The Atonko Paradox – by Qouphy Appiah Obirikorang


Qouphy’s first test at a satirical dialogue between two middle aged men en route to a place of convenience for the normal ritual of easing one’s bowels. I’mma call them Kofi Yesu and Yaw Abomrik.


K Yesu: Bra Yaw, “ye nu ntem”, let’s get going. There’s fire on the mountain.


Yaw: Gimme two mins, let me pick the “eburo dua”


K Yesu: make sure they are enough, the last time I had to use my handkerchief.


Yaw: worry not! Kwaku Ntobro the Zoomlion employed KVIP special assistant will be there selling some old newspapers.

We can use them as “spare”. “3yaa susu di kwadu”, it gives u free bowel.


K Yesu: I suspect the palm wine I took last night. I think it’s the cheap type imported from Abidjan. I think they mixed it with gunpowder because of the civil unrest there lately.


Yaw: “nkwasiasem”, if it was mixed with gunpowder, there would have been numerous holes in your panty by now from frequent flatulence.


[Arrival at Essien’s commissioned special KVIP]

 K Yesu: herh, Kwaku Ntobro, give me 10 pesewas of special cut newspaper. I prefer The Times newspaper. It contains less color and it will not aggravate my “kokobo”.


Yaw: give me Ebony Newspaper, it contains a lot of nude pictures and it’s good for a constipated stomach.


[Chamber 1 and 2 are empty and both are adjoining. Both men enter a separate “war room”]


K Yesu: damn!!! I forgot my Kingsize “jot”. Now I have to endure this stench.


Yaw: hahahahahahahahha


K Yesu: “aboa funu”, are you laughing at my misfortune?


Yaw: no, I just saw something funny in the newspaper.


K Yesu: what? Did they put a picture of you in the newspaper? I am sure your picture must have caused havoc, panic and fear.


Yaw: at least I have not been restricted from entering any maternity ward in any hospital. There’s an embargo on you.


K Yesu: me? Why?


Yaw: well, apparently as soon as the newborns set their eyes on you, they die of convulsion, spasm and extreme fear.

The women in labour automatically have forced labour.


K Yesu: it appears you are still suffering from dementia.


Yaw: the funny article in the newspaper is about a guy complaining of his inability to perform his bedroom chores. Apparently his manhood looks like it was made in China. Very, very small.


K Yesu: Well I have one advice for him. He needs to get “ataya”, “esuru wisa”, “hwentea”, “Agya Appiah Aduro Ye “Bitters. Mix all together; let the concoction stand for about a day and then drink. If by 24 hours his “Kwaku azigiza” hasn’t increased ten folds, then he shouldn’t call me K Yesu. He should ask my wife, when I “spark” my “nikanika” it’s like Akosombo Dam has opened a spillway.


Yaw: hahahahaha! What advice do you have for one-minute men?


K Yesu: tie their “Kwaku little” with “etire bor ahuma”. The poor bastard will last for eternity.


Yaw: K Yesu, you are well versed in the art of sexology and other matters. Is that your only field of speciality?


K Yesu: “bisa mi asem biaaa”


Yaw: a big woman and a slim woman, what’s your choice?


K Yesu: “k3si3 50, Kitiwa 50”, why go for the small one when both are the same price?


Yaw: Star Beer, Guinness, Alvaro and “apeteshie”, which one is your favorite and least favorite?


K Yesu: “apeteshie” is my favourite because it’s cheap and has the same effect as any other liquor. I dislike alvaro because it gives “dwonso yadi3”


Yaw: IC Quaye and Mike Ocquaye, who will win most handsome award?


K Yesu: none, they both make mirrors crack.


Yaw: your favorite tourist destination?


K Yesu: Abidjan


Yaw: why?


K Yesu: Mapouka women…


Yaw: but women are not tourist attraction?


K Yesu: that’s only if they come from your village. They are seen as gods in your village.


Yaw: Your favorite football player.


K Yesu: Dada Don Bortey, unsuccessful at landing an international career, successful at stealing international artifacts.


Yaw: Favorite politician


K Yesu: Tony Aidoo


Yaw: why?


K Yesu: the only man who is intoxicated in his sober state.


Yaw: who is a headmaster’s best pal?


K Yesu: bursar and matron. You arrest one, you arrest all.


Yaw: How do you call a man who has high affinity for women with big booty?


K Yesu: J.A.K


Yaw: what’s J.A.K?


K Yesu: you want me in jail don’t you?


Yaw: who will win a 100m dash? Attah or a crippled tortoise?


K Yesu: a legless tortoise will still win anyway.


Yaw: how do you call an offspring of a white and black parent? 


K Yesu: Jerry


Yaw: do you believe the current inflation figure?


K Yesu: do you believe in fairy tales?


Yaw: favorite pastor?


K Yesu: Kristo Asafo, the only pastor who has UB Hair Relaxer.


Yaw: Most biased TV program.


K Yesu: “mmaa nkomo”, she never talks about skin bleaching and its adverse effect.


K Yesu: herh Yaw, pass me the “eburo dua”!!! I’m done!



Day 4 (10 days of fiction): ‘Sup G? – by Poetra Ama Asantewa

When I was little, my dad used to say our house was a potter’s house. And the creator had molded each of us with different elements. My brother was the writer, my sister; singer and I drew.

My brother kept a diary under his wardrobe. I knew I was infringing on his privacy, but once I took a sneak, I couldn’t stop reading. He started one of his entries with the phrase, “troubles don’t come in singles, they come in battalions” I remember 12 year old me scanning through a dictionary trying to find out what battalion meant.


But the path to maturity had taught me better what battalion was more than an oxford dictionary ever could.

It had been a difficult week. I flunked a paper, I twisted my ankle, my cousin got arrested for being at the wrong place at the wrong time and I had to settle his bail from hard-pressed cash,  I met someone who reminded me so much of my mum and sadness engulfed me like a blanket of cloudy rains. I wanted to sit God down and have a stern chat with him.


I had a lot of questions for him and I needed the answers asap. From the obvious whys to the unbelievable ‘‘the fuck’s?” to the distinct “you’re shitting me aren’t you?” To the murky ‘‘for real tho’s?”


Me and him needed to have a long chat.


My eyes were burning. I’d been staring at the screen for less than 3 hours, but this LCD wanted to show the membranes that line my eyelids who the real boss was. I told myself I was going to shut down in 30 minutes but the machine had ideas of it’s own.

My screen went blank. There was no panic. This had happened before, all I needed to do was restart my machine. I unplugged the charger from the system and replugged it, in an attempt to reboot it. But it wouldn’t start. I tried again; nothing. My heart started racing in an unfamiliar pattern. I replugged it again. That was when I realized each time I plugged the charger in, the charger’s light would go off.

I paused for a minute, hoping the charger had feelings, and was just bored sick so in attempt to rejuvenate its system, its light was playing hide and seek with me.


And after 26 frustrating tries, the light would go off as soon as I plugged the charger in. And the laptop still wouldn’t come on. A sinking feeling set in. I knew what this meant. I just didn’t want to accept it. The laptop had somehow overheated, and the power section of the motherboard was frayed.

This was the worst that could happen to the machine. Anything but my motherboard!


I turned it upside down and opened the windows, hoping that the day’s breeze carried a potion of magic in them. I tried again afer 10 minutes. Still


I decided to get the rest I needed, hopefully, it would work when I woke up.

Pointless mission. I couldn’t sleep to save an ant’s life. After an hour and a half of tossing and turning, I decided to try again.


I felt as if I would be asking too much of God if I asked him to resurrect my motherboard to life. You know? He’s not a magician. But I couldn’t help it.

Miracles do exist, don’t they?

The girl who stretches her neck in the exams room said a woman at her church gave a testimony about how God made it possible for her to blend tomatoes when there was no electricity.

So really, resurrecting a mother board shouldn’t be that hard right?


I plugged it in again. The psychoanalysis I just performed on God must work.

Day 3 (10 days of fiction): Grandma Kanni – by Poetra Ama Asantewa

I could see she was uncomfortable under my ardent gaze. She shifted her eyes and traced her fingers down the coffee cup like it was a new lover. I was 75. How in the name of swollen testicles did she expect me to be shy of her? I had proverbially seen and done it all.  That innocent look did not fool me at all.

She made me uncomfortable. She was staring at me unblinkingly, like I was undergoing a scrutiny and my life depended on my pass. She looked fiery for a 75 year old. Her looks surprised me for more than a minute. You don’t always see old ladies in black shorts and red lipstick. You don’t ever see old ladies in shorts and red lipstick. I wondered what she was thinking of me

She had her mother’s eyes. And voice. And grace. But the boobs were definitely from her father’s side. We were small-chested. And damn proud of it. She was pretty and fierce. She was definitely a Kanni. Her jeans looked like it had been painted on her body. I wanted to ask her if her fanny was getting any air in them jeans, but I didn’t want to freak her out.

She was beginning to freak me out. Her eyes were travelling over every inch of my body. Like a new lover’s hands. An unwanted lover. I suddenly missed my mother. How dare she die and leave me! And why the fuck did she never introduce me to her mother before deciding to drop dead? I wanted to cry. I wanted to go back. I wanted my mother back.

“So, how many boys have you been with?” She asked

Her question totally threw me off. I was dumbfounded for a full second

I could see the question caught her off guard.

“I….I….I’m “

Oh come on, you cannot stitch this fabric to your ass and expect me to believe you’re a virgin, can you?

Anger replaced my fear. How dare she put me on the spot? She didn’t know me! Just because my jeans was a little bit tight didn’t mean I wasn’t a virgin! My conscious had suddenly jumped from pin prick to 16 inches deep. My non-virgin ass didn’t care that I was already deflowered. 

“There, there, no need for hot emotions” She tapped my back. “Your nostrils are flaring like a superior mother camel”

“Let’s start this reunion all over again. We’ve already established who I am. What I’m going to be is what’s important.

I’m going to be the one who will teach to you challenge authority and question everything, and the same person who will remove 3 layers of skin from your buttocks when you challenge my authority.  I’m going to teach you how to create disorder and how to embrace diversity. I’m going to be the one to make you hate generalizations and urge to stay banned despite being truthful. I’m going to be the granny panties that coaxed your ass into believing you were in a g-string. That’s who I’m going to be.”

“Now I’m going to need you to say this like it’s the most awesome thing ever; Grandma Kanni is the shit”

A giggle escaped from my dreary self. You could not not love this woman. She put her arms around me, and we walked towards her door…

The SMS (Part IV) – by Francis Doku

While Jacob was talking on the phone with his wife the policeman took the key of the vehicle from Akomea and moved further away from the car. After he had cut the line, Jacob opened the car door, got down and walked to the policeman who held his clipboard and was thinking about stopping another vehicle.
“Boss can I talk to you please?” he asked the policeman when he got close enough.
“What about? That you encouraged the young man to drive without a driving licence?” the policeman snapped back.
“Well, sir, pardon me but I didn’t encourage him, I didn’t even know he didn’t have a lic…”
“Well then that is stupid ignorance,” the policeman told him.
“Excuse me sir, what do you mean?”
“I mean that if an elderly man like you sits in a car with this young man for him to drive you and you didn’t check if he had a driving licence or not then you have shown gross stupidity and ignorance.”
“Sir I concede that I may have shown ignorance by not asking for his licence but I am definitely not stupid,” Jacob tried to explain. “In addition to that the young man has a licence but forgot to pick it when he was leaving home.”
“Okay then that makes my work even easier,” said the policeman. “I am going to keep this vehicle with me, he can go home and bring his licence and I will give him the keys. If he comes here and he doesn’t meet me and the car he can come over to the Madina Police Station. If by the close of today he doesn’t present the licence we shall process him for court tomorrow. Deal?”
“But the law says a person has to produce his licence in forty-eight hours…”
“That law was made probably when my father was in class one. Do you know how many cars were in Ghana at the time? Or do you know the population of Ghana at the time? We have a directive to arrest those who drive without their licence and let them present it and take their cars,” he explained.
“Are you suggesting that the law is obsolete?” Jacob asked.
“I am suggesting that the law is absolutely obsolete and it would not help the course of policing. No wonder we have so many accidents on the road these days.”
“So why don’t you advocate for it to be changed.”
“That is not my job, you have parliament to do that. In any case I am keeping the key so you can go now because I have work to do. Stop a cab and go with it.”
“Please sir, please I beg you I am late for a very important meeting and I need to be on my way right now I am going far that is why I didn’t come in a cab. It’s a matter of life and death. I am begging you,” Jacob pleaded. “Can I see you, please?”
“Am I invisible now?”
“I didn’t mean it in that way. Wanted to know if I could offer you lunch,” he clarified.
“I don’t think you can cook better than my wife,” the police man teased.
“What I mean, sir, is that can I give you something so you can let us go so I can make it in time for my meeting?”
“Do I sense that you are trying to bribe me? Have you heard of the name Rose Atinga Bio?”
“No…yes…I mean I am not trying to bribe you, but I have heard the name,” he struggled to explain. “This is just from a brother to another brother, please.”
The policeman’s superior, an inspector, standing a few metres away beckoned him over. He told Jacob he would be back and left to where the inspector was standing.
“Constable, what’s the matter over there?” the inspector asked in Twi.
“Is it not this guy who allowed this fitter or welder boy to drive him without a licence and now he is talking a lot of legalities.”
“And what are you doing with them?”
“I told him he would have to leave the key and the car and present the licence at the station today or would be processed for court tomorrow.”
“Process for court tomorrow? I think you people have still not understood this job,” the inspector blurted. “What will you get from that?”
“Well sir I thought the directive issued by the Regional Commander said…”
“I know what the regional commander said. You can go perfectly with that and let your children go to the DA JSS or you can think wisely and ensure that you educate them at the best schools and I will say this for the very last time. I am almost due for pension,” the inspector advised.
“So what do I do,” the befuddled rookie asked.
“Use your head my son. Does he seem to be in a hurry?”
“Yes, he said he had to get to a very important meeting.”
“Good. That means he won’t have much time to delay and so would not go into extensive negotiation.”
“He offered to give me something.”
“He is not in the position to determine what he wants to give, you determine that.”
“So let him know how much he would pay at the court and get half of that…he is coming towards us go and meet him.”
The constable walked towards Jacob and met him halfway through.
“My superior was insisting that I keep the key. But I told him you were in a hurry and that you seem to be a jolly good fellow.
“That’s very kind of you. Thank you,” Jacob offered.
“What did you say you had for me,” the corporal enquired.
“I have GH50.00 to buy you lunch,” Jacob told him.
“Massa do you think we are joking here?”
“How do you mean, sir?”
“I mean you have no idea what it would cost the young man for driving without a licence and how much it would cost you for aiding and abetting should this case go to court, do you?”
“So how much do I have to give you officer?” Jacob asked almost pleadingly. “I am in a hurry to make it to the meeting, please.”
“You know what let’s not drag this matter, you are likely to pay a minimum of GHC600 at the court so just give me half of that and go your…
“GHC300?!!” screamed?
“Stop shouting. Yes GHC300 and I will even write a note for him to use till he gets his licence.”
“But that’s too much officer. Please come down.”
“Well, you probably would like to go to court. Do you have a lawyer?”
“My wife is a lawyer but let’s not get into that…”
“So you can come with her.”
“Let’s not get into that. You know what all the money I have on me now is GHC200 please take it so I go. Please don’t say anything again, just take it.”
Jacob went to the car looked for his jacket and inserted his hand into the inside pocket and brought out a wad of cash. He surreptitiously counted GHC200 from the stash. The police man was standing right behind him when he turned. He handed the money to him and took the key and a note he had written on a folded piece of paper.
The police constable walked to his inspector to let him know what had happened.
“I have really drained the guy,” he announced.
“How much did you get from him?” the inspector asked.
“I got GHC200 from him.”
“That’s not bad for a Monday afternoon. You are beginning to learn that in the police service you make your own fortune or you retire a pauper.”
“I will remember that.”
Meanwhile, Jacob handed the key to Akomea whereupon they both entered the vehicle. Akomea inserted the key and kicked the vehicle to life.
Akomea tried to apologize “Massa, I am really so…”
“Please Akomea don’t talk now, okay?” Jacob cut him. He took a look at his watch and the time read 1:48.
Akomea drove to the junction and took the right turn went straight and took the turn at the Accra Training College to Madina Estates through Madina Social Welfare towards Ashaley and then took the left turn that led to Adenta Housing.
He took the right turn at the main road towards the old Adenta Barrier and veered to the left on the Y shaped junction towards Oyarifa. A few metres after the Pantang junction Jacob thought he smelt something coming from the engine.
“Do you smell something?” he asked Akomea.
“Yes I do, I think…” before Akomea could finish talking they heard a mild noise then the vehicle slowed down for a few metres and came to a screeching stop. The engine died in the middle of the road.
“What’s that?” Jacob screamed at Akomea.
“I don’t know,” the younger man said as he kept turning the key to try to kick start the engine.
“Blistering blue balling barnacles! What am I to do now?” Jacob said to no one in particular.
“We may have to push it to the side and take a look at what the problem could be,” Akomea suggested.
Jacob was beside himself with grief, despair and surprise. “How do we do it?” he managed to ask.
“I will put the gear at neutral and then we can push it to the side of the road,” he said.
Akomea moved the gear to neutral. Jacob got down and went to the back of the vehicle. Akomea got down and stood by the side of the vehicle with one hand on the opened door and the other on the steering wheel to control it. Thankfully the vehicle was on a little hill hence after a little nudge it moved. Akomea controlled it till they were on the side then he asked Jacob to stop pushing and stepping on the breaks he brought it to a stop.
He pulled the bonnet opening lever from the front of the vehicle, closed the door and went to the front. He lifted the bonnet cover and hooked it. He brought his nose closer to the engine to smell what could be the problem.
Jacob who had moved to join Akomea at the front asked him what the problem was. “I don’t know yet,” Akomea said. He pulled the engine oil gauge, cleaned with a rag he was holding and inserted it back and pulled it out again only to realize that there was not a drop of oil on it! He put it back and pulled it out again. Same result.
“We have run out of engine oil,” Akomea declared and it sounded to Jacob like his death sentence had just been announced.
“We cannot run out of engine oil by this time Akomea,” Jacob said very calmly.
“I need to go get some engine oil,” Akomea said.
“We are in the middle of nowhere,” Jacob seems to have given up.
“There is a Shell station at the barrier where we just came from. I will stop a cab, hop in and go get some oil, please,” said the younger man who realised that he ought to take charge as Jacob had given up entirely.
“Okay. How much will you need?” Jacob asked meekly.
“I think GHC20 will do for both the oil and the taxi fare,” he said.
Jacob put his hand in his trouser pocket, brought out two GHC10 notes and gave them to Akomea.
“I will be back soon,” Akomea told Jacob as he crossed the road to the opposite side to hail a cab.
Jacob saw some shrubs a few metres away that had provided some modicum level of shade. He walked towards the shade and luckily he saw a small brick lying in the shade and sat on it facing the main road. He took another look at his watch and it was 2:30pm.
He thought about how he was going to get to the house, pick the phone, delete the message, put the phone back, get to the office to have the meeting with the CEO, go pick his wife and get back home. “This would be one of the longest days in my life,” he soliloquized.
One thing that would complicate issues is when he gets home to meet his daughter and the house help. Either one of them would end up telling his wife that he came home during the day. “That must be avoided and the reason I need to get home now.”

10 Day of Fiction: Day 2 – “The Book of Acts ½ (By McFrankline), by Poetra Ama Asantewa

Kacharo’s eyes wandered up and down the narrow twisting lanes of Kaneshie, ignoring the hubbub of people streaming past him incessantly. It had rained last night, and the parts of the street with potholes had already been churned to mud by the crowd, but muddy streets were nothing new to him.

None of the streets in his village was paved.

Shops and traders littered every corner of the main Street, with stalls and stands covered with goods, everything from plantain chips, to clothes, to cooking pots and door knobs. The sheer number of them was so overwhelming that, no one had ever bothered to try counting. Order judged itself according to every trader’s personal principles, and justice was meted out in accordance to the wrath incurred. Noise making was at its peak, and the ear-splitting cries of hawkers promoting their wares could be heard a mile away. Everyone seemed to be in competition to prove who was louder and though they made a righteous effort, none of them proved a point better than Kacharo’s Microphone.

This particular microphone, which he had fondly nicknamed “Pickpocket”, was

the most thoughtful investment Kacharo had ever made in his entire life. Before he received his “calling”, he used to rent it out to Pastors and public speakers each day at an exorbitant rate, which ensured he and his family, remained well-fed during the entire lifespan of that business venture.

Unfortunately for him, most of his customer’s had discovered along the way that his charges were inordinate, and so the monopoly he held had slowly slipped out of his grasp until he finally quit the business in order to salvage what remained of his reputation.

Life had not been easy for Kacharo during that brief period of unemployment. His house had been gutted down by a raging wildfire, his first son had drowned at sea, his wife left him and worst of all, the outrageous medical bills from his mysterious illness. Psychotic Depression. This particular illness had not been easy on Kacharo’s psyche and it had finally gotten to a point where he was

contemplating suicide. And then the miraculous occurred.

An Angel of the lord had appeared to Kacharo one night and told him his trials had been a punishment from the lord for the way he had exploited the men of God who had needed his help when his business was still lucrative, and this form of persecution would continue until Kacharo reformed and joined the ministry of God. And then the Angel departed from his presence.

Kacharo tilted the microphone slightly to ease the tension in his shoulders. His elevated platform gave him a view of the marketplace that was almost perfect, and though it was crowded, he could spot the movement of almost every living thing in a fifty-metre radius. He hadn’t planned any sermon for today, but he was hoping the good Lord in Heaven would grant him a message even as he opened his mouth to preach. The Lord rarely did that, but you never knew when His abundant mercies were going to surprise you. For now he would just continue to rant a few well-known scriptures and give his best human interpretation of them.

A quick movement to the left had caught his eye and Kacharo let his attention drift away for a fraction of a second. He had trained himself for so long that he had acquired the ability to separate his mind into two compartments at the same time, one that allowed him to to preach inattentively while the other was engrossed in the private thoughts. This way, he never let his emotions interrupt the work of God. It was no easy feat, and had he not been so meticulous in his training, he would have gone completely mad from the effort it took to maintain that state. So in simple terms, anything that could

make Kacharo’s attention drift even for merest fraction of a second, really pierced him deep down his soul.

It was a just a little boy running around in a red and white stripped school uniform. The colour of the uniform his little Tombolo had worn when he was still alive. Memories flooded before his eyes, right back to the day at the beach, and it took an exhausting amount of willpower to wrench his mind away from that particular scene. Tombolo was dead and gone, he still had his little diamond, Koliko, to worry about. She had been sacked for non-payment of her school fees and she was the only reason he was toiling under this scorching sun. He will remain strong for her, He will not shatter like some brittle piece of glass. The Lord gives and the Lord takes. The Lord will Provide.

The noise from the crowd hit Kacharo like a sandstorm as he snapped out of his little reverie.

He scanned the street wearily and noticed quite a number of people were standing near his platform.

In those few minutes he had been distracted by the forbidden memories, the compartment of his mind allocated to preaching had been semi-consciously discoursing scriptures from the Book Of Revelations, while his voice had acquired a passionate tinge to its edge. The effect had been quite dramatic and several people had stopped to observe the Man of God.

This was the moment Kacharo had been waiting for. The Lord had finally provided a message, and he would deliver it in its true and unpolluted form. Praise the Lord, for he is good and his mercies endure forever. The Lord will Provide for me. The Lord will Provide for Koliko. He reached out his hand and started praying.

Another quick movement in the crowd caught his attention again, and though he did not falter this time, his mind quickly registered the whole occurrence. A young man dressed plainly in a red t-shirt with khaki trousers had bumped hardly into a decent looking gentlemen, and both of them had exchanged venomous glares. Or that was how it looked like to any unobservant bystander. But definitely not Nathan Kacharo, incidents like this rarely escaped his hawk-like eyes. For in that very instance bodily contact had occurred between both young men, no one except Kacharo had seen the one in the Red T-Shirt slide his hand into the other one’s pocket and quickly withdraw his wallet. It was a sleek, nimble move, delivered with the proficiency of a master pickpocket. Things like this happened everyday in the market square, and it this wasn’t the first time he had witnessed such an event, but this particular one had intrigued him by far.

The young man who had been robbed, peeled his eyes away from his assailant, cursing silently while rubbing his shoulder. He walked to the roadside and made a furious gesture at a taxi, in what would have been regarded as a half-hearted attempt to flag it. Kacharo had seen enough. He cleared his throat loudly in the microphone and pointed his hands at the young man.

“Praise the Lord” he shouted loudly into the microphone “For he has just granted me the ability to see into the non-existent. I just received a revelation from the Lord, somebody say Hallelujah”

Barely a handful of people muttered hallelujah in response, but Kacharo didn’t despair.

“Gentleman. Gentleman in the black shirt” A woman standing a few metres away from the young man tapped him and pointed in the direction of the preacher.

“Excuse me but I don’t have time for -”

“Young man, listen to me” Kacharo cut him off “The Lord has just revealed to me that you were recently robbed of your wallet. Please make sure I’m wrong before you set foot in that taxi”

The young man look confused and angry at the same time. He was late for an appointment and this village prankster had chosen this particular moment to infuse some drama into his life. He reached into back pocket for the wallet, and almost immediately, the look of anger vanished from his face, leaving only confusion.

“Praise the Lord, O citizens of Ghana, For the Lord is good and his mercies endure forever” The preacher’s loud voice carried over the din of crowd “The Lord will not allow any evil to befall his people. The Lord protects and guides his flock. He is the Alpha and Omega, the Beginning and the end of your problems, somebody shout hallelujah”

This time, the response was much louder as more people had suddenly taken interest in the ongoing proceedings. Some market women were pointing unabashedly at the young man, ignoring their wares for the sake of mere gossip, while the street hawkers zipped in and out of the crowd, trying to cash in some quick sales. To any slightly curious person in the vicinity, that kind of congregation was very beguiling.

“Don’t despair young man, all is not lost” Kacharo continued “The Lord has just revealed to me, where the thief is hiding. Praise the Lord, young man, for the Lord has been merciful unto you.”

“The thief was the gentleman that bumped into you a few minutes ago, and he is lurking right behind that green kiosk” Kacharo added, pointing at a green kiosk, a few metres away. “I would advice you not to assault him, but rather bring him before the Lord for prayers. Vengeance belongs to the Lord.”

The young man turned eagerly in the direction the man of God had pointed and ran over. The taxi driver got down from his car and accompanied him as he moved towards the kiosk. When they got the kiosk, they split and circled it until they found the thief hiding in the rear. A few seconds later the thief was pulled out and backhanded hardly across the cheek. The taxi driver in an unexplained fit of rage pounced on him and started hitting him mercilessly until the wallet dropped from his shirt. With the brief distraction that had come with the discovery of the stolen wallet, the thief had managed to shove his assailant backwards and disappeared behind the next building. The taxi driver gave pursuit, crying out loudly that a thief was in the vicinity. The young man picked up his wallet and checked the contents carefully. When he was satisfied with what he had seen, he walked back to the platform and had began to stutter thanks to Kacharo when he was cut short.

“It’s not me you should be thanking, because I have no power of my own” Kacharo said, reaching for his bible “It’s the lord God Almighty who delivered you from the snare of the fowler. The lord has also revealed to me that you have been jobless this past few months, but he wants me to tell you that all

your troubles are finally over. When you arrive at the bank later this afternoon for that interview, you will be handed your heart’s desire”

The young man looked stunned. How had the man of God known he was searching for a job? He stood gazing at the preacher for a very long time, and then took his wallet and emptied the entire contents into an offering bowl at the foot of the platform. This man had already saved him once.

What was the big deal in showing a bit of gratitude?

Kacharo now had the full attention of the crowd, and it wasn’t a chance he was going to allow go waste just like that. The Lord had given him an extra-ordinary brain, and he would be a fool to be 

modest about it. He would put the brain God had given him to good use, and would glorify his name.

The God of Kacharo will not put Koliko to shame. The Lord will Provide…

10 Day of Fiction: Day 1 – A Question of Sanity, by Poetra Ama Asantewa

Despite the growing trepidation of being rammed in the ass, I felt the urgent need to fill the crammed up cell with bellows of uncontrollable laughter.

I was born with the nonsense in my blood, runs deep on both my mother and father’s sides; my mother wore panties over her clothes for three great freaking months just to spite her school authorities. And my able-bodied father supported her deviant act in the last month by cutting two big holes in the crotch area of all his pants. I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out doggy style was invented by my great-great-great grandfather. Apart from being incredibly ludicrous, we’re perverts too. I don’t know of any sane person who would think that was sane.

And so, it only made sense that traces of inane intelligence and slightly twisted view of life be deposited in my brain.

Here’s what happened: you’re walking down the streets of a rich folk town with your high school friend whose sanity is questionable, (anyone whose ultimate sex fantasy is a woman dressed up as a cat with an actual tail is undoubtedly demented) you want to take a piss so bad but there are no bushes, no gutters, just beautiful walls and streets, and a children’s playground with a half-filled water bottle lying beneath a merry-go-round waiting just for your urine to fill it up. What do you do? Fill it to the brim!

Now how in the name of penis enlargement pills are you supposed to know a dumb 6 year old would drink almost half off of it? And even more so how are you supposed to know this 6 year old boy’s father will get thirsty and decide the smartest thing to do was drink his son’s water?! And how in all things straight are you supposed to know this boy’s father is the mayor of Accra?!! Zero expectancy right? Right!

So that summarizes my presence in a stinky originally 2-occupant-but-currently-8 inmates cell. It didn’t help much that I had good looks and a firm and fairly fat butt. I’ve been here for almost 9 hours and it was will power and the image of the guards in my grandma’s knickers that kept me from shitting in my pants. Everybody in my cell looked like they just jumped out from a badass movie. They served a plate of food that looked like trickling turd and I was convinced if a drop got anywhere near me my virginity would grow back.

One of the inmates in the opposite cell had managed to pull the guard’s pants down, and this decent-looking man who is supposed to be a hardcore guard had on a tweety imprinted pair of boxers. He looked so stupid. I wanted to laugh so hard. Nose-ring guy in the left corner was staring at my crotch and licking his lips. I held my bum unconsciously.

Lord, I believe in miracles. Get me out of here this very minute so I know it’s real….


About the Author

I’m a writer. I can combine 10,000 words out of the 26 alphabets and extract an emotion from ye earthly being. (Plus I have one hell of a sexy muse) I’m a geek,- my rebellious idealism are quite often unattractive to the “world”. I know what a motherboard is, I can use a mouse and I can locate the ‘A’ key even in my sleep! I sing in my sleep, I draw in my dreams and I ‘root’ for chocolate 🙂:)

In the Middle of Nowhere – by Joshua Kumi-Yeboah

The Family

Far, far away, where nobody knows, were a family richer than the any royal couple. They thought money was everything and could bring many good things in life; sometimes it can and sometimes not. Their four children knew nothing about their parents’ richness, but they knew that they had a lot of toys.


John (the father) wanted the family to go on a little break to a holiday resort. Three of the kids sprang up in joy and rushed to pack many suitcases.  John and his wife Wendy didn’t know what was going to happen, all they knew was that there would be a lot of noise in the car. As you might have guessed, their car was expensive and it was bigger than a family car, plus it had lots more upgrades too. There were dozens of game consoles and toys that the kids could play with. It also had two levels and some stairs to connect to the upper portions.


Their Journey


After a week or two, the family were ready and set to go. The kids were awfully excited, so they jumped in the car and settled in. The car revved and the wheels moved. The kids waved to their home (as if they would never see it again) and started with their game.


John and Wendy took turns driving because they both had their driving licenses. John had the first period of driving. He was a fast driver, unlike his wife, and couldn’t slow down; he’s even too fast for the speed cameras.  In another of his latest cars, John was speeding away on the motorway when a car pulled its breaks right in his tracks causing him to crash straight into the person’s boot. Luckily, the fine went to the man in the car for not signalling that he was going to break. John did get in trouble for speeding, but he was free seconds later.

Because of his mistake (Wendy remembered), Wendy decided to take charge of the driving for at least an hour. John didn’t agree but still allowed her.

“Dad, are we there yet?” the kids chanted from the back of the car.

“No, we are defiantly not, besides I’m not the one driving.”


A short silence followed, until Lucy shrieked “WWWAAAHHH!!!” 

Lucy (the baby) noticed that a sea monster was swimming alongside their car. The oldest, Ben, was more excited than ever but didn’t know what it was going to do to them. All the cars stopped and people took out their cameras to take a snap shot of it without it noticing. Sadly it always had its eye out and got too frustrated that it broke out of the river and started to attack. Ben’s excitement turned into doom as the monster attacked him first. Everyone on the motorway bounced into their car except John and Wendy. They thought they were brave enough to fight, but they ended up in the same way as their son and so did the rest of the family except little Lucy.


Life Underwater



Now since Lucy was a new born baby, everyone adored her.


This is what happened with the sea monster; it just stopped for a while then struck. It got out an arm and took her. The monster had a gas mask to put over her mouth and nose and it had goggles to put over her eyes. Now Lucy was prepared to live happily under water with her new carer. They lived happily ever after until 20 years, when the sea monster died, but how did Lucy live on happily all by herself?


About the Author (in his own words)

My name is Joshua Kumi – Yeboah and I am nine years old. I was born in South London (UK) and come from a Ghanaian heritage. I am in year 5 and preparing for my eleven plus exam and SAT test.

 Since I was three years old I have been very interested  in writing stories and have written many stories. Writing is not an easy thing to accomplish but just climb that mountain and you’ve made it. Like most boys I like football and do a lot of reading.  Reading helps to make stories so that’s why authors read lots and lots of good books; like JK Rowling and Roald Dahl.

 I have won and achieved many awards and certificates for writing stories and legible handwriting. Also at school I am now a reading buddy to help younger children read better. I’ve also been chosen to be school council in year 1, 3, 4 and 5 and been chosen to have a debate at Maidstone (Kent) representing my school and the whole of Dartford.

My uncle (Nana Damoah) has been writing lots of books and he’s inspired me to write more. When he publishes his books, I feel like I have to publish some of my stories. Nana has been a big inspiration to me.

So, hope you enjoy the stories that I write. They might be short but I guarantee that they are good. So have fun and take care.

A Letter from Grandpa (Part 1) – by Stephen D Yankey

The old man had just finished undertaking his daily chores; tending the crops on his farm and pruning and trimming the flowers at his home. His home and farm were both located in the town of Nkusukum. The flowers had formed a hedge around his large compound and as always, had attracted lots of people to his home albeit all these people had an agenda. Some had come to the compound with Brother Sammy, the town’s most popular photographer, to take some memorable pictures while standing near the hibiscus, lilies and sunflower or while sticking the bougainvillea into their hair. Many had also come just to seek the old man’s permission to pick some seeds so as to go to their various homes and spread the good news according to flowers. Hebob as he was called by his grandchildren had gained yet another name, Flowers Wura (Owner/keeper of flowers) and his home became known as Flowers Fie (Home of flowers).  

Like all people trained during the early post-independence era of modern Ghana’s history, Grandpa Hebob had become fond of writing letters. At age sixty eight (68), he still had it in him. And he wrote letters with such art and skill. He would purchase brown cardboard paper from the local bookshop and make envelopes out of them. He would then prepare some starch with which to seal the sides of his “locally produced” envelopes. He wrote letters to his acquaintances, friends and family and he couldn’t be blamed. As at the year 2000, he could not boast of owning a mobile phone. Even if he ever nursed that ambition, his meagre pension could not allow him enjoy the luxury of owning a cell phone. And there was the unending bureaucracy involved in procuring a SIM card, without which one could not put the mobile phone to use. The farthest he could get with regards using a phone was doing so at Nkusukum’s only Communication Centre, where he could speak with his relatives via the telephone in one of their booths, which cost a fortune. So, he had resolved in his heart to use the good old pen and paper until the times changed.

One of Hebob’s daughters had married a teacher who had at the time gained a teaching appointment at the prestigious SOS Herman Gmeiner Children’s Village, Asiakwa in the Eastern region of Ghana and what a distance it was from Nkusukum! Well, like most men, Hebob’s son-in-law, Andy, took with him his only son, Fiifi, to Asiakwa to begin a new phase of their lives. He sought to test the waters before sending for his wife and daughter to join him at a later time.

The news of leaving Nkusukum for the first time was received by little Fiifi amidst shouts of joy. However, upon learning that he would not be leaving with his grandfather, mother and sister, the shouts of joy were replaced with “Ohhhhh” and intermittent tears. To sustain the joy of trying out the new adventure, Hebob assured Fiifi: “I’ll always write to you,” in his colonial British accent.

Life in Asiakwa was in fact a new adventure for Fiifi. Here he was in a new land full of large cocoa farms, orchards, rivers and thick forests. He could not go anywhere without being greeted by the smell of dry cocoa beans that filled the atmosphere at all times. Neither could he escape the rains.

As a school boy, he had a couple of “walking friends”; they walked him to and from school every day. That was where their friendship ended. They did nothing more besides walking together, which was largely due to his father’s command: “I don’t want you to be friends with those boys!” This command was nonnegotiable. Typical of most schools, the headmaster or whoever he delegates fetched the school’s letters from the town’s post office every week. When the second week of March 2000 arrived, letters were fetched, as usual. Little did Fiifi know that Grandpa Hebob had kept his end of the bargain.

The sun was blazing on this day and Fiifi could not find his shadow. When he finally saw it, it was underneath him, proving true what Mr. Appiah had taught them in the science class that day: “Whenever it is 12 O’clock, you stand on your shadow. This was how our forefathers used to tell the time.” Fiifi at that moment, although in the twenty-first century had tasted life in the nineteenth century and the centuries before it. As talkative as he was, he could not wait to tell his “Dada”, as he called his father, about his science experiment. Just as he was about to leave the school’s quadrangle for his classroom, he heard a voice call his name. It was a familiar voice. One that he had been accustomed to. His brain quickly diagnosed it as the voice of the headmaster, Mr. Attakumah.

With both hands firmly placed behind him, Fiifi walked towards Mr. Attakumah, watching his steps carefully so as not to make much noise while walking on the gravelled walkway leading to where the headmaster stood. As he approached the man, he wondered what he may have done and it dawned on him that perhaps the break period had long been over and since he was enjoying his science exercise, he may not have notice it. Whatever the case, Fiifi was prepared to be whipped and he feared not, for he had worn a thick boxer shorts underneath his school shorts that morning, as though he had a vision that come what may, he would be whipped in the course of the day.

Upon reaching Mr. Attakumah, Fiifi saluted, accompanied by a loud and clear “Good afternoon, Sir” which the headmaster responded to with a broad smile. He had noticed that Fiifi was in fact the son of his newest teacher. Thus, Mr. Attakumah just said “Here is a letter for you, son” and handed it over to the bemused Fiifi. He left the headmaster’s presence utterly confused with thoughts such as: “Who on earth would write a letter to a nine-year old boy?” “Or could it be from the World Bible School or even the Joyce Meyer Ministries?”  It was when he took a cursory look at the brown envelope and the beautiful italics in which his full name and address were written that he remembered his grandfather’s words: “I will always write to you.” At that moment, Fiifi knew where the letter had come from and could not wait to tear it open and peer into its contents.

On this day, Fiifi abandoned his “walking friends,” the first of its kind since he struck up friendship with them. He rushed home after school, not even waiting for his father. He even did not venture into any cocoa farm or orchard, very unusual of him. Well, it was obvious that the joy of receiving the letter had made him forego some of his daily formalities. Once home, he locked the door behind him and took out his key, just as his father had always instructed him to do. Fiifi then retreated into his bedroom to open up the envelope. Before tearing it open, he saw further proof that the letter had come from his grandfather. The stamps affixed to the envelope read: “Nkusukum, ¢300.” With this confirmation, Fiifi could no longer waste any more time in opening up the letter.

Grandpa Hebob was one who held on closely to the rudiments of English grammar. As he would always say, his standard seven and middle form four English teachers had forced him to master the art of letter writing and he intended to go by the rules he was taught no matter the type of letter he was writing. As such, when Fiifi opened the letter and started reading, he saw his grandfather’s full name and address at the top right hand corner of the page:

                                                                                                 James K. Hasford

                                                                                                 C/o P.O.Box 66


                                                                                                 Central Region


Chocolate Barbie – by Kuukua D Yomekpe

Chocolate Barbie

“Kafui!”  Grandmother yelled from the living room. 

“Yes Ma!   I’m coming!”  She responded with a little bit too much emphasis on the last word. 

“Wo nua no wo hen?”

“I think my sister went to Selassie’s to rehearse for the church play,” Kafui said. 

“Are you sure?”  Grandmother asked.  “ARE you sure?”  She probed as if looking for a sign that Kafui would crack under more pressure.  “Did she say when she would be back?  She should not have been gone this long!” 

“But Ma, she left barely thirty minutes ago!”

“Are you being insolent?” 

“No Ma, but she really did just leave.” 

“Hmmm…Yoo!  Bebia wSa kε shε bia, onwhε  no ho yei!  Ma Snfa nyinsen mba fie ha o!”  Kafui rolled her eyes subtly as she listened to Grandmother’s usual rant about boys and pregnancy as if these were a teenager’s greatest downfall.  Perhaps it was her experience since she raised three children and two-grandchildren single-handedly. 

Anyway, today Kafui hoped she was right about her sister’s whereabouts.  Enyo often confided in her when she needed to go out and meet up with her boyfriend, but tonight she had plainly said, “Selassie and I have some work to do.  I’ll be back.”  There was no hint of illicit behavior, at least none that Kafui could detect.  Kafui wondered if her sister had stopped trusting her. 

She decided to return to her French homework, but before that she thought she’d read a few chapters of her latest illegal copy of Mills & Boon that one of her mates had slipped her in class. She had devised a way of doing so stealthily because if Grandmother discovered her reading these, not only would she be grounded and the book seized, but also her teacher would know about their practice.  By then her mate’s parents would have to be brought into the equation.  The adults made sure that such inappropriate reading material was kept from the hands of these “innocent” adolescents.  She smirked as she thought of this, but the smirk was replaced by a smile at the thought that she and her mates had managed to pass five copies so far this school year.  In any case, she knew she couldn’t afford this drama so she always kept the books hidden in pages of whatever textbook she was using at the moment.  In between the turn of the pages, even as she kept up with the drama of unrequited love, her thoughts kept returning to her sister.

            In the meantime, Enyo had arrived at Selassie’s and the two of them were getting ready to leave for their rendezvous.  Selassie had also told her mother that she and Enyo had work to do, never quite explaining what that “work” was.  Her mother trusted them because she felt that Enyo was a good influence on Selassie. 

Growing up Kafui and Enyo were not allowed to have their hair relaxed. When Enyo told Selassie that she wanted to try it before the semester ended, Selassie encouraged her, and finally got her to acquiesce to getting it done.  They decided that after class one day, the two of them would go to Selassie’s first cousin’s house to get the job done.  The real problem with this act was that, relaxed hair could not be easily returned to its natural state, and Grandmother was bound to notice the very next day. At the moment of making the decision, Enyo, at sixteen, felt legally justified to do with her hair as she pleased. 

As they walked over to the house, Enyo began to ponder the real significance of the act she was about to take.  Sure, it would feel good to not deal with kinky hair—the weekly washing and combing out followed by hours of twisting and squirming under Grandmother’s fingers.  It would also be nice to have hair that fingers could run through all the way without getting caught in a knot of kinky curls.  She would look just like those white girls on TV tossing their hair ever so delicately.  Somehow, she also had the impression that this new look would make her more popular in school.  There was so much riding on this decision!  On the other hand the consequences like the irreversible nature of having a relaxer, the burnt scalp (oh she had heard stories!), and Grandmother’s reaction at her outright disobedience plagued her.  For Grandmother, everything was an affront to her personally, not to mention the family name.  God forbid, anyone did anything for his or her own benefit with no intention of tarnishing the family name!  Unconsciously, she began to drag a bit behind Selassie.  Selassie, whose mother had allowed her to relax her hair at twelve, caught this change in my mood.  She put her hand in Enyo’s and quickened her pace. 

“Ko ko ko.  Knock Knock.”  Selassi’s cousin came to the door and after the usual greetings and hugs, Selassie explained to her cousin that Enyo was fast losing her resolve so they needed to hurry on with it and continue to assure her it would be perfect! 

Selassie helped her cousin set up the kitchen with the hair relaxer crème, the combs, and some Vaseline mixed with pure Shea butter for those unavoidable scalp burns.  Enyo had finally gotten excited about the process, and began helping Selassie partition her hair by holding down portions while Selassie wrapped rubber bands around them.  Selassie rubbed the concoction of Vaseline and Shea butter around Enyo’s ears, neck, and temple. Her cousin came over and began slathering the crème in the partitions that Enyo and Selassie had made earlier, each from bottom to top.  Once the whole can was gone, Selassie’s cousin began combing the crème through taking care not to touch the scalp.    She began to feel the itch and then the burn, just as they had described it to her.  She carefully to swiped the comb and began agitating her scalp to soothe the itch.  Snatching the comb, Selassie stared Enyo down as she sat sullenly in her seat. 

Eventually after what seemed like an hour, but in reality was only twenty minutes, Selassie’s cousin took Enyo to the sink and helped rinse out the relaxer.  She put some conditioner in and then allowed the scalp some rest.  She then walked her to the mirror, showed her the new hair and helped her comb it through.  She couldn’t help but smile at the look in the mirror.  Now she really looked like a Barbie doll…except she was brown.  Enyo shrugged off that feeling and turned around to see her hair fall down past her shoulder blades. They had said the relaxer had the ability to straighten out the kinks and lengthen the hair!  Up until this moment, she had not believed it.  Selassie called to her saying that it was time to go.  Her heart began to beat faster.  Now that the scalp burns were out of the way, she had to contend with the reality of returning home.

As they walked home, Selassie reasoned with her.  Grandmother could do Enyo no harm physically.  The hair looked fabulous; Grandmother might actually want to give Kafui a relaxer too so she would spend less time grooming hair every weekend.  She was not buying it.  Enyo was lost in my thoughts when Selassie gasped.  Enyo looked up.  There was Grandmother.  She was waving her flashlight wildly about with one hand and dragging Kafui with the other.  She began yelling and reprimanding Enyo for staying out too late.  She noticed Selassie and sent her home right away saying her mother was worried sick about her whereabouts.  We later learned that this was a lie.  Grandmother was more furious after Selassie left and she gave Enyo a lecture, not much unlike the usual.  She dragged Kafui and Enyo behind her as she stomped towards home, Kafui looking forlorn because she had gone through her own mini hell when Grandmother had finally lost patience and gone in search of Enyo.  Once inside the walls of the compound, she grabbed the cane she kept for such occasions, and gave Enyo fifteen lashes.  With each one, she winced but refused to cry. 

Enyo had gotten what she wanted.  Grandmother could not take that away from her.  Her hair was like Barbie.  She would have all the boys gazing at her, and the girls dying to touch it, in school tomorrow.  This thought, that everyone at school would be envious of her, kept her from crying out.  When Grandmother felt satisfied, she sent them both to their rooms. Safely inside, Enyo unwrapped the scarf on her head and showed Kafui the hair she had acquired in a matter of an hour.  Of course, Kafui was amazed.  So would the kids are school, tomorrow. 

Enyo fell asleep dreaming about the new day.  She tossed a lot trying to find a comfortable spot because her legs and back stung from the lashes.  She knew that Grandmother wasn’t done.  She had punished her for being out late.  Tomorrow, she would deal with the actual change in hair texture, but for now, she had gotten what she had dreamed about for years.  Barbie-doll hair! Never mind that this doll was brown!


About the Author

Kuukua Dzigbordi Yomekpe was born and raised in Ghana, immigrating to the United States at age 19. Her essays, “All Because of a Name” and “Immigrants in a Foreign Land” are published in African Women Writing Resistance. Her Masters thesis, “The Audacity to Remain Single: The Single Black Woman and the Black Church,” won the 2010 Marcella Althaus-Reid Award at the Pacific School of Religion in Berkeley. She is proud to be an African woman and believes in equality for all peoples, especially women. She is currently a candidate for the MFA in Writing and Consciousness in San Francisco. She loves to cook, and choreographs African and liturgical dance forms. She blogs at:

The Secondary School Life – by Samuel Boateng

The engine chugged softly as the car slowed down by the sidewalk. My eyes flashed quickly to the majestic white and black buildings my uncle had ever so fondly described. “Here we are.” sighed my father. I got out and opened the boot of the car, took out my chop box and trunk. Father and I headed off to the school’s administration block and had me registered as a freshman of the Anglican Senior High School. He then bade me farewell after seeing my dormitory and left me to sort my things. We were seven freshmen, so far in the huge dormitory of the Howard Carter House. We exchanged occasional glances which sent across mixed feelings that new comers of a school normally have.

Since it was our first day there, it wasn’t much of a day. We had breakfast with the rest of the school. The older boys and girls in Form 2 and Form 3 gave us looks that were not so hard for us to read. “Welcome to servitude, bullying, punishments and a whole lot more right here at ANGLISCO.” The rest of the freshmen and I sat at a table together with our House Prefect who was to orient us little by little. Food was fairly good and so on. Our House Prefect introduced himself to us as Kofi Lawson. He shared a joke about him being considered for the prefect’s position just because he had LAW in his name. Imagine that!

Normally, on the first day of school you might want to check out the school and see the facilities available such as the washrooms, laboratories, sport fields and swimming pool, if the school had one. We visited the laboratories first and looked around at the equipment and apparatus. We were joined by freshman girls from the Adelaide Asiamah House. Then, we visited the sports fields and looked around. My, my! What a park! The school could have hosted the Nations’ Cup and generated some profit! Our last stop before the dormitories was the washrooms. It was there that the boys and girls had to split up. The girls’ washrooms were at their side of the school which was east of the school. Overall, the washrooms were not that bad, I mean how do you expect the washroom of a senior high school to look like? It was neat and you could sit on the seats and attend to nature’s calls unlike most schools where, going to ease yourself was like attending kung-fu or yoga meditation classes. You would have to stand bending your knees and balancing yourself over the toilet bowl at the same time keeping watch over your bottom from the huge patrolling flies!

Soon we were settled and got to know each other. I found myself a companion who was called Jonathan Darko. He was from a school somewhere in Accra and gained admission along with a friend of his from junior high school named Caleb Kotei. They complained that my name was too common and “had no taste” and that if they visited my hometown in Kumasi they would find not less than 50 Kwame Mensas!


We were just starting to feel at home and loosening up when the seniors arrived from wherever they had been. They gave us a saucy welcome and started to check out our chop boxes. You couldn’t say no and act all protective because that would surely spell doom for your freshman years in the school. We obediently opened our chop boxes and let them pry into our private properties. A senior would occasionally take something out, be it a canned sardine or some biscuits and inspect it as if it had been stolen, then tell the unfortunate student that he was “borrowing” it for some hours. Of course, anybody who had his item taken would know that the senior was taking it for good. I was one of the unfortunate students. Two seniors “borrowed” a can of sardines and two tins of milk respectively. I was not bothered in the least because I had more than enough to last me the first term, and a can of sardines and two tins of milk would not raise inflation costs in my edible provisions…. To be continued

About the Author

Samuel Boateng is a Junior High School graduate of the St. Bernadette Soubirous School in Dansoman, Accra. He likes to read, write, draw and use the computer. He hopes to become an investor, part-time artist and author.