Features
Chicken country or what?
Policemen and journalists have never been good bedfellows. Fact is that they’ve never trusted each other. Policemen have been accused of withholding information from journalists when they need them for their hot front-page stories. “Please, we are still investigating the case and cannot give you any information until it is completed,” a police detective-inspector would tell a journalist who wants to hit the head- lines.
On the other hand, policemen also accuse journalists of allegedly misquoting them, such that when the policeman, for instance, tells the journalist that the thief stole a black goat with a beard, the journalist would add a little colour and write that the thief stole a goat with a moustache.
According to Detective-Sergeant Mensah, the thief was very athletic and smart. He scaled the wall and stole the black goat which had a thick moustache. It was not immediately known whether the moustache resembled that of Saddam Hussein or not”.
The point of controversy here is whether the policeman really mentioned that the poor goat had moustache or a beard or both.
Anyhow, the journalist can defend himself. “It is impossible for any living thing to have a beard without a moustache. So, certainly the goat really did have a moustache that has never been trimmed, according to reliable sources.”
I wonder what the marriage between a policeman and a journalist would be. If the policeman snores too much, the angry journalist would threaten, “Tomorrow, I am going to do a feature on you for snoring dangerously at midnight without seeking permission from the Inspector General of Police (IGP). I’ll also ask the IGP to reduce the size of your nose, so that when you snore the room does not shake again”
And the policeman would counter, “I am going to lock you in the monkey-house for sneezing like a stubborn goat. It is a breach of public peace and you’ll be prosecuted. See me at the charge office immediately you’ve finished preparing breakfast.”
This kind of marriage does not easily dissolve. On the contrary it lasts forever. They understand themselves, after all. If for anything at all, aren’t they in similar professions? The journalist stays the night to get a piece of news into the following day’s paper. A policeman also patrols the night.
And aren’t both of them poorly paid? Both also have the same likes and dislikes. The journalist is permissive to gifts called ‘Soli’. Some policemen are also addicted to receiving gifts. I don’t know how they call theirs. In any case, blessed are those who receiveth but giveth not.
But who says the police do not give? In recent times, the police have become magnanimous, especially to journalists. It is surprising because they do not quite trust themselves.
For some years now, the police have, once in a year, invited journalists from the various press houses to wine and dine together. It is often like a wedding ceremony for two somewhat incompatible eligibles. Whether the police are the groom and journalists the bride is yet to be ascertained.
Such yearly get-together at the expense of the police is very healthful to the relationship between the press and the police. The police have the opportunity to discuss their problems with journalists and vice versa and each understands the other to make for a good marriage. For better or for worse.
This year’s get-together took place last week Friday. The police were well-prepared but alas, it turned out to be a disaster.
The police hosted some journalists of New Times Corporation at Country Kitchen, a popular Accra restaurant. But tragically enough, Country Kitchen was a big disappointment.
The Police Public Relations Officer set the ball rolling: “Ladies and gentlemen we’ve invited you here today like we did last year to sit over lunch and get to know ourselves better. We will tell you our problems and you’ll tell us yours… We want the relationship between us to be very cordial so that we can co-operate and rely on each other during the course of our duties…”
A waiter was supposed to be serving drinks to about fifteen policemen and journalists.
A whole Country Kitchen had only one waiter at the time. A smallish-looking chap, probably a recent JSS graduate, finely attired in white top and black trousers, looked a bit punkish and obviously over-worked.
He took our orders for drinks and it took almost an hour for some of us to get ours. When my Editor had his, I asked him whether there was only one waiter in such a well-known restaurant.
“I don’t know what is happening here,” he said. He was sipping his beer; he’d had his quite early and my throat was parched. I wanted to ask him whether I could pour a glassful of his beer and reimburse when mine came, but others were looking my way so I shut Police my beak.
Many of us were hanging on and the chatting continued. My editor spoke extensively on the ways the police and the press could work hand in hand.
Meanwhile, the drinks were not coming. Then the 3.00 pm waiter, sweating now gave me my beer, more than forty minutes after he took the orders. He now took orders for the food.
Earlier, the top policeman had announced that everybody could choose any dish from the menu, irrespective of the cost. Quite generous of policemen, isn’t it?
It took more than an hour-and-a-half to get one of us a plate of fufu and light soup. Many ate rice and chicken with chips and salad, and practically everybody was starving before the meal came. The police boss was all the time apologising “Ladies and gentlemen, there is a little hitch, please bear with us.”
Of course, we had to bear with our hosts because they were policemen and not cooks. When after two hours my Editor had still not had his food, he asked whether this was Country Kitchen which advertises that you could just ring from anywhere and you’d be served immediately.
Someone commented rather ironically that they could serve you immediately you rang. However, when you come to their premises you’ll have to wait for more than two hours. That was COUNTRY KITCHEN with that same tired boy serving the food, no one to help him.
I looked at his face and reckoned that he himself was very hungry. Perhaps he’d taken only koko and bofrot in the morning. He was clearly tired, over-worked, over-exploited. Customers were indeed getting impatient.
“We hold your foot sir,” my editor told the police boss. “What is actually happening?” “Please, bear with us.”
Yeah, it was a Friday and the editor wanted to go to the bank, otherwise the week-end would be wahalla for him. We had arrived and got seated at about 12.35 p.m. and he had to get to the bank latest 3:00 p.m. By 2.50 p.m. his order had still not come
He couldn’t tell his hosts to go to hell and that he was leaving. It would have spoiled the marriage and the honeymoon. So by 3.00 p.m., the editor had long completed his beer and was still waiting for the food while the bank doors were being locked.
I wonder how he survived the week-end. I will ask him. At last, everybody was served, me last. It took more than two hours to serve me just rice and mutton. I don’t know whether they now have to grow the rice at the restaurant before cooking it for the guests while they wait.
Yes, the food did come, but Harry Reynolds, a colleague of mine was shocked to see something in his. What! What he saw is unprintable. When you see him ask him. The food had to be replaced.
All through the meal, no water was served, not even ordinary water. After the meal, no water was served either. It was such an embarrassment to the Police. The proprietor, I must say is actually messing the place.
Some of us who couldn’t eat there required takeaways, and that took an extra hour to organise, with the same boy at it, almost out of breath now.
As we filed away from the place to board the bus back to our workplaces, the journalists looked into the eyes of the police and police looked back into our eyes wondering whether this indeed was the legendary Country Kitchen.
Probably it wasn’t but sure it was written there. I looked at the inscription and I thought I read COUNTRY KITCHEN. I began to feel dizzy. I read it again. I saw CHICKEN COUNTRY after all, but the letters kept changing
I asked Harry Reynolds. Is this Country Kitchen or Kitchen Country or Chicken Country? Or What? “Go and ask your friend Kwame Korkorti,” he said.
By Merari Alomele
When Abigail Fremah steps up to the Armwrestling table, the noise fades, the tension settles, and order takes over.
Despite a calm, but firm and meticulous disposition, she has become one of the quiet forces shaping Ghana’s growing reputation in the sport, not as an athlete, but a referee trusted on the continental stage.
Abigail’s journey into Armwrestling did not begin at the table. Like many Ghanaian sports enthusiasts, she grew up playing several disciplines. Football was her first love, but she also featured in volleyball and basketball during her school years. Sports, she says, was simply a way of life not just for her.
“It runs through the family. All my siblings are into sports,” she stated.
“I was involved in almost every sport in school, football, volleyball, netball, hockey; I did everything,” she recalls.
Her academic background in Health, Physical Education and Recreation laid a solid foundation for her sporting career. While on scholarship at the university (University of Cape Coast), she often used her modest budget to support young athletes, sometimes sharing skills and even T-shirts at programmes she attended. Giving back, she explains, has always been part of her motivation.
However, as she matured as an athlete, Abigail made a critical self-assessment.
“Armwrestling involves a lot of strength,” she admits. “Looking at my body type, I realised I couldn’t fit properly as a competitive athlete.”
That moment of honesty pushed her to a different trajectory but equally important path in sports; which is officiating.
During her National Service, she was encouraged by Mr Charles Osei Asibey, the President of the Ghana Armwrestling Federation (GAF), to consider officiating. He introduced her to a technical official, Mr Hussein Akuerteh Addy, who formally took her through the basics of Armwrestling officiating in 2021.
“I started as a case official,” she says. “We moved from region to region every week, officiating competitions. That’s where it all began.”
By 2022, Abigail was actively involved in national assignments, though she missed the African Championship that year. Her breakthrough came in 2023, when Ghana hosted the African Armwrestling Championship.
It was her first experience officiating at a major international competition and it changed everything.
“That was my first national and international exposure at the same time,” she says. “It really opened my eyes.”
Today, Abigail is a World Junior Armwrestling Referee, a status earned through performance, consistency and discipline. She explains that progression in officiating was not automatic.
“It’s all about performance, your appearance at African Championships, your conduct, how you handle pressure; that’s what takes you to the world level,” she stressed.
As a referee, Abigail’s priority is safety and fairness. Armwrestling, she notes, comes with risks, particularly injuries to the wrists, elbows, shoulders and arms.
“If athletes don’t follow the rules or refuse to listen to officials, injuries can happen,” she explains, adding that focus was everything.
Before every match, she ensures that all equipment which includes elbow pads, hand pegs and table alignment were properly set. Athletes are not allowed to cover their elbows, must grip correctly, and must follow the referee’s commands precisely.
“We make sure everything is fixed before the grip,” she says. “Once we say ‘Ready… Go’, there should be no confusion.”
She is also firm on discipline. Warnings are issued for infractions, and repeated misconduct attracts penalties.
“The referee must be respected, if you don’t listen, the rules will deal with you,” she says.
Abigail credits her confidence partly to her sporting family background. Her mother was a volleyball player, while other family members also participated in sports. Though they were initially concerned about her safety, her rise to the top reassured them.
“They were afraid at first,” she admits. “But they were also very proud, especially because some of them never got the opportunity to reach this level.”
Looking ahead, Abigail is optimistic about the future of Armwrestling in Ghana. In less than a decade, the country has produced African and world-level medalists, a sign, she believes, of great things to come for Ghana.
“Whenever we go out, we come back with medals such as gold and silver,” she says, and to her that was a sign of growth.
In the next five to ten years, Abigail sees herself rising to become a World Master Referee, the highest officiating level in the sport. Until then, her routine remains intense, training four times a week, working closely with athletes, standing on her feet for hours, and constantly refining her understanding of the rules.
“I love this sport,” she says simply. “That love is what keeps me going.”
Abigail encouraged women to be bold and intentional about their place in sports saying “don’t limit yourself because of fear or stereotypes.”
She also urged women to invest in learning, discipline and consistency, stressing that respect was earned through performance.
For Abigail, as Ghana’s armwrestlers continue to make their mark, she will remain where she is most effective at the table, ensuring the game is played right.
By Esinam Jemima Kuatsinu
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As he had promised Aperkeh, the elderly man and his wife and three daughters stopped by Aperkeh’s parents’ house. Mr Amando and his family were preparing to settle in for the night.
“Brother Ben and family”, Mr Joshua Amando said warmly, “although I know you are here on a matter that can hardly be described as joyous, it is still good to see you. You are welcome. Please sit down while I bring you water”.
“Yes, we will take water, even though we are hardly thirsty, because this is our home”.
“Okay, Ben”, he started after they had drank, “Let me go straight to the point. My daughter Priscilla has told me about the goings on between her brother Aperkeh and our daughter Stella.
Before informing me, Priscilla had expressed concern to Aperkeh about some habits he is adopting, especially the late nights and the drinking. She tells me that one Saturday morning, she was there when Stella complained about his drinking and some girls who had come to the house to look for him, and he assaulted her.
I called him and complained, but all he could say was that I don’t know what caused him to react that way, so I could not judge him. Now he does not answer my calls.
I have sent Priscilla to his house to call him, but he has refused to come. Unfortunately, Ben, my son is a much different person than the young boy who completed university and started work at the bank. I am really embarrassed about his treatment of Stella”.
“Joshua, let me assure you that even though what is happening is very unfortunate, it will not affect our relationship.
We have been friends since childhood, and I thought that with their parents’ blessing, the relationship between Aperkeh and Stella would grow to become a blessing to all of us. But there appears to be a real challenge now.
Stella thinks that Aperkeh wants her out of his house, and indeed Aperkeh himself told me that, about an hour ago.
So I’m taking my daughter home. I suggest that you do what you can to straighten him out, but if it does not work out, let’s accept the situation and continue to be one family.
I am sure that being the well behaved girl that she is, Stella will meet a young man who will cherish her. Fortunately, this problem is happening early in the day, so they can sort things out if possible, or move on with their lives if they are unable to stay together”.
“I’m really grateful for that, Ben. I will do my best in the next few days to reason with him, because apart from the relationship with Stella, Aperkeh is risking his job and career with this lifestyle.
A good job and salary offers an opportunity to gather momentum in life, not to destroy yourself”.
“Okay Brother Joshua. We will say goodnight. I hope to hear positive news from you”.
As he descended in the lift from the fourth to the ground floor, Aperkeh wondered who would be waiting at the reception to see him at nine on Monday morning. He had spent good time with both of his new girls during the weekend, so it had to be someone else. He got out of the lift and pulled a face when he saw Priscilla.
“Priscilla”, he said as he sat down by her, “what do you want here? You know Monday morning is a busy time at the bank. I am a very busy person, so say what you want, I have work to do”.
“You are very funny, Aperkeh. You are telling me, your sister, that you have work to do, so I should hurry up? Okay, Dad says I should advise you to come home tonight, because he wants to discuss the issue of Stella with you. He sent me to you twice, and you did not come.
He has tried to call you quite a number of times, but you have refused to answer his calls. He says that if you do not come tonight, you will be very surprised at what he will do. He says you will not like it at all, so better come.
“What is all this? Why won’t you people leave me alone? Stella is very disrespectful. I told her that if she wanted to continue to live in my house, she must obey me. It is that simple.
She chose to continue ordering me about, controlling me in my own house, so I told her that if she could not live under my conditions she should leave. And she left. In fact, her own father came and took her away. So what again?’’
“How did she disobey or control you? Was she complaining about your continuous drinking and late nights? And did you slap her on several occasions because of that? Did you tell her that if she could not live under your conditions she should leave? You actually said that to her father? You have forgotten that before she came to live with you, our two parents met and agreed, and gave it their blessing?’
“Why don’t you leave, Priscilla? I don’t have to listen to all that”. “Okay, I will go. Your father who gave birth to you and educated you to university level sends me to you, and you ask me to leave? I wish you would defy him, and refuse to come home as he’s telling you, because he is planning to give you the discipline you badly need. Let me tell you. Stella is such a beautiful and decent girl, and I assure you that someone will grab her before you say Jack. You are only 30 years old, and you have already become a drunkard”.
As he walked towards the lift, Aperkeh decided on what to do. He would go home, and calmly listen to what his father had to say. The old man was very unpredictable, and he wouldn’t dare ignore him. So he would take all the insults and threats, but as for Stella she was history. According to Priscilla, Stella was beautiful and all that, but she had not seen the two curvaceous princesses who were all over him, ready to do anything he asked. And these were not barely literate waakye girls, but university graduates from wealthy homes, really classy girls. With stuff like that, who needs a waakye girl? He smiled as he took his seat.
A few minutes to five, Aperkeh was packing up to leave for home to meet his dad when his phone rang. It was Priscilla.
“Aperkeh, Dad says you don’t need to bother to come. Stella’s dad says she came to him early this morning to plead that she would rather stay at home than return to your house. She thinks you are already decided to be rid of her, and she does not want to risk being assaulted again. So it’s done. You can go ahead and enjoy the nice life you have started”.
Before he could tell her to go to hell, Priscilla hanged up the line. He was partially stung that his dad had virtually cut him off. The last thing anyone would want was to fall out of relationship with his own family, which had always supported him.
But the truth was he was no longer interested in Stella. What was wrong with going by one’s feelings? He could only hope that one day, his parents and sister would try to reason with him.
By Ekow de Heer
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