By:Quansah Ebo John
Date16 July,2011
TAKING DESTINY'S CALL OUT OF THE OVERRIDING STORMS OF LIFE
..............................................................
“Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?
...So why do you worry…O you of little faith?
(Matt 6:26-31)
………………………………………………………..
Forgetfulness is a disorder of medical significance as it reflects dysfunction at the level of memory which is coordinated by the oldest section of the human brain. Temporary loss of memory, otherwise called amnesia is disheartening in itself and some trauma or injury to the brain can permanently distort the functionality of one’s memory system. Senile dementia is a disease of old age which disrupts memory in a drastic way that neuroscientists have been battling to find a remedy for it. If memory in this physical sense can lead to so much pain to the sufferer, how much more would memory dysfunction be in a spiritual sense. Hence David would scream to himself, “Bless the Lord O my soul and FORGET not His benefits…''
Life in general is about seasons and times, and often times we act as though we loathe and abhor this reality of change we live with daily. We wake up…we step out…we work/learn…we eat…we get tired…we go hungry…we retire…we sleep, then wake and the cycle goes on even without our permission!
As a Medical student, an aspiring rookie neuroscientist and artist who’s fascinated by the art of living, I reckon that the nervous system is so wired that no external umpire is required to ‘time our lives’ or to nudge and prod us into doing what our natural circadian system (biologic clock) has perfected over time without us lending a hand. Despite how worried we may get, our hearts beat without our help, the lungs sieve out carbon dioxide even when we are deep in our dreams at night, and the brain keeps the entire body coordinated while we snore away at night. How helpless can we then be!
More interestingly we are forced to reckon that the seasons of life were fixed long before humans understood their dynamics or why the trees, shrubs and animals responded and adapted to the reality of changing seasons of life. Trees will shed their leaves at fall, and new leaves will wriggle out of the stems and tree branches as spring beckons. The sun’s smiley rays in summer contrast the dour-look of the hapless rays that the ice-cold winter shields from warming the faces of humans.
Reality is; Life goes on whether we acknowledge the seasons or not, and the attitude we adopt in the flux and entropy of life’s seasons will to a large extent determine the outcome, not necessarily the output and immediate results. Often times, we are so focused on the results that the lessons and memories of the process that we are going through are dampened by our anxiety and desperation for instant change to occur.
But one constant reality of my life has been the changes that I have had to face. As a kid in my basic schools, I read cover to cover of newspapers and read so much about the outside world and knew so much about Europe, Asia and the Americas through my shortwave radio we usually called 'Walkman' as if I have once been an inhabitant of those regions of the world. I have been a ‘part’ of the social movements, revolutions and upheavals in their societies as much as I have been affected by the socio-political changes in my own country Ghana. I excitedly read abt how Berlin Wall crumbled and how the concept of perestroika dismantled the walls of communism in Russia and the Eastern Bloc, while the winds of democracy blew across the world.
Besides my village where I grew up and have fond memories of, I have had to live in Agona swedru, Tarkwa,Akim Oda and Acrra and thank God my ship will soon berth in Massachussetts to fulfill l a prophecy where I have just obtained a full schorlarship to persue my 'Neuroscience' Master's degree dream in Harvard University. But as a kid, I was so filled with the reality of life in the village that I never envisaged into the future to ever imagine that days will come when I will end up as a ‘visitor’ to the land of my forebears.
If I ever knew, I would have documented the joys of childhood, the memories of childhood friends that I hardly see again, the folk stories that I no longer can remember, and those witty sayings and proverbs that my elders interjected into their conversations that I didn’t master. Now I know better to cherish every phase of life and enjoy it to the full since the hands of the clock don’t do an anticlockwise movement.
Life and its seasons should be savored and lived through, not tolerated or abhorred, however harrowing they may seem. Embedded in life’s experiences are lessons and nuggets of wisdom that we ought to mine and refine for our future use. But more often than not, we are too anxious to get off the horse-back rather than enjoy the ride especially when the terrain appears rocky and the paths bumpy and uneven. Come to think of it, a life that is smooth will only be a utopia of sorts, bereft of gem stones of lessons learnt, the joy of triumphs that overshadows the sorrows of losses and the frustrations that come with missed opportunities.
As the day for my Harvard scholarship interview date dawned, different thoughts assailed my heart, and the uncertainty of tomorrow loomed like a foreboding storm. But I chose to quieten the palpitations that threatened to unsettle my heart, knowing that I had been through this phase before,where I have had to let go one direct admission at KNUST to study Human Biology and rather opt to do battle with over 900 'level100' students during our 'Biological Science' days to make it to the 60 number of students needed for the medical school at korle-bu. It was my choice to opt for UGMS as i always cherished competition even when it seemed as though I had a choice to allow the status quo to prevail.
A few days before I flew 2d States for the interview, while sitting still at my balcony after a rainfall, my eyes alighted on the remains of a bird’s nest that was yanked off from its resting place the previous night by the stormy wind. At first blush, I wanted to throw away the pack of maize stalks and dried grasses with which the bird-couple made their nest on our TV’s antenna. But the sustained cry of two baby birds stuck in the makeshift house caught my attention as I peeped into their anxious eyes.
My heart was torn and the bowels of compassion stirred up within me. I was moved to protect the hapless and helpless baby birds whose parents were no where in sight. I tenderly picked up the nest and gently fixed it back to the TV antenna, making sure it didn’t fall off again. I was preoccupied to see that they survived having been their landlord for a while, and I stripped myself of the thoughts that they’re mere birds!
The next morning I went by the balcony to check if the little birds were OK and to my deep pleasure, their parents had gone a step further than I did---they had gone to the adjoining farmyard to pluck more maize stalks and dry leaves with which they fastened the nest to the TV antenna. And these little birds snuggled in the warmth of their parents’ bosom within the nest until they were strong enough to fly,fluff and skitter out on their own. Few days ago, I checked the nest again but the birds were all gone and leaving behind the vestiges of cracked egg shells that affirm that birds once occupied the nest weeks ago.
The experience of the birds brought home the realities of God’s promises to the anxious Israelites which Isaiah documented (Isaiah 43: 1-3):
“But now, thus says the Lord, who created you, O Jacob,
And He who formed you, O Israel:
Fear not, for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by your name; You are Mine.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
And through the rivers, they shall not overflow you;
When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned,
Nor shall the flame scorch you.
For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior…”
As the morning of the interview came… reality once again began to stare at my face rudely. I watched as tears streaked down my cheeks and soil my pillow as songs of worship welled up within me. I knew It was a completed mission even before I set off to meet the interview panel.‘So what if you fail woefully at the interview and happen to waste the in-and -out flight tickets? and I seemed to have stuttered in an attempt to respond back. But I have grown wise enough to not respond to a detractor, a cynic or pessimist for they act out their roles with such glee that makes an optimist appear foolish and brainless.Thank God,at the end...I got an 'on the spot' for a 25minutes interview that was originally scheduled to last an hour....and it was even more amazing when a member of the interview midway thru the interview willingly blurted out that "John,the education you're receiving in 'University Of Ghana' is 1st class"
My conviction that God is committed to going through the storms of life with us has grown a bit deeper and stronger but not without the interludes of anxiety that resides in the heart of every human being. Sure the storms of life are often inevitable, but when we go through them, we should not despair for they only last for a while, and are to make us strong. Rather than lose heart, we should open our sails and ride on the wings of the storms like surfers and deft divers.
During this period of interview transition and introspection, I have sat back to watch with amusement the frantic pace with which we seek for change in our circumstances. But on the other side of the spectrum, the sun takes its daily steady stroll from the far horizon over our heads and back again to snuggle in the warmth of darkness. The world rhythm of nature around us steadies after each stormy night, and plants and shrubs that were leveled down by rainfall, gradually raise their heads and take root once again. Life continues and refuses to grind to a halt at the instance of storms, and so should we who believe in God and should learn to sing and praise in the midst of the storms of life like the Gospel Rock band Casting Crowns have so popularized. Just click on the link below to sing along and be encouraged by this song:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yr7i5L6kFT0&nofeather=True
"Praise You In This Storm"
I was sure by now God
You would have reached down
And wiped our tears away
Stepped in and saved the day
But once again, I say "Amen", and it's still raining
As the thunder rolls
I barely hear Your whisper through the rain "I'm with you"
And as Your mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise the God who gives And takes away
[Chorus:]
And I'll praise You in this storm
And I will lift my hands
For You are who You are
No matter where I am
And every tear I've cried
You hold in Your hand
You never left my side
And though my heart is torn
I will praise You in this storm
I remember when
I stumbled in the wind
You heard my cry to you
And you raised me up again
My strength is almost gone
How can I carry on If I can't find You
But as the thunder rolls
I barely hear You whisper through the rain "I'm with you"
And as Your mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise the God who gives
And takes away
[Chorus]
I lift my eyes unto the hills
Where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord
The Maker of Heaven and Earth
[Chorus x2]
……………..
As I conclude, all I can pray is that we try not to lose our joy or song when the storms of life hit us. It may come as a loss of a beloved one, a business failure, a major disappointment, a delayed breakthrough, heartbreak, and the list goes on. Keep your cool, pick up the pieces of your life and take a ride with God through the storm. For when you do, you sure will come out stronger and will look back and sing a song in the storm!
………………………….
The author is Quansah Ebo John
Sunday 17 July 2011
Tuesday 12 July 2011
WHAT IF BAWKU SWAPS PLACES WITH THE ACCRA
By :Quansah Ebo John
Date12th july,2011
WHAT IF BAWKU SWAPS PLACES WITH THE ACCRA
......................................................................
I was just a village boy holed up in my serene village,Enyan-Maim,near Mankessim in the central region of Ghanain.All I knew was my immediate environment and It was a circumscribed world of sorts, save for relatives who came back home during major festivals from Accra and other cities to serenade us with tales of life outside our hallowed news center at Enyan Maim Market. At this market where I often assisted my proxy mum,thats my Aunte who catered for me to sell fried dougnut after school since my biological mum left the shores of Ghana to Europe to seek greener pastures.
It was in this village setting that I spent first 5 years of my life except for occasional trips wt my aunte to the nearest city Makessim where she visited for religious or social reasons. And I never knew what Accra,Tamale,Kumasi and sunyani looked like those 6ys years until my world turned around to fulfill a prophecy that seemingly hung over my head during my primary,secondary school and now tertiary school days where I travelled around the country.
For the most uncanny reasons I am yet to fathom, my JSS school mates usually nicknamed me 'Rosemary' while my secondary school classmates nicknamed me "Mallam Adamu".The name 'Rosemary' died out earlier but "Mallam Adamu" despite my protestations, lingered and hung over me like a plaque until I stopped showing how offended until it later changed and I was called then called 'aboki mallam". How dare they call me a common mallam- those "stupid and brain-less" itinerant shoe repairers, cattle rearers and 'gworo-chewing' knife sharpeners that roved around my village to collect coins for the services they offered.
Was I suspicious and disdainful of the Northerners as a kid? You bet! And how do you expect a little innocent village boy to not grow up with such prejudice and biases when I learned that aboki mallams called us 'cowards". Worse still, they see 'rulership' as their natural right and would useforce to assert their views.
Bt entering Univ Of Ghana Medical School as a fresher, I met more Hausa boys...they wore the same dress like we the southers and fantes did thus well sewn satorial trousers and shirts wt tie and neatly polished shoes wt their sthethoscopes strapped around their shoulders heading to or from lectures and clinicals!.So my first shocker was that a large horde of this aboki mallams even passed university entrance exams like us 'intelligent geniuses' of Fante, Ewe ,Ga,Nzema extraction and some are even in a higher distinction marks in the medical school than us southerners. And when we did tests, some of them even scored higher than some of us southerners....what an abomination!And some even dated some of my southern girls yet they wont let us even shake their hooded girls, and their Alhajis entice our sisters with rolls of 'kwudi' to marry them!
These Hausa boys even spoke English with a funny ascent that made us southerners crack up but there was something about their girls. Ahh they looked so delectable and their angelic voices rattled out Hausa in a romantically poetic way even though they were shrouded in hoods of clothing. But you won't fail to detect their graceful mien shielded by that shy giggle when they said 'Sanu' and when they are in pain, the scream of 'woyoooo allah' would melt the heart of a continent man.
No sooner, Ahmed and I would sit and gist after lectures; Gariba and I would exchange clinical notes and Musa my snr in the med Sch would cheaply sell his anatomy textbook to me after passing his 2nd MB exams. And Jamila would exchange a smile with me when she and her bevy of beauties stroll pass me by the physiology library. The mallam at 'Korle-bu Apatase Market' would sell his stuff to me once he says 'gaskiya' and even would give me some 'jara' in addition. And with time, he would call me 'Mallam Ebo'
Oblivious to me, I had changed from the prejudiced 'Fante boy' to a more accommodating 'Hausa-bakwomi-mentaility-influenced-Fante boy who had fallen in love with the northerners.
But the pull for me visiting the northern region for the first time upon a request by my mate Gariba during one long semester vac exactly a year ago saw me berth at Bawku for a week visit. So one freezing cold Tuesday morning , the passenger I had boarded with Gariba at Kaneshie terminus coughed and hissed to a stop after meandering through forests and unknown lands for almost 7hrs . The harmattan breeze seeped through my cotton shirt into my bones; the lowest of temperatures I had to face in my teenage life. Everything looked different and it was my first experience of what vastness of a city meant and I saw hundreds of men who wore batakari dresses which were typically of the ones I mostly saw in Afganistan,Pakistan and in most muslim countries whiles I watched BBC or Aljazeera news
After barely two days of my stay there,I really liked the food and the ppl especially the way they associate with visiters,their camaraderie,joviality and their mien countenance and etc.The hausa merchant in Bawku who owns businesses and shops in the market etc would never slash the throat of a Southerner during a riot, but there is a kinsman of his who does. The medical doctor and physiotherapist Snr,Musa who sold his anatomy text book to me at a cheeper price who may now be a consultant surgeon or physician may never slid a dagger into the heart of a Southern Christian except he mistook the dagger for his surgical knife,blade or scarpel. My Northern guy and coursemate,Gariba, who composes romantic poems for his 'poetess,Rukaya' which he recited to my hearing during my one week stay with him at Bawku would not poke the end of his pen into my heart because he sees me as his 'Medical school Mate and Poet friend' as the same Muse speaks to our quiet hearts in within same decibel range!
So who is this northerner that keep fanning the embers of 'Abudu Andani' conflict in Bawku and keep sparking reprisal attacks from angry relatives whose brothers and sisters had gone to make money in the North.Could the stick-carrying and machete-wielding northerners be the dis-empowered young man who had been chanting 'lets go and kill' to the whims and caprices tummy-bloated politician who has been in government all his adult life and has eaten fat of the national cake on behalf of his northern kinsmen?
But why doesn't this riot-causing and angry northern youth have a replica in southern Ghana who would first do the same to inflict wounds on his northerner/Muslim at no seeming or obvious provocation that has ethnic, religious, political and other nuanced backgrounds. Maybe understanding this anthropological and sociological dilemma would be the greatest contribution that social science research and humanities towards ensuring the collective existence and sustainable development of Ghana where no group(s) will have any plausible reason to lift a hand on another because he had a Mallam, Mazi, Alhaji, Chief title.And I wonder, when will all this madness and endless killings end when I have buddies that wont be caught doing such in the north!
This is the poetry I did in whiles onboard the passenger bus that tuesday wt my Hausa friend and coursemate Gariba to his hometown Bawku.Do hope it'll stir something in you:have a good read
MY BROTHER's BLOOD
......................................
I heard the moaning cry of blood
which was spattered on our desolate streets
and exalted houses now turned into achives
whose substance have eyes gorged by bullets
with walls plastered by rough strokes of grenades
I heard the cry of my brother’s blood
a voice singing his own dirge in monotones
of blood once streaming hot and red
and flowing through conduits from his heart
but has now gone pale, dark and crusty
his body ripped apart and tattooed with bullets
My brother’s blood has spilled into gutters
and has formed an alchemy of mire
so cold, with a putrid scent
now invaded and embalmed by maggots
to whet the flickering tongues of dogs
and the scavenging beaks of vulture
His life was in his blood
his blood hosted his life
yet we watched as death gloated over him!
I heard a voice crying for vengeance
unlike Abel’s, no one came in rescue
‘twas a voice that suffered aloneness
in the desolate wilderness of death
to join the voices of orphans and widows
who trudge as luggage-humped refugees
groping for life in the valley of death
I heard a disturbing wail all night
‘t was my brother’s lurking behind a megaphone
and how my heart bled when he asked in tears:
“ARE YOU MY KILLER OR MY KEEPER?”
So I killed my brother and wasted his life?
with bullets and cudgels and home made rifles
with machetes and swords, bow and arrows
with my conspiracy of silence
when he had cried out for my help?
My brother’s blood cries with deep pain
at the brutality of coronated violence
of brothers killing brothers
of blacks killing blacks
of death in exchange of precious lives
on the serene streets of Bawku
His voice’s been stuffed and muffled
his life’s been snuffed out too early
his lofty dreams have gone with the wind
his space in our history chart is empty
hence we are incomplete without him
yet no one cares a hoot
and no one quits buck-passing
nor mud-slinging…!
The Author is Quansah Ebo John
Date12th july,2011
WHAT IF BAWKU SWAPS PLACES WITH THE ACCRA
......................................................................
I was just a village boy holed up in my serene village,Enyan-Maim,near Mankessim in the central region of Ghanain.All I knew was my immediate environment and It was a circumscribed world of sorts, save for relatives who came back home during major festivals from Accra and other cities to serenade us with tales of life outside our hallowed news center at Enyan Maim Market. At this market where I often assisted my proxy mum,thats my Aunte who catered for me to sell fried dougnut after school since my biological mum left the shores of Ghana to Europe to seek greener pastures.
It was in this village setting that I spent first 5 years of my life except for occasional trips wt my aunte to the nearest city Makessim where she visited for religious or social reasons. And I never knew what Accra,Tamale,Kumasi and sunyani looked like those 6ys years until my world turned around to fulfill a prophecy that seemingly hung over my head during my primary,secondary school and now tertiary school days where I travelled around the country.
For the most uncanny reasons I am yet to fathom, my JSS school mates usually nicknamed me 'Rosemary' while my secondary school classmates nicknamed me "Mallam Adamu".The name 'Rosemary' died out earlier but "Mallam Adamu" despite my protestations, lingered and hung over me like a plaque until I stopped showing how offended until it later changed and I was called then called 'aboki mallam". How dare they call me a common mallam- those "stupid and brain-less" itinerant shoe repairers, cattle rearers and 'gworo-chewing' knife sharpeners that roved around my village to collect coins for the services they offered.
Was I suspicious and disdainful of the Northerners as a kid? You bet! And how do you expect a little innocent village boy to not grow up with such prejudice and biases when I learned that aboki mallams called us 'cowards". Worse still, they see 'rulership' as their natural right and would useforce to assert their views.
Bt entering Univ Of Ghana Medical School as a fresher, I met more Hausa boys...they wore the same dress like we the southers and fantes did thus well sewn satorial trousers and shirts wt tie and neatly polished shoes wt their sthethoscopes strapped around their shoulders heading to or from lectures and clinicals!.So my first shocker was that a large horde of this aboki mallams even passed university entrance exams like us 'intelligent geniuses' of Fante, Ewe ,Ga,Nzema extraction and some are even in a higher distinction marks in the medical school than us southerners. And when we did tests, some of them even scored higher than some of us southerners....what an abomination!And some even dated some of my southern girls yet they wont let us even shake their hooded girls, and their Alhajis entice our sisters with rolls of 'kwudi' to marry them!
These Hausa boys even spoke English with a funny ascent that made us southerners crack up but there was something about their girls. Ahh they looked so delectable and their angelic voices rattled out Hausa in a romantically poetic way even though they were shrouded in hoods of clothing. But you won't fail to detect their graceful mien shielded by that shy giggle when they said 'Sanu' and when they are in pain, the scream of 'woyoooo allah' would melt the heart of a continent man.
No sooner, Ahmed and I would sit and gist after lectures; Gariba and I would exchange clinical notes and Musa my snr in the med Sch would cheaply sell his anatomy textbook to me after passing his 2nd MB exams. And Jamila would exchange a smile with me when she and her bevy of beauties stroll pass me by the physiology library. The mallam at 'Korle-bu Apatase Market' would sell his stuff to me once he says 'gaskiya' and even would give me some 'jara' in addition. And with time, he would call me 'Mallam Ebo'
Oblivious to me, I had changed from the prejudiced 'Fante boy' to a more accommodating 'Hausa-bakwomi-mentaility-influenced-Fante boy who had fallen in love with the northerners.
But the pull for me visiting the northern region for the first time upon a request by my mate Gariba during one long semester vac exactly a year ago saw me berth at Bawku for a week visit. So one freezing cold Tuesday morning , the passenger I had boarded with Gariba at Kaneshie terminus coughed and hissed to a stop after meandering through forests and unknown lands for almost 7hrs . The harmattan breeze seeped through my cotton shirt into my bones; the lowest of temperatures I had to face in my teenage life. Everything looked different and it was my first experience of what vastness of a city meant and I saw hundreds of men who wore batakari dresses which were typically of the ones I mostly saw in Afganistan,Pakistan and in most muslim countries whiles I watched BBC or Aljazeera news
After barely two days of my stay there,I really liked the food and the ppl especially the way they associate with visiters,their camaraderie,joviality and their mien countenance and etc.The hausa merchant in Bawku who owns businesses and shops in the market etc would never slash the throat of a Southerner during a riot, but there is a kinsman of his who does. The medical doctor and physiotherapist Snr,Musa who sold his anatomy text book to me at a cheeper price who may now be a consultant surgeon or physician may never slid a dagger into the heart of a Southern Christian except he mistook the dagger for his surgical knife,blade or scarpel. My Northern guy and coursemate,Gariba, who composes romantic poems for his 'poetess,Rukaya' which he recited to my hearing during my one week stay with him at Bawku would not poke the end of his pen into my heart because he sees me as his 'Medical school Mate and Poet friend' as the same Muse speaks to our quiet hearts in within same decibel range!
So who is this northerner that keep fanning the embers of 'Abudu Andani' conflict in Bawku and keep sparking reprisal attacks from angry relatives whose brothers and sisters had gone to make money in the North.Could the stick-carrying and machete-wielding northerners be the dis-empowered young man who had been chanting 'lets go and kill' to the whims and caprices tummy-bloated politician who has been in government all his adult life and has eaten fat of the national cake on behalf of his northern kinsmen?
But why doesn't this riot-causing and angry northern youth have a replica in southern Ghana who would first do the same to inflict wounds on his northerner/Muslim at no seeming or obvious provocation that has ethnic, religious, political and other nuanced backgrounds. Maybe understanding this anthropological and sociological dilemma would be the greatest contribution that social science research and humanities towards ensuring the collective existence and sustainable development of Ghana where no group(s) will have any plausible reason to lift a hand on another because he had a Mallam, Mazi, Alhaji, Chief title.And I wonder, when will all this madness and endless killings end when I have buddies that wont be caught doing such in the north!
This is the poetry I did in whiles onboard the passenger bus that tuesday wt my Hausa friend and coursemate Gariba to his hometown Bawku.Do hope it'll stir something in you:have a good read
MY BROTHER's BLOOD
......................................
I heard the moaning cry of blood
which was spattered on our desolate streets
and exalted houses now turned into achives
whose substance have eyes gorged by bullets
with walls plastered by rough strokes of grenades
I heard the cry of my brother’s blood
a voice singing his own dirge in monotones
of blood once streaming hot and red
and flowing through conduits from his heart
but has now gone pale, dark and crusty
his body ripped apart and tattooed with bullets
My brother’s blood has spilled into gutters
and has formed an alchemy of mire
so cold, with a putrid scent
now invaded and embalmed by maggots
to whet the flickering tongues of dogs
and the scavenging beaks of vulture
His life was in his blood
his blood hosted his life
yet we watched as death gloated over him!
I heard a voice crying for vengeance
unlike Abel’s, no one came in rescue
‘twas a voice that suffered aloneness
in the desolate wilderness of death
to join the voices of orphans and widows
who trudge as luggage-humped refugees
groping for life in the valley of death
I heard a disturbing wail all night
‘t was my brother’s lurking behind a megaphone
and how my heart bled when he asked in tears:
“ARE YOU MY KILLER OR MY KEEPER?”
So I killed my brother and wasted his life?
with bullets and cudgels and home made rifles
with machetes and swords, bow and arrows
with my conspiracy of silence
when he had cried out for my help?
My brother’s blood cries with deep pain
at the brutality of coronated violence
of brothers killing brothers
of blacks killing blacks
of death in exchange of precious lives
on the serene streets of Bawku
His voice’s been stuffed and muffled
his life’s been snuffed out too early
his lofty dreams have gone with the wind
his space in our history chart is empty
hence we are incomplete without him
yet no one cares a hoot
and no one quits buck-passing
nor mud-slinging…!
The Author is Quansah Ebo John
Saturday 9 July 2011
WHEN REVENGE IS SWEETER THAN THE FIRST ATTACK
By:Quansah Ebo John
Date:9th July,2011
WHEN REVENGE IS SWEETER THAN THE FIRST ATTACK
................................................................................................
It was a friday and after the tiring day’s lectures of tracing arteries and veins in the dissection room at the Department of Morbid Anatomy,Korle-bu, had ended and after the 'Med Sch' bus moved us back to our various halls and hostels,we burned off extra calories kicking and running after the rounded leather ball at the mini football pitch beside the male hall,Cmmon Wealth Hall where I lodged as a level 200 student. Tired, we headed back to our rooms to pull off our sweat-soaked jerseys and tugs . There was the usual queue at both ends of the long corridor of the male hall where guys took turns to shower. And to while away time, we leaned over the hand rails along the corridor, while some others sat on improvised seats close-by to contribute to the feisty yarns, which often morphed into arguments and endless debates. Trust guys, even the loudest and most vociferous among wins the argument always.I was originally affiliated to a mixed hall(Legon Hall) bt bcos of the intellectually stimulated atmosphere at the male hall, C'mmon Wealth,I shunned my bed to perch wt my friends and coursemates at the male hall.
But as guys, we derived fun from teasing each other, or mimicking one lecturer’s mannerisms in the class, or shared a joke or two about the female members of the class. You know guys will always be guys, especially when they cluster around in the male hostel to boast about the latest female conquest and the hostel is a place where it’s really hard to pretend before other guys. We knew who borrows another’s jeans or t-shirt to show off before girls in the lecture hall. And mischief is not a virtue to be abhorred among boys in the hostel, for the most mischievous and adventurous may inadvertently become the most popular guy in the hostel, that is.
Mohammed had apparently earned himself that title without much contest, and being my neighbour and floor mate; I had in the past watched him pull-off several mischievous stunts and had shared in the gleeful laughter it evoked among us. To be the target of a poking joke or a planned act of mischief is sure an awful experience, but the victim of a stray bullet is not one to live with regret when he least had expected to be the target of a straying bullet. Had he heard the click sound of the gun while it was being cocked and fired, he may be blamed for not dunking to save his head. So you never can tell who’d be the focal point of the usual hostel ‘gists'.
Having had his bath, he looked really fresh as he rejoined us at the corridor while I looked on ahead for my turn at the bathroom. Now dried of sweat, my torso was bare up to my waistline where I tied the knot of my little brown towel. Mohammed’s cool mien concealed whatever mischief he’d brewed up very well. Little did I know that Mohammed had hatched and fine-tuned his plan, and being my friend, I didn’t sense it even when he walked closer toward me that cool evening in our male hall at Legon. As we laughed and got sucked into the engaging gist, all of a sudden Mohammed quickly grabbed my little brown towel which looked more like loin clothes strapped around my tiny waist line.
Thinking it was all a joke, I tried to wrest his hands off my towel to no avail. And to my chagrin, he tightened his grip on my towel, and in a flash he’d succeeded in loosening the knot. Not done yet, he pulled off my towel and his eyes glistened as he grinned. To my shock, I needed no one to tell me he’d accomplished his mission. Boy I helplessly was stripped to the bare. And the roar of laughter tore through the evening. Guys within the vicinity giggled and shouted in hysteria; I was now naked and obviously ashamed, with no covering like Adam at Eden!
In confusion, I ran towards the bathroom area since it was my original destination, but there was no space for me to hide. Realizing that even if there was space for me to shower, my nakedness would still dangle before leering eyes on my way back to my room after the shower, I decided instead to sprint like an athlete back into my room. In that brief moment of mischief, Ahmed as we fondly called him had turned me into a circus figure of sorts to the amusement of guys in the hostel. And my confused reaction fanned the embers of laughter and my hands could only cover as much nakedness as could under the prevailing circumstances.
So my evening ended in a somewhat sore note, and from that day I began to plot my own revenge; to strip him naked before the same set of guys who saw my nakedness and laughed their heads off. And a couple of weeks after the incident, my opportunity came and the thought of revenge made my lips smack in joy upon relieving the roar of laughter than will reverberate along the corridor of the male hall when Ahmed will be stripped naked before their eyes. He was older and stronger but my determination made me feel much stronger than him that evening. And like the day he struck, he was the least prepared for my revenge mission.
We had gathered again on the corridor of the male hall for the usual banter and gist after a tiring day at the anatomy and physiology labs. My little brown towel had encircled my slim waist like the day it couldn’t shield my nakedness from the eyes of others. As expected, Ahmed also had his own towel tied around his waist while we all waited for our turns at the bathroom, filling the interlude with jokes, arguments and rumors.
Without warning, I pounced on Ahmed and grabbed his towel and realizing what my mission was, he tried to stave off the attack. Since war strategists exhort that the best form of attack is defense, Ahmed reflexively grabbed my own towel knowing that I’d as much as guard against being naked a second time. So we tugged and wrestled each other to know who’d have the upper hand while guys gleefully watched the ensuing melodrama waiting to roar again at the promising sight of nakedness.
Just to humour him a little, I let Ahmed have a seeming vantage point by letting him pull off my little brown towel from my waist. His eyes widened in shock at what he saw. For rather than the utter nakedness that all had anticipated to see, I had a firm pair of shorts over my loins. I was prepared for him and had taken every precaution necessary.
Rattled by this revelation, Ahmed now saw how vulnerable he was before me as I still held unto his towel ready to pull it off within that period he’d loosened his grip. He was already distracted and I had the aces up my sleeves then and was ready to strip him bare…but I changed my mind and let go of his towel. Ahmed now shocked to his marrows ran in haste away from me; his vengeful assailant and had I pulled off his towel as I had intended, it would have been a sweet revenge.
Though I was not intent on showing off his nakedness to other guys that evening, the roar of laughter was louder than the day he’d stripped me naked. Guys hailed me and we did hi5s knowing that I had at last won the contest. Boy I felt so cool with myself for he who laughs last they say, laughs the loudest and I sure felt the bliss of seeing the mischievous Ahmed scram off at the sight of being vulnerable. I watched as he trembled at the reality of being a victim of same acts of mischief that he so gleefully unleashed on others. And I could see before my eyes why two wrongs could not make a right, knowing that I would have gained nothing from stripping him naked other than the reward of another gleeful roar of laughter at the expense of another’s shame and nakedness.
That singular act of not paying Ahmed back in his own coins at the end I finally reckoned was far more honorable than what he had earlier done to me. My roommate felt so proud of me that evening for showing what he had termed superior wits, and you can well bet that Ahmed didn’t join us at the corridor that evening until everyone had retired back into their rooms to rest, read and recline on their bed for a well-deserved sleep. That night I buried that urge for revenge!
Date:9th July,2011
WHEN REVENGE IS SWEETER THAN THE FIRST ATTACK
................................................................................................
It was a friday and after the tiring day’s lectures of tracing arteries and veins in the dissection room at the Department of Morbid Anatomy,Korle-bu, had ended and after the 'Med Sch' bus moved us back to our various halls and hostels,we burned off extra calories kicking and running after the rounded leather ball at the mini football pitch beside the male hall,Cmmon Wealth Hall where I lodged as a level 200 student. Tired, we headed back to our rooms to pull off our sweat-soaked jerseys and tugs . There was the usual queue at both ends of the long corridor of the male hall where guys took turns to shower. And to while away time, we leaned over the hand rails along the corridor, while some others sat on improvised seats close-by to contribute to the feisty yarns, which often morphed into arguments and endless debates. Trust guys, even the loudest and most vociferous among wins the argument always.I was originally affiliated to a mixed hall(Legon Hall) bt bcos of the intellectually stimulated atmosphere at the male hall, C'mmon Wealth,I shunned my bed to perch wt my friends and coursemates at the male hall.
But as guys, we derived fun from teasing each other, or mimicking one lecturer’s mannerisms in the class, or shared a joke or two about the female members of the class. You know guys will always be guys, especially when they cluster around in the male hostel to boast about the latest female conquest and the hostel is a place where it’s really hard to pretend before other guys. We knew who borrows another’s jeans or t-shirt to show off before girls in the lecture hall. And mischief is not a virtue to be abhorred among boys in the hostel, for the most mischievous and adventurous may inadvertently become the most popular guy in the hostel, that is.
Mohammed had apparently earned himself that title without much contest, and being my neighbour and floor mate; I had in the past watched him pull-off several mischievous stunts and had shared in the gleeful laughter it evoked among us. To be the target of a poking joke or a planned act of mischief is sure an awful experience, but the victim of a stray bullet is not one to live with regret when he least had expected to be the target of a straying bullet. Had he heard the click sound of the gun while it was being cocked and fired, he may be blamed for not dunking to save his head. So you never can tell who’d be the focal point of the usual hostel ‘gists'.
Having had his bath, he looked really fresh as he rejoined us at the corridor while I looked on ahead for my turn at the bathroom. Now dried of sweat, my torso was bare up to my waistline where I tied the knot of my little brown towel. Mohammed’s cool mien concealed whatever mischief he’d brewed up very well. Little did I know that Mohammed had hatched and fine-tuned his plan, and being my friend, I didn’t sense it even when he walked closer toward me that cool evening in our male hall at Legon. As we laughed and got sucked into the engaging gist, all of a sudden Mohammed quickly grabbed my little brown towel which looked more like loin clothes strapped around my tiny waist line.
Thinking it was all a joke, I tried to wrest his hands off my towel to no avail. And to my chagrin, he tightened his grip on my towel, and in a flash he’d succeeded in loosening the knot. Not done yet, he pulled off my towel and his eyes glistened as he grinned. To my shock, I needed no one to tell me he’d accomplished his mission. Boy I helplessly was stripped to the bare. And the roar of laughter tore through the evening. Guys within the vicinity giggled and shouted in hysteria; I was now naked and obviously ashamed, with no covering like Adam at Eden!
In confusion, I ran towards the bathroom area since it was my original destination, but there was no space for me to hide. Realizing that even if there was space for me to shower, my nakedness would still dangle before leering eyes on my way back to my room after the shower, I decided instead to sprint like an athlete back into my room. In that brief moment of mischief, Ahmed as we fondly called him had turned me into a circus figure of sorts to the amusement of guys in the hostel. And my confused reaction fanned the embers of laughter and my hands could only cover as much nakedness as could under the prevailing circumstances.
So my evening ended in a somewhat sore note, and from that day I began to plot my own revenge; to strip him naked before the same set of guys who saw my nakedness and laughed their heads off. And a couple of weeks after the incident, my opportunity came and the thought of revenge made my lips smack in joy upon relieving the roar of laughter than will reverberate along the corridor of the male hall when Ahmed will be stripped naked before their eyes. He was older and stronger but my determination made me feel much stronger than him that evening. And like the day he struck, he was the least prepared for my revenge mission.
We had gathered again on the corridor of the male hall for the usual banter and gist after a tiring day at the anatomy and physiology labs. My little brown towel had encircled my slim waist like the day it couldn’t shield my nakedness from the eyes of others. As expected, Ahmed also had his own towel tied around his waist while we all waited for our turns at the bathroom, filling the interlude with jokes, arguments and rumors.
Without warning, I pounced on Ahmed and grabbed his towel and realizing what my mission was, he tried to stave off the attack. Since war strategists exhort that the best form of attack is defense, Ahmed reflexively grabbed my own towel knowing that I’d as much as guard against being naked a second time. So we tugged and wrestled each other to know who’d have the upper hand while guys gleefully watched the ensuing melodrama waiting to roar again at the promising sight of nakedness.
Just to humour him a little, I let Ahmed have a seeming vantage point by letting him pull off my little brown towel from my waist. His eyes widened in shock at what he saw. For rather than the utter nakedness that all had anticipated to see, I had a firm pair of shorts over my loins. I was prepared for him and had taken every precaution necessary.
Rattled by this revelation, Ahmed now saw how vulnerable he was before me as I still held unto his towel ready to pull it off within that period he’d loosened his grip. He was already distracted and I had the aces up my sleeves then and was ready to strip him bare…but I changed my mind and let go of his towel. Ahmed now shocked to his marrows ran in haste away from me; his vengeful assailant and had I pulled off his towel as I had intended, it would have been a sweet revenge.
Though I was not intent on showing off his nakedness to other guys that evening, the roar of laughter was louder than the day he’d stripped me naked. Guys hailed me and we did hi5s knowing that I had at last won the contest. Boy I felt so cool with myself for he who laughs last they say, laughs the loudest and I sure felt the bliss of seeing the mischievous Ahmed scram off at the sight of being vulnerable. I watched as he trembled at the reality of being a victim of same acts of mischief that he so gleefully unleashed on others. And I could see before my eyes why two wrongs could not make a right, knowing that I would have gained nothing from stripping him naked other than the reward of another gleeful roar of laughter at the expense of another’s shame and nakedness.
That singular act of not paying Ahmed back in his own coins at the end I finally reckoned was far more honorable than what he had earlier done to me. My roommate felt so proud of me that evening for showing what he had termed superior wits, and you can well bet that Ahmed didn’t join us at the corridor that evening until everyone had retired back into their rooms to rest, read and recline on their bed for a well-deserved sleep. That night I buried that urge for revenge!
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