agyeman-Rawlings, was contesting the sitting President, Evans Atta Mills. My head ached.

I bet that I’m not the only Ghanaian who has been suffering from Rawlings Fatigue. My daughter Darkoa, who migrated out of Ghana at the young age of 12 and recently relocated back home, remarked a few months ago after 17 years sojourn abroad: ‘Mama, when I was growing up in Ghana, Rawlings ruled supreme. He still reigns supreme. Why?’ I couldn’t answer.

How could one person overbearingly be preaching and yelling at a country for a generation and not get tired of his own voice? How could one person come across as the only one who knows what is right for a country that he ruled for a whopping 19½ years, the longest-serving leader of  Ghana? During the Rawlings regime, fear reigned. Bullying, intimidation, persecutions, kangaroo courts, culture of silence – were the order of the time. Now, Rawlings fatigue appears to have set in for the citizenry. Or it hasn’t?

Did she or did she not?

A confession. I cry when something goes wrong in my life. I even cry when I’m very happy. Don’t ask me why. Crying is something I do to get in touch with my feminine side. Tear drops and estrogen are lovely bedfellows.

So the grand question is: Did Konadu cry as she left the Sunyani Coronation Park that did not coronate her (Mother and co-founder of the NDC, the one and only legitimate Madam of our land, women champion extraordinaire of the 31^st December Women’s Movement), as flag-bearer? As she and hubby JJ sneaked out quietly in plain view on the long awkward historic walk out of the congress grounds, what went through their minds? What conversations have they had? Did the coincidence of 3.1 per cent and 31^st December hold back the tears but not the jeers? Oh, the magic power of numbers!

Much as I so badly desire for a woman to become President of Ghana (since for 54 years – still counting, the male leadership has not served us much), a Konadu presidency has not tickled me – at all. She has been in the cushy bed of power for so long to the point that she has learned to be bold. She has, over the years, authored her own narrative, some of which is not endearing; because it is decorated by fear.

But tied to the Konadu presidency would have come a certain Jerry John as First Gentleman. That is a no brainer! And, that has been a problem for many. Jerry John Rawlings is a wise man – nay, the wisest man in Ghana! The storied couple is Ghana’s prima donna, the epicentre of power, a state-within-a-state, our royal celebrity high-octane sweetheart couple decorated with a gold-platted triple-AAA rating.

For two decades, this country lived under the thumb of Mr Rawlings, while Konadu grew mightily in power. From the brief but ruthless AFRC days, through the long haul of PNDC and NDC1 administrations, the storied couple was glued to the centre of Ghana; an imposition.

In the past few weeks, some radio stations did an excellent job of playing back Rawlings’s voice – from his grand holier-than-thou entrance onto the Ghanaian scene through his many reincarnations with a crescendo to the last celebration of June 4^th uprising last month. Of course the voice had aged over the years, but one unmistakably single thread runs through: the shrill yelling commanding know-all characteristic in his tone – Blunt, Blustery and Bombastic (BBB).

The Fatigue! At long last!
Who would ever have thought that an NDC crowd, the Rawlings party folks, who have always adored the prima donna pair, would come any close to hooting at Rawlings and his wife, the king and queen (the father/founder and mother) of their party? I’ve been trying to identify the 90 people who voted for Konadu. The NDC did not treat the couple fairly. What a betrayal to embarrass the founder and mother!

Probably, the Rawlings mystique has long departed but they were too slow to read the signs, the glaring handwriting on the wall. When they began the awkward walk out of the congress grounds, they were by that act, acknowledging that the people who have always adored them were finally fatigued of them. The welcome, the tolerance, was finally over. Or wasn’t it?

But clearly, it’s not only NDC people who are tired of the Rawlingses. Rank and file Ghanaians are also suffering from Rawlings fatigue because they’ve been on the scene for far too long. NPP fatigue, floating-voter fatigue and the unlikely NDC fatigue have set in. The party he founded after boldly dropping the P (Provisional) from the PNDC to form his NDC, had over the years, become fatigued of his ranting and yelling and the need to rule and be in charge and control? W-H-A-T?

Times change. Now, from last week’s defeat by a mere John Mills, it’s apparent (likely?) that the fear we had for the Rawlingses may be gone! Thirty years ago, I would not have dreamt – nay, I would not have dared – to think of the content of this article. But now, my sleeping place will not change for writing this (in a state-owned newspaper!). I’ll not be the recipient of an ‘identification haircut.’ Times have truly changed.

Have you been healed of the Rawlings mystique, gone beyond fear, or you’re just fatigued? Freedom, you’re so sweet! The Rawlings myth is finally broken. Hasn’t it? The voice of the late Martin Luther King Jr., the American civil rights leader, rings true here: ‘Free at last! Free at last. Thank God almighty, we’re free at last!’

Why the Rawlingses never thought that they would ever over-stay their welcome is in itself shocking. That’s just the law of nature: whatever goes up comes down. Even charisma can wear off. It is not a matter of ding dong ding. But, the fact still remains that many still love them and may want to die for them. Those who love them truly love them. The enigma!

Enduring Questions: Would the beloved couple ever varnish from the public space? Who is this man who was born and bred (bread) and buttered in Ghana who does not sound like a Ghanaian? Why does JJ have an affected accent? How did he acquire it? Is it a Locally-Affected Acquired Foreign Accent (LAAFA) or it’s just your middle-of-the-road Blood Acquired Accent (BAA)? Go figure! No shaky, babe!

Sexism and the Ugly Black Frog

Dear Grandmother, you’ve been gone for so long. I loved to affectionately call you Yayo. You were very dear to my heart and gave me a firm foundation. You did not have much but you shared much with me. When I was terrified of menstruation, you showed me how to manage the monthly blood-letting entrance into womanhood. I’ve grown up a lot since. Menstruation has paused. I look a lot like you. By the aid of my only daughter, I now have two young granddaughters. I spoil them, wishing that their lives will be better than mine.

As I’ve grown wiser, I’ve learned deep lessons about sexism in Ghana. As much as things have changed since your departure, many things still remain the same. Gender equality is still far off from smell and touch. A few women have succeeded in making a token presence into leadership positions and we’re supposed to be content with that just like you were content working on your little okro farm, for which you died.

Women are the majority yet in the minority. Last year, they counted the people in this country. The results were fascinating; there are more females than males. But our majority status has not helped us much. The work-life of women, for the most part, remains the same, just like in your days. Unlike in your days, girls go to school now. I did! Yet, many brilliant girls remain glued to the mommy-truck, hubby-train and worst of all, the timidity-bus. Timidity zaps any traces of confidence and breeds content and satisfaction for low status.

Yayo, sexism is endemic in Ghana. It is to the bone; hard core! Bigotry toward females is deep. Chauvinism, machismo, discrimination is still rife. On the totem pole of privilege, on the food chain of power, the male is still supreme. Females and the handicapped – cripples, mentally ill, poor and all others – are low on the food chain. Culture that is rooted in dogmatism, bias, narrow-mindedness and a predisposition for prejudice is deep.

You would recall the experiences I shared with you several years ago in a dream when I was living in the Whiteman’s country. I felt a deep hurt when some skinny Whitemen with few teeth remaining in their stinky mouths drove past me and yelled, ‘Niger! Go home’, and sped off. On numerous occasions, white people looked down on me because of the black colour of my skin. It never made sense to me. That was bigotry. That was prejudice. That was racism.

So I determined to work very hard and be better than the best Whiteman who crossed my path. Yayo, in the past few weeks, I’ve heard things in my own country that have shocked me. My womanhood has been ridiculed in the most careless way, in the same way the colour of my skin was an issue in the Whiteman’s country.

Yayo, recently, the wife of the most long-serving head of state of Ghana, who planted himself onto the country for nineteen-and-a-half years, has gathered boldness that is devoid of timidity to express interest in jumping into her husband’s shoes. You might never have heard of her. Her name is Nana Konadu Agyeman Rawlings. She’s on a quest for the flag-bearership of their family party – the National Democratic Congress (NDC).

As a key player on the corridor and bedroom of power, Konadu has had decades of learning to be bold. She has experienced bold; she has lived bold with a soft cushion wrapped around her. At the beginning of the rule of Flt Lt Rawlings, Konadu was far from being bold.

Yayo, this is the first time a female from a major political party has jumped into the fray on a bold quest for the presidency. I don’t care much for her but that is beside the point. What is shocking is the extent to which her announcement has yanked out closeted sexists and chauvinists out of their warm closets and bedrooms. They’ve entered the public sphere and shamelessly spew out tons of trash about why Ghana will never be ready for a female president. There’s an explosion of careless sexist remarks and debates in public and in private discourse.

Konadu’s bid for the presidency has laid bare the ugly stinky depraving crazy depths of sexism in our country. People are talking openly, freely and foolishly ‘by-heart’ about what they deeply believe to be the proper place of females in our society. These ‘by-heart’ loose talkers are on radio stations – in English and the vernacular, at beer bars and in informal conversations. They are literates and non-literates.

I’ve heard people I’ve always respected, some so-called well-educated folks with impressive Masters Degrees, talk so loosely and illogically about why a woman cannot become President of Ghana. And they say these things to display deeply held convictions.

Some of the people who make calls to radio stations to let off their sexist steam smack of bitterness at the thought and mention of a woman as President of Ghana. The craziest sexist comment I heard on a leading agenda-setting radio station was: ‘President Mills is setting a record. A mere woman is challenging him for the presidency.’ Yayo, this sentence could easily be re-written and the word woman replaced with ‘goat’, ‘antelope’, or ‘cow’.

What upsets me the most, Yayo, is when I hear people who are so limited in their way of thinking not sparing their raw non-iodized thoughts about why the female gender was not made for leadership but solely for other matters. Listening to such thoughts makes it obvious that there are many in our society – both males and females – with a desperate need to overcome ignorance and beg for redemption.

Some of them go as far as to quote the Bible and the Quran to support their assertions of what they consider to be the woman’s place; anywhere between the kitchen and the bedroom. Yayo, I think that some of such people are afraid of something. They’re afraid that when ‘herstory’ is added to history, the power of the shine of the male story will be dimmed. They forget that there’s enough room under God’s sky for all of His creation.

Without a doubt, in this society, women are on a mission impossible when they dare to dream of rising to elected positions. I wonder, are females the mules of Ghana? Were females born to sit on the side-lines of our country and function as cheer-leaders for men? I’ve learned that behind every successful man is a surprised woman with eyes popped open and wondering, ‘Where in the world did my life go?’

Yayo, I’m sure you’ll agree with me that Ghana must have a serious national conversation about sexism in. Societies that are underdeveloped are the ones that keep their female folks as servers, helpers and bed-mates and forget that females have brains too. We must therefore nurture females to come out of traditional gender stereotypical roles to become what the Almighty God created them to be because we need all hands on deck, so to speak, to develop Ghana.

Yayo, looking at the situation of Ghana 54 years after Independence when only men have been in the driver’s seat and simply dodge potholes instead of fixing them, one would have thought that our sorry situation would be a wake-up call to try Grandmother Eve’s descendants.

Water-poverty at Adenta and beyond

Water is life. Water has no substitute. Water has a soul. Water has a mind of its own. For those who live water-poverty lives, water is a luxury. I’m one of those people who live on edge as far as water goes, living a dirt-poor water life.

I’m writing this piece on this year’s World Water Day. For the past 18 years (since 1993), by a United Nations declaration, every 22nd March has been observed as World Water Day. The objective is to ensure that countries all over the world implement the necessary measures to protect water resources and promote activities that will make clean water accessible to all. I pray that this year’s World Water Day will bring a solution to Ghana’s water problems. Not!

Adenta’s Unique Story:

Let me introduce to you Adenta. It is a suburb of Accra, the capital city of Ghana. It is located in the far northern armpit of our sprawling capital, the city that seems to be ungovernable. It is densely populated because of the many estate houses and high-rise SSNIT flats. Adenta is inhabited by middle- to low-income folks, mostly workers. So of course, that includes lots of children.

Adenta used to be part of the Ashiaman/Tema Metropolitan Assembly. But about three years ago, it was hived off so it’s now a Municipal Assembly. With new demarcations and a re-birth, you would have thought that things will work out better. Not! Road net-work is pot-hole ridden. Water shortages are as they have has been since time immemorial, when Abraham was a school boy.

What is water-poverty?

You never fully appreciate water until you don’t have it. Water-poverty refers to the scarcity, insufficiency and poor quality of water. I’ve lived at Adenta for four World Water Days and have experienced nothing but water-poverty. I never know when the water people will decide to grace our taps with water. It could be once a week, once a month, or sporadically throughout the year. And it can flow for just 30 minutes, a full hour or a couple of hours. Periodically, the water quality looks so dirty that you wonder what you’re supposed to do with it.

And to insult the residents further, the Water Company folks religiously send monthly bills on paper that sneers at you and makes you realise that they don’t respect you.

Life in a water-poverty environment is lived very creatively, precariously and stressfully. Woe unto you if you have children and a water closet. Children, because they don’t fully get it; they just want to have fun with water but adults must control them by constantly preaching the gospel according to water-poverty. As for water closets, I wonder why we still place them in houses in water-deprived communities when a major ingredient in managing the funky contents of water closet is water.

Water-poor people get their water from sources that are holy and unholy, known and unknown. At Adenta, sale of water is big business. There are water tankers and ‘Tutu-tutu’ truck delivery folks who own the privileged right to grace us with water. ‘Tutu-tutu’ trucks are ugly un-photogenic contraptions, the closest to an Adenta invention of a motor vehicle. The site of them should make you wonder the source of their water.

I strongly suspect that the private business side of water at Adenta is at the heart of our water problems. Do these private business folks sabotage the public supply side of water? If the water problem is ever solved, they’ll be completely out of their thriving business. They won’t like that.

Another feature of water-poverty is the usual receptacles comprising of gallons, barrels, bowls and anything one can creatively imagine. I’ve asked water tankers and ‘Tutu-tutu’ truckers where they get their water from. They are so indirect and laughter-choked in their responses that it hurts me to continue asking.

And I worry about the quality of water I use. I fear when brushing my teeth (my family includes young children). My genuine fear is that one day (knock on wood!), we may contract a disease that is worse than cholera. A major challenge I face as a water-poor resident of Accra is taking a bath and washing clothes and cooking utensils.

Living a water-poor life is expensive. Water poor people pay more money for water than those who have the luxury of turning on their taps for water to flow luxuriously and effortlessly. The time it takes to search for water is annoying. The inconvenience of strategizing daily about how to ‘manage’ water takes too much out of time needed to think and to thrive and to just live.

Water is politics:

This is the frayed water-poverty ridden Adenta that unsuspecting President Mills, a resident of Spintex Road and now of the Osu Slave Castle, jumped into in his pronouncement during the state of the nation address to Parliament on 17th February 2011. He announced boldly that the Adenta water problem has been solved, clearly, posturing a bragging right over such a feat by his two-year old government. The NDC folks in Parliament applauded him.

At that very instant, an unidentifiable something in my stomach shifted position. Why? On that fateful day, I was so much out of water that my entire household used sachet water to bath; against everything I stand for because I advocate for the banning of single use plastics – plastics that will not decompose for some hundreds of years after I’m dead and gone.

In a developing country, water is highly political. Everything is political! About six months before the 2008 elections, there was evidence of the solution of Adenta’s intractable water shortage. Water, nice flowing water, began to flow from our hitherto dry taps. The experience was at once magical and heavenly. Flamboyant politicians came to the community for meetings and photo-opportunities, with the media trailing behind to offer cheap publicity. It was nice; really nice. We believed it. What we did not know was that we were being taken, badly.

Then, by February of 2009, suddenly, without the dignity of an announcement, the taps dried up and water stopped flowing for several months. It was as if draught had hit Adenta. It became apparent to us Adenta-folks that the pre-election water flow was meant to get residents to flock to the voting booths. That was clearly a case of water for politics!

Interestingly, right after President Mills’ laughable blooper last February, water begun to flow again – in the usual once a week gift. But for two weeks now, the magic has worn off; the taps have dried up again and stopped sneezing our water; just when the high-flying media attention ceased.

But on the bright side, my Adenta suddenly became news. Suggestion: if you want your community’s problem solved, find someone to plant false information in the President’s next major speech. With that mistake, your community should organize a media blitz to point out the error. With that pressure and the flashlight on the Presidential blooper, and therefore on your community, you stand a good chance of having the problem solved, albeit temporarily!

‘Definition of a miracle’: A book review

Farida Bedwei, author of 'Definition of a miracle.'

Last weekend, I met Farida Bedwei, an awesome woman. She is a miracle. Although young, she is an old soul, oozing wisdom. She ignited in me deep feelings of expansiveness, of the strength of the human spirit, and of the many possibilities. Without a doubt, Farida is the courageous pioneer of her destiny. Her life teaches that human ingenuity is such that regardless of your disabilities (which we all have in one form or the other), if you are resilient enough, you can transcend your challenges.

Farida is one of the top software engineers in Ghana!

Her novel, ‘Definition of a miracle’, presents a perceptive testimony of someone who knows about the subject matter she so expertly writes about: disability. You see, Farida was diagnosed with cerebral palsy when she was only ten days old; a baby who was not conscious of her existence on mother-earth. Her life journey was therefore solidly paved before she knew who she was. She got stuck with a disability that causes the average Ghanaian, suffering from the awful sinking sickening diseases of prejudice, ignorance and fatalism, to stare at her.

A must-read book:

Books are marvellous inventions of perceptive human intelligence; written pieces are. A good piece of writing can save you from yourself and provide a refuge that can sustain you. Good writing can connect the dots in the development of a society and show the path toward progress.

Farida’s novel is art imitating life; autobiographical. It’s a narrative about Zaara, an eight-year old girl with cerebral palsy who was born in England. Her parents are well-educated; her mother is a lawyer and the father is a crop scientist. The family’s relocation to Ghana lays bare the ridiculously profane depths to which even things that have scientifically-proven explanations are ascribed to spiritual causes. Before long, her mother jumps onto slippery pray-for-me gravy trains to find healing for her ‘sick’ daughter.

In this novel, the reader gets a front-row seat to the struggles of a person who lives with a physical disability in the rough terrain of our society. But the novel also chronicles the possibilities and the triumphs, as well as the positive outcomes if love and care is lavished on the disabled. Yes, disabled persons can lead productive lives, to their full potential.

The book challenges Ghana to wake up to some of the many knots in the strands of our national fabric. These knots include, among many others, the implementation of sound national policies that can provide a life of dignity for the disabled; a healing of our unproductive attitudes; and a halt to our unhealthy super-religiousness, pretentious Christianity, and fatalistic beliefs – especially witchcraft.

Soon after Zaara’s diagnosis in the UK, a friend of the baby’s grandmother claimed that whilst praying in Accra, it was revealed to her that one Auntie Dede, a widow with a pleasant demeanour, was responsible for the child’s sickness. Auntie Dede had used witchcraft to steal and cook Zaara’s legs to render her disabled. What a cock-and-bull revelation! A relative on the father’s side, who is a fetish priest, also came up with his own theory of the spiritual cause of baby Zaara’s sickness.

So regardless of medical science’s diagnosis of cerebral palsy that was caused by the Meningitis Zaara had as a baby, our ignoramus folks desperately sought solace in their own backward spiritual beliefs to explain the condition. But worse of all, an innocent woman was perceived to be guilty without any proof whatsoever.

One of the ridiculous and tense moments of the novel was when Zaara’s mother, a lawyer – who should know better and set a good example, hit the pray-for-me path in hot pursuit of healing for her daughter. In the process, she tied herself to a con-artist female pastor, entrusting her with inconsequential details of her life. Such contradictions make you wonder if our culture, the basis of our belief system, is not just a trap waiting to ensnare the many gullible – literate and non-literate alike.

‘Definition of a miracle’ is not a booklet like the many hollow books that are increasingly piling up on our book stands. It is a whopping 389 page well-plotted, well-written book. In this novel, you’ll come across creativity at its best. The dialoguing is superb, rendering it very much alive and real to the point that you forget you’re reading a work of fiction. Undoubtedly, Farida is a deep thinker and a master wordsmith.

So who is a ‘sickla’?

Cerebral palsy robbed Farida’s body of some of its ‘rightful physical functions.’ Despite that robbery, Farida has excelled. Yet, in our society, people who live with disabilities are regularly referred to as ‘sick persons,’ handicapped or ‘sicklas’. These are inappropriate adjectives, loaded with negative connotations.

A disabled person is not sick. Disability is just a limitation – physical or otherwise. Disability simply means an inability to do one thing or the other. Aren’t we all plagued by one disability or the other? What do you say about people who suffer from terminal laziness, swollen-headedness, over-blown egos and the many who are not law-abiding? Don’t all these amount to some sort of handicap and disability? Who has a God-given right to define what is normal? Normalcy by whose standards?

Fact: Ghana is not disabled-friendly. If you fall down tomorrow and break a leg (Knock on wood! Tofiakwa!), you would know how deeply true this statement is. Ghana is unprepared for you and your broken leg! Where there are pavements, many are cracked and pothole-ridden to render them unusable. Many public buildings cannot be entered by the physically disabled. How do you climb a stiff stair-case with a broken leg or no legs? So we might as well just put up screaming signs at many points to announce: ‘The Physically Disabled Are Not Welcome.’

At the launch of ‘Definition of a miracle’, it was suggested that the book should become a text book in the school system. I completely agree. As our country dreams of becoming a middle-income economy, (lavishly greased with crude oil), certain things must change.

Fact: Middle income societies give regard to the disabled; they’re not left to their fate to sit in second-hand wheelchairs, or crawl on all-fours or skate boards by busy road-sides as full-time beggars. Middle income people are not fatalists, as a rule. Middle income people do not hand over their lives to pastors and fetish priests. Middle income people take charge of their destinies, and work toward enhancing their progress and quality of life.

Another plus of the novel is the humour that will get you cracking up in your rib cage as you realise that laughter is truly the best medicine. Even the author’s honesty is at once shocking and refreshing. Farida boldly describes her physical condition as: “…..when I walk, I sway about like an alcoholic at the helm of his drunken stupor.’

‘Definition of a miracle’ is a ‘non-put-downable’ sort of novel. It challenges the reader to interrogate deeply-held prejudices that are steeped in our culture of ignorance and backwardness.

However, despite the beautiful writing, an unfortunate weakness of the book is that it suffers from poor proof-reading. There are sentences with missing words. Punctuation marks are not always placed properly. In some cases, where there should be ‘full-stops’ or commas, they are absent. Such weaknesses must be fixed before a re-print. Mediocrity must not be allowed in Ghana’s burgeoning book publishing industry.

A gaze into the eyes of the fruit seller’s daughter

I asked the fruit seller’s daughter: ‘How much is one pineapple? Oh, and four large-sized mangoes.’ Her mother was away and has left her assorted-fruit stand for the girl to manage. She hesitated in answering, and offered me a grand display of timidity. She brought me a watermelon. I repeated, ‘I want a pineapple and mangoes.’ She stammered and absent-mindedly, brought me two pineapples. I repeated my request for mangoes. She returned and brought me mangoes and bananas. I said, ‘I did not ask for bananas.’

With the drama that unravelled from my attempt to buy fruits, which we’re told are good for our health, I decided to probe into her life story. She’s Abena (not her real name, of course). She is 12 years old and is in class three in a neighbourhood ‘Cyto’ primary school. My attempt to speak some really rudimentary English with her fell completely flat. Basic questions like ‘What is your name?’ How old are you? What school do you attend?’ drew out timid grins and zero response back in English, which clearly seemed to be a very foreign language to her.

To the question, ‘How much is the pineapple, and oh, the mangoes?’, she could only respond in the old cedi currency, by telling me the cost in the thousands. Apparently, at age 12, she is unfamiliar with the new Ghana cedi and would be one of the many Ghanaians who will forever operate in the old currency, because to them, ‘The value is (and will always remain) the same,’ regardless of the large-scale effort of the Bank of Ghana by way of public education campaigns to switch over from the old to the new currency.

A peep into Abena’s soul:

My chit chat session with Abena left me wondering if I was witnessing a classic case of low IQ. But then I thought, if she was that stupid, her mother would not have left her entire fruit stand in her care. So I concluded that Abena has been short-changed at her Cyto elementary school.

I wish I could peep into Abena’s soul to find out what bothers her, what sorrows are brewing deep in her soul, what tears are lurking behind her tender eyes, what she desires for herself, what she obsesses about, what she rebels about, the specific thoughts that flourish in her stream of consciousness, what gives her joy, and..... Does she ever think that nature has given her a lowdown dirty deal or that she is very lucky to be living in Accra and going to school, any school?

Later that night, I went on a trip down my own memory lane to my early days when I collected shreds of old newspapers, the throw-away rejects from my 'bofrot' aunt’s entrepreneurial venture. I used to put the pieces together to form my main reading material. Now, with plastics replacing old newspapers as wrappers, there would have been nothing for me to read. But most importantly, just a few decades ago, pupils from ‘Cyto’ schools, including timid little me, could still qualify to attend one of the three universities in the country. It was a matter of working hard, with a few strands of luck in your stars.

Better questions to ponder over are: What could have become of Abena if the public educational system had not become sub-standard in our 54 year-old Ghana? Abena could have become a lot more in life if she had been dealt a better deal in education. What happened to all the rhetoric about the girl-child? We even have a Ministry of Women and Children, yet issues of females and children continue to lay flat and deep in the gutters of national agenda.

Wasting the lives of our youth:

Cyto education of today is a guaranteed recipe for the youth to get stuck at low-level jobs and in lives with little hope. These days, how many young people who begin life in the middle-of-no-where-Ghana would become anything of essence in society? Specifically, how can this fruit seller’s daughter dare to aspire to become anything beyond a fruit seller? How can she dare to aspire to become a scientist, a medical doctor, the president of Ghana or at the barest minimum, to become a teacher, a nurse, a secretary, let alone a parliamentarian?

The next few days would be March 8, International Women’s Day. As I think of the fruit seller’s daughter, my mind continues to go haywire, fast and furious, imagining several possibilities for the fruit seller’s daughter. Straight up and simple, she might become a trader of some sort in future. That is a no-brainer. It’s also likely that some bloke will give her a romantic knock-out of some sort before she graduates from the teenage years. And with that, we’ll have another teenage pregnancy and the fruit seller’s daughter, she herself still a child, will give birth to her own child.

A Million Woman March:

In the provisional results of the 2010 Population and Housing Census, females came up tops, constituting 51.3 per cent of Ghana’s population – almost twelve and a half million (12,421,770). With females outnumbering males, it’s about time we revisited the matter of the dilemma of gender inequalities and inequities. Abena is only a slice of our social history; of a lousy public education system, of youth who are being wasted.

How does a country develop and thrive when females, the fifty-plus per cent majority, sit on the side-lines to cheer on the minority male population to run affairs? The paucity of women in the national space must be troubling to everyone. A cursory look at the economic geography of the world reveals to even the most unsophisticated observer that countries caught in the thorny throes of stinky poverty and underdevelopment are the ones with the majority of women operating on the fringes.

This phenomenon makes perfect sense for after all, how does one work productively with one arm tied behind the back? How do you bath well with only one arm? You do so unless you absolutely have to because you have only one arm. Females constitute that second arm. Everyone has at least one of these: a mother, sister, daughter or aunt.

So in the spirit of what is happening in northern Africa and the Middle East, where citizens who are fed up with oppressive regimes have taken to the streets to demand their rights, the females of Ghana, the fifty-one plus majority of our population should also take to the streets for a ‘Million Woman March.’ The march should be attended by both men and women who are pro-women. This is an admission that not all women are necessarily pro-women. There are men out there who believe in the cause of women more than some women do.

President Mills and his government promised a 40 per cent appointment of females to public positions. It’s past two years into his administration and he has not delivered on his promise. A key demand from a Million Woman March will be to insist on cashing the president’s promissory note. Women will not be asking for too much. It’ll be a very reasonable demand to ask for a fulfilment of a promise. This will be absolutely magical.

How would you manage a GHc2000 funeral donation?

Correta Scott King, wife of the late Martin Luther King Jr., the assassinated African American civil rights leader, made the following profound observation in describing non-violence. Her observation is relevant in reflecting over corruption. She said: ‘It’s a spiritual discipline that requires a great deal of strength, growth and purging of the self so that one can overcome almost any obstacle for the good of all without being concerned about one’s own welfare.’

Some issues call for deep thinking. Corruption is one of such issues. Corruption comes from a deep place. It’s from a selfish place where one’s concern is solely on the individual welfare, without regard to the collective survival. A scenario is presented below that taps into the core of our moral fibre, deep into the intra-personal ethics of each individual.

Intra-personal ethics is ethics that comes from the very core of one’s being. It is one's essence; what he/she stands for without being prompted. Your intra-personal ethics is what your sense of self directs you to do when no one is watching you but you do it anyway because at your very centre, you believe that it is the wrong or the right thing to do so you choose to do it anyway.

Some soul searching questions: What are some of the things you will not do, no matter the circumstances? How do you know that you would not do them? Have you been exposed to those challenges and temptations before to know that you’ll pass the test? What internal processes do you go through to decide that you would not do that particular thing? When intra-personal ethics is strong, a decision comes very easily and instantly.

The scenario below was told by a colleague, Mr Emmanuel Fianko, during a workshop I attended recently on the Public Procurement Act. Ponder over the story and ask yourself: What would you do in the situation? The scenario can prompt deep thinking and challenge your sense of intra-personal ethics. I call it the GHc2000 funeral donation. For good effect, I’ve made up and added a few details of location, date and names to the original story.

The two-thousand cedi funeral donation:

In October 2010, a state-owned organization (let’s call it the Ghana Natural Assets Company – GNAC) placed newspaper advertisements to invite qualified companies to submit bids by 25th November 2010 for a national competitive tendering to undertake a certain government contract. The GNAC formed a five-member tender evaluation committee made up of its senior staff. The committee’s sole task was to do due diligence to the bids by selecting the best bid based on a pre-determined criteria. The committee began its seating immediately.

The following week, one of the members of the committee, Mr Samuel Agyei (not his real name of course), lost his 74 year old mother Madam Ama Okyerewa of Nsawam in the Eastern Region. The funeral was scheduled for the weekend of 16th February, 2011.

One of the bidders, Mr Prosper Dzotepe, happened to hear of the death of Mr Agyei’s mother and made it a point to attend the funeral, uninvited and unsolicited. On the day of the funeral, Mr Dzotepe wore the traditional black cloth, thrown around his rounded shoulders. At the funeral, he made a donation of GHc2000 at the family donation table. It was the largest donations made at the funeral. He collected a receipt from the family and left his business card with clear instructions that it be giving to Mr Agyei. A family representative handed over the business card to Mr Agyei and informed him of Mr Dzotepe’s donation.

Some insider details: Mr Agyei and Mr Dzotepe had never met. They did not know each other. They were not friends.

Do you see any conflict of interest in this story? Was the GHc2000 a gift or a bribe? If it wasn’t a bribe, then what was the real motivation inside Mr Dzotepe’s brain tissue for giving such a fat donation to Mr Agyei, someone he didn’t know? If you were in Mr Agyei’s shoes, what would you do? Return the money to sender? Or, Ghanaian culture is such that it would be considered rude and inappropriate to return a funeral donation to the donor? Should this donation not qualify as an act of corruption just because it is a funeral donation?

Was Mr Ampofo’s presence at the funeral a business trip or a trip borne out of our rich tradition and culture to show love for the departed? Would you attend just any funeral at all and throw money about in the name of culture? Is our cultural arena choked with opportunities for bribery? Does corruption run through the blood and the veins of our culture, and like a trap, waiting to snatch and draw us into unwholesome practices?

Would you say that because the family members had already taken the donation and issued a receipt, the bribe had already been accepted therefore it cannot be returned? Has Mr Agyei already been corrupted and become entangled in this web of corruption in the name of a funeral donation? Should he keep the money and resign from the committee as a way of saving him from conflict of interest? Should he inform the other members of the committee of the fat funeral donation he has accepted?

If you were in Mr Agyei’s shoes, would you pocket the money and smile all the way to the bank for after all, you did not ask Mr Dzotepe to bring you that donation? Does our culture of gift giving negatively impact on our sense of conflict of interest? Is there a difference between a gift and a bribe? How do we differentiate between the two?

Attempt to answer the above questions for yourself. As you slowly and calmly process your own personal answers, think of further questions and sort out your own sense of intra-personal ethics. If, in the depths of your being, you do not find anything wrong with keeping this funeral donation, then go take a hot shower.

Of pigs, goats and sheep:

As food for thought, here is an Aesop fable entitled: The Piglet, the Sheep and the Goat. It goes: “A young pig was shut up in a barn with a goat and a sheep. On one occasion when the shepherd laid hold of the pig, it grunted and squeaked and resisted violently. The sheep and the goat complained of the pig’s distressing cries, saying: ‘He often handles us and we do not cry out.’ To this, the pig replied: ‘Your handling and mine are very different things. He catches you only for your milk. But he lays hold on me for my very life.’”

News stories about corruption abound in the mass media – our own way of grunting and squeaking and resisting. May be as a country, we are not resisting violently, yet. But the abundance of stories about corruption as well as the deep perceptions of what appears to have become a national canker suggests that it has laid hold on the very life of our country. Corruption milks and wounds Ghana, and strangles the life out of our country. Collectively, we symbolise the lives of the goat, sheep and pig. Not pretty.

dorisdartey@yahoo.com; dorisdartey.blogspot.com