Features
Borla man —Part One
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Even though Martin and his family were well known to my parents, the issue of my marriage to him generated great controversy at home. Mama thought he was nice and respectful, and since his parents were hardworking and of good report, he would be a good husband for me.
But Dada said nothing in his demeanour convinced him. Martin had to wait for over four months for their decision.
On my part, I was indifferent. All my friends and relatives thought he was a nice, respectable guy. And since he was a graduate with a good job at the Excel Health Insurance Company, they felt he would take good care of me.
I thought they made some sense. I quite liked him. He was always nicely dressed, and had the aura of a responsible person who had a great career future. But I didn’t feel the kind of love or even affection I thought I should feel for a prospective husband.
And the other problem was that even though everyone thought I was intelligent, I had been unable to pass WASSCE after three determined attempts. I badly wanted to get a degree.
But everyone encouraged me to go ahead. Love, they said, often developed over time. And as for getting a degree, there were so many paths. One could even write a matured students’ exam and enter the university.
And since Martin himself was a graduate, it was almost certain that he would assist me, since I would then be in a position to support him, at least financially.
Eventually, my parents came to some form of agreement. Dada would accept ‘drinks’ from Martin’s family to signify that he had agreed to our relationship, and I could even go and live with him if I wanted to. But he would agree to the actual formal ceremony after Martin had ‘proven himself’.
Martin was promoted to the rank of Manager and transferred to Takoradi. He rented a nice flat, and I joined him. Life was very comfortable, initially. Rather early in the day, he started coming home around eight about three days in the week, even though he closed at four-thirty.
He explained that he spent a couple of hours at the club house with his contemporaries working in Takoradi, and that it was nothing to worry about. At least, he said, I always knew where to find him. And moreover, he made sure he didn’t stay too late. I didn’t worry too much about it, because when he was home, we enjoyed each other’s company.
Then the problems with the ladies started. I saw the signs early. First, he always went out of earshot to take his calls. Then I started smelling ladies perfumes on his shirts. Then he put a password on his phone.
After many attempts, I broke into his phone, and saw quite a number of intimate exchanges between him and one Elaine. So the following morning, I called Elaine, introduced myself as Martin’s wife, and asked her to stop seeing him, forthwith. I assured her that if she didn’t, she would face worse problems than she was causing me.
That evening, Martin parked the car, flung the door open, and demanded to know why I called her. Before I could answer, he slapped me. I fell, more out of shock than the effect of the slap.
‘Sarah, you are lucky I didn’t give you some dirty blows!’ he declared as he walked away’.
I got up and went to the kitchen, turned off the half cooked jollof rice, and sat on the stool. He came in after several minutes.
‘Are you bringing my food or shall I get someone to give me food?’ I ignored him. He picked up the car keys and walked out. But he must have given up on that plan, because he returned to the kitchen, peeled some kenkey, put two pieces of chicken and some shito on the plate, and sat down to eat.
I spent the night in the spare room, alternating between thinking of my future outside marriage, and catching up on my WhatsApp messages. Before slipping into sleep, I prayed for guidance to take the right steps, and psyched myself up to live a disciplined, fruitful life, no matter the obstacles that came my way. I decided to start working towards university admission the following morning. I would buy the draft, do the application online, and treat myself to a good lunch.
I woke up at about 6.15, prepared breakfast, and went to the bathroom. I dressed and came to the hall to find that Martin had eaten breakfast and gone off to work. Just when I finished breakfast, my sister Dinah called from Brussels, and for the next hour and a half we discussed arrangements for her return. I locked up the shop at about ten, and was walking off to the bank when a young man stepped out of a pick-up vehicle with a Top Clean sign. He greeted, and I responded.
‘Sorry to disturb you, madam. Can I give you the past month’s cleaning bill?’
‘Ah, okay. Thank you’. He started walking away, then he stopped and turned.
‘Madam, I hope you don’t mind. Please forgive me. I stood, waiting.
Madam, you are very beautiful. Your husband is a very lucky man’. Tears rolled down my cheeks.
‘Oh madam. Please forgive me. I’m very, very sorry’.
‘Don’t worry’, I said. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong’.
‘Then please allow me to take you where you are going’.
‘I’m going to the nearest bank to make a draft’.
‘Okay, let’s go. Er, quite obviously, you are going to prepare the draft for a purpose. Do you mind if I take you there?’
‘I wouldn’t want to take up your time. After doing the draft, I’ll go to the nearest internet cafe to fill an online application’.
‘No problem. I’ll take you there. Please forgive me if I’m being a nuisance. But actually, I have a couple of hours to spare. And moreover, you are our client, so this is one way of thanking you for your patronage’.
‘Okay, you’re on. Let’s do it’.
He stopped at the bank, and I spent some twenty minutes getting the draft done. He was busy on his tablet when I got back, entering some figures into a table. He turned it off and started the engine.
‘Now’, he said, ‘let me take you to a comfortable cafe where the internet is reasonably fast, and you can work in some privacy. I’ve used it a couple of times. And as you’ve already seen, you can take as much time as you like. I’ll be doing some work’.
‘But, er…. I don’t even know your name’.
‘Paul. Paul Allotey. I’m Sarah, by the way. Paul, why don’t you leave me here, since this is the last important thing I’m doing today’.
‘Okay. Now Sarah. I was just thinking. You will be here at the cafe for about an hour. By then it will be about twelve thirty. By then, you would be thinking of buying yourself some lunch, to eat here or to take home. So if you would please allow me, I will take you to one of the nicest eating places in town, and after you have sorted that one out, then I can drop you home. Just that one errand, then I won’t bother you again’.
‘You are not bothering me at all. You are being very kind to me. And I just realised you are a mind reader too. The last item on my agenda was lunch’.
‘I’m so glad I appeared at your doorstep, just in time’.
‘Okay. Now Paul, since you say the cafe is a comfortable place, let’s go in together, and you can do your work while I get my application done’.
‘Okay, Sarah. Thanks. Let’s go’.
By Ekow de Heer
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Features
MPs, churches, bad dressing

GHANA’S Parliament is a peaceful one. The arguments on the floor of the House can be fierce, but the House doesn’t catch fire. Ghana’s democracy has passed the acid-test of constitutional pluralism, and her legislature is a model of democratic beauty others are learning from.
Sometimes it is edifying following proceedings in Parliament and you are likely to catch the voice of Honourable Alban Bagbin in full flight. He doesn’t talk much. His English vocabulary does the talking.
Last week, I heard another MP talking on bad dressing, and I must congratulate him on his brilliant exhibition of vocabulary, delivered in Westminster tradition.
Such explosive delivery titillates the floor of the House and brings joy to members and Mr Speaker.
In the parliament of some countries, there is no need for such niceties. The floor of the House is regarded as a battle ground. Others, including lady members, see it as a boxing ring, where the spoken word is often jettisoned and supplanted with punches and upper-cuts.
PART-TIME
So the average parliamentarian trains part-time as a boxer, in case boxing skills will be needed in the House to iron out knotty points.
The ladies’ pedicure and manicure are carefully designed to fulfil a dual purpose. One is to showcase trendiness and the other is to scratch the faces of opponents in the House whether they are ladies or gentlemen.
Sometimes, the Speaker has to keep shouting and banging for well over 15 minutes as a recalcitrant MP dashes across and grabs the tie of another MP, thus precipitating a free-for-all brawl. Some MPs return home with a half nose, a missing left ear and a double forehead.
None of the offending parties is sanctioned because brawling in parliament is seen as a democratic process, since some MPs are so stubborn that only a sidekick to the ribs can mellow them. Meanwhile, a free-for-all is good exercise for the MPs, some of whom have grown too fat due to over-feeding.
Fortunately, the parliament of Sikaman has a civil democratic culture and debates get fierce but punches are not unleashed. For comic relief however, MPs do some break dancing once in a while.
When ROPAB was passed into law, some MPs caused a stir by bursting into song and dance. Mr. Speaker was be wildered, but obviously pleased that his announcement of the passage of the bill had brought joy to the House.
Others were not happy, though. The bill and the debates had caused them enough distress. As for the passage, it was like cutting their throats. They groaned in their hearts. No punches, no karate. That is democracy in its maturing stage. It is tempered with reason and civility. One day, it will be their turn to laugh and dance.
Now, the MP who spoke on bad dressing did a good job by all standards and added value to his delivery by going highfalutin. He wanted a law to be enacted against bad dressing, because it was not good for society.
What constitutes bad dressing? That is a very difficult question. Judging what is good or bad as far as dressing is concerned will obviously depend on the setting or context.
For example, going virtually naked on a holiday beach is considered good dressing. But when a man and his wife storm a church room in their birth-time suits (naked) the pastor and his deacons will surely take cover. It means a sartorial revolution has precipitated and only the Holy Spirit can hold tempers at bay.
STYLISH
In the streets of Sikaman, a lady with a very short skirt is admired by some as trendy and stylish. Others would think she is indecent and a bad influence. But the question that arises ultimately is this: Don’t people have the right to wear what they want to wear, so long as the unseemly parts of their bodies are not laid bare?
Certainly, nobody will go totally naked in the streets, unless the person is either in-sane or is a Black Stars supporter painted in the national colours. Even then, he’d be in what is called ‘pioto,’ with his ‘instrument’ well-positioned. That is called proper dressing.
So in the streets, this kind of dressing will be considered good or bad depending on the setting and the extent of exposure of the private parts (breasts, thighs, lower back, buttocks, etc).
Personally, I feel the churches should be very scrupulous about the dressing of those who go in to worship. The ushers should be tasked with ushering away badly-dressed worshippers. Incidentally, they are the worshippers who like the front pews, and the pastor is so distracted he can’t preach any meaningful sermon.
However, a law on dressing is something I won’t advocate, for the simple reason that, first, there is no clear definition of what is bad dressing and second, society must be left to evolve its own dress culture so that fashion and creativity in fashion design will not be stifle Any law to regulate dressing will kill such creativity.
This article was first published on Saturday July, 2006
Features
The body under siege: how long-term stress wears you down
Most people think stress is just in your head. When you feel overwhelmed, overworked, or emotionally drained, you might think you just need a good night’s sleep or a quick mental break.
However, science and biology show us something entirely different. Chronic, long-term stress is not just an emotion—it is a full-body physical condition. When you live in a constant state of survival mode, pushing past your limits without real rest, your body pays a very heavy physical price.
Here is a clear, step-by-step look at how ongoing stress physically breaks down the human body, explained simply.
Step 1: The endless flood of stress chemicals
What happens normally: When you face a sudden emergency, your body releases stress hormones like adrenaline and cortisol. They give you a quick burst of energy, speed up your heart, and help you react fast. This is a great survival tool for short bursts.
How stress breaks you down: If you never truly relax, your body never turns off that alarm. Your bloodstream stays flooded with cortisol and adrenaline day after day. Over time, having these chemicals constantly sloshing around acts like a slow poison. It damages your blood vessels, raises your blood pressure, messes with your metabolism, and even wears down your DNA, making you age faster.
Step 2: The silent internal fire (Chronic Inflammation)
What happens normally: When your brain senses danger or stress, it assumes you might get hurt, so it tells your immune system to cause inflammation (swelling and heat) to fight off germs and heal injuries.
How stress breaks you down: When stress lasts for months or years, your immune system gets confused and leaves that “fire” burning permanently. Instead of healing an injury, this silent internal inflammation starts attacking your healthy cells, joints, and organs. Over time, it paves the way for serious health issues, heart trouble, and total body fatigue.
Step 3: Turning your muscles into armor (Fascial Hardening)
What happens normally: Your body is wrapped in a web of strong connective tissue called fascia that holds your muscles, bones, and organs together. When you face pressure or trauma, that tissue automatically tightens up to protect you like a suit of armor.
How stress breaks you down: If you stay tense for years, that tissue never softens back up. It freezes in place, creating tight, painful physical knots (often called emotional lesions). Blood and oxygen can’t flow easily through those locked-up areas, leaving you stiff, aching, and physically unable to truly let go of tension.
Step 4: Burning out your body’s engine (Nervous System Overdrive)
What happens normally: Your nervous system has two main gears:
The Gas Pedal (fight-or-flight mode for dealing with emergencies).
The Brake Pedal (rest-and-digest mode for healing and repairing your body).
How stress breaks you down: Chronic stress forces your foot down hard on the gas pedal 24/7. Your heart beats faster than it should, your digestion shuts down, and your body is denied the deep rest it needs to repair itself. Eventually, your heart and nervous system run completely out of fuel from sheer exhaustion.
Reclaiming your health and sovereignty
Chronic stress wears you down slowly by keeping your body chemically toxic, inflamed, and locked-up in physical armour, and running on empty.
By understanding that stress is a physical breakdown rather than just a bad mood, you can stop glorifying endless endurance. It allows you to recognise when your body is screaming for a reset, helping you shift away from burnout and back toward true physical calm, balance, and sovereignty.
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