by Novisi Dzitrie Download pdf ~ epub ~ mobi
The usual thing for me is to cross the street to grab lunch. Two balls of kenkey and a plate of well peppered domedo. No matter what, a man lives by bread. And more money makes a man eager to look for more places to spend more. So come payday you will see me do the unusual all over: a drive through Oxford Street, a climb into Aburi Gardens, a stopover at The Tulip, or a dash to La Palm.
The usual thing for me is to cross the street to grab lunch. Two balls of kenkey and a plate of well peppered domedo. No matter what, a man lives by bread. And more money makes a man eager to look for more places to spend more. So come payday you will see me do the unusual all over: a drive through Oxford Street, a climb into Aburi Gardens, a stopover at The Tulip, or a dash to La Palm. Payday is still some fifteen long days away. So I do the usual thing. I cross the street and perch in a corner inside the kenkey base. This place is nothing more than a roofed rectangular container of cement blocks, twelve quick strides by either diagonal. The tables are arranged across the length, impeding brisk walk, four of these, each with two benches, so the sitting is face-to-face and, it is okay if I am in familiar company, otherwise I am doomed to exchange eye contact with strangers. The discomfort of such unwanted intimacy is heightened when I am not in the mood for a chat.
I do not miss the inscription above the door when I come here. Nobody can miss it. A straightforward motto in bold black paint on a white background: ‘HOT YE MI’. The Accra woman has her way of stating her case in the face without embellishments. This is one such statement which, by a fair attempt at a mechanical milling into English, becomes ‘HOT IS IN’. Food served hot is just as well for my stomach. I remember how my day was made the first day I took my desk at the Kaya Insurance Company after coming here. I remember it was only when I got my first pay that I tossed my car key up – full of the urge for a change – caught it back mid-air and looked away from the kenkey base. To Osu or to Aburi, with money in my pocket, I am the butterfly hopping after nectar.
One thing about coming here, though, is, no matter the weather condition, the sense comes immediately, on entering, that the inscription at the frontage carries more meaning than the advertisement of hot food. This feeling comes in a wave of heat which embraces the body at once. The windows serve no good: they open only to the back of a huge building. I wonder if anyone thought this could bring in air. Two tired fans are set on to turn the air but they blow heat, making noise, creaking and creaking, turn by each tedious turn.
I get my food served. The usual. I down it inside my belly. I lick my fingers and belch. I wish I could have another round but prudence gnaws at my forehead. One pesewa now makes a lot of difference. But what? I can still get more domedo and borrow money from my wife. She won’t deny me. She will only grumble. At worst, she will insult my manhood. In any case if she refuses to give me, I can take an IOU at the office. But this is no good option now. I have taken IOUs for the past three months. This time I must redeem some respect, some modicum of honour, for myself, before my colleagues. “Ah man taya sef! Man taya! Domedo too now be expensive, twiaa-kai!” I belch again and a bile of angst seizes my tongue.
I want to spit. I could vomit. Not that the food is bad. Not at all. It is good. Not that I will swear, here and now, a severance of my affinity for domedo. No. This is a delicacy I had for free as a child from my father’s second wife, Maa Bee. “Oh peace be upon her soul.” I say this when I remember her rare kindness. Then I make the sign of the cross and repeat, “peace be upon her kind soul”. Everything changed when Maa Bee passed away. She would often say I should take my studies seriously and that if I observe the world carefully I will come to understand why it does not always rain. Now I know but I cannot understand why prices only go up up … They never come down. I make to spit at once, stopping only to raise my head first, sweating out the heat, just so I am sure no one is looking. However, I discover a bearded man sitting opposite me.
I swear, I have been alone here in my corner. No one has been sharing this table with me. No one! Now this man with his beard disturbs my freedom. When and how he came to sit in front of me, without sound, without the least perceptible shadow, I do not know. He is just here from God-knows-where, with a hard and burnt face covered in sheer bush, staring at me with neither a trace of history nor future of a smile. He looks like one of those who belong to secret societies of high orders exclusive to strict adherents of the Mosaic Law. I should have joined one of these cults a long time ago. I have heard it said repeatedly how they knit networks to help one another financially.
I begin a quick scan of this man. The richness of his hat reveals itself: a lavish black fedora. I have no business looking him in the eye. I scan the rest of his body: neat suit and bow-tie. I can conclude he belongs to the upper end of the contemporary Ghanaian middle-class. They say Ghana is now a middle income country, I say apuuuuu, but be it so, I place myself in the middle of this middle-class so I can see anyone below or above me. I sweep my eyes across the spectrum of this class and I see clearly this man is above me.
“The system is hard, my brother,” the man starts to speak and I am jolted. I hold onto the edge of the bench. “The system is in a precarious state. It’s as though we have a noose tightening our necks slow and slow. It’s suffocating. It’s choking. It’s dire, my brother, dire, dire!” This man must have heard me talking to myself.
“Mmnnhhh… ah! say that again.” I nod and urge him on.
“Nothing is working. Everything is becoming expensive. I can hardly afford one piece of fish to balance the carbohydrate from the kenkey.”
This man speaks like one well read. He must be a lawyer. But wait, why a whole lawyer cannot afford fish is bizarre. Fried fish! Even with my predicament I just bought pork served in the delicacy of domedo. So we have gotten that bad?
“Waaaaa look ooo …” I do not speak pidgin when I am talking to the learned, but I could not care now. I mix the language: “If people like we sef dey suffer like this then just imagine those down there. Huh… waaaaa look.”
I still feel like spitting but I check myself again and force saliva down my throat. I smack my lips and I feel the muscles on my face contract. I imagine my reflection in a mirror.
“Ah, we need a revo! Corruption everywhere! School fees up. Electricity bills up. Water bills! Yesterday koraaa they announced another increase in fuel prices. Just look ooo! I parked my car at home today. I have to wait for my pay to buy fuel again. Huh! Everything is in reverse. We must revolt. We need one hard hitting revo to put some sense into the kolikoli of the government. That is the language they understand. They must sit up or get out. And if they want, we will raise a Sub-Saharan Spring right here. We will take over Nkrumah Circle and rain fire down the government like they have done in Cairo, Tunis, Tripoli… yes!”
The bearded man agrees with me.
“Yes, yes, you’re right.” He says; thrusting his fists into the air before me.
I am completely burst now. Livid. No, not livid. To strike livid as the reflection of my state would create a shortfall in my emotions. I am burst. Just burst. Burst! The bearded man holds my hand and taps, taps, taps my knuckles with his thumb as if to draw calm from my bones. My chest heaves. I huff. I puff.
“Take this, my brother,” the man taps me to a pause, “take,” he says, “write my number.” He puts a pen and a piece of paper in my hand. “We must talk.” He insists.
“I agree, yes, yes.” I say.
“Manye, I finish ooo…” I look up and shout to Manye the kenkey seller.
“So where do you work? Are you a lawyer?” I am turning back to the bearded man and asking. But the man is gone. “Oh how?” I exclaim. By Christ! The bearded man is gone; just as he came, without the slightest perceptible motion. An indescribable force raises me from my seat, making me hunch over the table. I make to sit back immediately but I stand and straighten myself instead; looking around the base, from corner to corner. I see nothing but curious eyes staring at me. It is the kind of stare you get when, at an otherwise quiet meeting with your superiors, you let out a loud but inadvertent fart. “Aaah…!” I feel the paper in my hand and I look to be sure. It is there alright and the bearded man’s number is on it in my handwriting. “Aaah…!”
“Massa Odenke, everything okay? Your money is only nine cedis.” Manye the kenkey seller says to me through her semi-literate teeth. And I think I hear a chortle in her voice too. By Christ! My mobile phone buzzes to save me from her question. Her eyes are still fixed on me as if I am some stranger.
“Hello… hello…” I pick the call with a heavy breath which I try to control too. The image of the bearded man holding my hand and tapping it comes back to me. I try to calm down. “Hold on, hold on, please…” I plead with the caller and approach Manye. I put a fifty cedis note on her counter.
“Eiii… as for this one I don’t have change ooo. You’ll buy water?”
“Noooo.” I reject the trap without blinking. There’s enough water in my office and I must save the little pesewas that count in times of need.
“Then go and come. You big men always carry big money. I don’t have change.”
“Then give it to me. I’ll bring your nine cedis later.” I reply.
I am not ready to leave all my fifty cedis with Manye. I take the money and head for the exit without waiting for her to say yes or no. She knows my office. She knows I won’t run away with her money. As I make my way out, I feel the pull of curious eyes on the back of my head, making it heavy like a bender’s hammer. I look up at the afternoon sky to avoid the gaze of fellow pedestrians.
“Ahaa… sorry, hello, hello…” I try to get back to the caller but I’m only left with that piercing hum of a dead line. “Oh…” I touch my forehead. “What is wrong eh?” I wonder. “Nothing. I’m fine.” I assure myself.
I get back behind my desk at the office. There is not much for me to execute. I always make sure the bulk of my workload is attended to before lunch. It is unpleasant if I have to hurry to swallow two balls of kenkey just because of piled-up work. Now I wish time would just fly. A couple of emails drop in my inbox and I reply them. There is a meeting scheduled for tomorrow. I put finishing touches to a report and forward it to my boss for presentation. That is what bosses do. You do the bull work and they take it and present to all manner of assemblies; courting and receiving applause and smiling before cameras. It is ten minutes to five; time to go. I pack and head out.
I take no mean steps down the Adabraka slope towards Nkrumah Circle. I must be fast to catch a trotro bus home; to beat the evening traffic by a chunk. This way, I get to watch the seven-o’clock News. It is a forty minute journey to Teshie where I live but traffic jams make it a tiring hour and half. As I approach Vienna City, I enter a maze of hawkers grabbing spots on the pavements for the night market. It’s a chaotic buzz here already. When I have money and I do not want to suffer traffic, I enter Vienna City to have chilled beer and amuse myself at the sight of young women ranging from skinny, to plump, to big bottoms, posing; pretending to be sexy. When I do this I arrive late and boozed to the marrow. Naki my wife does not fail to complain. Sometimes she disallows me from sharing our bed. But I care less. I sleep in the sitting room.
Instead of heading to the Kaneshie Station, I come and stand under the Faanorfa overpass. I want to save myself from further inconvenience. Sometimes it is better to go to the Kaneshie Station. Perhaps even mostly so but my instinct brings me to the overpass, though I may suffer jostling for an hour or more, in competition with other commuters, before getting a trotro. Today I seem to have gotten here early enough. I look around and see about seven other people waiting for buses. A trotro comes along with the mate screaming “Tema-Teshie-Nungua”. I climb onto it. Two others follow me and we move away.
Trotro buses are not comfortable. If you have a problem, the trotro is the place to compound it. The last time I boarded one, my trousers got trapped between bare tetanus-offering metals and I got off with a torn bottom. All I could do was to curse the driver and his mate. They could not be bothered. They were off rolling down the road blasting exhaust tu tu tu tu tu… I remember I swore never to take trotro again but for this damn economy occasioned by this wicked government.
Now I wish my legs were shorter. The seats in this trotro are so close I have to keep my legs apart to free my knees from getting sore. I stretch my legs farther apart, pushing my co-passengers into a squeeze. The one on my left I see is a young boy returning from school who obviously would not dare complain. I wear a stern look. But the one on my right shifts uncomfortably and hits me back. I make an immediate turn towards him and offer my apology.
“Sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry.” The man says without looking at me.
“Oh it’s you.” Christ! I meet the bearded man again. “I planned to call you when I get home. My phone went off.” I say to him but he is not minding me, “But how come I didn’t realize you were the one sitting by me all this while?” The man turns to look at me once with knotted brows as if I surprise him and turns away to call out to the mate,
“Mate, Danquah-First, bus stop.”
I would have thought an educated man like him would say ‘bus conductor’. The bus stops and he starts getting down before I can say anything else.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I say to him.
He gets off and we move on. Now I’m wondering whether that’s not the bearded man I met at the kenkey base.
“It must be him. Or? It’s him … It’s him. It must be him. Maybe he’s so tired he didn’t want to talk.”
A man in the front seat turns towards me and says,
“My friend, you’re making too much noise.”
This bewilders me.
“Are you talking to me?” I ask him. I know he is talking to me but I still want to see if he has gauged himself well against me.
“Yes you! You’re not the only person in the bus. Let’s have peace! From Circle you’ve made noise saaaaa, why? You’re in tie, gentleman, fine, respect yourself!”
“What the hell do you mean?” I take him on straight away. “Who do you think you are? Do you know me? Nonsense! If it wasn’t for your useless government I’d have been driving my car and not been in this trotro with you.”
I do not hear the man talk again.
I arrive home at six thirty, just as I wanted. Naki is at home too.
“What happened to the car?” Naki asks; raising alarm.
“You could have said welcome before asking about the damn car.” I reply, but Naki continues.
“I came back to find the car parked. I thought you were home early. I got here at four thirty and I called your phone without success. So imagine my worry.” Bla bla bla… Naki is like that, unless she does not find an excuse to spark her tongue.
“My phone was off. Can I have something to eat?” I ask without minding her blabbing.
“So what happened to the car?”
“Naki, I don’t have money. That’s what happened to the damn car. Will you give me money? Can I just have my food?”
I walk to the kitchen. I serve myself and walk back to the dining table. All the while Naki is following me, blabbing.
“Naki, I need money,” I say between mouthfuls, “Give me a loan.” Naki is quiet now. She does not even stir, let alone fart. “Naki, I’m talking to you.” I say, louder.
“When I asked you about the car, did you mind me?” she retorts.
“So what? You’re retaliating? Fine. There’s no fuel in the car. I need money to buy fuel. Give me four hundred cedis. I’ll give it back to you when I get my pay.”
“Why should I give you four hundred cedis?” Naki asks.
“Didn’t you hear me? I said the fuel is finished.”
“So what do you use your money for? You don’t give chop-money. I pay the water and electricity bills. I don’t remember the last time you bought me any gift…” Naki starts blabbing again.
“Naki,” I cut in, though she does not stop talking. “Go and ask your government why my salary cannot buy me a month’s fuel. You voted for them. Go and ask them.”
I finish eating and go back to the kitchen. This time Naki does not follow me. I dump the plate in the sink, wash my hand and return to the sitting room. Naki is watching one of those Mexican soaps on TV.
“Naki, it’s past seven-o’clock. I want to watch the news.” I take the remote control and change to good old GTV.
“You keep behaving strangely these days,” Naki says.
“Oh what? Leave me to watch the news.”
Naki and I are both quiet now.
I find myself on the sofa in the living room in the morning. The last thing I remember is watching the news last night. “God, I must have been damn tired. But Naki should have called me? Huh?” I wonder. It is six-o’clock. I should have been on my way to work by now, especially since I will be taking trotro today too. “Naki can keep her money. After all, what? I will survive.” I jump into the bathroom. I am soaping up when I hear Naki call.
“Enoch…”
“Yes.” I respond. Soap enters my mouth and I spit.
“I’m leaving. I left the money on your pillow.”
“Oh okay. Thank you dear, thank you, I should see you before you go. Wait, let me check you out.” I say.
“I’ll see you in the evening. I’m late,” Naki says and I hear the door slam behind her.
I step out with Naki’s money in my pocket and speed away. The residual fuel can take me some distance alright. I check the filling station at La, opposite the La beach, but I am waved away. No fuel. “Ah!” I end up at Danquah Circle and, again, no luck. An attendant here is kind enough to direct me to Airport Shell.
“There’s fuel shortage in Accra ooo,” he says, adding generously, “they say government is not having credit.”
I check my fuel gauge and it’s reading almost zero. It is seven ten. I must be in the office by eight-o’clock. The meeting starts at eight thirty. Now I have money but there is no fuel to buy in this country. I look the attendant in the eye and say to him:
“We need a revolution!”
I don’t know why this government continues to stretch my patience. “Damn!” I curse. “This government is really shit.” I beat, beat the steering and change gears.
“I will get there,” I assure myself and zoom off.
I do not even get to Airport Shell before seeing the long queue spilling onto the road. I join the queue right at the entrance and my engine stops. The fuel is really finished now. Not a drop left for a spark. I get out and push the car with one hand while controlling the steering wheel with the other. It takes me twenty minutes from the entrance to the pump which is just thirty meters away. I’m sweating already. The sweat makes my shirt stick to my skin. Finally, my tank is filled and I drive away.
“This government is very annoying,” I sigh I and fish for the paper in my breast pocket.
This is illegal, but I take my phone and dial the number while managing to keep my eyes on the road. I could be arrested, I know, but I have done this a few times without suffering any problem.
“Hellooooo…” I say upon the first sense of a pick.
“Chi chi chi chi …” I hear this from the other end of the line.
The response I get is loud and clear but it unsettles me. I try again.
“Hello, hello…”
And again the response is,
“Chi chi chi chi…”
I do not understand what is happening. I pull into the ring road. Not bad. I have done good time. I remove the phone from my ears and place it before my eyes to scrutinize. The number I dialed is correct. I try again, this time I re-punch the number. If I am unsuccessful I will stop and call after the meeting. But now I hear a voice at the other end of the line. This is what I expect.
“Hello Mr. Odenke.” The voice booms and echoes in my ears. “It was good meeting you yesterday.”
It is the bearded man. I want to ask him how he got my name but he is not allowing me to talk.
“Now listen carefully,” he says.
I enlarge my ears.
“I have initiated you into the Chi Chi Fraternity by the most sacred oath.”
I am not sure whether I’m hearing properly. Even if I am, I still want to hear that again.
“Sorry …” I try to interject but the man was bent on finishing his statement.
“You’re now a Brother. Brother Odenke. So do as I say without fail.” He proceeds with an elaborate set of instructions. I listen.
When he is done, he calls my name,
“Mr. Odenke,” he says, “remember, you don’t have the option of fail.”
I put the phone down on the passenger’s seat and I drive on, making plans and nodding to myself.
“… the Sacred Secretary, Grand and Fearful”, I find myself saying. “… but this man? Why these warnings? He doesn’t know me. I’ll show him I don’t joke with serious matters.”
The meeting at the office gets done by eleven-o’clock. Strategic whatever, whatever! Always the same long talks. We got some lousy food served and I took it for two reasons: first, it means I get to save some money and second, I could spend the break time attending to the bearded man’s matter. This is exactly what I do. I pull some A4 sheets from my printer, grab my pen and scribble away:
“Dear Sir,
This is to bring ample and definite notice to your decorated office that we of The Chi Chi Fraternity have decided upon the most sacred oath to mount the biggest ever protest against government on the democratic streets of Accra.
It is an unassailable decision to exercise our right to bark wo wo wo at the government for its crass nonsensical occasioning of hardship on Ghanaians. For this, we warn; ours is no mean fraternity to play with. We shall countenance no frustration from your office. Indeed, paralysis from the waist down shall be the least punishment if you dare us.
Find attached our chosen route and schedule.
Respectfully,
Brother E. E. E. Enoch Odenke
(For The Sacred Secretary, Grand and Fearful)”
I place the letter and attachment in an envelope and address it: The Inspector General of Police, Ghana Police Service, Headquarters, Accra. I dash to the Police Headquarters, five kilometres away, to deliver the letter. The car responds well; weaving through traffic with ease. I make the journey, to and fro, in twenty-five minutes. My mechanic tells me fuel is blood and he is right, very right. There’s not much to do for the rest of the day. A few applications rest on my table: a man has lost both legs, another lucky next of kin is making a bounty claim upon the deceased uncle … Christ! I pray time should just whizz by and it does.
It is just as well that time passes quickly. Our notice to the police is for a lapse of two weeks and I would say it is too much, but now we have just four days to the march. This is encouraging. Today is Sunday. I am at home and Naki is gone to church. I telephone the bearded man.
“The Sacred Secretary, Grand and Fearful,” I address him by his full title as soon as he picks the call. I bow too. But I realize I am bowing to the wall and I stop. “Your fellowship, your universal encompass, I salute your supreme soar.” I salute. Again, I realize I’m saluting the wall and I stop.
“Yes my able lieutenant, well and truly so. I hope you’re gearing up for the march.”
“Oh yes, I’m ready, but pardon me, another view of the matter agitates my mind. if we’re going to have that many souls pouring onto the streets of Accra, a million and half souls, as you said, shouldn’t we just stage an Occupy Movement using social media till the government is brought down? They say that’s what Egyptians did. It was on TV. Libya too; Tunisia, Ukraine… I’d create the facebook page, twitter too, it’s easy.” I say.
“Brother Odenke, relax, I told you ours is no social media fanfare. Brother, revolutions are brought about by real souls. We are bringing together real souls: witches, wizards, spirits, ghosts, UFOs, fire eaters, storm gatherers; all in flesh and blood.”
“Well …”
“Yes Brother Odenke, just be ready at the Trade Fair Centre, eight A.M. sharp. You’ll make a speech at the rally before the march.”
“Okay my The Sacred Secretary, Grand and Fearful! I trust you.”
We end the call.
Finally the day for the march is here. I’m ready by five forty. I’m clad in red and I imagine my eyes red-hot; no nonsense!
“Enoch, I need my money.” Naki comes demanding.
“Ah! Ah!” Why God sets Naki to tempt me now, I do not know. I refuse to mind her; the devil.
“Enoch, I say I need my money.”
“Okay, I hear. I’m going.”
I start walking away.
“No, wait,” Naki stops me, “Where are you going dressed shabbily like this? Who’s dead? Are you not going to work today? Is that not … let me see, oh Enoch! You cut my funeral cloth for a wrist band? Why? Why?” Naki is holding my hand and inspecting me as if I am her child. “… and where are you going?”
“I’m going to, no, we’re going to put sense into the kolikoli of your good for nothing government. Next time don’t vote for a useless government.” I storm out of the house and start my march right away. This way, I can create more awareness carrying my placard: ‘WICKED GOVT. MAN TAYA!!!’
I sweep the length and breadth of the Teshie-Nungua road as I make my way towards the Trade Fair Centre, La. I scale the heights of ramps, circumvent the circumferences of potholes with deliberate arced advances or, if put to the challenge, I cut across their diameters with turbo-strides. My march is brisk but I make sure everyone – the hawkers, people passing in vehicles, those just waking up, just everyone, even kiosks dotted along the road – can read my placard. I am holding it aloft and I can feel how large I spread out on the road, aided by the breeze from the sea a hundred meters away to my left. Drivers blast their horns at me to allow them to pass and I say:
“Yes! This is it. Government shall fall today.” I march on: “Tsoooooboi-ya! Heya! Tsoooooboi-ya! Heya!”
I’m almost at the Trade Fair Centre. My ears start picking the sound from the gathering of the million and half souls. It is getting louder and louder. This is exciting. I start to jog/run, run/jog. Then I begin hearing:
“There he is, there he is. Enoch! Enoch! Hold him, hold him.”
This is pleasing to the ears. I am jogging/running, running/jogging; even faster. Not many people get this appreciated for their efforts. My organizational skills have clearly paid off.
“Hold him, hold him.” I hear them say.
About a million hands grasp me at once and bundle me up like I am a piece of trophy. I look around for The Sacred Secretary, Grand and Fearful. I try to pick out those with long beards. He’s nowhere to be found. Rather I see Naki among the crowd, screaming. I see her mouth move yabi yabi yabi but I cannot tell what she is saying. I scream back at her:
“Naki, ahaaaa! You see? Naniama! Now you see sense!”
They carry me away.
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Download pdf ~ epub ~ mobi
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Novisi Dzitrie was born to Ghanaian parents in Kakata, Liberia and lives in Ghana. While he was growing up, some of his short stories were published in The Mirrow, a Ghanaian newspaper. His poem was recently included in Prairie Schooner’s Fusion 9 and he contributed poems to the publication of the anthology “Look Where You have Gone To Sit” edited by Martin Eglewogbe and Laban Hill
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Also in This Issue
Short Stories
Poetry