Another Day, Another Application.

As for being cooked in the hot sun, I am used to it. When I finally get this job, I would sit in a soft chair that has wheels beneath, a computer on the desk in front of me, and the breeze from the air-con would shield me from the loud sun till evening when the sun would’ve traveled to another part of the earth to torture another helpless job seeker somewhere. 

I pushed the glass door with optimistic humility and there was this fine young lady at the reception who smiled and welcomed me with a, “Hello, welcome to XYZ company, my name is Angela, how may I help you?”

I responded, “I’m a graduate, I came to submit my application for a job.”

“Currently there are no vacancies. However, you may leave your CV and application. If anything, we’ll call you.”

My instinct was to ask to see the director, or at least someone whose position was higher than hers. Even the receptionist turned me down before I could tell my prospective employers how multi-talented and dedicated I am. Over the past months that I’ve been home, I taught myself graphic designing, copy writing, and I’ve started learning how to play the keyboard. I have an interest in Forex trading and bitcoin investment. My desire to learn new things makes me believe I can survive in any career field, with some guidance and training.

I did a ghost writing project for an aunty on the use of some seeds and herbs to cure certain sicknesses. Because of the extensive and intensive research that went into it, I can prescribe some handy remedies to manage (or even cure) diabetes, cancer, kidney stones etc. and here I am, unable to go beyond a twenty-something year old receptionist. My ego had been wounded, my skills undermined! I said an okay and then went out, humbly as I had walked in.

‘If anything, we’ll call you’ was the newest most abused phrase one may have to deal with. Waiting for a prospective employer to call you is like waiting for a ship at the airport. 

All the CVs and applications I had littered the organizations with, none had called me back and months passed. The closest I could get was an aptitude test which was often a combination of Engine Maths and Psychology, and an interview. 

One cool Tuesday morning, some two months ago, my confidence suffered an erectile dysfunction when I realized that the position I wanted, which had only two slots available, we were about eighteen applicants, waiting to be interviewed. Some of these applicants were as old as my father. Others too were as experienced as the waakye sellers in Madina. The rest of us, about three fresh graduates, kept silent and listened to the frightening encounters of our comrades in this job search until it was our turn to be interviewed where we would speak well-rehearsed grammar to answer questions like, why should we give you the job, what are your salary expectations, what new thing are you bringing on board etc.

At the end of it all, I wasn’t selected because I didn’t have experience. 

I need experience to get a job, I need a job to get experience.

                  

How do I get the experience if you don’t give me the job to get the experience? Who designed this? 

The reality donned on me when I got home. I remember telling the panel that they should select me for the job because I am smart, dedicated, I can do this and do that etc. In essence, the real reasons why they should select me for the job ranged from being rescued from the feeling of abject hopelessness borne out of idleness, and secondly, so that I don’t die of starvation. Some people may disagree with me, but deep down your souls, you know that what I’m saying is true! 

A lot of graduates run away from teaching jobs. The truth of the matter is that, onaapo! -to wit, 'you won't even get!'

Just then, my phone rang. It was an unsaved number. “Finally, a prospective employer is calling,” I assured myself as I answered the phone. It wasn’t an employer. It was a distant cousin of mine who called to ask for hundred cedis. This can’t get any worse. I hoped. 

 

On the brighter side, I do graphic designing, scripting (ghost writing, project writing, biography writing etc.), and copy writing. I can teach too. Abyna and Vanessa do beads and all kinds of bracelets at affordable prices. Akushika sells photography equipment. My very own Facebook crush, Barbara Delali sells sweet perfumes. She prepares and sells sobolo as well. My good friend, Chisom is into waste management. Cyril Setusa, is a full-time land surveyor. Atsu supervises projects (all kinds). Arday can be your gym instructor, body guard or bouncer. Robert is into computer software and hardware repairs. Emefa and Afia are upcoming architects. Desmond is a footballer; he is the solution to Liverpool’s defence problems. In case you need any of our services and many others, kindly contact me on 0543451269. These friends of mine have fresh university blood in them urging to succeed!

I have some friends too who are marriage materials; just tell me the number of yards you want, and I’ll link you up in no time. 

Now, let me continue with this my Another Day, Another Application job hunt project because;

The Rejected Suicide

God looks at me critically as if to examine if indeed my brain is functioning. He is omniscient; He should be able to tell without giving me that accusing stare. As it is always done up here, anyone who blows out his or her candle must have a one-on-one session with God to defend the purpose of self murder. So I stood before Him, defiant, with my grimaced face looking like a bad carving. The trial commenced.

"You took your life, young man. Is that correct?"
"Very correct Sir."
"And you left a suicide note that reads ,'I can't take it anymore'. Is that also correct?"
"Yes please."
God pauses for a while; perhaps shaking His head in His head.
"What can't you take anymore?"

....I tell my story...

You meet a nice girl... You vibe... You propose... She accepts... You're happy... The assurance of love and companionship is indeed gratifying... Then, some clubbing swaggalicious boy (with some overly fancy username on social media) tells your new found love, you ain't good for her... He takes her out a couple of times... Manages to get a kiss... Then your bae gets distant... You call, no answer... You text, it ticks two blues, your reply never comes... You're confused.. the battle is the Lord's, you tell yourself... You decide to give time... You pray, fast, sow seed, speak tongues, command things in the spiritual realm to work in your favour in this relationship...Still, no change... You give more time... Meanwhile, you call 0247680***... Yaana answers. You tell him that your girlfriend hates you... He suggests you take her out. You don't have money. Yaana says he'll send some 200ghc to your mobile money... You thank him profusely... Then you call Bull Dog to ask for his car... You don't have license but you know some corners in the neighborhood where you'll perfectly dodge police checks and all... Bull Dog agrees...

In the afternoon, you call bae, NO ANSWER... You call thirty minutes later... NO ANSWER!! SHE'S ONLINE... YOU CALL, NO ANSWER... NO REPLY... In the evening, you're there, thinking of what to eat, a text comes. It reads; "you're a good guy. You're a gem. One in a million. You're every girl's dream guy... (plenty unnecessary accolades)... But I don't think this relationship would work... It's not about you... It's about me... I'm sorry" ....

"Is that all?" God asks.
I continue.

Because of my recent emotional disappointments, I've decided to become a bad boy... Good guys dey chop kanzo too much.... Next, I'll add some Dhope Nhiggur stuff to my username.. You now see the reason why Efo Komla changed his username? (God nods meditatively) Also, I'll get a black marker and draw a lion or tiger on my chest... I'll get the original tattoos later (that sh** is expensive)...

"You're on a Holy Ground, no swear words!"

I apologize and continue...

I'll empty my account of 50$, get some 'scratched jeans' trousers, you know.... And I'll take a picture with some boss chick whose legs look like a pair of inside calipers...

"So you committed suicide because you were dumped and your resolutions didn't materialize?"

I say nothing.

"You're in Takoradi, is that correct?"
I nod.

"Takoradi parents are bae... You go and look for their daughters...They'll go ahead and call the girl for you without asking you plenty questions... If you're lucky, they'll even dash you a ball of fante kenkey. Relationships these days  are not as solid as back then.. Not too long ago, if you want to meet your girlfriend, you'll go to her neighborhood, find her kid brother playing football on the street, send him to go and call his sister for you.. he messes it up and appears with his angry barechested father instead, who'll soon dash in for his AK47 when he's sure of your mission....But now, all you need to do is to be on your well-laid bed, turn on your data, send a whatsapp message, and within a few minutes, your sweetheart is in your loving arms like a grand teddy bear. Better still, why didn't you just change the girl?"

"God, I had resolved to do that. As a matter of fact, I was done with her... I made up my mind never to call or text her again... but as soon as she gives me 0.2 seconds of her attention, I start planning our wedding all over again."

"You could've asked a friend to link you to a new girl."

"God, lemme tell you my story. One day, I was bored as hell. I call the only proper Takoradi guy I know so we go for a walk. The girls, far or near, won't even pick my calls so I'm not bothered to extend the invite to any of them. Then Emma (my friend) suggests to bring a girl along. I agree. I may utilize some feminine presence; who knows, if I'm lucky, I can get a hug. So the girl comes along; fine girl, nice shape, nice smile, nice things.......Sadly, the two of them ended up holding hands, getting affectionate, talking and laughing, and me, well, I was walking behind them, pensively and feeling lonely as ever."

"So loneliness caused you to commit suicide. I would've approved of your act if it was because the economy of Ghana was too harsh. Or perhaps, if someone had told you you had 'gbee naabu'."

"God, okay okay. It isn't about the girl. It's about my February NSS allawa. It hasn't been paid, and I want to be a martyr for all NSS people."

"I knew it wasn't about the girl. I knew it had to do with your allawa. The hope is that, the new government would implement the Ghc 559 scheme. So, go back, be patient with your girl, and with your government. Case dismissed."

I woke up, realizing that I had tied my leg instead of my neck. When I tied my neck, I nearly died!

Budget Alert & the ALLAWA WAHALA

January no doubt has been a very long month. It is the only month with 40 days and 40 nights. It is the only month with a century. You see how the December season just bolted by, a seven month old baby actually crawls faster than this month. I've heard mind-blowing news of a lady who did unprotected 'distins' with her boyfriend on the 31st of December 2016, and by the 9th of January, 2017, she delivered a bouncy baby boy. You see, in January, a day feels like a month. Maybe the reason why the month's slow is because destiny wants Agbovi Joseph to get a girlfriend before the 31st of it.

To 2016 university graduates who are doing national service in the various regions (both in the land of the known and unknown), our germinating loathe for this annoying month is rooted in a general kind of expectations. We were there minding our own businesses, managing our skinny allawa of Ghc350 when a certain outgoing government endorsed some increment in our monthly pay. 

The news, no doubt, was received with sincere joy which was void of political affiliations, and was also welcomed with celebrations. I heard some boys took another shot of akpeteshie to celebrate the increment. And so, budgets were remade to suit the financial increase. We would save more (perhaps buy some foreign currency notes), supply our barns with bags of rice and cans of processed food, repair or replace that damaged gadget, get a new pair of shoes, pay off some petty debts; debts that were unavoidable no matter how hard you try (for more information, ask Yaana). My landlord watches the evening news every day and so I'm aware he's aware of the increments. Even if he isn't, he may see it in the newspapers (he's an avid reader). Even if he missed the news, his wives' okro mouths may spill the beans. I mean, I had no excuse to be miserly when it comes to the payment of my rent.

The increase in the allawa also shapes some of our relationship goals because it means we'll have some extra resources to visit our ever-supportive girlfriends who are in the (Teacher or Nursing) training colleges. Those whose sweethearts are in the training colleges would admit that, the training college girls are bae. Those who don't agree with my hypothesis can go and drink a gallon of diesel...

Some parents understand that the Ghc350 or even the much expected Ghc 559, is so paltry for them to expect much financial commitments from us. However, you should've seen the sheepish look on Abyna Millicent's face when her father asked, "I heard they've increased your allawa?"

When you objectively analyze all these realities, no matter which political party you voted for, you'll understand that indeed the Ghc 350 is very small.We waited and waited, prayed and prayed, fasted and fasted. The month mustn't end fully before we're paid. By the 23rd of last month, allowances were paid, and we needed that same grace to be replicated in this frustrating time. 

But the longer we waited, the longer we were frustrated. I gave up; continuing my hustle whilst relying fully on divine intervention and favor, being steadfast in faith, encouraging myself with the word of God on daily basis. A couple of spiritual friends remembered me in their daily prayers, and so life moves on.

Then on one evening, I log on to Facebook and then, hallelujah!, January allawa has come!! ALLAWA N'ABA OOH! Good Lord, how excellent is your name!  

My countenance fell when I realized it wasn't the Ghc 559 that I'd budgeted for. IT WAS THE SAME OLD SKINNY, MEAGRE, PALTRY GHc 350...

Doesn't the Good Book say we should be content with what we have? All those who pushed and endorsed pay increases this month aren't very much aware of contentment I guess.

The hustle of national service personnel continues I guess. If you're a national service personnel, show yourself some love; take yourself out this evening, then later, go and get that usual olonka of gari, rice, bottle of shito, pay off some debts, save some coins regardless, get a cup of sugar, toothpaste... That gadget that needs fixing, rent, debts, Vals' Day visit to the training college, that carpet that we need to buy, family commitments, superbet, etc etc, would have to be friendly with their expectations for the coming month....Thank you! 

The look on your face when you realize the allawa is Ghc350 instead of ghc559.

Musings of a New Voter

I was in level 100, Indece Hall, Knust. It was a faithfuland wet Saturday evening. Yaana and I had just finished consuming four balls of banku and hot pepper, garnished with plenty onions and salad. We heard a frenzy of political music, and cheers, and the gathering of a rallying crowd. Daddy Lumba's song was on replay.

With our hands unwashed, driven by sheer curiosity, and also the possibility of not missing out on any political gift, we rushed outside. On earlier instances, I had missed out on some Ghc20 political tokens, so now, man must wise up. At the forecourt was Dr Bawumia shaking hands of every Tom, Dick and Harry. So I went for mine. Who knows? There could be some cedi notes in his hands. Do you remember a time in campaigning history when it was alleged that our own JM gave somebody Ghc50 through a handshake? In our society, a handshake, like marriage, can make or unmake a man. Ask the policemen who check license and they'll confirm the validity of what I'm saying.And so, the Doctor's palm was soft and presidential.

Four years gone already, a lot has happened. Commisionings here and there, judgement debts hereand there, court cases here and there, 'handshakes' here and there, Voters Register brouhaha here and there, political killings here and there, flying 3 Million USD to Brazil and its issues, disqualifications here and there, Ford Expedition gifts here and there, Gold wrist watches ex-gratia, scraping off of allawas here and there, dumsor here and there, floods here and there, Dubai interchange, ballot boxes getting missing here and there, Kalyppo drinking here and there, tribalpolitics here and there, people breaking our hearts here and there.... You can add yours.

About a half of the electorates want the sitting president to TWASO, while the other half wants him to TOASO. Those who aren't voting simply tell campaigners to FRIMISO. Although the president can place his confidence in his achievements particularly in terms of infrastructure, he is haunted by the trend of political changes that have swept across the political environment. While some would admit that our road networks have improved, more schools have been built, hospitals have now become tourist sites, one should also admit that borrowing to put up these is not the best. And so, one must understand the president's fears. In the words of Mrs Bawumia, this year's election is between a man with a vision and a man who can't think far. Punchline paa nie!

To Akuffo Addo, his elephant party, Daddy Lumba, Lucky Mensah, a good number of nurses, and good number of teachers, and other people who believe in his ideology, change is a must! Change is an emergency! Change is the only way to save Ghana! As to whether it comes or not, only God knows. Ghana came close to it at the last polls. Ghana is near it once again. It is like the friendzone; you've won the girl's heart, she's won yours, you click like the mouse buttons, then take defining step to propose, but for some funny and unlikely reason, you end up being a brother to her!

All the best to Dr. Paa Kwesi Nduom.

Perhaps, the main hitch, which is hitch enough to frustrate the entire voting process is the situation where folks can't find their names in the register. We've seen what happened in the recent Special Voting saga. Perhaps the EC didn't think far. No problem! However, I envisage a time in our political future where our elections would be transparent, hitch-free, swift and less burdening. A time in the nineties, we voted with receipts, and cards without pictures. However sad it may be that in modern times, we still can't get it right as a nation, if you go tothe center and your name isn't on the list, just TWASO and TOASO back home and have a quick nap. Don't tell the polling agents to FRIMISO. We don't want any confusion. As much as we want peace to prevail, we also want justice and fairness!

In conclusion, I've read the manifestos of both NDC and NPP. I've compared the achievements of the two.However, I think Daddy Lumba's Nana Is A Winner campaign song is bae-er and doper than NDC's Onaapo campaign song. #ok_bye

Fufu Pots, & Broken Expectations Part 2

Just like any other young man doing his national service in an unknown land, my room is like a shrine. Everything is displayed on the bare uncarpeted floor; no chairs (yet), a new mattress over-ambitiously laid with an overflowing blue Mickey Mouse-themed bedspread in one corner, an inherited table-top fridge which isn't yet on top of any table, bowls, a cup, a rice cooker, and other basic necessities squatting carelessly in another corner. Unlike some of my peers who've acquired television sets with all their savings, I have no immediate plans of procuring one. The reason is that, the few times I've chanced on a television scene, all I see is people kissing like there's no tomorrow. And for the single man that I am, I can't endure that kind of emotional torture so I'll just cringe away from the idea of having a tv until further notice. My big bag dominated one corner, while shoes and co find themselves outside.

I laid on the bed, coping with the usual boredom, although my mind regurgitated alternating thoughts one after the other. At a point, I was wondering why the price of my favorite biscuit, Perk!, had inflated from Ghc 1 to Ghc 1.20p. At another point, I wondered why November is taking too long to end. Doesn't the month know that the lack of transport fare to work is the root of all evil? That notwithstanding, some of my thoughts were also mind-blowing. For instance, did you know that people die when they're killed? Did you also know that you can drink lava but only once? Did you know Albert Einstein was alive before he died? And so on and so forth…

I heard a knock on my door. At the point where I made an effort to get the door, whoever it was pushed it as calmly as he had tapped it, and entered.

"Oh Efo, I didn't know you were sleeping?" Mr. Jude said apologetically.

He entered, wearing an oversized shirt to conceal his humble potbelly.His tight Khaki shorts and slippers made him look like a famous AWUSCO house master who we affectionately call Akpanda. He looked round the room and nodded approvingly. He seemed impressed at my steady progress. The last time he came to my room, the things in my room were a bucket, a tattered students' mattress, my gari container, my bag and I.

"Efo," he begun, "I'm surprised you don't have an NDC flag in your room. As for you Ewes…"
I smiled at that retort. I was used to this type of politically ethnic stereotype. Previously,I used to emotionally silence these stereotypes, but now, I see some of them to be hilarious and so I simply laugh them off and move on with my fantastic life. The other time, somebody said Praise and Worship, Signs and Wonders, Powers and Principality, Hustle, Loyalty and Respect, Praise The Lord were all some examples of Ewe names. I'm an Ewe but I haven't chewed Joseph's meat before. Oh! We refer to cats as Joseph.

"You see, you're an NDC man that's why you can't say anything negative about the Mahama-led administration," He said.

For a moment, I begun to wonder how cat meat would taste like. I hear Nii Bavard is a cat meat addict...lol...

"Efo, but today you came home early oh. How was work?"

Work was the same old annoying routine. Noisy kids farting here and there, teachers straining their voices and efforts to make sure these littluns understand whatever it is we are saying, a motherly supervisor who never jokes with details, and kids giving you give you mind-blowing answers. For instance, I asked the kids to mention any water body they knew. One guy stood up and then said,"Pure Water!"

"Oh Mr. Jude, it was fine ohh." I responded.
"We thank God."

I still wondered why he had come. I couldn't ask too. It may be rude.
"Efo, today is my birthday oh!"

Woow... I celebrated mine the previous day. But I didn't confess it, for the fear of placing myself in any misguided joint commitment. Besides, I didn't know what he was driving at. If you tell someone that it's your birthday on your birthday (studies have shown) that you expect something from them. I couldn't think of anything Mr. Jude may be expecting from me...When he looks round at the 'don't-despise-small-beginning' nature of my Shrine, I'm sure he meant his announcement with a paternalistic gesture and so, with a broad smile, I said;

"Is that so? Then happy birthday Sir. May you own more properties."
"Amen," He replied, in an equally broad smile, with his grin running from ear to ear, showing his big front teeth.
"So, how are we celebrating it?" I asked.
"Well, you know my wives have travelled."

Actually I didn't know but I nodded.
"And I really want to eat Fufu today."
"Okay," I nodded slowly, urging him to continue.
"There's soup. Already prepared by .... Erm... Whoever prepared it doesn't matter..."

I smiled. I'm a cold-blooded mammal. I don't support extra-marital affairs. But, if a man's wife's away, somebody has to do the cooking for him. Only God can judge a man.

"So Efo.... The cassava has already been cooked. I want you to pound it, while I do the stirring."
"Oh... Say no more."

After a while, the food was ready... This time, there was no disaster... And we enjoyed it in harmony.

Fufu Pots, and Broken Expectations.

"Today, come home early ohh," my landlord said as I walked along the corridor, adjusting my tie. He added,"We go chop Takoradi fufu so come on time."
"Okay oh," I responded, in a broad smile which was anything but a sincere one.
"Efo, don't chop ohh. Come home with empty stomach and come early," I could hear him say as I shut the main gate.

It's almost a month since I moved in here. Takoradi people have a unique lifestyle. Everything about them is different. Their Fante is different. Their music taste is different; nine out of ten Takoradi boys can sing all of Pappy Kojo's songs. Their kenkey is different; I can't describe the taste. Their pepper is wild. Their koko is yellow or red or white; the day I'll see the black type, I may just collapse. Their girls are also different. In Accra, it's sometimes strange seeing beautiful girls roaming purposelessly on the streets, but over here, no matter the time of the day and the type of girl you fancy, you'll see many of them loitering around. I never said anything about having one of them as a fling for the period of my National Service, but one of my new friends had already advised me to always have protection on me because some of the nice girls have HIV.

We approached a police barrier. As the trotro driver folded his usual bribe of One Ghana Cedi which he'll give to the policeman through an innocent (and unnecessary) handshake, permit me to delve into my landlord's personal life a bit. He has two wives. One has a baby, the first wife is yet to have a child. However tensed the relationship between the two wives may be, they live in harmony and they never shamed Mr. Jude's hard-earned reputation in the neighborhood. I'd never heard them quarrel. One sells sobolo by the roadside, while the other sells her cassava and yams at the Kwesimintim market. When the day ends, whoever's supposed to prepare supper does so without any issue. Mr. Jude himself is in his late forties. His occupation, he says, is to be a landlord. When the month ends, he comes round for his rents which according to him is his salary. He never collects advance-rents. And that's how it has been for the last ten years. People who had come to live in Takoradi and wouldn't want to stay in those buildings that were as ancient as Kwame Nkrumah's legacy would opt for the modern, well-maintained houses put up by Mr. Jude and his competitors. A single room with a shared bathroom is Ghc80 per month.

"Because you're Efo, I don't want you to take me to Nogokpo, so I'll accept Ghc60," he had said in all genuine friendliness.

The day came to an end. It was a no-show day at work. Takoradi Fufu was on my mind. I had to get home early to contribute my quota by helping with the pounding. The best part of the matter was that, I wouldn't be spending on food that evening. The aroma of the soup welcomed me. I could smell it all the way from the roadside. I was bubbling with excitement.

"Aunty, good afternoon," I greeted his elder wife, who was rinsing the mortar.
"You're back already?"
"Yes Ma," I smiled-out my response.

The cassava was ready. Mr. Jude emerged from his room, bare-chested. When I heard the soft thud of the mortar and pestle, I came out.

"Mr. Jude, ma mmin wor."
"No No No No No. If you pound it, it'll no longer be Takoradi fufu. It'll be Volta or KNUST fufu. So go to your room and rest."

He refused to give me the pestle no matter how best I negotiated. After a short while, I heard a knock on my door. It was his wife. She was holding a bowl of soup. The soup had an entrancing smell. There were three pieces of chicken resting obediently in it, garnished with garden eggs, and some other things (I am not familiar with the names of the ingredients). My mouth begun to water.

Then I heard a crushing sound outside accompanied by a shrielling OHHH!!! The younger wife's baby had crawled into the table sending the pounded food to the ground. After some seconds of shock, the wives insulted each other. One said the other was careless and useless, the other said the other was barren. I felt sorry for Mr. Jude, especially considering the righteous expectations he had had for this fufu.

I stared at the hot soup. My eyes fell on the gari I'd bought on my first day in Takoradi. It was smooth; so fine in texture that whenever I added sugar and water to it, it seemed as if I had poured a whole tin of Nido on it. It was the best thing to ever happen to me in recent times. If it was a girl, it would've been called Anastasia. So, I got some hot water, and prepared eba....
and ate with the delicious soup...

...the evening was a quiet one... as we all mourned our fallen fufu!!!