In The Arms of Shelly

Final year is like the final opportunity given us to do whatever we either procrastinated or failed at over the past four years. A major accomplishment of some people’s stay in the university is to find sweethearts or soul mates. Those of us who needed miracles to do this could either count our losses and hope good fortune brings some decent sweethearts our way, or try again at least one more time. This one-more-time-try-again thing is idiomatically known as 'scoring the mallam goal'. Stories of trials  our comrades who're dating normally face deter us and makes us conclude that we'd rather date after school, but when it's Friday or Saturday evening on campus and loneliness overpowers you, such decisions are cursed. So I had to try again... this time, on Shelly, a church girl....

Shelly no doubt was beautiful. Her waist, from the clothes she wore, was slender. Her beautiful face was flanked by a pair of lovely dimples. She had a very ass-tounding backside and a firm pair of tantalizing melons. Her skin was bright; brighter than my chances of graduating with a first class degree. Her beauty made her a befitting wife for the gods.

What made my heart quiver for her the more was the fact that she was in the choir and occasionally led worship. Anytime she sung, I could feel the demons in me peacefully exiting my depressed self. I felt peace, and some indescribable amount of sanctity.

One Sunday after church, while walking to Conti roundabout to board a trosky to my hostel, the Holy Spirit advised me to commit my feelings in prayer. I think most campus relationships became relationsh*ts because they lacked the will and approval of God. Take for example a help-me-finish-my-course affair. Some guys take care of girls' financial, emotional, psychological, mental and even academic needs throughout their stay in this school, and once the girls graduate, well-to-do men come and whisk them away. Also, boys who sleep around with numerous girls eventually wouldn't marry them after school because most of them would go for virgins. Now seriously, how's this kind of thing the will of God? So there and then, I blasted a few tongues, mentioning Shelly's name with 'let your will be done oh Lord', and said a convincing Amen!

I entered the available trosky. Just after I had inclined into my seat, a young lady also joined and sat by me. It was Shelly. My heart pounded, but I kept my cool (Fodome boys are known for their calmness regardless the predicament before them). She said "hi" and went on to ask, "Where do I know you from?"

"From church," I replied obsequiously and smiled sheepishly.

Just as I thought of how to build on my luck so far, some financial limitations awoke me to reality. The fare for the two of us was Ghc1.70. On me was just one cedi. But then, the Holy Spirit told me not to worry and that I should lift my left leg. I obeyed, and good Lord, there laid a shimmering one cedi coin. This thing must really be the will of God. It's ordained; no two ways.

Later at night before kicking the pillows, I asked God for another sign. Lo and behold, I dreamt about her. In the dream, I was crossing the Mecca road. While doing so, a speeding shuttle out of nowhere emerged. Out of fright, I tripped and fell. But before the car could smash me into bits, an angel appeared and carried me into its arms to safety. When I opened my eyes, I saw myself in the arms of a young woman; in the arms of Shelly. She gave me a kiss on the forehead and then I woke up from the dream.

The next day, I asked our fellowship president whether Shelly had been grabbed. He said No and asked if I was interested. I confessed to him. He gave me his blessing and told me to make wild. I had a strong conviction that this thing could go in my favor. It was God-ordained; besides, I had backed it with some three-day fasting and prayers.

 After church on Sunday, I walked up to her.

"Hi Shelly."

"Hi ermm....," she bit her lower lip to try and recall my name.

"Tony..." I helped her out, although I felt disappointed that she couldn't keep my name in memory.

"Yes yes... The guy who paid my fare for me the other time. How are you doing?"

"I'm doing well." I responded and continued, "I've got two tickets to watch Kobina Ansah's play, I Want to Sue God. I'd like to take you out so we watch it together?"

She smiled. Ooh God, those dimples!

"The title of the play is funny, and I'm sure the play itself would be fun. But unfortunately..." She paused.

My heart skipped two beats, my eyes bulged. I looked intently at her. She resumed;

"You know I'm not campus-based. I come all the way from the house, at Apemso. I live there with my husband and daughter...."

 Chai.... I collapsed!

 

Abraham Attah, the Movie Industry, and other similar Matters.

In this small, boggled-up country of ours, when you bring up your case, we’ll eat and digest it very well for you. There’s a tall list of acts and scandals committed out of heroism or sheer carelessness, or sometimes even motivated by incompetence that would trend on social media until there’s nothing left to be analyzed out of such issues any longer; Abraham Attah trended (which falls under heroism), Guantanamo ex-detainees trended (which falls under … erm… ‘scandalism’). Until we celebrated our 59th Independence Day anniversary, we didn’t know Uhuru Kenyatta was president of our dear republic - the shame the ineptitude of some people can bring to our dear nation! Though this issue may have been over-analyzed, I’ll like to chew some of the bones.

Inasmuch as I support made-in-Ghana goods & services, I must establish that Kumawood or even Ghallywood movies do not really keep me glued - especially considering the fact that I may have to watch Part one, two, three to even part six before I’d be able to fully appreciate the movie. More annoying is the fact that the next part features about 30 minutes of the previous part. Scripting, editing, graphics amongst others, may have been poorly done but our movie marketers put excellent effort to make sure the movie sells. The grammatical construction of the subtitles makes you wonder if the translation was done or overseen by the recently-sacked Acting Director of ISD (Information Services Department). There are scenes that are totally unnecessary. Yet, for some strange reasons, they still make it into the final product. For example, Kumawood can spend about ten minutes to show a man driving from Accra to Kumasi without an event that’s significant to the plot of the movie, or a whole ten minutes showing people quarrelling.

Despite all these and many other flaws of our movie industry, stars, talents and celebrities (both Kumawoodly and Ghallywoodly) have emerged and have continuously put Ghana on the international scene. 

Getting to the latter part of last year, a movie was made featuring (ace and handsome actor) Idris Elba, Ama K. Abebrese (my celebrity crush), and young and promising actor, Abraham Attah. It took me two days to watch the movie because I’m not a fan of movies especially when I have to watch it alone. However, the talent and ability that the young Ashiaman boy was endowed with is worth-mentioning & commending. But we must ask a few questions:

-What happened to other's talents in the movie? For instance, Striker never said a word (or so) but the young man also showed potential.

-Would Agu have become the star that he is now had Beast of No Nation been directed by our Kumasi movie industry? 

-Why is it that when (our) people get a little influence or support from the Western world, they make it big? Look at Reggy and Bollie, Shatta Wale, and others (even sportsmen) whose arts have soared to greater heights because of foreign influences.

There are many talents out there who need just a little support from within. Otherwise, apart from the grace of God finding them or some external/foreign help coming from somewhere, we’re likely to lose them. Many cannot push through the system because of the who-you-know rule and this is very disadvantageous to the progress of the Arts industry. Now, I hear it is no longer who-you-know, but who-knows-you. For example, you may know an uncle of yours who may be a CEO or even an ambassador, but if he doesn’t know you, then your help certainly must come from the Lord.

I was very sad when I heard people comparing Abraham Attah to Jay Foley, John Dumelo, Majeed and other stars who’ve successfully made it through the system and have survived. Instead of attacking people’s achievements and personalities, why don’t we rather vent our frustration on the non-supportive system? Ever wondered where folks like FBS, Joe Frazier, Nkasie, Okurasini Samuel, Andy, X-Doe, and the likes would’ve been had the system supported them enough? Look at the Westerners for instance. New stars emerge daily. Some of these stars don’t even have a drop of talent. See, Asap Rocky is a star.

Being a celebrity is no joke. Even grownup celebrities ‘no dey see top’, not to talk of the child ones. Ask Wisa Greid how his one-shot at stardom made him show his childhood on stage; that thing is too undersized to be called a manhood. Relocating our young and promising actor to the Hollywood may not only be his career-saving decision, but also, his life-saving one as well, because before you realize, eyes would start envying the small boy. We should however not forget the long list of child celebs who’ve fallen because of the sweetness of celebrity life. Home Alone star Macaulay Culkin is now nothing near the hope and promise he begun with. The first time I was informed that one of Disneyland’s princesses had twerked her way to become Miley Cyrus, showing her small breasts to the masses, I was disappointed to find out it was Hannah Montana they were referring to. Justin Beiber has had a fair share of misbehavior. Lindsay Lohan, Selena Gomez, Demi Lovato, Britney Spears, Vanessa Hughes etc have all been victims to DUIs, alcoholism, drug usage and other ills of celebrity life. Thank God Tyler James Williams is doing well (at least). 

Let’s fast and pray, and hope that our very one beloved Abraham doesn’t fall into the trap set by fame. Medaase!

POLITICS OF BETRAYAL

A lot of factors have brought about a dwindle in the confidence of our politics and electoral system. What one of my lecturers faithfully calls Patronage Politics is one of them. This is the act of giving gifts to electorates in order to get their votes. Rare is a politician who does not buy votes. When sweet promises accompanies vote-buying, then such an act is considered as a type of generosity and thus, vindicating the politician. Mostly, instead of valuing wisdom and competence, we bastardize knowledge and experience and act like vampires allergic to the light of reality.

In 2008, the election became a horse race between the then 64-year old Nana Akuffo Addo and the man of peace who's now resting in peace, Prof John Atta Mills. I didn't mean to jump my write-up but let me hasten to add that the former was to taste defeat at the hands of a calmer opponent, compassionately called Asomdwe Hene (king of peace). Asomdwe Hene preached the message of positive change, while Nana Addo hoped the achievements of his predecessor, Former President Agyekum Kufuor could manifest a great impact in determining the elections' outcome. He utilized the slogan "we’re moving forward" and he and his sympathizers used a kangaroo dance where they'd bend their hands (like they're about to dive into a swimming pool) and hop forward. Little did he know that the Voltarians had touched tongue with the index finger and pointed it to the sky (a gesture of unfailing promise) to bring back the NDC to power, though the flag bearer wasn't a son of the land. 

2008 general elections; New Patriotic Party(NPP) and National Democratic Congress(NDC)

One of the independent candidate aspirants for the presidential election, who was later disqualified, organized a rally at Helu; the capital of the conglomerate of Fodome villages. By then, I was in the senior secondary school, and school had gone on recess so that those eligible could go home and exercise their franchise. Though I wasn't 18, par my mother's advice with the issue of my safety a topmost concern to her, I had come home. Anytime there were rallies, whether we would vote for whoever was organizing it or not, we still attended so we would benefit in case they were giving out some freebies ranging from party T-shirts to even cars. Sometimes, I wonder if the old Fodome women would've treated expensive and valuable freebies the way they treated the less expensive ones. For example, on many occasions, I've seen brand new (mostly NPP) T-shirts function as farm gears or working clothes. One shouldn't blame it on education because even in the universities, until 'Item 13 is fully assured' is heard, one is 90% likely not to participate in the event that's been publicized. 

Turn out wasn't too low. But it was impressive. About some thirty to fifty people had flooded the market square. Though, they were obviously not going to vote for him, it didn't mean they should miss out on the chance of receiving gifts. After all, isn't it said that when the moon is shining, even the cripple wants to go for a walk?

His campaigners, well-clad in brand new white shirts and blue jeans trousers didn't want to disappoint the aspirant so they employed all kind of propaganda messages to convince the people come for the rally. They said that NDC means National Demolition Congress and their mission was to demolish the progress of the country (whatever that meant). The NPP wasn't spared. Our dear campaigners also claimed NPP meant New Patapaa Party, and CPP meant Confused People Party. The promises and propaganda all alike fell on deaf ears and once the people dispersed, they forgot about him though they had gleefully accepted gifts and more. His own campaigners, even before his disqualification, were seen campaigning overwhelmingly for Prof Mills. For the sake of public peace and security, may this victim of political betrayal's name be withheld…

That was how politics, particularly campaigning looked like two general elections ago. Though things may not have changed much, one must also admit a certain deterioration in our needs, and the way things are done lately. Our expectations have drifted from the Politics of Betrayal to the materialization of greed and instant justice. Never have we expected and imagined contract killings, acid pouring, ISIS joining, Muslim youth clashing with traditional authorities, Fulani headsmen clashing with local folks, fuel prices and electricity tariff increase, and other similar "kakais" to usher us into an election period. Initially, we just hoped for some freebies, but now, instead of hoping, lives are taken by some unscrupulous people, politically or non-politically motivated and "this is bad for our democracy", as Prosper Afuti puts it.

In the absence of love, tolerance, peaceful discourse, and also the lack of professionalism that mars the quality of our security services, one should get ready to cross the desert to Spain should things get critical. The only freebie I hope for is a power bank because I think dumsor is just taking a nice nap and would wake up after the elections. Thank You.

My Most Embarrassing Moment

This final semester's getting more memorable than I expected.... this is what happened;

I was in the library when I started feeling some 'logoligi things' in my tummy. (Like everybody else) I'm not a fan of public toilets so I packed up and left for my hostel to go and 'do things'... just when I got to Parade Grounds, the rumbling intensified and the earlier I got a place of convenience, the better. So I went to Republic Hall. T-roll was not an issue because on me was an exercise book. However, there were campaign papers that had littered the place and those papers were softer than that of the exercise books. So I plucked about five of such A4 sheets off the notice boards and located the nearest bathroom. About a split second after pulling down my trousers and settling on the WC, the 'thing' just came down freely like that. I waited for the second batch to be released... the third followed. Just then someone entered the bathroom to fetch water (Or so). She passed a comment about the bad smell in area .... that was when I realized I was in the ladies' washroom! #Chai

SEMESTER EIGHT, DIRTY POLITICS; dirty in literal sense!

Semester eight, as finalists like myself affectionately call it has finally come. It has come like that bowl of tom brown and milk one orders at Conti Fee-paying canteen. From the days of senior colleagues  instilling the fear of university exams-life into us which contrasts the usual ‘university life is full of chilling’ stories we were told , to the days of waking up as early as 5 am to join registration queues infront of the main library, to the days of eating half-boiled yam, to the days of sitting aimlessly infront of Indece hall looking at busty girls (fearing to talk to them because of the tendency of getting an embarrassment of a lifetime), and then finally to the times when second and third academic years just breezed by us till semester eight, one can’t deny the uniqueness of the much awaited semester eight. The desire to achieve in one semester what we weren’t able to achieve in the other seven intensifies. For instance, boys use this last chance to get future wives; a mission that has for one reason or the other failed to bring an iota of success. This perhaps explains why final year guys are extremely caring, gentle, and sometimes flirty. 

Asides the final year vibe, second semester on its own comes with some unequaled breeze. Unlike the first semesters which because of its shorter nature, and relatively tougher examinations, the climax of activities are deferred to the next’s. 

As the wind of national and parliamentary elections is blowing, so are the bells of SRC and other campus elections tolling. It’s barely two weeks since school resumed and I hear about twenty five students have shown interest in contesting for the SRC presidency. The whole school is littered with campaign papers and posters and the only word I can use to describe this act of desperate politicking is dirty politics; the word dirty, more in its literal than metaphorical sense. People who have played no role in student advocacy whatsoever have just emerged out of nowhere, and before the whistle for campaigning is blown, the whole place is littered. 

Some of the posters and inscriptions that have littered campus.

What an eye-sore. Is that what politics has become? No intellectual engagement whatsoever, only driven by the desire to accumulate power (and wealth, as alleged). 

In the entire time I’ve been in Kwame Nkrumah’s dearest school, I’ve never witnessed second semester commencing on this tensed political note before, making me wonder if the elections are starting tomorrow. Normally, acts of this sort of (desperate) campaigns are suppressed until nominations and filing for political positions are officially opened. When this is done, a couple of debates and public vetting systems are put in place and then when the time is right, we go to the polls and vote for the most good-looking dude, or the guy whose name has a catchy acronym (ranging from BNI,TAG, FIFA, DNA, SAK, FBI to STDs and the likes). We have disregarded the assessment of people’s qualifications, skills and competence, and have given power to folks who buy our votes with material stuff or the promise of making us a part of the executive committee, or the promise of putting our names on the KBN list, or easing our accommodation burden by promising us rooms at SRC hostel and the likes (the allegations are so many). 

Why don’t we actually change the way we do things instead of reducing campus politics to this extremely ‘donkomi’ level? The incumbents, why don’t we have some public accountability scheme that would make them give account for how far their campaign promises have seen manifestation? If there was some proper accountability scheme in all universities, VALCO hall in UCC would’ve been painted and wouldn’t have been the most untidy building I’ve seen my whole life. And to really appreciate the effort of SRC, why don’t we know the difference between the school’s administration projects, and that of the SRC, and the ones that are joined so that praise would be given accordingly? Soon, these desperados would start-off making unfulfillable promises, and cooked stories like, “I just lost my Aunty” would suffice in a bid to gain sympathy votes. Female aspirants would be giving out free smooches, hugs and the likes to convince floating male voters etc. Some girls however have done their politics in decency. But because of our degenerated politics, nobody gives decent politics a chance. Many girls’ chances of winning the elections (by doing decent politics) are as slim as Chelsea’s chances of finishing in the top ten.  

Interesting political times ahead people… don’t give out your vote cheaply…

My First Kiss

When you see two or more guys listening attentively to each other, they're obviously not talking about sports. Mostly, they're sharing the success stories of the previous days' emotional adventures. To both sexes, a first kiss is an unforgettable experience to most people. In situations where the first kiss wasn't consensual or was from a partner who left our heart in shreds, we accord the gracefulness of a first kiss to the next kiss. For some of us, it took over two decades to get close to the land flowing with milk and honey. For some of you, it was probably in your teen years. While the rest also had the opportunity to be spoilt before the teen years. So this is how I got mine:

Once upon a life, I had (or still have) a friend called Adoley. Though two years older than Adoley, we were in the same year in the university. I was just a little taller than her. She was fair-complexioned, round, fleshy and soft. Unlike most plumpy ladies whose waists refuse to proportionate in order to invest much flesh at the 'frontus and backus', her waist didn't betray her. For this reason, Adoley had the ideal shape for a woman. For those who looked no further than the outward appearance (like the size of thighs, the gluteus maximus, mammary glands, etc), Adoley undoubtedly was a pass and an appetite raiser. Among the long list of admirers were lecturers, teaching assistants, Tech Police, Bomso Kwashey boys, prayer warriors, hostel mates, taxi drivers, virgins (like myself), TEWU members, TESCON members and the list goes on and on.

It wasn't miraculous how I found myself on that list because Adoley and I were in the same hostel. We became friends. She said I was her good friend because I seemed to be the only one who could have a conversation with her without looking at her chest. According to her, I had proven that I could listen without wanting to smooch her (if only she knew what I was doing to her body, in my mind). Because she didn't, she told me I was like a big brother to her; I'm like a roommate to her (she even roommate-zoned me).

I had no problem with the zones she had placed me in until recently when I found my roommates' persistent bluff about their emotional escapades too daring. In order to have something to say when my friends started talking about girls, I decided to go on a mission; to get a kiss...My First Kiss. Call it kiss hunting.
What was there to lose anyway? I'm a Fodome boy and we Fodome boys fear nothing. But my biggest psychological barriers came in two folds. 

First, Adoley had narrated to me how she ended up slapping about ten guys who attempted kissing her. One evening when I went to her room to eat rice and stew, she said, "A lot of guys try to kiss me unawares and it annoys me. I have slapped alot of them because I'm faster at anticipating their move. My male friends especially, are fond of doing that. If it's my boyfriend, fine, but for someone like you, I'll slap you haaard." Her stress on the word 'hard' hit me like a real slap.

The second barrier, much related to the first, was the idea that, that move would bring an end to our long-standing friendship. Adoley and I were so close that she could come to my room with only a towel around her chest down to her upper thigh. We ate from the same bowl, had silly long talks, etc. Add kissing, cuddling and other (necessary) stuff lovers do and we were qualified to be called couples.

One evening, when her dad had sent her money, she asked me to escort her to go buy food. When we returned from the jollof base, we ate from the same bowl. Next on the list, was watching a movie. 
Her head rested on my shoulders as we did so. My face was close to hers and I kept staring at her big lips and fantasizing. I could smell her breathe, and those pink lips were inviting. All that I needed was the confidence to act because in the supernatural world, I had even made love to her. But now, even the manifestation of a kiss was but wishful thinking. 
"Can I kiss you?" I asked, opting to go the gentleman style. 

She sat up and gave me a stern look of perplexity. 'Will she slap me despite my gentlemanly approach?' I thought to my self. She shook her head and gave me a wry smile. After the movie, when I was about to leave, she said, "Tony, we are good friends but I can't kiss you, okay?"
I smiled as if to say "no problem".

As I turned round to grab the door handle, she walked quickly to me and within a spilt second, she placed her hands over my shoulders. My hand (as if in reflex action), simultaneously responded by grabbing her waist. Before I could say Jack Robinson, our lips merged-stuck to each other as if glued. I enjoyed every bit of it. Then she did some funny stuff with her tongue until my roommate woke me up from my sleep, asking me in an angry tone, why I left the door ajar. The landlord's cat had entered the room, ate the fish from his plate of kenkey and was standing on my chest licking my face.
 
That's how come I never had my much anticipated first kiss.

A LETTER TO LT. GEN. KOTOKA

Dear Sir,

It is Christmas season yet again and as usual, fowls and goats would feel sharp blades across their throats, as boiled cassava and plantain suffer the thud of heavy poundings. Love would be shown to everybody (or most people) and by the start of the New Year, we would file for bankruptcy. Last year around this time, I launched the must-get-jollof-to-eat-or-else-i-jump-into the-Ada-river (to meet
Castro and co) policy. Natasha’s mum, one of my dearest aunties, came to my rescue when on the 25th of December, I presented my hungry face at her doorstep. This season is a season of love and merriment and two things for sure are that:

1.Although it is Jesus’ birthday, people (regardless of religious affiliation) are going to celebrate the season like it was their birthdays.

And...

2. People would stop pouring acid on each other until the festive season is over.

As my coequals are doing everything (ranging from buying hampers to breaking their virginities), I write to keep you updated on the kind of things that have been going on in this country since Nkrumah was
overthrown. Well, the legacies of governments that came after yours (and even before yours) are beginning to fade away as day in and day out, our government and people of 2015 keep doing incredible stuff that would make you want to take an exeat from heaven to come and overthrow the government and instill some discipline in the people.

Gone are the years when truthfulness in leadership was a key requirement of every government. If I had to get a kiss each time our leaders promised to bring load-shedding to an end & failed, I wouldn’t be a virgin at my age. Leaders must tell lies (all kinds) to be able to keep their jobs. Kotoka, please ask God to reveal to me in a dream the difference between loadshedding and dumsor, and also which of the Januaries, Februaries, Marches, Aprils, Mays… and Decembers that our president said the ‘dum-shedding’ would end. One of the main reasons why you overthrew Nkrumah, Busia was overthrown, General Akuffo, Kutu Acheampong and co were killed by Junior Jesus, was because of the high level of corruption that was supervised by their governments. In 2015, judges were exposed in a corruption scandal. Yes, judges. As if that was not enough, I saw with my naked and popped-out eyes, a National Service person (the ones who are supposed to be directing traffic), collecting a bribe from a trotro driver.

Isn’t it unbelievable? I didn’t know bribe-taking was part of their training. That’s how prevalent indiscipline has become in our days. But, I don’t blame them. We've run out of ideas to the extent that university and polytechnic graduates must now control traffic for about a year after school. If traffic control is so much a priority, why won't the MTTD (of the police service), be expanded? At least, graduates wouldn’t have the chance of openly tarnishing the reputation of their tertiary alma mater by taking bribes. After a year of controlling traffic, they won't have the chance of being retained. Whereas, if they had served in a company or other institutions, they would put in their best to stand a chance of being retained when the service period is over. Even if they're not retained, they get to add something of value to their CV's that will enhance their prospects of getting jobs in a country where graduates are expected to have job experience just after graduation, before applying for jobs. Maybe, taking bribes is the incentive and skill that, that kind of national service experience adds to their lives.

Well, it is not just Ghana that needs a cleanup. The world at large has also lost it. Terrorism haunts both the black and the white world. The difference though is that, the white world easily gets the support of the whole world to fight back, while the black world doesn’t get that much attention to garner a support against terrorism. Well, I am not surprised because we’ve undermined our own issues of safety just because the white world hasn’t initiated a mass support program like #prayforJune3rdVictims or #prayforKenya or #prayforEssien’sChelsea etc. The efforts of our own ‘yanoom’ who changed their profile pictures to the French national colors are as disappointing as the ECOWAS president’s contribution to solving the Boko Haram attacks in Nigeria (a very minimal impact; no wonder a certain democratic tyrant said he’s incompetent). One other interesting aspect about these attacks on humanity is that, when it is a muslim shooter, the entire religion of Islam is blamed. When the shooter is black, the black race is blamed. When the shooter is American, well, it is just a mental problem. The world is so confused that, a man can wake up one morning and decide to be a woman. You know what’s absurd, Kotoka? The fact that a man has to win the award of Woman of the Year. Yes! It takes a man to win Woman of the Year. Implication: men are now more real at being women than women themselves. Congrats to Bruce Jenner… or whatever his/her name is. And to those nitwits who were high enough to rob Antoa, hope you give your lives to Christ (after you are dead).

 
Signed
Tony Afuti Eyram
-A son of the 4th Republic (and a likely NSS traffic warden; unless a miracle happens)