A fortnight ago I went out with some friends for drinks. The venue was a relatively new lounge in my neighbourhood. I was not too excited about hanging out in my hood. As a recovering ‘alcoholic’  I was very aware that the closer the source of your problem is, the more likely you are to slip and go back to your old ways. I had been sober for a week which for me was pretty darn good and I didn’t want to mess that streak up.

We got to the lounge at about 10:30 pm. Its facade was all wooden cladded and was strung with yellow lights that made it impossible to read anything. It reminded me of a badly decorated Christmas tree! I scanned the horizon for any sign of the three stooges I came to meetup with.

I noticed the usual stereotypical types:

-The table with the young “millionaire” and a bevy of Gen-Zs with cheap champagne flowing like confetti;

-The middle aged man who ran away from home and his problems to come nurse one bottle of club;

– The table with the girls’ girls’ all-dressed-to-kill-but-would-play-extremely-hard-to-get vibe. It was a full house. 

I found my group. They hadn’t bothered to wait for me and were going through their second and third bottles. I quickly fist bumped all and sat down. Eddy, who did all the ordering when we went out (and never paid) called the waitress to bring me a Club, my beer of choice There is a pecking order when it comes to beer but that is a topic for another day.

The waitress eventually came to my table and brought me one.  I was famished and looked at the menu. I never trust new joints that have everything from Chinese to continental to local dishes. After I was informed that my first five picks on the menu were not available, I settled for chicken wings and gizzard as a safe bet. Time moved slowly like a snail climbing up a hill. Two generations later, the waitress brought a plate of cold gizzard and chicken wings. 

“These are cold. Are they from yesterday?”  my buddy Kofi asked, to which the waitress retorted “If you don’t want it, I can take it away”.

Ding! Wrong answer! I wasn’t drunk enough to start being  rude.

“Can you please go heat the food?” Eddy asked tersely.

Patrick was quiet, he was the group member that avoided conflict at all costs and kept looking furtively around like his wife would appear anytime and drag him home. 

She took the plate after making some guttural sound, in the midst of our pre-occupation with our argument about politics or soccer (I forget).

Shortly after, she brought back a plate of burnt gizzard and chicken wings!

“Erm, we can’t eat this!” Kofi said annoyed.

For those of you who haven’t heard of the “Group is one sitting” it is a simple arrangement, unwritten rule (Rule 21 of the Bro code) which is when one member orders food, it is for the group, so goes without saying that everyone in the group is invested in the outcome of the food. 

“Ahhh sir, did you do this on purpose?”  the waitress asked irritably. 

I looked at the carcinogenic gizzard and chicken wings and looked back at her. I wouldn’t give this to my dogs. 

Truth is, on such outings we barely look at the serving staff until we are drunk, upset or there’s something peculiar about them. All three applied here. I noticed her knuckles were dark whilst her hands were a much lighter shade (a result of her bleaching cream running out), I noticed she chewed gum in the most annoying way ever and I noticed her makeup was smeared. 

Patrick, the escaped convict, was torn, he knew the heffer had fucked up but was terrified of creating a scene. 

I was enjoying the buzz of my cold club beer and a much needed respite from work and did not want this to escalate. I was not ready to leave this lousy joint and go home or try to find a new hangout. I had become so used to bad service that this was not the event that triggered a walk out. On a scale of 0 to 10, where 10 was a walkout, we were still at a 5. 

Patrick, in a bid to de-escalate things, quickly asked for the manager. Ten minutes later, a diminutive figure with too many garish chains around his tube-like neck and a gaudy ring on his pinky appeared.  He seemed bored with our rantings from the get go and was clearly unimpressed at being summoned,  especially after glancing at our table and noticing that we hadn’t bought champers like every other group around. The idiot thought he had just opened the Ritz. He continued about how he had poached the chef from somewhere, and how it was our fault that the food was burnt, because we insisted it had to be hot, so it got overcooked. The guy wasn’t there to be a problem solver. He even alluded to the fact that if we weren’t happy he would let us leave without paying (that offer made me wish I had ordered a couple of champers). 

Ultimately that manager with the awful service ended our night. I reflected later on why good service in this country is such a rarity.

What are some of the experiences you have had? Pray, tell and let us put those mofos to shame. I want details and names of  locations. Don’t hold back!


On a gusty September morning, many moons ago, myself and a bunch of snot-nosed nine-year-olds shuffled into Class 4.

Everyone wanted to sit with their friends. I looked with dismay at the dirty urchins around me. I was looking to sit next to someone cool, someone I could exchange story books with and discuss movies when the class got boring. And it had to be a girl too.

I had discovered that the fairer sex offered more loyalty and intrigue than boys. I was done with them! I had sat next to Hannah the year before, but the breakup was terrible…she took my Marshall Math set home and in return I got a tired crayon set. Hannah spotted me and waved at me, I looked right through her. She was so last term. I was moving up the ladder in Class 4

I glanced at the lineup. Sheila…way too short (I was probably the shortest guy in the class) oh and a cry baby to boot…Nope. Next!.

Vanessa…Ugh, I hated her colored ribbons. She hadn’t progressed further than “Through The Garden Gate” the first book in Class 3…I couldn’t with illiterates!

My eyes fell on Minerva Sam, a girl I had a crush on…. year 4 was ours!

There was a simple formula I had discovered from class 2 when it came to choosing your sitting place. 

Rule 1. Teachers have sussed out which kids are friends with who, from the previous teachers – never sit next to your actual friend at first. 

Rule 1 didn’t apply to me. I had no friends. They were only a means to survive these fiendish hellholes.

Rule 2. If you are short or troublesome, avoid the back. Both of which , unfortunately applied to me. I will move from the middle seats to the front.

Rule 3. Sit next to the opposite sex. Many kids at that age wanted to only associate with the same sex. Amateurs!

With my understanding of cracking the system, my eyes followed Minerva like a hawk. 

Her best friend was Ama Akrofi and they were as thick as thieves, however they didn’t sit next to each other. Ama Akrofi went straight to row A and Minerva to Row B, separated only by an empty chair and the aisle. I sat in the empty chair before Mark could waddle his dumb ass over. The impudence! He could barely spell his own name and he thought he could sit next to her?. He glared at me and sheepishly moved on. Did he already forget I was the musical chairs king at his lame birthday party?

Minerva had her head buried in a Nancy Drew novel, totally ignoring me. I took out my Hardy Boys storybook and stared intently at the pages, pretending to read, all the while furtively looking at her. She was an angel from heaven. No blemish or flaws. Unlike Hannah who had this gnarled toe, I had noticed much to my disgust towards the end of our ‘relationship’

Miss Yeboah, the class teacher, waltzed in a few minutes later and promptly started ejecting people from their seats. Many friends had sat next to each hoping she wouldn’t notice. She did. I saw her glance briefly at Minerva who had her head buried in her book. After 10 minutes of shuffling people around, Minerva and I were still next to each other… a match made in heaven.

The first class was some calculus, the next English and by breaktime Minerva and I were chatting away like old friends. We had even agreed to swap novels by next week. I congratulated myself for a beautiful execution.

By week two, it had become obvious that Minerva and her friend Ama Akrofi had played me. Minerva will beg me to swap places with her for a minute so only the aisle separated her from Ama Akrofi. She did give me the Nancy Drew book, “The Secret At Shadow Ranch” and spent half the time chatting with Ama Akrofi. By week three she stopped asking to swap places.I’d get to school and Minerva would be in my seat.

Even Miss Yeboah did not notice that Minerva never ever sat on her chair and that she had done a hostile takeover of my seat.

There was a rule four I had not figured out till then: 

Get an easily manipulated dummy to break the direct link to your best friend. 

Minerva and Ama Akrofi knew that rule.

I missed Hannah, we used to talk about so many things. I looked around the class one day wondering who she was sitting next to. I saw her in the middle of the class sketching away on her drawing pad as she usually did. I made my way to an empty chair next to her and tried to win her over with lame jokes. She gave me the cold shoulder and several come back lines that drew laughter from neighbouring students. I deserved that. 

“Hey, get up from my chair,” someone bellowed.

I looked up. It was Mark.



Someone asked me last week why I stopped writing. The truth is actually sad…Ghana is fucking hard!  For some of us we can only be creative when we are happy.

This past week has been a mixed bag!

I recently come across Jessica Opare-Saforo’s You Tube channel…and immediately subscribed to it. I always thought she was a fantastic presenter. Our very own Oprah in the making?

But what got my attention was the topic on one of her Vlogs – 32 great questions you want to ask every woman.

I further summed it up into 5 (or a little more) points:

  1. Does she fucking work and how hard? 
  2. Would her family and friends be a liability? Also, can she cook? Where and what does she eat (do you need to farm food for her to eat)?
  3. Is she correct? – Be it religious or whatever moral code…?
  4. Is she a freak or not in bed?
  5. What are her interests?

Some of the specific questions resonated with me. “What is your favourite movie?” I asked a girl once as we watched Shrek.

Her answer, two decades later, still haunts me- ”I don’t like movies like this, with toys. My favourite movie is Commando.” SMDH

This is my take on the Good, the Bad and the UGLY for the past week;


Of course, Ghana qualified for Qatar 2022 beating arguably our biggest rival on the continent, Nigeria, to book a place in the World cup…. forget about the jollof wars…. we already won that hands down! Both Presidents of Nigeria and Ghana needed that win, of course to distract the suffering citizens of these accursed nations from problems at home.


E-levy rates

Oh, yeah and E-Levy was passed! Our electronic transactions are never going to be the same. But yay, I’m elated though, because it means the Government has the magic wand to solve all our problems, right? Let the V8s and all the decadence that garnishes corruption flow!


As the month ended, I did a quick assessment of my weekly fuel consumption. Since I live on the outskirts of town, I spend a GHc100.00 a day commuting to and from work (food and entertainment must go). My take away? I need to sleep less and look for more side hustles. Maybe I should learn how to flap my wings for errands. If I could muster that I could add in trips for entertainment.

I remember mid-month confidently asking the fuel attendant to fill the tank and then having to scream “Stop!” when he got to GHc500.00. What was he thinking? The nerve! To make me overspend past a family of 5 would on groceries. 

But hey, this is Accra-Town; where we are all “managers” so I will still be here, whining about the beautiful presenters in the TV box (how much electricity does the TV use? Find out and lemme know; we may need to just sit under the mango tree for entertainment; but I digress). 

The dreaded *170# that we use to send momo will be a bored short code as we navigate around this evil-levy…I mean e-levy. And as far as Qatar goes the boys should stay with us and fix Ghana. That trip smells of expensive oil and expensive jokes (‘cos let’s face it we might not win and all of a sudden our jollof will be sour ☹).

I’m still asking around for flying lessons so if you know anyone willing to teach me, free lessons preferable, I dey.

A weekend of wins and losses


Sooooo England failed to lift the Euro2020 cup at Wembley. What a missed opportunity! Ah well. The English can be very mouthy when it comes to their football and have a way of extolling their players as if they were gods and their team, the best on Earth. The last time they hosted in 1996, England reached the semi-final but lost to Germany on penalties – with Gareth Sothgate, the current coach also missing his spot kick.

Of course, I was totally against England winning. I could only imagine the obnoxious headlines –



It did not go unnoticed that the three players who missed their penalty kicks were black. And knowing what an unforgiving and speckled with racists lot the English fans can be, all I can say is good-luck to Rashford, Sancho and Saka (they all sucked though!)

In other good football news, Hearts of Oak mathematically won the Ghana Premiership. 

I personally had a good weekend, catching up with friends from undergrad days. Those social gatherings are a mixed bag. They can be really good when you connect and reminisce on how great your Uni. days were. They are also at times depressing when it hits you that all this talk of old school music, Nokia 3310s, Motorola Razor phones and extinct nightclubs means you are slowly but surely…dying.

I am not going to lie, but seeing more and more salt and pepper hair or fast receding hairlines on friends who once had full heads of jet black hair and rocked serious afros keeps reminding me of our frail mortality.

Of course, there are always the one or two frigging vampires who never seem to age and actually look younger each time we meet. Now they just ruin it for everyone.  I usually sidle over to those Dorian Grey types and nonchalantly ask them about their diet or exercise routine. Honestly, I think they are just blessed with good genes.

Some of us are fighting a losing battle. I curse my fat, balding uncles and my progenitors for the bad genes they bestowed onto me. We usually end up deleting pictures so many times at these reunions, as people keep whining about how fat they look or that it is their wrong side (whatever that means). I usually start shortly after on a fad diet or some half assed workout regime, before I inevitably fall off the wagon. “Chale you can’t fight age. Embrace it” a wise friend once told me. 

Right now I am looking at the gym bag on the floor and thinking of the salad I have ordered for lunch waiting in the fridge and wonder whether I am going to win or lose this time around.

Of Traffic, Motor Riders and Our Forever Clueless Leaders!

Traffic was insane this weekend! And Accra traffic on a regular day is already no joke.But with Ghana hosting the 59th Heads of States Meeting, I should not have been surprised. I had not bothered to read what those potbellied, half-senile old farts were meeting about this time. Covid? The Single currency for Ecowas? Mali ? Who cares. Really? How does that help me any of us? Especially since they haven’t even been able to manage their own problems back home.

Accra traffic -  courtesy of  Accra Traffic Update

Many parts of Accra had come to a complete standstill as promised by the communiqué sent out by the Ghana Police earlier. Motorists were advised to find alternate routes. Thank goodness for Google maps and the meandering bypasses led by trotro drivers whenever there was traffic…. I have learnt a few of these over the years.

I find it terribly sad that our lives are always inconvenienced because of mismanagement, corruption, disorganization, just blatant incompetence and we are left on our own to figure out alternatives. This sums up a lot of our problems as a nation. No electricity? That’s on us to find an alternative solution like generators  AKA “I Better Pass My Neighbour”, inverters, rechargeable lamps. Bad roads?  Those that can, invest in a 4×4, look for land where there is a decent road and pray a big man moves into the neighbourhood so it’s maintained. No water? Get a borehole, harvest rainwater, pay for water to be delivered weekly etc. The list is endless and tiring! Our politicians don’t seem to care! And we are sadly being run and have always been by  a bunch of kleptocrats who are part of a Kakistocracy. I totally understand why people want to marry for papers or give birth to kids at all cost out of this cursed land. A meeting of heads of state from many failed nations in Accra to discuss how to solve regional problems. That’s a hoot! Since  they are all doing so well in their fiefdoms. 

Let’s forget the half-senile old farts and get back to my weekend, shall we? I have no idea what demon possessed me to go meet friends this Saturday morning, but I did. I was late for the meeting as was pretty much everyone else because we were stuck in traffic and in my case, for a good couple of hours. On my way back home around the palace mall area, a motor rider, whom I had seen in my rearview mirror earlier,  drove in between my car and a small van. The space was obviously not big enough for even a bicycle to squeeze through but this smart ass decided to wish his motor bike between my car and the small van. I heard the saddest sound ever as my front bumper was ripped off! The rider looked back, as my mouth opened in horror, confused and still processing the most stupid move I had ever witnessed on the road. The rider just shrugged, weaved through two cars and rode off happy with himself to have escaped invectives and no doubt some hefty slaps, if I’d had my way. I felt so crestfallen not to have been able to unleash the kraken within, on him. I mulled later, on what I could have done differently. As for the rider, from my experience save for the slaps, and possibly confiscating his worn-out Boxer bike, there would still have been no joy when it came to righting the wrong he had done. I parked on the side of the road, adjusted the bumper to try and keep it from dragging on the street as I continued heading home, thinking of the money that I had to suddenly cough up on Monday morning to fix this mess. On the way, I saw motorists narrowly avoiding pedestrians and those accursed riders coming from the left, the right, overtaking from both sides in the full glare of the police. I thought earlier this month of the statements by both the the Minister of Interior and the IGP after the bullion robbery.

“What we should know is that the criminals continue to change the modules and we have to be changing with them and the police is doing all it can. We have not lost control. I always want to emphasise that, we need to go to neighbouring countries to see what is happening there, but we are not in the same league with them.

We want to do better than we are doing now, but believe me, Ghana is safe; that is why all the other countries are running to Ghana.”

The Interior Minister, Ambrose  Dery

I’ve already forgotten the details of the IGP’s statement just that it was an equally useless one where he basically compared Ghana to other countries and said the only place that does not have crime is heaven.

Of course, In any right-thinking country both officials would have resigned for such stupid comments but here in Ghana we will find an alternative route, keep them, and manage the problem…. until we go to another country and see or to heaven!

And how was your weekend….mine was sucky through and through!

AND HOW WAS YOUR WEEKEND?  The Septugenarian, the Absentee Farmer and many broken promises

This weekend promised to be exciting and it was! Thanks to Auntie Coro, I haven’t been out as much as I used to. I have sadly, become hooked to tv shows that are of no value to my hungry life in Accra. Binge watching Lucifer, Hemlock Grove and other mindless series have yet to put food on my table.

I had decided years ago, not to listen to an old man who implored me not to go into farming. According to him, farming was tough and with my day job it would be near impossible to be a successful farmer. 

Thanks to this bad combo of Covid and Netflix I have found myriads of excuses not to go to my farm and this Saturday a surprise visit revealed what I feared would happen. My farm was on the brink of collapse. The Moringa crops had still not germinated and the factotum who served as my farm manager’s excuse was lack of rains. He essentially blamed God for our failure. 

I patiently waited for the eejit to explain the major and minor rainy seasons to me for the umpteenth time and calmly reminded him that his excuse was 2 months old – I had since ‘borrowed’ an 18 feet water hose from my parent’s place and brought it to the farm. I pointed out where the said water hose was stored plus the overhead water storage tank, I’d had installed. According to him the water hose had been in storage for so long, that it was irreversibly knotted. I then proceeded to spend the next half hour with him and two other farm hands to unknot the labyrinth-like water hose. All the while, I made a mental note to do better. I had been warned that the worst thing I could do was to be an absentee farmer…but hey that’s me. I just love rediscovering the fucking wheel.

I felt so down with the situation on the farm I ended up Netflixing and chilling with some comfort food I bought on my way home to drown my sorrows.

Man, this grownup thing called life sucks, big time!

The next day I had a seventy-year old’s birthday to attend at a small catholic church in Weija. I had not been to church in a while, was fashionably late and had to sit outside.

The money from the Catholic coffers had obviously not reached this church. I was later told by a staunch catholic that these days it was every church for himself. I did enjoy the service tremendously and was really glad about the camaraderie extended to me as a first time worshipper there. As is wont of me, I made an empty promise to donate something to this church when I was one-day rich and famous. I took several pictures with the seventy-year-old birthday girl on my pretentious I-phone 12 Pro Max that had put a dent in my farm budget.

From there it was off to Serenity Beach at Kokrobite for a sumptuous meal.  I stuffed myself silly and was positive I had gained 5 kilos by the end of that debauchery. Eating and drinking with friends and family made me happy and depressed at the same time. I thought of life and seventy years. Would I finally have a Moringa Plantation by then? Would I be obese with nothing but broken promises and empty dreams – I drank a few shots of WoodFord reserve (Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey) to drown such sad thoughts.

And for only the third time in my life, I hijacked that bottle of whiskey from the party and went home to continue drowning my sorrows. 

I had a call from my farm manager to tell me in an annoyingly happy voice, as if he was the rainmaker, that it was now raining at the farm, and yes he will continue planting the Moringa seeds the very next day. I silently thanked God for rain and drank to the health of my seventy year old aunt plus other good things life had to offer. 

Don’t you really hate those weekends where the Universe is obviously sending some deep message but your head is clouded by whiskey and not able to make sense of it? No? Just me then?

And How was your Weekend?

AND HOW WAS YOUR WEEKEND? Of Champions League Finals and Ok Waakye

So, those who know me know I like all things hot – be it a woman or waakye (I know, I know, in these days of wokeness, I probably shouldn’t be saying this)

For a Champions League Final weekend, it was pretty slow.

I am quickly noticing that many people do not wear facemasks anymore.

A young man who came over this weekend to do some odd jobs for me sans mask – told me decisively and with the authority of an ignoramus who has never had to be under oxygen or knows anyone who has, that “Covid-19 did not exist anymore”. Mask wearing doesn’t seem to be a requirement for boarding trotros anymore apparently. Everything seems to be back to normal as my experience over the weekend showed me.

I spent the whole football season, watching the fortnightly Tuesday and Wednesday games at establishments close to my office. On rare weekends I occasionally found my way to a friend’s house and watched some EPL matches if I was not attending my numerous weekend functions.

This weekend, I found myself wondering if it was worth checking out the Champions League final between Chelsea and Manchester City, knowing full well how dull it most likely would be. I decided, against my better judgement, to go see for myself at a local football pub in my area.

As is my nature, I did not get there before the match started. Strolling casually instead into the place, well into the match, like I owned the joint, only to find what looked like all able bodied males between sixteen and sixty from my neighbourhood there.

The unmistaken cost of Five Ghana Cedis to watch the FINALS was emblazoned on a board. The owner’s younger brother, a scrawny kid with a disproportionately large stomach doubled as a bouncer. I slipped him a twenty and entered the small shack that doubled as a covid-19 super spreader. The place was so packed I had to grind my way between people to move to the rickety table that served as a bar. I ordered a cold club, politely refusing the dirty plastic cup offered to me by the bar lady and chugged from the bottle – hopefully extending my life by year by that decision.   I found myself standing between a guy with a blue wife beater and another guy who was obviously a Manchester City fan, judging from his never-ending commentary and stream of expletives whenever the team missed what he deemed to be a chance to get ahead. The owner seemed to know me, but I had no recollection of us having met. He yanked a small looking kid, barely sixteen years off his seat for me, telling the kid that if he wanted to remain seated he should buy drinks. I must exude some air of importance, because I have no idea why he did that. I waved the kid to sit back down. With the odor of armpits and unchanged boxers permeating the space, I had no intention of being there long.

Havertz scored for Chelsea before the break and I slipped away from the noxious fumes shortly after.

I promised myself to renew my DSTV subscription to be able to watch the finals next time.  In the meantime, I called a friend I had beef with and humbly asked to use his DSTV account – yes I can be shameless like that – and downloaded the DSTV Now App. Turned out the rest of the match was a dud with the only goal being Havertz’s goal. Was it worth mending that fence for this match? In hindsight perhaps not.

Although Chelsea, my favored EPL team lifted the cup after 9 years…that certainly made my weekend.

Oh, yes and then on Sunday I had my first taste of that famous waakye at Spintex Community 18 that everybody had been raving about – yes, I have been under a rock. I am always skeptical about over hyped waakye. I do not claim to be an expert on the dish. But seriously how good can waakye really be right? Well, this Alhaji’s waakye was aight. Will I go out of my way to drive there or even order it to have it delivered to me, um no. If I happen to be in the area and feel for waakye I might get it. Please do not tear me apart for this. I have heard so much about this waakye, but it was just ok…It wasn’t horrible. I really do not expect much from overhyped places or football teams for that matter.

And how was your weekend?

AND HOW WAS YOUR WEEKEND? The 2nd Dose is Sweeter than the First

Why do Ghanaians like queues like this?

I woke up with a start on Friday, had one of those ablution type baths, rushed into the car, holding a piece of a week old bread and an expired Yomi yogurt. I had received a cryptic message from VaccineUpp a couple of days earlier that read –  “A second dose of coronavirus vaccine is available for you. Come with your vaccination card to Achimota Hospital on 2021-05-21” .

I won’t be joining the army of the walking dead…yay!

I got to the Achimota Hospital at 6.30am only to realize, everyone had the same idea and I was about the twentieth in line to a fast growing queue. As usual people would come up and ask who the last person was, move to the person and indicate they were after them. I quickly made a note to myself, that I was after the old lady with the red scarf. 

We waited patiently till half past 8, when a guy who looked like he had survived covid-19 a few times came over to check cards, using his phone to make sure that our names were indeed in the database. A nurse with a high-pitched voice reminded people who had not eaten to do so.


I remembered the questionable bread and expired yoghurt. I rushed to the car wolfed down my horrible victuals and got back to the line. I could not locate the old woman with the red scarf or the guy with the blue oversized shirt…My place in the line was now uncertain. As the line became more orderly, I gave up my chair occasionally to a few of the Septuagenarians and Octogenarians that kept showing up as the line moved ever so slowly along…thanks to the idiot savant checking names on his phone!  An older looking man sidled up just as I made myself comfortable on a plastic chair.

Dagnaggit! Fuck the book “Courtesy For Boys and Girls!”

I justified my resolve to sit in the chair by surmising he was around my age and had just not taken very good care of himself….alcohol and drugs will do that to you.

After five minutes of explaining to an older gentleman that I most certainly was not jumping the queue and was indeed at my rightful place in line and when I thought all hope was lost the old woman with the red scarf came and saved my life, she had stepped away and was back and remembered that I was right behind her. Thank God for not afflicting her with Alzheimer’s or any of those memory loss diseases that old people are wont to get. I flashed her a smile of gratitude….underneath my face mask.

After my shot I went to finally look for proper food – waakye! And then it was off to buy a black and white shirt for a funeral of an Octogenarian in Kumasi, the next day.

People say the 2nd shot does a number on you. Not me! I was like superman miles away from Kryptonite. I did all the rounds a person could do in a day especially with my resolve to not step in the office. In my opinion, there are some days where one is entitled to do this – Weekends, holidays, election day, the day after election and the day you take your covid shot.

I went to bed at 10pm because I had a plane to catch at 6.40 am the next morning.

I jumped out of bed at 5.30am. How did I miss my 4:45am alarm!?

So for the second time in two days, I did that 5 minutes express bath and sped to the airport in a record time that would have made Hamilton envious. Or perhaps Verstappen. He did win Monaco this weekend. I got in 5 minutes after check-in was closed and none of my charm worked on those AWA cretins. I was denied boarding and was on standby for the 8am and then 9am flights. It dawned on me that perhaps Kumasi was not in the cards this weekend. I went home super tired. Seemed like the 2nd shot was in fact doing a number on me.

And how was your weekend?


Dear Ghana peeps,

Greetings from one of your own. I have borne certain grievances for a while and it is mentally liberating to let loose on a couple.. For me, the most significant are the mental prisons we have been socialized to commit ourselves to. One letter alone will not suffice to communicate the entirety of my complaint, I will therefore be guided by the principles of brevity to as much an extent as I can. 

For your ease of reference tribe, I tabulate as follows:


Marriage is NOT a standard, I repeat marriage is NOT a standard. Marriage is an optional social, or if you will, spiritual union. It does not define any level and it is no measure of success in life. Can you stop ingraining in women this unrealistic need? Can you stop measuring women against this ruler? Yes, women have also begun to conform to these norms but it must stop! And it must start with you. Aunties, stop asking when young women will get married? Pastors, stop pushing them into unions that mar who they are and erode the very fibre of their existence. Even the bible says: “and the two shall become one”, it does not say “…and the woman shall melt away and all that shall be left is the man”. Hello? Can you hear me? Mothers, stop shying away from church because your daughter(s) are not married. You are all to blame for the thousands of women out there, languishing in emotional and mental torture because they are not married. Geez, can they be themselves? Can you stop providing men with such lethal ammunition against women? 

Let me offer a mental model to assist your process of penance and hopeful conversion; We are all going to die one day. This earth has been entrusted to us to use, but also keep well for generations to come. Amidst all the accountabilities this imposes on us, environmental and otherwise, is marriage REALLY what we should be focusing on?? How about being a good person? Ensuring you are making the world a better place by your social interactions, by how you maintain your environment ……. Do these not sound like higher orders? standards which far outlive us? I am not against marriage. Some would argue that it is important for procreation, that is all well and good. My angle simply is this…. Do not force women and do not make it a standard against which you (and them) measure their self worth. And stop saying they have a choice, you leave them with none considering the way you have socialized them (our women)!


Ever heard of the phrase, “children are a gift from God”? Ok, so why the darn pressure? Are gifts “by force”? Yes, think deeply about this. Do women owe you? How can they owe what they don’t even own, what they themselves are not even entitled to? You measure them against this standard, knowing full well biologically it takes 2 to birth a being. It is in fact extremely idiotic to me that you know this, yet stare them down in the face for a baby! Zero logic. Women don’t own the rights to this thing, they can’t manufacture this thing all by themselves, yet they must “produce the body”! Take a deep breath, see how unfairly you are treating women? I hope you do. There are many ways they can mother if they choose to, stop judging and taking away their option to choose. 


And so what if a woman cannot cook? Why does it matter really? If she and her husband can cater to their culinary needs just fine, what is your own? You train men irresponsibly to expect a chef in a woman, how about you begin to focus on teaching them to fend for themselves? Remember the mental model? How does that impact our legacy in this world? 

So my ask of you is this: You have had women mentally bound for too long, LET THEM GO!!!!!

10 Tips during this Lockdown

So, when the old man announced a partial lockdown on 27th March 2020, I knew it was going to be an issue. At least a week before the partial lockdown social media was ablaze with proponents of a “full lockdown” and those who argued that a full lockdown was impossible and unfair. Those in favour of a partial lockdown argue, with good reason, that the majority who live from hand to mouth would be adversely affected by a full restriction on movement.

The lockdown has been extended by a week with many people getting more and more restless whilst others are happy for this extended office holiday depending on their work schedule.

 As we spend almost three weeks in lockdown and possibly a few more, here are some tips to my “f(r)iends out there:


A lot of people stockpiled food and other essentials for the uncertain times ahead. Unfortunately bulk food and being idle can be a disastrous combo, especially with little physical activity. Please guys, the directive was to be in the house.  Do not turn into the house.

Yes, some wicked vendors are organizing pizza and other junk food at the cheapest prices ever, with promotions and free delivery…But be strong!


On the flip side, there are a whole bunch of normally inactive people who suddenly want to hit the road and do 5ks daily. Abeg, professional athletes all around the world are chilling at home, the Olympic sef have been postponed. Relax do not be a covidiot. Tell you what. Close your eyes…and dream of running.


Some are determined to watch the entire catalog of shows on Netflix during this time. Yes, do watch all your favorite shows but after Auntie Coro kicks the bucket life will go on.

So come out of this with other skills instead of knowing all the characters in Money Heist. Those guys robbed a bank and have cash. Do you have a stash somewhere?


Please do call even though three weeks is not forever. However, I do not need to see you on video every time we are on the phone. I still remember how you look like (I see your airbrushed face on your DP). The incessant video calls are getting creepy….especially those from my boss!


I see people doing fun challenges and I watch, and I like. If you do not have any fun challenge to do, do not be pressured. Be like me. Watch and like…Not all of us have talents.


Please and thank you.  This one is important! 5G has nothing to do with Covid-19. The fact that it is coming from a developmentally challenged pastor who could predict everything but could not see Auntie Coro’s visit in 2020 does not make it more credible. I will block you one time if you send me such nonsense.

slave ship to the Americas

For those of you also saying Africans are immune. Um, no we are not. We are not that special. lf we were, some of us would not have been shipped like sardines years ago and others left behind but still suffering in Africa. Before Auntie Coro came to town we were queueing at every embassy to run away since the slave ships do not take us anymore. I heard of some of you that even took your passports to church to have your lying pastors “pray visa” onto it. Just follow the directives….stay at home and hopefully in Ghana after this mess.


After Auntie Coro leaves town, many bosses will start wondering who to axe and who is indeed essential. This situation has hit businesses hard. For those fortunate enough to work at home, have a good turnaround time with your deadlines, attend zoom meetings on time and be creative under the circumstances. Also,pick work calls (even from that annoying boss). These actions might save your job in the near future.


Enough with the unnecessary props to teachers.  When I pay for takeout fried rice, I expect exactly that: fried rice. Not rice water. If you are teaching your kids and they are not getting it, thank God, you found out early……. the teachers could not get it right either and guess what? You were paying them all this time for nothing. You are doing a good job teaching them at home and they will be all the better for it.


Despite my jab at the overzealous wannabe athletes, we really do need to keep fit. Please do a few sit ups, jumping jacks, skipping rope etc every day if you can. You really want to stay healthy throughout all this.  You do not want to run away from Auntie Coro and develop other conditions due to inactivity.