Features
When cometh another Felix?–Tribute to a bosom friend
“When I am gone, release me, let me go.
I have so many things to see and do,
You mustn’t tie yourself to me with too many tears,
But be thankful we had so many good years.
I gave you my love, and you can only guess
How much you’ve given me in happiness.
I thank you for the love that you have shown,
But now it is time I travelled on alone.
So grieve for me a while, if grieve you must,
Then let your grief be comforted by trust.
It is only for a while we must part,
So treasure the memories within your heart.
I won’t be far away for life goes on.
And if you need me, call and I will come.
Though you can’t see or touch me, I will be near.
And if you listen with your heart, you’ll hear,
All my love around you soft and clear.
And then, when you come this way alone,
I’ll greet you with a smile and a ‘Welcome Home.’ ”
― Robert Bryndza
I am heartbroken by the loss of my bosom friend which occurred about five weeks ago. I am, however, honoured to have the opportunity to reflect on his life today.
Indeed, readers, it is very important that we acknowledge and fully experience the emotions of this moment, on which I have earmarked to say goodbye to Felix Ameni Annoh-Quarshie, my companion, my soul mate and my confidant.
It is fascinating to note that my good friend Felix might have foreseen his call to eternity before it actually occurred. As a Realist and a mystic man, I believe so, because of what my friend and brother said to me about three-quarters of a year ago.
Uncharacteristic of him, Felix stormed my office unannounced early this year with the intention of coming to congratulate me on my elevation to the position of the Editor of The Spectator last November. I recalled, vividly, something intriguing happened when he entered my new office, and I now comprehend why he did so.
At the time, I was writing a tribute of a senior colleague journalist who had passed on the eve of Christmas day, last year. Strangely, Felix walked straight to where I was sitting, ignoring my beckoning to him to sit, and corked his sharp-looking eyes at the screen of my desktop computer for a brief period.
Unexpected of him, he quietly but emotionally said: “Kwapay (as l am affectionately called), if I go (die) before you go, please, write the same intro for me in your tribute, ‘wati’.” “Why?” I asked. “Because, the poem you used as the intro for your colleague is very insightful, very discerning and very deep,” he replied with a baritone voice. I swiftly retorted, “You’re not going to die anytime soon, bro.” But, he insisted, and I gave him a weak nod.
As if by design, today, Felix’s body lies motionless at a funeral home at Haatso in Accra, awaiting burial at the Madina Cemetery next Saturday.
Felix came into my life about 45 years ago, and the first day we met, in Accra, instantly, we realised it was going to be a long journey of intimate friendship. Little wonder, we found ourselves living as neighbours at Madina a few years later. It was semi-detached apartments belonging to his mother. My parents had moved in from Burma Camp; he had relocated from a bungalow situated near Sankara Circle, where his father and stepmother, both senior police officers, and his siblings resided. Sincerely, I didn’t know it was his family property until the day he moved in to join his mother, a retired staff of the University of Ghana, Legon.
Hence, our friendship gained roots, very solid and firm to the extent that we were even sharing the same room. I nicknamed him ‘Adjei Koti’, because his Sankara-based parents were police officers; he nicknamed me ‘Kwapay’, claiming it was another name for Kwabena (we were both born on Tuesday), which I doubted, though, but accepted it to satisfy him.
Young Felix was a staff of Barclays Bank (now Absa Bank); I was a pupil teacher at Labone Preparatory School at Madina, but later enrolled at the Ghana Institute of Journalism in Accra, and passed out successfully to become a Sports Writer for Ghanaian Times. Felix introduced me to the driver of their staff bus that I was his younger brother, so he permitted me to board the bus to Sankara Circle and continued from there to New Times Corporation, near Kwame Nkrumah Circle, where I work to date.
He was not a church fan, but I managed to convince him to join me to my church, Queen of Peace Catholic Parish at Madina Old Road every Sunday for first Mass. In spite of our busy schedule, we joined one of the Madina football teams, Islamic Stars and played in the Legon-Madina Football League at the third division level. He played centre back, because he was over six feet; I played right/left half back. The blend was fluid, and it was marvellous to watch us play.
As our friendship kept growing, it suffered a setback. I vividly recollect it was a rainy Saturday evening when my parents called us to announce their decision to relocate with me to an area near Ritz Junction, on the border between Madina and Adenta. The tears that flowed from our eyes upon receiving the ‘bad’ news was so infectious that, it even compelled my mother to shed tears also
It was a tragic time for Felix and I. So this friendship, the most important things we have had in our lives, was going to crash? The invaluable love and support we got from our friendship was about to collapse? These were the questions that popped up in our minds, and it was conspicuously reflected on our sad faces as we tried to cope with the news.
However, we had the belief that, it had been ordained by the oracle, that our friendship was never to be put apart, it could only happen temporarily, but not for long. The D-day finally came, and I left with my parents for our new place.
Incredibly, a few weeks after our relocation, Felix relocated also to our area, about two minutes walk away from where we lived. Initially, my parents and I thought Felix was only joking, when he broke the news to us. But it was not an ‘April Fool’ statement he made.
Apparently, he had moved into his father’s new house, ahead of the rest of the family. We hugged each other immediately after the good news broke, and tears of joy flowed, reinforcing the bond of friendship that existed between the two of us
My narration cannot be complete, if I fail to recount how Felix decided to spend the rest of his life with Hetty, his dear wife. It all started when he was transferred to their Kotoka International Airport (KIA) branch. Hetty was a staff of M&J Travel and Tour at their KIA office. I joined Felix at the airport every working day, so we returned home together, because he worked late into the night. He worked until the last flight of the night arrived before he closed.
One evening, he expressed his intention of proposing to Hetty, if only I gave the green light. We agreed I scrutinise only her ‘vital statistics’ and give my findings and recommendation, because he knew her character already.
Apparently, he knew her, because she was a school mate of his younger sister, Jemima. According to Felix, Hetty used to pay Jemima a visit at their Sankara residence, and got to know that she was a serious ‘Chrife’ just as his sister. So, the only confirmation he needed from me was whether her ‘vital statistics’ were standard. As an experienced examiner, I inspected thoroughly, and she got full marks. Highly motivated by the recommendation, Felix expressed interest in her which she agreed. They started a serious romantic relationship before Felix took her to the altar. Their marriage was blessed with two beautiful children, Felix Jnr and Janice.
Felix was an introvert but easy-going. I am extrovert and easy-going, too. He hardly shared his secrets with friends or family members, except me.
Certainly, it is very devastating when you lose a friend, who is so close to you, to death, the inevitable. The pain of losing Felix, a man so important and special to me, cannot be overstated. Indeed, death has unfairly torn us from our lives. But I would find some relief in the fact that others have gone through a similar bereavement, and have felt the same emotions I am experiencing at the moment. Maybe, that should inspire me to feel less alone.
As Robert Southey, a poet laureate, said: “The loss of a friend is like that of a limb; time may heal the anguish of the wound, but the loss cannot be repaired.”
So, rest in perfect peace, Felix, and may the Almighty God keep you in His bosom until the last days of resurrection when we shall meet again. Amen.
By Emmanuel Amponsah
Features
Tears of Ghanaman, home and abroad
The typical native of Sikaman is by nature a hospitable creature, a social animal with a big heart, a soul full of the milk of earthly goodness, and a spirit too loving for its own comfort.
Ghanaman hosts a foreign pal and he spends a fortune to make him very happy and comfortable-good food, clean booze, excellent accommodation and a woman for the night.
Sometimes the pal leaves without saying a “thank you but Ghanaman is not offended. He’d host another idiot even more splendidly. His nature is warm, his spirit benevolent. That is the typical Ghanaian and no wonder that many African-Americans say, “If you haven’t visited Ghana. Then you’ve not come to Africa.
You can even enter the country without a passport and a visa and you’ll be welcomed with a pot of palm wine.
If Ghanaman wants to go abroad, especially to an European country or the United States, it is often after an ordeal.
He has to doze in a queue at dawn at the embassy for days and if he is lucky to get through to being interviewed, he is confronted by someone who claims he or she has the power of discerning truth from lie.
In short Ghanaman must undergo a lie-detector test and has to answer questions that are either nonsensical or have no relevance to the trip at hand. When Joseph Kwame Korkorti wanted a visa to an European country, the attache studied Korkorti’s nose for a while and pronounced judgment.
“The way I see you, you won’t return to Ghana if I allow you to go. Korkorti nearly dislocated her jaw; Kwasiasem akwaakwa. In any case what had Korkorti’s nose got to do with the trip?
If Ghanaman, after several attempts, manages to get the visa and lands in the whiteman’s land, he is seen as another monkey uptown, a new arrival of a degenerate ape coming to invade civilized society. He is sneered at, mocked at and avoided like a plague. Some landlords abroad will not hire their rooms to blacks because they feel their presence in itself is bad business.
When a Sikaman publisher landed overseas and was riding in a public bus, an urchin who had the impudence and notoriety of a dead cockroach told his colleagues he was sure the black man had a tail which he was hiding in his pair of trousers. He didn’t end there. He said he was in fact going to pull out the tail for everyone to see.
True to his word he went and put his hand into the backside of the bewildered publisher, intent on grabbing his imaginary tail and pulling it out. It took a lot of patience on the part of the publisher to avert murder. He practically pinned the white miscreant on the floor by the neck and only let go when others intervene. Next time too…
The way we treat our foreign guests in comparison with the way they treat us is polar contrasting-two disparate extremes, one totally incomparable to the other. They hound us for immigration papers, deport us for overstaying and skinheads either target homes to perpetrate mayhem or attack black immigrants to gratify their racial madness
When these same people come here we accept them even more hospitably than our own kin. They enter without visas, overstay, impregnate our women and run away.
About half of foreigners in this country do not have valid resident permits and was not a bother until recently when fire was put under the buttocks of the Immigration Service
In fact, until recently I never knew Sikaman had an Immigration Service. The problem is that although their staff look resplendent in their green outfit, you never really see them anywhere. You’d think they are hidden from the public eye.
The first time I saw a group of them walking somewhere, I nearly mistook them for some sixth-form going to the library. Their ladies are pretty though.
So after all, Sikaman has an Immigration Service which I hear is now alert 24 hours a day tracking down illegal aliens and making sure they bound the exit via Kotoka International. A pat on their shoulder.
I am glad the Interior Ministry has also realised that the country has been too slack about who goes out or comes into Sikaman.
Now the Ministry has warned foreigners not to take the country’s commitment to its obligations under the various conditions as a sign of weakness or a source for the abuse of her hospitality.
“Ghana will not tolerate any such abuse,” Nii Okaija Adamafio, the Interior Minister said, baring his teeth and twitching his little moustache. He was inaugurating the Ghana Refugee and Immigration Service Boards.
He said some foreigners come in as tourists, investors, consultants, skilled workers or refugees. Others come as ‘charlatans, adventurers or plain criminals. “
Yes, there are many criminals among them. Our courts have tried a good number of them for fraud and misconduct.
It is time we welcome only those who would come and invest or tour and go back peacefully and not those whose criminal intentions are well-hidden but get exposed in due course of time.
This article was first published on Saturday March 14, 1998
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Features
Decisions have consequences
In this world, it is always important to recognise that every action or decision taken, has consequences.
It can result in something good or bad, depending on the quality of the decision, that is, the factors that were taken into account in the decision making.
The problem with a bad decision is that, in some instances, there is no opportunity to correct the result even though you have regretted the decision, which resulted in the unpleasant outcome.
This is what a friend of mine refers to as having regretted an unregretable regret. After church last Sunday, I was watching a programme on TV and a young lady was sharing with the host, how a bad decision she took, had affected her life immensely and adversely.
She narrated how she met a Caucasian and she got married to him. The white man arranged for her to join him after the marriage and processes were initiated for her to join her husband in UK. It took a while for the requisite documentation to be procured and during this period, she took a decision that has haunted her till date.
According to her narration, she met a man, a Ghanaian, who she started dating, even though she was a married woman.
After a while her documents were ready and so she left to join her husband abroad without breaking off the unholy relationship with the man from Ghana.
After she got to UK, this man from Ghana, kept pressuring her to leave the white man and return to him in Ghana. The white man at some point became a bit suspicious and asked about who she has been talking on the phone with for long spells, and she lied to him that it was her cousin.
Then comes the shocker. After the man from Ghana had sweet talked her continuously for a while, she decided to leave her husband and return to Ghana after only three weeks abroad.
She said, she asked the guy to swear to her that he would take care of both her and her mother and the guy swore to take good care of her and her mother as well as rent a 3-bedroom flat for her. She then took the decision to leave her husband and return to Ghana.
She told her mum that she was returning to Ghana to marry the guy in Ghana. According to her, her mother vigorously disagreed with her decision and wept.
She further added that her mum told her brother and they told her that they were going to tell her husband about her intentions.
According to her, she threatened that if they called her husband to inform him, then she would commit suicide, an idea given to her by the boyfriend in Ghana.
Her mum and brother afraid of what she might do, agreed not to tell her husband. She then told her husband that she was returning to Ghana to attend her Grandmother’s funeral.
The husband could not understand why she wanted to go back to Ghana after only three weeks stay so she had to lie that in their tradition, grandchildren are required to be present when the grandmother dies and is to be buried.
She returned to Ghana; the flat turns into a chamber and hall accommodation, the promise to take care of her mother does not materialise and generally she ends up furnishing the accommodation herself. All the promises given her by her boyfriend, turned out to be just mere words.
A phone the husband gave her, she left behind in UK out of guilty conscience knowing she was never coming back to UK.
Through that phone and social media, the husband found out about his boyfriend and that was the end of her marriage.
Meanwhile, things have gone awry here in Ghana and she had regretted and at a point in her narration, was trying desperately to hold back tears. Decisions indeed have consequences.
NB: ‘CHANGE KOTOKA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT TO KOFI BAAKO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT’
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