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7:45
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ANTI-RHYTHM
If you discovered that your devoted “Darby” or “Joan” of three years had been dribbling deliberately into your dinner or drink every time they were disconcerted by you, what would you do?div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-9111479831513307846?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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7:34
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ANTI-RHYTHM
A Jurassic Jeep driver flies past me on the dirt-rocky Spintex Road at 6 a.m., at full, bitumen-surface speed, and cuts into my lane. A sand truck rockets a little rock which cracks the jinxed Jeep’s windscreen. The junk Jeep driver chases the truck...for what?div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-5051613910864502762?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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8:14
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Red-lighted at the National Theatre, I was wondering why some Accraians keep the protective plastic sheets on the seats to flaunt their shiny, new cars. Just then, I swept over a tall, young woman stand-squatting with legs spread poles apart, lifted skirt, bag armpit-bound, tight-toned thighs, nice...but she was jetting piss in the perpendicular of her triangular legs. I looked hard to catch her face...and the lips she was flashing, but it was dragging dark, and the green lights galled me to go.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-702214403554518800?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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18:14
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ANTI-RHYTHM
When haters pull up in trafficbr /And put their noses into your carbr /You can feel how evil and tragicbr /Their spiting and loathing arediv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-2196452997030209189?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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14:10
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Nobody’s utterly useless. We all possess at least one saving grace – one tall talent – that makes the whole world stop, and take nonplussed notice. And we all have the urgent urge to flaunt it foolishly. So, what’s yours?div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-2238001495371256551?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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8:36
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ANTI-RHYTHM
You would be cast crudely from the queue to a live entertainment event if you offered only GH¢10 ($7.15). You would need to bleed at least GH¢40 ($29) for local/African artistes, and GH¢100 ($72) for American artistes.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-4671600968167067792?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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7:49
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Thankfully, GHc10 ($7.15) will lavish you a flagon of lemonade and lunch on a laze-about week day - a healthy hoarding of fine-grain gari foto and pan-fried chevon, or frugal fufu with gleeful goat-light, or yummy yam and garden-egg stew (kobi and all) or jolly jollof rice and chicken. OH, STOP IT! ....... How many earn GHc10 a day? ... and legitimately?div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-2889278919130063133?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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9:20
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ANTI-RHYTHM
GHC10 ($7.15) won’t get you 2 gallons of gasoline, goddammit! And still, Accra navigates a sea full of SUVs. Plus this equatorial fireplace demands the full nyanya.br /br /*Nyanya = air conditioning.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-696962657568095173?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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7:35
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ANTI-RHYTHM
GH¢10 ($7.14) won’t admit you to Ghana’s only real cinema. It will take one-and-a-half times that. I’ve heard it said that most families, here, must live on less than $1 daily, judging from the wages.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-8581725873342001151?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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7:22
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Dear Reader, this week, I will explore the theme posts again. I’m going to discover what GHC10 can do for a person. That’s about US$7.15. Maybe, I will rather discover what it cannot do. Maybe you want to share what you can(not) do with US$7.15, or its equivalent, wherever you are. First post coming up later today. Thank you.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-2972760843054714292?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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18:12
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ANTI-RHYTHM
I wish I had learned sooner the power of attention to detail.br /br /I wish I had learned sooner the futility of getting a woman to like you simply by being nice to her.br /br /I wish I had learned sooner the power of self-love.br /br /I wish I had learned sooner who my real friends were.br /br /I wish I had learned sooner the importance of food and sleep.br /br /I wish I had learned sooner to do legal research well.br /br /I wish I had learned sooner the perils of emotional dependence.br /br /I wish I had learned sooner to speak my true mind always.br /br /I wish I had learned sooner that ism would always be a part of life.br /br /I wish I had learned sooner to live life less intensely.br /br /What do you wish you had learned sooner?div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-6010230575120182101?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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7:00
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ANTI-RHYTHM
span style="font-weight:bold;"Part 5: The Liver of a Leper/spanbr /br /The King’s beloved daughter fell illbr /Could not be healed by prayer or pillbr /The Leper whispered in the King’s earbr /Let the Merchant heal her or die herebr /br /He travelled to distant lands and ‘hoodsbr /Until he met the Spirit of the Woodsbr /Who knew an ancient healing plan –br /The liver of a freshly killed manbr /br /The Merchant returned to the King’s palacebr /“I have the cure”, he said with a hissbr /“Kipper, pepper, liver of a leper!br /"I'm pretty sure that will help her"br /br /Before the western sun went downbr /The Princess walked through the townbr /But the Leper was seen no morebr /It’s said his death was all agony and gore!br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"The End/spandiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-4858305739973075308?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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13:52
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ANTI-RHYTHM
span style="font-weight:bold;"Part 4: The Bull and the Snake/spanbr /br /A stranger plot is then hatchedbr /Its evil intent most unmatchedbr /“See the fiery bull in the fieldsbr /“Go yell till its life it yields”br /br /Sitting on the wooden fencebr /The Merchant has lost hope and sensebr /His friend, the serpent, crawls to himbr /And offers to save his wealth and limbbr /br /“I will sneak upon the bullbr /“When you’re screaming loud and fullbr /“Unseen by your foes and their gangsbr /“I will kill it with a stab of my fangs”br /br /So, the bull was “screamed” to deathbr /Seemed just give up on breathbr /(There were more tasks planned from hellbr /Until calamity befell)div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-7537565426412674301?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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7:48
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ANTI-RHYTHM
span style="font-weight:bold;"Part 3: Millions of Grain/spanbr /br /The Leper goes to see the Kingbr /More intrigue does he bring:br /“You made it easy, and he wonbr /“Set him a more difficult one.”br /br /“Take him to your Great Granarybr /(’Bout which you sing like a canary)br /“Mix up all the grain of the landbr /“Let him separate each kind by hand”br /br /The kind Merchant is sad againbr /As he walks, all can see his painbr /He meets the Ant who he’s helped beforebr /The Ant brings his colony to the grain storebr /br /Rice and Barley, Oats and Wheatbr /All are sorted nice and neatbr /When King and Leper come to checkbr /They both go like “What the heck!”div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-2547955603540332912?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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13:47
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ANTI-RHYTHM
span style="font-weight:bold;"Part 2: The Baobab Tree/spanbr /br /“Pick all the fruit off the Baobab Tree”br /Was the King’s insane decreebr /“But drop not a leaf to groundbr /“Or I’ll take your dollar and pound”br /br /The merchant went weeping on his waybr /His future looked bleak and greybr /How could he this task execute?br /No one could pick just the fruit!br /br /He met the playful monkeybr /Who he’d helped a time or threebr /“Today your kindness will save you,br /“Of trees, I know a thing or two.”br /br /Swinging here and therebr /Was not done with lesser carebr /Down in no time are the podsbr /But not a single leaf plods.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-4085556972366362331?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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15:46
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ANTI-RHYTHM
span style="font-weight:bold;"Part 1: Kindness Repaid/spanbr /br /A kind, old Merchant rides homewardbr /With his caravan from abroad br /He sees a Leper at the roadsidebr /And brings him home to residebr /br /Rather than give great gratitudebr /The Leper picks an attitudebr /He’s torn, by green envy, apartbr /At the Merchant’s golden heartbr /br /The Leper goes to see the Kingbr /And taunts his blue blood to pinkbr /“Why do you sit idle and weak,br /“While the Merchant’s riches peak?”br /br /“What shall I do”, the King enquiresbr /“Whatever your sovereign will requires!”br /“Set tasks he cannot do,br /“Then seize his wealth and due!”div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-8230971216275364804?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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15:44
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ANTI-RHYTHM
It's been a while since I wrote a series. For the rest of this week, we will serialise the story of the Merchant and the Leper. It teaches a lesson at the end. Enjoy.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-9034366972733547091?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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20:42
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ANTI-RHYTHM
pstrongWhen a strange, unintelligible language comes out of my mouth in a donkey voice./strongbr / Because I'm thinking so much about what to do or say that my brain is not connected to my speech!/p br /p style="clear:both; margin: 0; padding: 0; margin-top:10px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 24px;" class="plinky_badge_rid:19636" a href="http://www.plinky.com/mini/reroute/19636" img src="http://www.plinky.com/proxy/badge?id=19636" style="border: 0; padding-right: 4px; vertical-align: middle;" alt="" title="" / /a/pdiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-2722914233923926254?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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18:53
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ANTI-RHYTHM
p img style="border: 0;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/51/117273146_92880c11a7.jpg" / small style="display:block" a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/41216460@N00/117273146"Me Gas Mask/a /small/pp I#39;d like to boast that there#39;s some priceless, once-in-a-year article of clothing or accessory I keep for special occasions only. But I have no lucky drawers or boxers or swinging chain, other bling or earring. So, I#39;m staid in that area, unless you count fragrances. Who do you wear on special occasions?/pp style="clear:both; margin: 0; padding: 0; margin-top:10px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 24px;" class="plinky_badge_rid:19627" a href="http://www.plinky.com/mini/reroute/19627" img src="http://www.plinky.com/proxy/badge?id=19627" style="border: 0; padding-right: 4px; vertical-align: middle;" alt="" title="" / /a/pdiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-7288382008228515466?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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18:27
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ANTI-RHYTHM
span style="font-weight:bold;"Kwame/spanbr /br /Each year had its “Moneybags” – the most extravagant present-giver. Kwame had saved for long – he wanted the title so badly. At 4 a.m., he sent 10 junior boys to her dormitory, with a ton of goodies. At 7 a.m., she sent 10 junior girls to return the unopened presents at the DINING HALL!br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Maame/spanbr /br /All the girls waited to open their presents together. Maame’s cake box was the biggest, brightest and heaviest by far. She waited till she was the centre of attention, and then she began the slow, teasing unwrapping. It was a cake all right, but it was a gari cake, with red close-up toothpaste for icing! Sucker!br /br /* Gari = Roasted manioc granulesbr /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Nana, Patrick, Kwasi 50 Othersbr //spanbr /Sometimes, you just didn't have the money to compete, but couldn't get her to understand. So, 1 week before the Day, you kicked up a baseless fight, and broke up. No need for presents. You waited for 5 days, and went back to you were sorry.br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Linda, Ama, Melissa 200 Others br //spanbr /When a self-respecting girl looked into the Valentine crystal ball, a week before the Day, and found herself “gnashing” (i.e. attracting no male attention) she would suddenly jelly-and-jam up to a nice guy or 2 in hopes of rapid, romantic reciprocity!br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Tricia, Akua Nana Akosua 50 Other Desperados/spanbr /br /When the writing was on the wall that all the last-minute sucking up would attract no attention, the smartest girls sneaked into town, bought impressive presents, wrapped them up the way only a girl could, and couriered it right back to themselves in a boy’s name! Wow!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-9221964134735844736?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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7:09
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ANTI-RHYTHM
3 news items, over the past day, keep coming back to me.br /br /*Students of Archbishop Porter Girls School in Takoradi, Ghana, got severe food poisoning after eating school food last night. It appears to be an offence to eat alternative food to the bad school-issue.br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"100 girls went off to schoolbr /Eating, there, was a stiff rulebr /Like many a useless control toolbr /Now, the girls are oozing stool/spanbr /br /*The president recently reshuffled his cabinet. All new ministers are vetted by Parliament. The expected fiery QA turned out to be quite a farce.br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"The Main Man got new ministersbr /The House promised vetting sinistersbr /But when appeared the Misses and Mistersbr /Both sides oafed like brothers and sisters/spanbr /br /*So, it is being officially acknowledged that government officials in Ghana have kind of always travelled with paid female companions. And the president referred to it as indiscretion?br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"So, officials go with Ghanaian Geisha girlsbr /Paid for with the taxpayer’s pearlsbr /While poverty and the national debt swirlsbr /One more government is fluffing it in twirls/spandiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-571140193567476954?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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7:35
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Picture yourself all alone in a vacuum. What do you experience? Which of your senses strikes the sharpest? I isolate my fragrance and ‘mirage’ the walls closing in on me; my breathing breaks and pings like ice needles off imaginary walls. My most-alive sense is my sense of smell; then my sense of touch; then hearing. Back in the vacuum, what do you imagine you experience? What is your dominant sense?div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-2431594184386507915?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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16:03
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ANTI-RHYTHM
As a tailspin-teenager, I had a creative crush on a new “Lil Lovely” every month. It started with a hottie called Amanda. At the swimming pool, I was looking at her looking at me, but we could not talk to each other. Later, we faux-flirted through our friends, and my song for her was “It Must Have Been Love” by Swedish duo, Roxette. br /br /Another Cinderella-crush was buxom, French-Ivorian beauty, Chantal, who was 4 years older (and 100 light years sexier) than me, and who lived in Cocody, Abidjan. My ballad for her was “Impossible Love” by UB40.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-2397392568176353677?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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8:30
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ANTI-RHYTHM
span style="font-weight:bold;"Nii Bonne III – the Ga Gandhi/span br /br /January 1948. The Gold Coast is still a British Colony. In protest against racial discrimination, Nii Kwabena Bonne III organises a boycott of European goods. The boycotts spread across the nation. Riots follow. 1 month later, a deranged British policeman shoots three local WWII veterans, and kills them. European and Asian shops are looted. The rioters break into the central prison and release inmates (The Bastille, huh?) The “Big Six” nationalist leaders are imprisoned. In less than a decade, Ghana will emerge independent.br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Anton Wilhelm Amo – 18th Centry Nzema Philosopher/spanbr /br /Nzema land, the year 1707. A 4 year-old Nzema boy is shipped off to Amsterdam. Some accounts say he was a slave; others say he merely accompanied a missionary! Some say the Dutch wanted a native who could speak both “Native” and “Dutch” to facilitate trade. The boy is presented to a Dutch Duke who educates him. He masters English, French, Dutch, German, Latin and Greek. He obtains a degree by studying law, medicine, metaphysics, logic, physiology, history, astronomy...need I go on? He obtains a doctorate in philosophy and lectures at University of Halle. His “father”, the Duke, dies, and he is subjected to extreme racism. He is forced to go back to Africa – Ghana, where his Nzema father and sister (who he does not know) are still alive. Being “Dutch” he is prevented from “mixing” with the natives for fear that he may sow dissent. Therefore he is kept in a Dutch fort. He disappears from the eyes of history, and probably dies, aged 56, in 1759!br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Tohadzie – the Red Hunter/spanbr /br /A master of archery travels from Zamfara (present-day Northern Nigeria) to the Mali Empire. He settles in a small town which is dying from drought. Their only water source has been taken over by a wild beast. Tohadzie kills the beast and is a hero. He marries a Malian princess and they have a son, Kpogonumbo, who is the father of the great Dagomba people. Kpogonumbo grows up a great warrior, very much his father’s equal in exploits. He marries 2 women whose militant sons are always at war with one another. There is a migration from the initial family to Pusiga (present-day Upper East Ghana) and further downwards. More descendants break off to found the great kingdoms of Modern Dagbon, Mamprusi and Moshi.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-3058089247725838489?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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9:38
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ANTI-RHYTHM
At 7 p.m. on a sweet-sky Saturday, a favoured sixth former will be spicing up for Entertainment Night. So was I, in the shower, many years ago, when a silent aircraft with 2 great headlights halted at a half-angle over the bathhouse. It froze unnervingly for 3 odd minutes, and then it bleeped off at a slow speed.br /br /What unusual or illusory experiences have you had in your time?div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-2181764002542800507?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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13:56
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ANTI-RHYTHM
span style="font-weight:bold;"Oburumankoma, Odapagyan and Oson/spanbr /br /3 great warriors who split from the wider Akan group at Krako (modern-day Techiman in the middle of Ghana). Their names meant “The Whale”, “The Eagle” and “The Elephant”. Oburumankoma and Odapagyan did not survive the difficult journey, but Oson did (almost Romulus and Remus, huh?). Oson led the Fante southwards towards the coast and conquered the original inhabitants of Adoakyir who they called “Etsi fui fo” (the bushy-haired people). The Fante renamed Adoakyir “Oman Kesemu” (the Great State), which is now known as Mankessim.br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Osei Tutu Kwame Asibe Bonsu – The Hostage-King/spanbr /br /During the scramble in pre-colonial Ghana for gold-rich land, the Denkyira people dominated other groups. The Oyoko clan became refugees in the town of Kumase, which became a vassal of the Dekyira King. The Denkyira King, Nana Boa Amponsem, requested for a young, male Kumase royal to serve at his court, and the Kumase Chief sent his nephew Osei Tutu Kwame Asibe Bonsu. Osei Tutu rose to become a great General in the Denkyira army who won many battles. Circumstances compelled him to flee back to Kumase (accompanied by 300 elite warriors given him by Nana Ansah Sasraku, the Akwamu King). When the Kumase Chief died, Osei Tutu became chief (the biblical Joseph, huh?) He founded the Great Asante Kingdom with the help of his friend, the Chief Fetish Priest Okomfo Anokye. The Asante Kingdom (at its peak of power) covered to an area bigger than present-day Ghana.br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Hogbetsotso Za – The Great Escape/spanbr /br /King Agorkorli of the clay-walled city of Notsie (in present-day Togo) was one very cruel king to his own subjects. He would, for example, order broken bottles to put in the clay used for buildings, and force subjects to knead it. To escape, the subjects (engineered by the women) used laundry and dish-washing water to soften a section of the city wall, until it collapsed (Berlin, huh?). Then, they escaped at night by walking backwards out of the city. Seen from afar, the escapees appeared to be entering rather than leaving the city. The last to escape, scattered millet grain on the ground, and when the birds came to peck, they erased the footprints too, throwing the King’s trackers off-course. Totally brilliant! To celebrate the Great Escape, the descendants of the escapees – the Ewe people – have the Hogbetsotso Za Festival.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-6201029073368500984?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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7:32
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte; that’s one book I never finished no matter how many times I tried.br /br /I found it flatly boring, even in its landscapes and portraits of physical and mental cruelty. I now know that the unquiet passion of Heathcliff and Catherine Earnshaw sees no dream ending, but I’ll never know firsthand.br /br /Which book did you never finish?div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-4933549109401913296?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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15:21
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ANTI-RHYTHM
pThe list is long, including the discredited quot;Mummy-and-Daddyquot; which I deny ever playing. Well, maybe I once pretended to be the baby for obvious reasons. Lol. Here#39;s my list. Can you add to it?/pbr / pstrongPolice-and-Thieves (not Robbers)/strongbr / I liked this game especially for the part where your friend (a policeman) would shoot you (the thief) and you would defiantly refuse to die. It was so painful to the policeman./p br / pstrongHide-and-Seek/strongbr / I like this game because of the call to the seekers to come looking for you: Pampanaaaaa!/p br / pstrongChaskele/strongbr / I loved this game for the sheer opportunity to be cruel. Crudely based on baseball, players would be divided into throwers and hitters. Throwers had to throw an empty tin into a disused car tyre, while hitters tried to bat it as far away as possible. They could literally "send" you to the next street or the next neighbourhood./p br / pstrongPiilolo/strongbr / We would hide something in an obscure place and scour the grounds looking for it. We would shout "piilolo" when we found it. But there was a lot of bonding opportunity for boys and girls in between./p br / pstrongKyem Pe/strongbr / "Divide it equally". A game played over the whole term. Players would shout "kyem pe" upon chancing on another player holding/eating/carrying food. And you had to divide it equally. A more radical version was "Gbo ni ma wo" (literally "Die and let me take it"). In this case, the owner of the food had to leave it all to the other person./p br / pstrongSete(waa)/strongbr / This game turned every day into All/April Fools Day./p br / pstrongI Drop It/strongbr / Players would squat in a circle and one of them would run round them, while they sang. The runner would secretly drop an item in their hand behind one squatter, who had to detect it and continue the run before the original runner back or risk a painful slap on the back. The song was "I drop it, I drop it" sang repeatedly. As kids, we would say "Law Peter" repeatedly. I love to think back to it./p br / pstrongRock, Paper, Scissors/strongbr / Well, this is universal enough, but we played it with the "exotic effect" after Aunt Junko Izumiyama, of obvious nationality, taught us the words Gu (rock), Chock (scissors) and Par (paper) ostensibly in Japanese./p br /p style="clear:both; margin: 0; padding: 0; margin-top:10px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Georgia; line-height: 24px;" class="plinky_badge_rid:19468" a href="http://www.plinky.com/mini/reroute/19468" img src="http://www.plinky.com/proxy/badge?id=19468" style="border: 0; padding-right: 4px; vertical-align: middle;" alt="" title="" / /a/pdiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-1505466662167575767?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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8:02
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ANTI-RHYTHM
I thought I would be too afraid to say this outside my mind, but whenever I drive past the “Action Chapel” on the Spintex Road, whether at 10 a.m. or 10 p.m., I suffer those women who spend endless time praying there like they have no jobs or families to look after. I roundly resolve NEVER to stop and give the free ride they’re always asking for.br /br /P.S. My 500th blog post. Just thought you may be happy to share this with me. Thank you, dear reader.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-6577482526145036307?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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17:50
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ANTI-RHYTHM
A ‘Ghanaianism’ for “do you live/work here?” So, a young man in originally black or brown (can’t tell which) jeans walked up to me at Zenith Bank to ask. Maybe it was my ‘bankeresque’ snazzy suit. I aimed at him with my purest poker face, and then sneered, “If you can see me standing here, then I must be here!”div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-6093049304577212809?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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20:20
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ANTI-RHYTHM
I do my people-watching at Zenith Bank. It’s where the career women ‘strobe’ in, in their clean-line, sexy-swaying corporate skirt suits and lovely black shoes.br /br /I do my people watching at Frankies at Osu. From the unbridled upstairs window, I survey-sweep the street below for colours of clothes, samples of couples, slices of cleavage, and cold cuts of derrieres. Or I can browse my google gaze indoors if I chose my seating right, to face and surf the incoming swing doors.br /br /I do my people-watching at Erata Hotel’s cool pool at East Legon. Here, minimal clothes do not bring the colour rising to the flirty face. The water lies naked in ripples, reflecting one hundred exciting excuses.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-9204881995378723359?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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19:14
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Today, I tried to catch a quick swim before Ghana’s failed football final, but changed my mind at the poolside, for the water showed slightly green. Before I turned around, I ‘glamoured’ this group of 5 or 6 Nigerian girls gaily splashing about. They cat-pawed observers like me with their clothes-off body-confidence, easygoing splendour of fun, and the lingering look they lavish you with when something about you interests them. All this, and they were not even lovelier than the local competition... didn’t need to be.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-103314392109257787?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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8:41
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Just observing a trend, under military governments, soldiers have become rich. Under democracy, the wealth has gone to civilians. Corruption is always a coincidence...div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-7026419195103401272?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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13:51
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ANTI-RHYTHM
I observed an Asian Aunty and her attendant, a Ghanaian guard/greyhound. She was looking for receipt books. She stood stone-like at one cool spot and sent him countless times to sundry shelves. Every time he returned, she would yell that he'd made a gaffe, and slap the books out of his hands onto the floor. I am wondering what was making her do that.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-951097268787916875?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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7:51
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Necrophiliac Neanderthal, you stopped dead in front of me, in the middle of the street for a fate-flogged farm girl to ‘frog’ into your car. When you looked down, as I drove past, were you more ashamed of the wench or your dodo driving?div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-918839567139179699?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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0:24
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ANTI-RHYTHM
span style="font-weight:bold;"Question/span: br /What's the difference between a Rat Race and the Human Race?br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Answer/span:br /A Rat Race is run by humans, not rats; the Human Race has some 'rats' in it, but no running at all.br /br /Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-5708175603184596979?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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13:27
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Why doesn’t “Adultery” mean doing the things that adults do, like lying habitually, or having sex, or having sex with other people’s people, or treating children like they’re small? Anything that adults typically do...div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-8278858662296931343?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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19:05
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ANTI-RHYTHM
I accept that we mustn’t criticise creativity too cruelly or we could crush and cremate it. But, please, would some maundering meddler kindly clarify how “Cantata” crept onto national TV in the first place?div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-4931073969438810993?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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9:25
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Does every job-hunting girl, in this bitty city, have to fob off randy Big-Bad-Wolves, if she's remotely pretty? Pity! So if there's a 3-man interview committee, won't she get through if she's witty? Does she still need to give all 3 the 'kitty'?div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-3036160224476585949?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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14:48
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ANTI-RHYTHM
In a public building’s restroom, I asked an egressing (and regressive) man, “Don’t you want to wash your hands?” Knowing, as I do, that so many people have tacky toilet habits, and seeing, as we do, that handshaking is just like that in glorious Ghanaian culture, I find myself thinking in 2 out of every 3 greeting situations: Get your hand out of my face. Throw in the predilection for public nose-picking, and the panic becomes: Get your effing hand out of my face!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-7328215872728992976?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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19:05
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Accra, 6.30 a.m. In the thwarting traffic, I wolfed a woman in a dapper dress. Oh, it was russet and sienna and Sea Island cotton ... and more hues of brown and red. It choc’d her brown skin in a warmer glow, and rolled her dynamo hips under its windswept flow. The simplicity and style took me whole, and helium’d my spirits for the rest of the morning.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-3106459923095529725?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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8:12
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Life is claustrophobic enough, as it is, without mentally growing grey about BMI, and cholesterol (which, like angels, comes in good and evil variants) and bland balanced diets. We should simply eat and drink some (but not Nero’s portions) of everything.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-8954616749030960030?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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10:05
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ANTI-RHYTHM
You can have whatever you likebr /Food, a phone, shoes or a bikebr /Half of us are freeloadersbr /If cultural, it's so odiousbr /br /br /*Inspired when thinking about all those people in Ghana who would like others to do free professional work for them because of some arcane relationship or acquaintance.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-820321836590148615?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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17:57
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ANTI-RHYTHM
What a “stupe-thick” question to ask. Why would anybody answer no? A Ghanaian media company is advertising a job, and that is the opening line: Are You Good-Looking? Even for a TV job, that is a doltish first line. To use an ancient “Ghanaianism”, SWINE!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-8164657377145443468?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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10:45
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Imagine you spend some telling time, mad money and expensive emotions on your postcard-perfect partner’s promise to marry you, and, then, they rudely run off with some wicked wretch who also lives on your street. If you knew you could take them to court for bucks and boodle, would you do it?div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-7942987515753971059?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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18:58
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ANTI-RHYTHM
When I loud-listen to music made in America or Europe, the notes fall clear and crystalline, but homemade Hiplife, played at high decibels, distorts the Bose baseline, and ferries fart sounds through the loudspeakers. The same boom-boom blights neo-Naija music too. Why?div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-3275286760556008699?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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13:34
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ANTI-RHYTHM
I dived into a convenience shop, at 10 p.m., on my way home, last night. The friendly shop assistants were counting coins by the tedious thousands at their sales stations. They told me that they had to repeat the routine morning and night, everyday. I didn’t have the heart to take my (substantial) change.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-2844563805494580003?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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7:45
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Maybe it’s the currency of cyber-speak; maybe it’s lowbrow laziness. I can’t stand people who write or say “Am” when they must mean “I’m”. They’re too lead-lazy or dynamite-deaf to learn the difference in pronunciation. I hear it spoken everywhere, I see it in magazines, newspapers and on TV. “Am tired” of hearing people say “Am ...” anything. See how that repulses.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-243504474561918324?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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12:53
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ANTI-RHYTHM
This one taxi driver would not go scot-free. In just 3 hours, I had been rudely road-rushed by crazy manoeuvres in double digits. He did it at Kwame Nkrumah Circle. I hounded him on Ring Road Central up to Bus Stop. As I gained on him, I shouted “Taxi driver Kwasea”. He was pained to shock, hardly expecting effluence like that. But I was gone before he could react, and all he could do was to honk hysterically.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-5968162043463236388?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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16:49
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ANTI-RHYTHM
An office mate and I ‘visioned’ a vulgar vassal in black, velvet shorts vocalising on his violet celly on the avenue behind the British High Commission. In the vivid daylight at 10 a.m., and inside his shorts, the vile vole was holding a varicose bulge! By confidently looking at us, he made us rather feel ashamed.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-984881125407068979?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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18:51
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ANTI-RHYTHM
A young mother of fivebr /Didn't want to see them alivebr /She administered death's drinkbr /And immortalised her name in ink.br /br /For an interesting note on the woman who is suspected of murdering her 5 kids, all below age 10, by poisoning, see Co-blogger Que's note a href="http://www.wilmh.blogspot.com/2010/01/misunderstanding-madness.html"here/adiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-7022009049026492366?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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15:16
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ANTI-RHYTHM
A season for sellers to move their chocolates and wines and gizmos more briskly than usual. A reason for other people to extort presents from you without appearing as beggars.br /br /And what remains unsold or un-cadged will have to go in less than 2 months, when Valentine’s Day creeps along. It's only business.br /br /Regardless of what I have said, I wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! Please stick with me in 2010.br /br /Visit my new blog of controversy: a href="http://www.friggingfact.blogspot.com"What Do You Really Think?/adiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-6388340733616885625?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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13:25
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Whenever one gutsy vote-winner tries to make angsty Accra ‘marchable, ‘breatheable’, ‘tourable” and humanly habitable, another (usually more powerful) will freeze the Fahrenheit of the effort. We, who are lightsome with free-flowing pavements, may well be in the minuscule minority now, and politics being a statistical sport, we are doubly doomed to lose our homes and space to streptococci-squattersdiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-3627206461969702431?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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7:56
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ANTI-RHYTHM
At the Silverbird, ’spooking’ ‘New Moon’ with the lovely Lil Girl, the guy behind us kept echoing the dialogue in the fantasy flick to the chesty-and-cheeky chick with him – not translating; just repeating.br /br /So, she was either not cosy with the accent – which was quite universal, by me – or she was doing some...thing, else, that was dulcetly distracting her in that darkened, slightly isolated corner of the frigid room.br /br /‘New Moon’, itself, was all it had promised to be, after Lil Girl had shown me ‘Twilight’ on her lemon laptop. But, from the way the well-muscled werewolf, the gothic girl and the vanishing vampire left it, a tantalising trilogy is truly served.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-7932721277379943979?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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12:44
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ANTI-RHYTHM
I sensed a judge’s anguish, today, as she subtly struggled twice (and crashed) to enlighten a university registrar that, although the people of Liberia are famous for achieving higher education, it is not every university in the world that has a Liberian student or lecturer. So, the clueless registrar made off from the courtroom not knowing that what he really wanted to say was “Librarian”.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-737813743507347106?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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10:59
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ANTI-RHYTHM
They are broadening the hairline hips of the Spintex Road into a buxom, bodacious dual carriageway. The cuss-the-government gridlock is already easing up, and the previously plugged passage has more fluid flow, now, than the 37-TQ artery, which is suffering a cardiac arrest. Sundry supermarkets are sprouting up on either side of the works: Melcom, Sneda, Palace (which calls itself a Hypermarket), Price Club and others. I predict some tasteless traffic in 2010. Could it be time to move?div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-836012634832924604?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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9:26
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ANTI-RHYTHM
They have ‘carteled’ clout over the prissy population with their doping displays for decades. But, in recent rough times, they have faced faecal flak. From who? Desperate demons? Hallucinating humans? Guerrilla pastors? The media casually pukes their reverent names in association with sold sex, shanghaied sex, fatuous fraud, talented theft and obeah-occult.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-560093912549100366?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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19:05
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ANTI-RHYTHM
I honestly thought that I was beyond that (unless you brought Barack Obama or Nelson Mandela). But I have twice met Okyeame Kwame in the past week, and I've been mildly star-struck. He’s doing a good thing too – launching a foundation to fight Hepatitis B. Talk about using one’s coolness to spread more coolness and love. And he gave a great speech at the launch. The best rapper alive (cut off your own head, Executioner Obrafour) is also a great speech-maker. And, guess what, he made me his MC (I had to add this) on the spur of the moment. I got my 15 minutes of ego-heroin!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-6415647572050824236?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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8:50
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ANTI-RHYTHM
I do not care what tired toes I tread on – it is an inferior culture which treats children churlishly; no rational respect. At an otherwise winning wedding reception last Saturday on a sunny shore, the hungry minors were ejected by the MC from the querulous queue at the food table, while the adults ate and wasted. Even the lower species feed their young first. Thankfully, the gracious groom had the children put back in front.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-9011897777579667387?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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15:06
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ANTI-RHYTHM
So much gravel is ground about the galled Ghana Civil Service and its castoff client-service culture. But subject your good self to the British High Commission’s main switchboard in Accra. They NEVER pick up. At least, the people at the ministries, talk to you.br /br /BHC Switchboard: +233.21.221665,div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-4455438406116611168?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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16:03
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ANTI-RHYTHM
I don’t know what triple-turned me off – was it the bushy boofiaa (two-edged afro) or the blister-bleached skin which was yellower than his banana necktie? Could it be the nasty red heads ‘pineappled’ all over his fermenting face, or the superior way he swept across the public space? Oh God, I whole-heartedly hated him on sight!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-7406518291085325224?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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16:38
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ANTI-RHYTHM
You aviate for 35 minutes, or dirt-drive for 4 hours. You arrive in another country - wild, untamed, raw, confusing. Cool customer service in Accra is on vacation, but this Gehenna of Graces does not even have it. You see some bum breakfast when the sun goes down, your a/c is fixed after the heat season, the internet crawls like it’s been caught in a net, and ‘civil’ civil servants treat you like some fetid felon. It’s really wild, even in Kumasi. So scary to leave Accra.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-4076526042939393708?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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7:58
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ANTI-RHYTHM
No! We don't want to frighten visitors away, and almost everybody will go with hair unharmed while pacing through dark, dark, Accra. But half a dozen policemen were just jailed for rogue-robbing a businessman in his hapless hotel room. So, last night, at 9 p.m., I slackened speed to give two cops a ride up the Spintex Road. But, wanting to arrive safe and sound, I changed my mind and simply sped off.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-1873080568043017366?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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16:54
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ANTI-RHYTHM
This time it hit cosily close to home. My main man was teeing down the Tema Motorway and minding his own beeswax, as he always does, when a hail of heavy objects hurtled into his windscreen. There, in the shadowy shrubs, he was meant to halt, be hustled, robbed and maybe hurt, but he hissed on with a smashed facade. And it was not even late. It’s sensible not to stop in Accra no matter what has struck your car.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-8557710100392335583?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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8:27
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ANTI-RHYTHM
In the suburban streets of the City of Accra, when the daylight is already broader than their sofa hips, many women sail about in their sheer nightclothes. At a 6 O’clock convenience kiosk, this mammoth matron scratched her Grand Canyon through the rear of her see-through frock, right in front of paralysed passersby. A keen-eyed mate suffered this, and thought it bloggable material for me.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-4813231039874939158?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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8:57
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ANTI-RHYTHM
So, my colleague is dining out at eleven ‘midnight’, when a tight, comely cluster of barely-stopped-suckling cubs ‘swashbuckle’ in. The oldest of them cannot be more than twelve. We used to be timid in our time. These kids are cool and confident; making business calls, ordering ‘haute cuisine’ and acting cosy and lovey-dovey. They grow up so fast, now!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-7455843476155668796?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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10:34
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ANTI-RHYTHM
When some parents settle it that even parental-uncontrolled DSTV is not engaging enough to enthral their adventurous adolescents, they line their pockets with lucre, and chauffeur them to the prepossessing positive influence of the Accra Mall; leaving them there on their own, obligingly. These kidults then haunt the ‘complicated’ corridors with purpose until after dark.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-4199454882493224699?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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6:41
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ANTI-RHYTHM
This week, let's explore children and leisure in the City of Accra (knowing that many kids from poor homes already work, and have no time to put up their infant feet). Pointedly, what pastimes are parents obliging their children to pursue.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-4653290397659609183?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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7:25
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Cliques of playas-in-their-prime ‘peacock’ around Adabraka town and other folksy parts of Accra. They have hours and purse-pride aplenty, and precious little self-respect; devoting days and dollars to shifty, married women, pulling out all the stops to knock her down (and, hopefully, not up) and score an ego point. They go ‘Full Romeo’ until the dame is ‘tabled’. Then, they bring down the curtain. Drama over, she goes back home troubled, used, but smiling.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-100850391318314945?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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6:00
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Between the loan-lined lives, the arranged ego-calls and accidentally dropped names, they got hitched hurriedly. Seven sad days later, they mutually discovered double-dealing deceit. He was not half important; he’d lost his homemade humour; she did not have an American passport; and she could not fry a chip; they were both drowning in debt.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-2277286425552645220?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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6:00
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ANTI-RHYTHM
A pendulum swing to the third month after the whirlwind romance, proposal, wedding and exotic-islanding, he ‘wormed’ home late one night. He reeked of whisky, sweat and cheap, cheap sex. He did not say hello, could not. He just sprang and slapped the angel in her face, mumbling something about her sitting in his chair. Fuelled by filth and guilt, the force (no farce) of his swinging arm flung a condom pack out of his shirt pocket. Guilty!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-7608695533923116051?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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6:00
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ANTI-RHYTHM
He tailed his wife to the playboy politician’s country home. It was 3 p.m. She was supposed to be at work at the city centre. He rapped on the door, wailing and yelling to her to come out, but she did not. The good-time Charlie emerged and smirked, “Yes, I’m shagging your wife, what can you do about it?”div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-8802720450847960955?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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7:47
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ANTI-RHYTHM
They were a spicy, flaming item for most of a year, and had been merrily married for two or three months. She stirred awake in the dead of one night; his side of the bed was empty and cold. She crept down the stairs to look for him. He was nowhere, and the doors were all secure with the keys in place. She eyed the portal to his private room. The one he always kept under lock; the one she had never stepped into; not even to clean.br /br /A sliver of multicoloured light is shooting out from behind the door. There is a chink in the doorway. What happens next all seems like a dream. A humming holds her mind and hauls her towards the door. There are candles everywhere: red candles, blue candles, white candles, big and small, ordinary and scented. There are also ginormous, grotesque masks. The room is swelling (and her head swirling) with hollow haunted chanting. A butt-naked man squats in the middle of it all. It’s her husband – the man she did not know!br /br /P.S.: Totally true story; she filed for divorce.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-1710643764779992873?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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14:00
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Women in Ghana used to stay...in bad abusive relationships; much more than men. Now, it’s difficult to say who’s more likely to move on when the shit hits the fan. This week, we will explore the high divorce rate (especially among marriages under 5 years) and some of the more bizarre causes I have bumped into.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-8468548257659592994?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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10:46
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ANTI-RHYTHM
How often do I hear somebody say at a facebook page, “I knew that girl in school. She’s now become so fair!”div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-7675970762507135763?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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8:01
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ANTI-RHYTHM
A capricious count of the jackpot jobs, luxury lairs and comfy cars in Ghana are held down by men who will ace the clouded colour test. One questions what the companies are interviewing for, or who the banks are backing.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-3005726576343063424?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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6:00
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ANTI-RHYTHM
When will some obliging ogre pull the plug on the many dumbass light-brown divas with thin talent in Nigerian and Ghanaian movies, and put us out of our misery? If they are in there for their dubious ‘good looks’, then please rip them out and splurge them instead on gloss magazine pages and still-picture exhibitions!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-3067659019344190206?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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6:00
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ANTI-RHYTHM
In this (cool) coal-coloured country, most of the skilled, delicious, wonderful women, who have smoothly scaled the prized professional pinnacle, while harmonizing hundreds of happy homes, would have flunked the toxic tone test. But they excelled where it mattered most. Now, tone that!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-7137863427143888884?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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8:01
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ANTI-RHYTHM
A leading telecom company and an international bank in Ghana employ mostly manila-skinned demoiselles to man their public spaces, solely on that sepia note. These lamp posts wear ugly frowns from dawn to dusk, mistaken that it adds up to their alleged allure; pretending that no one’s figured out their facade. Enough!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-1905241479967879025?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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6:00
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ANTI-RHYTHM
This week, we will explore something of the concept of the brown paper bag in Accra. I do not have to explain the brown paper bag test, do I? It is quite a dangerous topic, but that is why I am so excited about exploring it with you.br /br /P.S. For an explanation of "brown paper bag" please click a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=brown+paper+bag+test"here/adiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-8827653551045427159?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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19:47
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Weighing the raw arithmetic, more youth counting on football will end up at zero than with the goal of a millionaire’s mansion. The algebra is much more agreeable in the ‘schooled’ professions. The penalty for wrong choice is less risky.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-7527294617958644451?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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18:20
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Spirited sport is a newfangled culture in economically emergent Ghana, which is much more than sport or leisure. It is meeting like-minded people. It is keeping the corporeal lines trim. It is staying out of teen trouble. It is breaking out of patrimonial poverty. It is a genuine, earnest profession. It is a status symbol for old money and nouveau riche.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-6247987906604366205?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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16:52
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Barely 10 years ago, professional sports were for directionless dropouts ... or was it? It was embarrassingly evident when our sports heroes (and villains) tickled the pretentious press with unintended meanings and cremated clichés. Michael Essien (not quite a dropout) et al sneaked away to play, as maladroit mercenaries, and rode back, as rich royalty. Now parents dole dollars to school soccer coaches to start kick-abouts for their kids after class. Nobody frowns on a young man spending all daylight moulding muscle and sharpening skill.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-7823100108597820111?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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12:27
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Dear Reader,br /br /I was not going to blog this week for personal reasons. However, I miss writing, and need it for soul therapy – something swimming has failed to help with. Speaking of swimming, the theme for this week’s posts is Sports. What does it mean to different people in Ghana’s cities? Probably a very mundane theme, but I hope you will stick around.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-758359128257326374?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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6:00
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ANTI-RHYTHM
They issue southward into city markets to carry ‘donkey’ burdens. They digest daily disrespect, sleep savagely on shop-front streets, risk rampant rape and robbery, litter ‘loveless’ children, get kidnapped and transported back up north into forced marriages while still spring chicken; all for a daily tip below the subsistence level.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-4387073344713554540?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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6:00
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Many good girls are mating with men just for the money. But that’s not the story. Many ‘benign’ boys are bedding big blokes just for the dough. They’d rather be loaded bisexuals than hungry heterosexuals. An older 'friend' introduces them to the unpleasant initiation; salved by the generous post-coital ‘payoff.’ It’s banking on bonking.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-7562849822277027395?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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6:00
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ANTI-RHYTHM
It is not grinding poverty that is your wicked warrant. Your methodical mind and paramilitary planning could have banked you honest money. You are just lecherous, lazy, envious, cruel and, frankly, downright demented. If Poverty is a disease, then I curse your arse with the most virulent form!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-2335849384152888619?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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6:00
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Eking an existence near Easy Street (that’s excessive East Legon), they gobble gruel of cornmeal for bare breakfast, kenkey and protein-pinched pepper dip for lunch and more cornmeal gruel for dead-man’s dinner. Fish is a fairytale feast! They know what milk means; they’ve never lapped milk.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-5856548099319756247?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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8:36
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ANTI-RHYTHM
She stands scantily clad on the sunless streets of candied Cantonments or carnivorous Circle. She supplies live, natural delights for a fatuous fee. She possesses no other sustenance skills, and would have perished waiting on one or other gormless government or on nonchalant neighbours. Through her sensible skin trade, ten or so dependants can eat. Family infants are fed, clothed and schooled.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-123395898349971463?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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6:00
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ANTI-RHYTHM
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_qcty56R8GEE/SuIQRbon0qI/AAAAAAAAAR0/wbr339OwGwU/s1600-h/1994.jpg"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_qcty56R8GEE/SuIQRbon0qI/AAAAAAAAAR0/wbr339OwGwU/s320/1994.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395893195205235362" //abr /br /Let’s talk about poverty, this week. My initial theme was “Poverty is a Crime”. I thought about it again, and since I could not put my finger on the ‘criminal’, I changed it to; to See Poverty, to have the ability to do something about it, but to do nothing, is a crime”. This picture was taken by Kevin Carter (poor man), who saw this and was constrained or tricked into not doing anything. The vulture was waiting for the child to die to pick at its flesh. The child was crawling to a UN food centre 1 kilometre away. It is not known if the child made it. Poverty!br /br /(Picture: www.pulitzer.org)div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-2375136503107541967?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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7:43
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ANTI-RHYTHM
p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"span lang="EN-GB"There are rainbow recitals of the sundry symbols same-sexual-polarity people flaunt to recognise one another. They have hues and tones, rings in earmarked earlobes, foreknown fabric, etc. I wonder weakly – if they are ordinary people, why do they need special symbols?/span/pbrdiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-7764658828941020121?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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6:00
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Jo has been obscurely ogling the delicious, dapper dandy in the pinstriped navy suit for a queer quarter hour. He’s quaffing whisky; whisky-tippling men – Jo’s great weakness. Jo doesn’t feel the faintest guilt for his lurid lust. After all, he’s just having sex with Kwame; they aren’t married; can’t be, right? Jo brings his mind back to the bar. He’s unable to approach the delectable drake. Somehow, one cannot approach the same sex the way one does the opposite sex.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-4869912438956356934?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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6:00
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Nana Ama lies wakeful at night. She made loyal love to her handy hubby, Kobby, just 30 minutes ago. He’s fast asleep and basking in some paradise at the back of beyond. But Nana Ama is flushing and longing for her little girlie, Sena. She’s only person who has made her come in her whole life. And Sena creates heaven every time they make love. She looks sadly upon the blissful face of sleeping Kobby. Then, she turns over and reaches for her phone.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-8422294106210224568?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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6:00
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Kwame is completing groundwork ‘government’ forms. At “Marital Status” he smoothly ticks “Married”. At “Beneficiary” he smilingly scribbles “Spouse”, but slowly stops where he must provide a name. Kwame has affectionately cohabited with his Jo for five flourishing years now. They’ve built a life together, but now he cannot put his name down: Spouse: Richard Kojo etc etc.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-6237751297178195569?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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7:43
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ANTI-RHYTHM
Jo kisses his son’s little head, amazed, riveted by his penetrating questions. In a weird-but-wonderful way, such waltzing wittiness reminds Jo of his magnificent Kwame. On that touching, tender thought, Kwame floats down the stairs and sails across the living room floor to Jo. Kwame gives Jo a caress on the lips, and involves their son in a long, warm hug. Suddenly, Jo wakes up; it was a taunting dream, and Kwame is still fast asleep beside him. Jo sits up on the bed. He has woken up still in Ghana; there is no child! He and his Kwame cannot adopt.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-8708889421651741915?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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13:29
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ANTI-RHYTHM
I am sitting here with a gay man sitting across from my office desk. He met me when I went to a radio station to give a talk on defamation. He said I inspired him, and he wanted me to be his mentor. It is clear that he is gay. And somebody who went to college with him (and knows him) has confirmed it. But that’s no problem at all, except he had better concentrate on me mentoring him professionally, only. This week, we will be exploring same-sex relationships from (hopefully) interesting points of view.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-3481887577741031289?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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6:00
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ANTI-RHYTHM
In 2009, these are fair statistics:br /br /2 thousand relationships ‘attacked’br /0 go unscathedbr /0 remain unshakenbr /9 barely survivebr /br /Much of Accra is going after other people’s people. That is aggression!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-6402917873104330295?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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6:00
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ANTI-RHYTHM
“Would you please get up? This is the seat number on my ticket.” br /br /First, he ignores you. At the subdued second asking, he stands erect and beats his chest to proclaim his gorilla ruggedness. You make a good choice, and, as you inch your pacific way out of the stadium of sneak thieves, King-Kong kerfuffles erupt all around you over stolen seats.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-1404108953146619314?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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6:00
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ANTI-RHYTHM
In the gawky gridlock, your tomfool tailgater will honk a homily at you; a blighted bus on your blind side will edge in without warning; a daredevil driver will cannily convert the dividing line into a Harry-Potteresque Lane 1¾; a police cortege (sorry, convoy) will come screaming through; and you’ll be praying to Gideon’s God to spare your limbs and car from fractures, dents and scratches.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-1143313657002784992?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com'//div
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6:00
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ANTI-RHYTHM
The Trotro halts harrowingly in the middle of a major street, and a nursing mother hops out. She drops her shrieking suckling on the pavement, and seizes the reptilian driver’s mate by the scruff of his neck. As the callused captive tries to escape her grasp by aiming kung-fu kicks at her nether notch, another woman gathers up the abandoned nestling. Stranger and foundling are soon enveloped by the madding crowd.br /br /Another Trotro has not even come to a serene stop, when a bawling boor tumbles out. His feelings have been injured by the driver’s mate’s stupefying slap. He rolls until he bangs his head on a concrete pylon. He gets up on his feet swiftly, sees the driver’s mate advancing with insane intent in his eyes, and dives towards the nearest rock. The mate beats it to the other side of the minibus, just before the projectile hurtles in.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7564356874518161776-3783722367458561995?l=antirhythm.blogspot.com'//div
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