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!!!

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!