“How are you?”
Surviving the madness that is sometimes Accra.
…and peering through the harmattan haze thats settled over it lately.
Can’t even see my nose through the haze.
Ah!! Tis not the haze. There’s no electricity to power the sun.
If we had water, perhaps we could … wash the dirt off the sun to make it glow again?
Ah well, still its a beautiful day, never mind the neighbours generator is clanking away like it was digesting its iron innards to produce electricity. Maybe it is. A generator that doesn’t ran on liquid fuel. Timely. Perfect for when petrol is a scarce ‘commodity’.
Oh it’s the cost of it, out of the ‘average Ghanaian’s’ reach? Yah yah yah
I hear that term a lot- the average Ghanaian.
Who is that?
Is it the perpetually drunk wash man who works the laundry in the affluent airport residential area? Or the macho man working up pungently pubescent sweat pounding fufu at the chop bar down the road for the scrawny mechanics (they call them ‘fitters’ around here) waiting hungrily to devour laundry panfuls of mashed sticky starch flooded in by soup and bush meat and slimy snails?
Or perhaps the graduate I saw this morning scrubbing waterfalls of sweat from his forehead, wearing a polyester lined black suit, starched colourful viscous shirt with a tie knot as fat as my knee caps choking what was left of the exhaust fume polluted air out off his wind pipes?
The average Ghanaian.
I am the average Ghanaian writing to you with a grin from the capital Accra. This message was sent from this average Ghanaian’s iPad. And this one has to go back to work else he can’t pay bills for the mirage that services often are around here.
(Bits of my musings fictional of course-dont jump down my throat)