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!

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…