Short Dresses Attract Rape.

Tweneboah

Dear Madam Otiko Djaba,

I saw a video once where tea was used as an analogy to illustrate the giving of consent. I found it quite apt so I’ll attempt to narrate it now with my own additions:

– If you offer someone a cup of tea and they say no, don’t make them tea.

– If they say “not sure” to the offer, don’t make them any tea until they say yes.

– If they are too drunk or incoherent to say yes or no to the offer, don’t make them any tea.

– If they turn up at your house with a sexy, attractive empty mug looking like they are asking for tea, don’t assume they want tea until they say yes to an offer for tea.

Now substitute sex for tea. It’s really quite simple; if the answer is no, then you do not have consent to…

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Mood

Public Service Announcement

Hey guys.

So I haven’t written in a while (sincerest apologies) but I’ve decided to pick up my pen again and start (or restart) posting regularly.

Also got an interesting project (or 2) in mind plus an interesting co-written story with the creative Mr. Asante.

Thanked for listening

*End of public service announcement*

“Taboos” by Antony Can-Tamakloe.

Flash Fiction Ghana

Dela tried as much as possible not to make any noise at all. He found himself in an awkward position, but there was nothing he could do about it. You know how sound travelled far in the forest at night. It was very dark. In fact the only way he was able to see the two culprits at all was by the reflection of the moon’s dim light on the sacred river. Despite his predicament Dela grinned, beside himself with elation. He had finally caught them red-handed. The Chief Priest and that his dirty minion, Agbeko. When the other villagers heard what he, Dela, had to tell them, they would change his name from Dela The No-Good Gossip to Dela The Hero. Or Dela The Saviour. He really couldn’t decide yet. Neither was he picky, so far as the current nickname was changed.

The Chief Priest barked an order and…

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“Oedipal” by Andrew Teye.

Flash Fiction Ghana

Each of us wore a frown on our faces. Each of us had legitimate reasons to be angry. But her frown was different. It had more wrinkles and it formed a more visible web on her brow. But, yes, each of us had legitimate reasons to be angry.

I had been nearing Stage Five of Tetris on my hand me down Nokia when she barged into my room in her work clothes, barking about me just lazing about and doing nothing all-day while the chickens ate up the beans she had left outside to dry in the sun. We had also run out of gas, and if only I had tried to boil the Kontomire like she had told me to, I would have realised this. She yelled out my charges for ten minutes straight; a new recent record. I held my tongue for ten minutes straight but there was…

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50 YEARS OF GREATNESS

“You have been chosen to be great amongst your generation”
Those were the thoughts she conveyed to my mind 
Promising me I was one of a kind 
Her kind voice easily recognizable
She was my champion, my guide 
And I was invisible by her side 
Protected by her shield, she was shelter in the rain 
Shelter from the pain 
In her shadow I stood, protected from the sun’s rays 
In her shadow I played, safe from enemy advances 

As time went on I detached myself
Awareness of things I should and shouldn’t know fed my curiosity 
I sometimes strayed too far from her shadow 
But rather than drag me back and rebuke me
She gave me leeway
Aware that some lessons are best learnt in person 
Yet she was there whenever I needed her 
When the world won a round and sent me scampering back
She’d welcome me with open arms and balms for the bruises 
And when I won a round, as few as I won, she’d wait and celebrate with me 
And revel in my victory 

Now I’m older and think myself wiser 
I stray farther and stay longer 
Sometimes challenge ur wisdom 
Discuss issues more and more like your equal 
But I’ll never be your equal 
For you existed before me 
And I came into existence via your existence 
I am eternally grateful for all you have done 
All the sacrifices and bruises from the battles you fought on my behalf 
The bruises from the ones I know you will still fight 
And I am safe in the knowledge 
That even if I stray the farthest away 
Ride off into the sunset horse and carriage
Or falter in terms of my courage 
You will forever be present 
Be it to teach or encourage
To rebuke or chastise 
Forever present like the supermum you are 
Happy birthday mum. 
50 never be joke 

Our Birthday

Dear Osaa,

It’s been a year since u said yes
A year of joys and a year of tears
A year of assurances against our fears
Fears that we wouldn’t survive the test of time
Often worried that we’d have to settle for a trial by combat
Our only crime to fall in love
Our only penance, to stay in love

It’s been a year since u said yes
A year of pushing and pulling
Arguments and make ups
Frowns and smiles, hisses and kisses
Some days we wonder if it’s meant to be
If we are meant to set sail
To ride out the waves of this sea called love
Constant with its turbulent storms
Battered on all sides
Yet ur love remained, perfect in its form
After all what’s a rose without its thorns

It’s been a year since u said yes
Funny how a three letter word brought so much joy
Which is itself another three letter word
Happiness fit to resurrect the dead
A joy that filled me with dread
Questioning if I really deserved u
For surely a mere mortal like myself had no business with extra-terrestrial beauty

It’s been a year since u said yes
And I promise u I still want to give my best
Stand beside u and dab u for tests
Protect u, be ur bullet-proof vest
Because I’ve search north south east and west
And I’m sure u are the best
Last couple of lines were a bit corny
Probably cos I’m writing at 4 in the morning
But it’s been a year since u said yes
So this is looking forward to the next year
And to let u know, thanks for last year

XOXO
Kwaku

BANKER TO BANKER

Two posts in one week. I think I’m catching the writing bug again. Weather is terrible, harmattan and all. Ghana is Ghana. Football boots are now GH¢85 at kantamanto (signs of the Apocalypse). Still though if you are reading this please try to be at Soccer Lounge III on the 28^th of December at Astros Sports Centre, Dzorwulu. All monies collected will be donated to an orphanage. Fun and games towards a worthy cause. Now to today’s post.

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The tension in the room was palpable. The look on Mr. Asante’s face was enough to let his 3 children know that for their own safety absolute silence was a sudden requirement. “….. 5, 87, 70, 17 and 51. Those are the winning numbers for the Monday Special national Lotto.”

A slow grin started to pull at the corners of Mr. Asante’s usually firmly set mouth. Joy started to color his always stern face. All of a sudden he erupted. “Ma wiiiiinnnnniiiiiiiiiiii ooooooohhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.” He had waited years for this moment, burnt through countless lotto calculation papers and worked more maths than the whole actuarial science faculty in KNUST. And finally, finally he had struck gold. He had won, beaten the system. GH¢500,000 all his. Poverty was no longer his portion.

That was 6 months ago. Mr. Asante had burnt through the money so fast by the time he thought of saving some there was nothing to save. He had actually managed to overspend into the meager savings he had before he won the lotto. Party after party, sponsoring the boys at various pubs and clubs accompanied with assorted drinks and meat (Mr. Nigel Amegatcher’s term) sprees. The good life had been short lived and he was back to poverty again.

The End.

 

Well not quite. You might be wondering what the story above has to do with anything (that is if you haven’t figured it out already). I always found the subject of lotto and betting intriguing. Not least because the odds always seem to be skewered against the person who places the wager. A bit of mathematics then, if u were to bet on a rolling die your odds of winning on one roll will be 1 out of 6. Your odds of losing, on the other hand, 5 out of 6. See my point. No? Okay.

In the national lottery, to hit a jackpot you need 6 numbers out of a possible 99. That’s a 6.060606% ad infinitum chance of winning. That gives the you a 93.9393% ad infinitum chance of losing.

Now to make my point, I see people stake lotto on a daily basis. From “Sure banker” to “2 Sure” to “Banker to Banker” and the likes. These same people will tell you Ghana is hard and there is no money in the system. Now I am not a maths genius (except core maths in which I’m a boss *insert sunglasses wearing smiley*) but lets do some more maths. There are roughly 230 working days on the Ghanaian calendar (this is an estimate I beg. This is for hypothetical purposes only). For the ardent lotto man who stakes on a daily basis, assuming a minimum of GH¢1 a day, that’s GH¢230 in a year. That may not seem like a lot but consider the person who has been staking lotto for 10 years plus. That’s GH¢2300 and we haven’t even added the cost of the lotto working sheets.

But all this was prevalent a couple of years ago. There’s a new trend now (menace or opportunity depending on which side of the line you are on), that of casinos and sports betting companies. Personally I pay no mind to them but I noticed a lot of my friends and acquaintances are dabbling in it. I understand them though. Most of us spend some time predicting score outlines of matches so why not wager a bit and get paid for it in the process?

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not here to force you to accept my beliefs and principals, far from that actually. After all “to each his own” and we are all adults. I’m just saying what I think. And I’m not saying all those who win jackpots waste them and return to square one. There are some instances (though few and far between) of people who actually win jackpots and use it to better their life. However it must be known that Lady Luck is a fickle mistress capable of desertion without prior notice. And free money has a tendency to disappear.

Well makasa aky3. I sincerely hope there was some semblance of sense in all that and that the appropriate authorities place some sort of regulation on these gaming houses to prevent exploitation of people especially the underage kids around.

And to my betting friends, when the day comes that PSG, Man Madrid, Juventus and Manchester United (though unlikely right now) help you hit the jackpot please remember to call me when its time to chill. After all no money is sweeter that free money.

Your Friendly Neighborhood Lotto Doctor

Kwaku Ayisa

THE ART OF CATCHING FISH

It has been a long time. I am truly sorry *bows head in shame*. I wish I had a foolproof excuse as to why but I don’t. The honest truth is I have been lazy and a rut I hit left me with half stories in my head which I kept getting stuck on halfway. I promise to work harder and have a story for you guys by next week. For now tho here’s something to ponder about.

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I once heard somewhere or rather read, can’t seem to remember which it was, that “It is better to teach a hungry man how to fish rather than to give him fish”. These sentiments have been echoed by Jiqqa himself, who apart from being a rapper owns interests in quite a number of businesses, implying some semblance of truth in the statement. I have come to agree with this after some much deserved thought myself. This is explained as if you keep giving someone fish the person will just become dependent on you and on the day you don’t have any fish the person will go hungry.  However if you teach said person to fish, the person becomes self reliant and can thus survive without you.

You may all be wondering what my raving in the previous chapter is about and why I am explaining obvious proverbs. In the past month and half or so I have walked past the supreme court of Ghana on my way to my posting as a humble National Service Personnel each morning. I walk past a man who uses clutches who greets me in an attempt to solicit for alms. I have resorted to turning up the volume of my music in order to not hear him and as such not trouble my conscience by ignoring him intentionally.

Now before some of you accuse me of being evil, not having feelings and seeing his plight allow me to explain myself. Day after day I see a multitude of beggars roam the streets of Accra. Some look genuinely physically disabled. Others look fine. Some are our own people whilst others are from foreign lands some of us have never been to. I’m sure there are a multitude of different and similar stories as to how they ended up there. Now I ask this, does the continuous giving of alms to them actually help them?? Or it just gives them a meal from day to day??

Reason for all this is I once saw a physically disabled man in one of their vehicles (the one that looks like a tricycle with hand operated pedals). I was so impressed by what I saw that I started to question the excuse some of these so called beggars have for roaming the street. He had draped his “vehicle” with banners and stickers of the various network service providers. Wearing a distinctive MTN vest he was pedaling through traffic selling credit. I realized at that point in time that no matter how desperate your situation there was always something that you can do about it if you were willing to try.

Now take note I’m not saying that don’t give alms or that beggars don’t have a right to be there. I’m just sharing the thoughts that entered my head. Give alms if your heart tells you to, I know I will. I’m just saying that it is sometimes better to teach people to fish rather than to give them fish.

Kwaku Ayisa,

Aspiring fisherman

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

I finally got around to writing this post. I promise to try and write more often and regularly again. Hope you enjoy it.

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He sat in the middle of the cold interrogation room grasping the cup of coffee which had long gone cold. Staring at the cold white tiles he allowed his mind to drift back.

He had entered Untie Araba’s spot that night intent on drinking himself to death or at the very least drinking his problems to death. And since he was the architect of his problems he was sure he’d achieve his aim. All this had started six months ago, when he had finally allowed that new and young intern at his office to lure him into adultery. You see it wasn’t that he didn’t love his wife, far from it. But there was just something about the way Eva said “Yes Mr. Safo” that got his blood boiling. He had long abandoned his Christian Grey like days behind him. Ever since he had decided to marry Esi he had turned over a new leaf. He had reduced his drinking too to minimal levels (parties only and when he could sneak a bottle of bear without Esi noticing). It wasn’t that Eva had blindsided him too. When her first handshake lingered for longer than it should have and that day when she had “accidentally” rubbed her backside against his crotch by the photocopier he knew there was trouble afoot. He could have had her relocated but at that point Esi hadn’t spoken to him for a couple of days following another fight and he was grateful for the female attention.

Two months later he and Eva had become what could probably pass for friends. He occasionally paid for her lunch and he her rather helpful with office work. She was smart, witty and full of life and she provided a welcome distraction from his problems. Also she ended up becoming his personal intern and worked so diligently that he couldn’t help admiring her. So when one evening she had ended up staying late working on a project for him he had offered to give her a ride home after all it was the responsible thing to do.

At her gates he had gotten out and opened her door for her. If anything his dad had thought him to be a gentleman. “Mr. Safo, you seem rather cold. Why don’t u come in and let me make you some warm tea. I would hate for you to catch a cold.” Eva offered. “Oh no, that is okay.” he had said, “My wife is waiting for me at home. I wouldn’t want to keep her waiting”. But Eva had persisted and he had given in, after all it was just a cup of tea. Inside he admired how neat and tidy her small apartment was. He noticed a picture of a boy sitting on a table and wondered to himself if that was her boyfriend. “I’ll just be a minute” Eva said from the doorway. “Let me put the water on and get out of these heels.”

Looking back he knew he should have run away then. Run far and fast and not looked back. Because when Eva came back she had gotten out of the heels. And out of almost every article of clothing she had on. All that was left was her matching light blue bra and panties. He stood there shell shocked admiring this tiny femme fatale. When he regained his senses he tried to protest, “Eva this is….” She didn’t allow him to finish her sentence and before he could say jack he was lying on her floor 45 minutes later spent from some of the best sex he had had in a long while. Later that night, lying beside his wife feelings of guilt plagued his mind. He knew he had to put a stop to this as soon as possible. The lust tryst continued though. He found himself pulling strings to get Eva a job at the company.

Three months of wild and unadulterated sex later he discovered Eva had a boyfriend. She was getting married next two months and she wanted to put a stop to them. He had blown up and called her all sorts of names. He had threatened to get her fired from the company. He swore he would kill her.

When he got home though he was in for the worst shock of his life, his house was unusually dark. It wasn’t ECG up to its tricks because the neighbours had power. He opened his door only to realize his wife had packed out with his son. She had left him with a letter from her lawyer informing him of their divorce hearings. Together with it was pictures of him and Eva doing unspeakable things. As if his night couldn’t get any worse his boss called him just then, “Mr. Safo, we regret to inform u that your services will no longer be required at our prestigious company. Evidence of you forcing the interns to trade sex for favours has come out. As such you are dismissed.”

He couldn’t believe it, Eva, Esi, his profession all taken frm him in one night. Perplexed and without a clue he had found his way to auntie Araba’s spot intent on chasing his problems down green bottles. At 3am exactly auntie Araba politely asked him to leave since she was locking up. He paid and stumbled to his car, a Benz CLK, and wondered as he fidgeted with the key how long it would be before he would have to sell it. He eventually managed to start the car and proceeded to start his journey home in a drunk stupor.

He never saw the speed ramp there. He just heard a bump and felt his car hit something. Drunk as he was he drove home and went to sleep immediately. He was woken the next morning by a combination of a splitting hangover headache and someone banging on his front door. It was the police. “I am Inspector Bediako and you sir are under arrest for a hit and run offense. Anything you say…” he never heard the rest of his rights or what was said. It was later that he was told that what he had thought was a speed ramp was actually a homeless man he had run over. He was going to be held on suspicion of murder/man slaughter and arraigned before a court. Sitting in the cold, white-tiled interrogation room he was asked if there was someone he would like to call, perhaps his wife. He said yes and gave the police officer, sergeant something or the other, the phone number. He listened to it ring a few times, “Hello” the familiar female voice said. With all the sadness in the world he said “Eva, you have destroyed my life”.