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The Prophet part 10

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Antubam held the needle firmly, his body almost shaking with excitement. After all the suspense, Betty was going to be under his control.

He would conquer that beau­tiful, intransigent girl once and for all. And after marrying her, he would take her sister, Mary, and her friend, Suzzie, as second and third wives. And of course, he would continue to enjoy his regular supply of women from among the church members. Wow!

“You can see her, can’t you?” the old, little fetish priestess asked him.

“No, not yet,” Antubam replied, his gaze fixed on the two mirrors.

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“Keep looking,” the Okomfo said. “She is bound to show up.”

Then something happened, sud­denly. A sound like a big windstorm engulfed the shrine, and descend­ed with great power. Vvvrrrr­rooooooom! It quenched the fire, and sent the three of them crashing onto the floor.

Surprisingly, the shrine stayed completely dry. For several min­utes they lay on the floor, very weak, their heads almost splitting with pain. Finally they managed to sit up.

“I told you, Antubam,” the Okomfo said, “not to fight with those people. They are far greater than us. We don’t fight that book, and I always tell my clients not to even mention it, if they can. But you insist on confronting that woman whose head is permanently stuck in it.

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Now, leave this shrine immediate­ly, and come back in three days to perform purification rites to pacify Nana Kofi Broni. You have been ungrateful to him, after all those women he has given you. Now, leave.” He rose up to go, but the old woman raised her hand.

“Just a minute. He cannot leave without pacifying Nana Kweefi, the ruler of the mirrors. Nana wanted to help him, but his abnormal lust for women prevented this from happening. Now, follow me to my shrine, and I will enjoy your body for a couple of hours. That is your punishment.”

Antubam stared at her, disbelief and revulsion boldly written on his face.

“You dare reject me? Do you want to lose your manhood by noon today?”

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Antubam shook his head and followed her. In twenty minutes they were there. She brought out a bottle from a big gourd, gulped down a good part of its contents and passed it on to him. Antubam took it, greatly relieved for alcohol­ic assistance in performing a very unattractive assignment. He did what he had to do and, still drunk, he scrambled to his car and took off.

He parked his car, and called out to his houseboy as he rushed to the shower.

“Bring me a new pair of shorts, and get my food ready. And put the whisky and a glass on the table.” There was no response. After sever­al minutes’ attempt at wiping away the morning’s ordeal, he wore his trousers again and headed for the bedroom.

But just when he opened the door, two big arms grabbed him and pinned him against the wall, and another hand gave him a hefty slap. A man seated on the sofa nodded in approval and pointed at Antubam.

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“Now listen, you interfering idiot. I came to give you some friendly advice. You should have known that somebody has been to Nana Broni ahead of you, and come to me for approval and advice. But you have just gone ahead to mobilise people, and now you are going on radio. From today, you are going to keep within the limits I set for you.

You will make sure you don’t approach my market. I have been in the business way ahead of you. I am known in Europe and America, and I have done wonders for many Ghanaians, Africans and even white people all over the world. I am far ahead of you, and you will operate in the areas I set for you. If you don’t do that, I will cut you down. You are easy meat for me. Is that clear?”

“But who are you?” Antubam asked, and received another hefty slap. He realised that he had to do something quickly before they did something terrible to him. He remembered the stick. With great difficulty, he released his right hand, reached into his pocket and grabbed the stick. With a sudden gush of power, he pushed his two attackers and sent them crashing onto the floor.

“I see the other man said. ‘You have received some protection. Get up, boys and let’s go. This idiot wants a fight. We’ll give him a good one. Get ready, Antubam. I will show you why they call me Gidigi­di,” As they went away, Antubam shouted after them.

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“You took me unawares, but listen, I will give you the bloodiest nose you have ever received in your life. Trust me. All three of you are just muscles and fat, no brains. If you have a quarrel, why don’t you go and settle it with Nana Broni?” As they drove off, Priscilla entered the house, her arms outstretched.

“Sweetheart, have you missed me?”

“I have learnt from experience that whenever you say words like that, my pocket is in for some serious trouble. But you are right, I have missed you. Why don’t we?”

“No problem. I will give you a good time. Your pocket must also remember to give me a good time.”

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Mary picked up the phone. It was Suzzie.

“Why, Suzzie, can’t you sleep?”

“I slept very well, actually. I called to tell you that we must make a clean break with the past, and with Antubam, and stick with Betty. I thought about this whole Antubam episode last night, and I realize we were heading for trou­ble. I am sorry that I brought you into it.”

“Don’t be silly, Suzzie. We were desiring to do something produc­tive with our lives. Nobody was prepared to give us any free as­sistance. But I also realize that we should have gone to God in humility and not get involved with that fraud. Betty brought us to our senses, just in time.”

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“Now Mary, let’s hand it all over to the Lord, as ask Him to help us out. Is Betty up yet?”

“She is. We were just about to start praying. Why don’t you join us?”

“I’m on my way.”

By Ekow de Heer

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The audit of the years: Why old age does not reward sacrifice- Part 1

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We are raised on a foundational myth: that sacrifice is a currency, and time is a bank that honors it. From youth, we are fed the romantic notion that self-denial is an investment.

We are told that if we starve our own ambitions to feed the collective, if we endure silent strains, postpone our vitality, and mortgage our peace for the security of others or the demands of an unrelenting system, the ledger will eventually balance.

We are led to believe that old age is a benevolent auditor-a quiet season where the universe presents a receipt for our endurance and hands back comfort, reverence, and ease.

It does not.

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Old age is not a rewards ceremony; it is a reckoning. And the bitterest truth of longevity is that aging does not care how much you gave up. It cares only how you are built to withstand the descent.

The myth of deferred living

To sacrifice is to treat the present as a disposable bridge to a destination that rarely resembles the brochure. In the architecture of a lifetime, the human body and mind operate under strict biological and emotional laws.

Every time you override your limits, swallow your voice, or defer your joy for a hypothetical tomorrow, you are not saving credit-you are accumulating debt in tissue, joint, and spirit.

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When people reach advanced age, the societal narrative expects them to bask in a golden twilight of quiet dignity earned through decades of self-effacement. But look closer at the reality of unrewarded sacrifice.

The worn-out joints do not ache with the romantic resonance of a noble history; they ache simply because they were overspent on things that ultimately did not require or appreciate the cost.

The silence kept to keep the peace turns into an isolation that no one bothers to breach.

Time does not compound the value of a sacrificed life. It merely exposes the vacancy left behind.

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The biological and psychological toll

From a systemic standpoint, chronic self-denial is a high-stress pathology. The nervous system remembers every time you ignored its signals in favor of duty.

Structural Breakdown: Chronic tension-whether physical or emotional-alters posture, compresses the spine, and locks the body into defensive, braced patterns that harden over decades.

The Emotional Ledger: Emotional suppression leaves a residue that compounds into bitterness or detachment. When the external roles that demanded your sacrifice (the relentless career, the draining obligation, the unreciprocated loyalty) finally fall away, what remains is not a triumphant hero, but a depleted vessel wondering where the trade-off went.

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The universe has no sentimental attachment to your martyrdom. Biology does not check your resume to see how many weekends you surrendered. It responds strictly to mechanics, alignment, and nourishment. If you spent your life running on empty to fuel everyone else’s engine, your own chassis simply wears out sooner, leaving you stranded on the roadside of your own history.

Reclaiming sovereignty before the audit

If old age refuses to honor sacrifice, then the only intelligent response is to stop offering it. Sovereignty cannot be postponed until retirement; it must be practiced in the present tense.

Sovereign living requires a radical shift in how we value our energy:

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Cease the silent ledger: Stop keeping a mental tally of what you endure for others, expecting a delayed payout. If a duty requires your self-destruction, it is a bad investment. Cut the losses now.

Honor the vessel first: No system, institution, or relationship is worth the structural integrity of your body and mind. Alignment and self-preservation are not selfish; they are the baseline requirements for a functional existence.

Redefine legacy: True legacy is not built on how much you endured, but on how fully you inhabited your own autonomy. People are remembered not for how quietly they suffered, but for the distinct, uncompromised shape of their truth.

The years will pass whether you spend them as a perpetual offering or as an autonomous agent. The calendar does not pity the martyr. Strip away the romanticism of endless endurance, reclaim your boundaries, and demand that your life pay dividends now-because the future owes nothing to those who spent it all on a receipt that nobody is going to cash.

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By Robert Ekow Grimmond-Thompson

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Palaver of the Sikaman media and the future

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WITH the advent of multi-party democracy, press freedom was born again. And soon after, Ghanaian journalists started speaking in tongues. Small groups of people, infected with the idea of a free press, got together and sought finance to produce newspapers.

The newspaper craze was also contagious and overnight, the newsstands became laden with newspapers of various sizes, colours, shades, emotions and, of course, notoriety.

Readers of newspapers became confused. With purchasing power constraints to consider, they didn’t know which papers to buy. Moreover, it was difficult to know immediately which papers were worth reading and which were mere garbage.

The Media
The Media

Soon, the sheep were separated from the goats. Some papers which got no saleable news and survived on lies and speculations were eventually boycotted. When they couldn’t break even, they quietly left the stands. Others were hopelessly sub-standard in content, language and layout. For some time, they survived on artificial respiration but lapsed into coma. Others simply disappeared after paying damages for libel.

Today, the fittest have survived, notable among them the Ghanaian Chronicle, Independent, Free Press, Ghana Palaver, Democrat, Public Agenda, Statesman, P & P and Insight. They are slugging it out on the stands and only time will tell which of them would survive the beginning of the next millennium.

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On the electronic front, radio stations have come operating Frequency Modulation (FM) units. Short Wave (SW) being too expensive to venture into, the result is JOY 99.7 FM, GOLD, ATLANTIC, CHOICE FM and other private regional, town and cottage FM stations that dot various parts of the country.

These have brought about variety and jobs. So have the television stations. Ghana Television (GTV) is facing competition from TV3 and Metro TV. Competition brings about in efficiency, and for once we can all see that GTV is performing better after being divested of the monopoly it enjoyed.

Journalists who man the newspapers, radio and television stations together form the Ghana Journalists Association (GJA), an association which, until recent years, existed only in name. It is now feverishly preparing to celebrate its Golden Jubilee, an occasion I believe will give more meaning to the Association and anchor it firmly for good as a closely-knit union of Ghanaian media practitioners.

PRINT MEDIA

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Print journalism has really come a long way, plodding on like the proverbial snail, hoping to achieve the ultimate. It has had to contend with vicissitudes of fortunes as one political era succeeded another.

Of interest is also the fact that from the cut-and-paste method, press outfits now employ desktop publishing techniques with PageMaker components, making the job easy and speedy.  From for four-page newspapers we can now boast of are 30 pages and more, radio stations are on air 24 hours a day.

The development of the media is one thing people have taken note of, and in years to come, the fourth estate of the realm will be well-equipped to collect and dispense information more efficiently, more accurately, and more speedily.

There is another side to it. The media is likely to develop into a monster, the way it has developed to harass Lady Diana, the Princess of Wales, to her death; the way it has made Bill Clinton very uncomfortable by making a showpiece of his private sex life, and hundreds of others.

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Indeed, until her death, the Princess had no privacy. She couldn’t sneeze without it being reported somewhere in a newspaper, complete with pictures in colour. At one stage, she lamented being a celebrity and asked the press to leave her alone to lead her life without world attention. She died while speeding away from pressmen who were furiously chasing her (and her boyfriend) on motorcycles.

If the press develops in Sikaman to the extent that it can in future drive someone to his or her death, cause heart attacks, and destroy families and leaders, can be tolerated as it has been in the United States and Europe?

Some of us think that becoming copycats of alien values and foreign systems is causing more harm than good to our society. For instance, it would be very unfortunate if the Ghanaian media developed to the negative extent that it can publish pictures nude girls as some British tabloids do.

The African culture is a decent one and should not be tainted with the wholesale acceptance of everything western.  In Europe there are magazines for homosexuals and lesbians, glorifying their acts and promoting their perverted ideals.

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The homosexual culture is gradually seeping into African countries, Sikaman inclusive. Should we, therefore, expect to see a homosexual magazine on our newsstands one day?

If the European and American press can harass celebrities, presidents and top shots to the point of discomfort and even death, should the African press copy same if our culture is palpably different in form and orientation, history and tradition?

What I would like to see of a future Ghanaian media is a development-oriented press system seeking to promote the ideals of societal progress, economic growth, agricultural development, political unity, social cohesion and technological advancement.

And what I’d hate to see is the kind of media that is overly interested in wanting to know what the president eats for breakfast, which women he has spoken to of late, and when he is likely to sneeze without covering his nose with a handkerchief.

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What I’d also hate to see is a media that seeks to play one tribe against the other, take to pornography or pry into the private lives of people not for any other purpose than to sell newspapers that only thrive on the obscene.

I’ve heard some editors say, “If you don’t write and insult Rawlings your paper won’t sell.” What kind of mentality is that?

The African press must develop, but it must do so in a positive way and not in the negative and destructive sense.

This article was first published on Saturday August 29, 1998

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