Features
Growing up… (Part 2)

As happens in many societies, some of my classmates from Anyako fell on hard times. The day after I arrived for my uncle’s funeral, I met one of them. She had only a loin cloth covering her lower parts. She carried an aluminium bowl in her armpit, her elbow in the bowl with her hand holding it at the rim. We recognised each other instantly, calling out our names. Her upper torso looked rather masculine which made my heart sink.
She was far older than me in school and is now a fishmonger of sort. I thought of how someone in their mid-seventies can be rehabilitated. After parting with a grateful smile for a few cedis in her palm, I knew she was not alone; a part of me was in that situation. I knew my mates would feel the same way too.
Many of my mates became accountants, bankers, professors, educationists and more. Those we have lost track of might be in many other fields, I reckon.
Our teachers were a major part of our growing up. They were revered by the townsfolk. If you met a teacher in town you removed your footwear before greeting them. Fortunately, I didn’t have to do that because I put on my first flip-flop after I turned 14. We went everywhere barefoot, though Anyako was full of oyster shells in the ground. We had cuts of all shapes but the salt in the soil might have served as antibiotics to prevent tetanus.
Some teachers were quite friendly while others took discipline to dizzying heights. They had the cane in hand at the ready for any act of indiscipline on our part. Under all these we enjoyed growing up. We were hardly ever hungry, thanks to aunties and elder cousins who had something at the ready always.
Some of us became choristers in Church. We loved the singing because it gave us joy, pride and leverage. Someone donated brass musical instruments to our school, so I graduated from the flute to these instruments as a bandboy. I tried the trumpet, cornet, the horn and the tuba, but settled on the tuba because of its bass sound. There was one saxophone in the mix but methinks our music teacher did not know how to handle it so it lay unused till I left for secondary school.
When I was to be confirmed in the Church in 1966 and tried my new shoes on for the first time, I did not know how to walk in them. Was I to step forward with the heels or toes? This alone took more practise to get the feel than anything I have tried.
Until Ghana changed its currency from Pounds to Cedis, I never saw a pound note. I only knew the look in textbooks. I saw a 10-shilling note once when I accompanied a cousin to the market one day. My grandmother, like others, went to the market with coins and came back home with basketfuls of goodies to last till the next market day four days later.
But something happened, which has lived in my mind till date. It was in 1963 when a woman who prepared and sold yakayake, a local food derived from cassava granules, beat gong-gong in the town for three consecutive days that someone had stolen her one pound and called on the thief to humbly return her money. Apparently, she bought the cassava dough on credit and paid back after selling her yakayake. One pound was an awful lot of money and so it was unfathomable to owe one’s suppliers that amount.
Though a suspect was spotted in the woman’s place at the time of the theft, he vehemently denied taking the money. This poor woman threatened to invoke the god of thunder to seek justice if by a certain deadline she did not get her money back. Incidentally, this was in August when it was raining heavily, which eventually caused flooding of the Lagoon.
During one heavy rainstorm, I heard the loudest three claps of thunder, each 90 seconds from the other. I heard my grandmother say, “This thunder is unusual; it surely might have caused havoc somewhere.” Apparently, the suspect in the one pound theft case had gone fishing with some colleagues. At the first lightning, he had a schock and asked his colleagues to hold him, which they did.
The second yanked him from the grips of his friends in the canoe and dropped him over 50 metres away into the water. The third split his chest open, killing him instantly. Some rituals were performed before his body was put on a wooden plank and dragged away for burial.
This was the talk of the town for many months. If you were at Anyako at this time and would want to have sticky fingers, that was entirely up to you. Another happened at Konu, the eastern tip of Amyako, when lightning struck a woman. This had nothing to do with theft; she was carrying an aluminium bowl during a thunderstorm. Aluminium, I am told, is a good conductor of electricity.
My personal fear of lightning lingered on until 1986 when I was forced by circumstance to confront that fear. I was driving from Accra to Anyako after work. Then somewhere between Tsokpoli and Dawa the rain clouds opened up and the accompanying lightning was incessant. A niece was in the passenger seat and I did not have to show fear. Could it be adrenaline that gave me a bravado I never knew existed? Or just facing my fear head-on? Maybe both. To stop the car would have been suicidal, given the fact that the area could flood and drag the car away.
With the windshield wipers at full blast and hazard lights on, we braved the weather and got home to Anyako safely.
Konu lies to the east of Anyako township. Growing up in Anyako for the six-year period did not see me in that part more than half a dozen times, though my grand uncle, Tormadogo Segbefia, married Konu women and moved to settle there. The residents of Konu had a peculiar twang to the way they spoke the language so we could determine who they were once they spoke. I don’t know if it was deliberate because I don’t hear that any longer. Today, my Holy village is referred to as Anyako-Konu.
My people were mainly fishers, kente weavers and boatmen. I had a few neighbours who taught me the art of weaving but I could not match the dexterity with which they wove the kente patterns. The boatmen ferried passengers across the eight miles to Keta, which was a trading post until tidal waves caused its decline. It is now quicker driving the circuitous routes to Keta than trying by boat or canoe.
Weaving is virtually absent and the lagoon does not yield as much fish as it used to even up till about 20 years ago. To revive the fishing business and get it back to its glory means the Keta Lagoon has to be dredged and measures put in place to forestall silting. The depth of the water could enhance fishing all-year round. The last time I checked, it would cost $98 million to do. It’s quite expensive but when it is done, economic activities will boom in the area for a long time to come. All it takes is the political will and the will of the chiefs of the area to support it.
I might have been born in Koforidua, lived mostly there and in Accra, but as an Anyako boy, my village is of a sentimental value to me. There is no place like home.
Writer’s email address: akofa45@yahoo.com
By Dr. Akofa K. Segbefia
Features
Farmers, fund and the mafia


The notion some people have about the Sikaman farmer can be amusing. It is the belief of some that immediately a struggling farmer manages to grab a loan, the first thing he does is to invite his abusua (kith and kin) home and abroad.
He organises a mini-festival using palm wine mixed with Guinness as the first course. There and then he announces that he is no longer a poor man; in effect he has ceased to be the close buddy of Mr John Poverty.
The ceremony will be consummated with singing and breakdance, a brief church service, drama and poetry recitals.
At least three bearded goats complete with moustache and four cockerels would be sacrificed in various recipes to celebrate the farmer’s broken alliance with poverty. Some would end up as fufu and light soup, grilled chicken, toasted mutton and smiling goat-head pepper soup. In short, the loan was well taken and well utilised.
The farmer’s prosperity begins right from the stomach. His idea is that if you don’t prosper in the stomach, there is no way you can prosper outside it.
Some farmer are ‘wiser’ though. When they get the loan, they promptly look for new wives. They can no longer continue enjoying one soup everyday like that. Variety is the spice of life! A new wife would bring new zest, new hope and heavenly glary into the farmer’s life. Most importantly the new wife would bring more action into his waist.
So the loan goes indirectly into promoting physical exercise for the human waist instead of the expansion of the farm, purchase of new equipment and improved seeds. Farmers of this nature are jokers, not farmers.
Is it probably because of these whimsical reasons that the banks are reluctant to grant loans to farmers? Obviously with the celebration of mini festivals and the installation of new wives, it is unlikely bank loans can ever be repaid. Of course, farmers who are more concerned about their libido can only be experts in re-scheduling loan payments and not in paying back loans.
Banks are very much concerned about getting their monies back with interest whenever they give out loans. So they demand collateral security as a requirement for the granting of loans. Some farmers actually don’t have anything they can put up as collateral except their hoes, cutlasses and wives. So they struggle through life, not going and not coming.
I do not blame the banks for not granting loans to those who cannot put up collateral. But what about those who are very serious farmers and can put up collateral. Should they also be denied?
Farming is seasonal and a farmer may need a loan only within a certain period to grow crops or breed birds. When the period elapses before the loans are granted, farmers are tempted to misapply the money because it lies idle. In fact, with idle money lying around, the farmer may be tempted to ‘purchase’ a new wife.
It goes without saying that farmers need money but for specific periods when the banks apparently do not take into consideration. Within three months in a year (main cropping season), a crop farmer must plant, nurture, harvest and sell. He applies for a loan and takes nine months or is not even granted. Meanwhile the money lies under his bed waiting to be enjoyed. Not all farmers are angels.
Now, If the government has seen and acknowledged the importance of farmers in national development and has instituted a Farmers’ Day which is a public holiday during which farmers are awarded, then government might as well also do something about funding for our serious farmers, at least the award winning ones to expand and grow since bank loans are not readily available.
Lama of Site 21, Tema, a man of great learning and of vision, has just been telling me that when a farmer gets an award, it means he knows his way about his job, is serious and diligent. According to him, most likely that such a person would also be investment-conscious and judicious in the use of his resources, and not interested in enstooling a new wife.
If government can set up a fund to assist, not with cash but by way of inputs, most of our farmers who have not had any assistance to propel themselves above sea level would be most thankful.
Interview a few award-winning farmers and they would tell you their palaver. The Overall Tema Municipal Farmer Mr Ellis Aferi and his wife Mrs Rosemary Aferi, began their Soka Farms Complex with ten fowls. The pig (a sow), was sent to a farm on a cart to be serviced and brought back breeding.
His piggery is now a real model of inspiration. “We started right from the scratch without any bank loan or financial assistance from any quarter. We placed our trust in labour, hard work and the advice of extension officers. Today we have a large piggery, poultry breeding house, mushroom and snail quarters, fishpond and beehives aside the rabbits we breed. All these without a penny from anywhere,” Mr Aferi told me just last week.
However, he bemoaned the current situation farmers are facing “We have exploited our creativity, our imagination and our muscles. There is a limit to productivity using only human labour and ingenuity. We now want to grow bigger but without funding there is little we can achieve in our bid to grow and develop.”
Mr Aferi like, his colleagues, uses about one ton of wheat bran to prepare feed for his birds, pigs, snails and fishes every week. When Food Complex was in operation, they had their wheat bran without problem. Today, there are mafia connections in the wheat bran trade.
According to all the livestock farmers I’ve spoken to, it is hard to get wheat bran from GAFCO or Irani Brothers directly. They allege that the companies prefer to sell to some wealthy women and top business-men who can buy wheat bran on conditional basis (that is together with flour and other products of the companies), than to farmers.
Then these women and businessmen through their agents resell the bran to the poor farmers at cut-throat prices. I don’t think the system is being fair to farmers. It is indeed a tragedy for the farmers who through their sweat and blood the nation is fed.
“We protest heart and soul,” one farmer yelled at me as if I was responsible for their plight. “How can I feed my birds and pigs satisfactorily if I cannot get wheat bran at the factory price? We disagree that because we are poor, things should be made difficult for us. The rich must not be allowed to exploit us like that.”
The proprietor of Soka Farms, Mr Aferi, for instance has risen from the discomfort of the dust and hardness of the earth to such an enviable height to be an award winner who now holds seminars for farmers, students and officials of organisations on his farm near the Ashiaman-Michel Camp barrier. He must be propped up, even if not with money with inputs on credit basis.
The government must think about setting up a special fund for such individual farmers to grow, while preventing them from cheats and those in the cloak of the mafia.
This article was first published on Saturday, September 21, 1996
Features
Mystery surrounding figure five
There seems to be something mysterious about the figure five or numbers ending in five. A few days ago I realised it was June 3, so I called my brother-in-law, to talk about his narrow escape from the disaster which occurred at circle in 2015.
It is a date that reminds the family each year of the goodness of the Lord every year since the incident. My brother-in-law had been standing and chatting with some friends at one of the shops that got burnt less than an hour before the incident happened.
Therefore for us as a family, we celebrate that day as a day of deliverance of one of us even as we sympathise with those who lost loved ones in that fire disaster. Later on after I finished talking to my brother-in-law and was reflecting on the incident and issues around it, another incident early on in that same year, came to mind.
The incident had to do with an air disaster in Europe and I began wondering if the number five in the figure 2015, had something to do with it.
Reports came through that a Lufthansa flight from Barcelona in Spain, flying to Germany, had disappeared from the radar around the Swiss Alps and that a search was being organised to try and locate it.
The result of the search established that the aircraft had crashed. What is even sad about this incident are the issues that led to its occurrence. Investigations conducted after the crash revealed that, it was deliberately caused.
It was revealed that, the pilot steeped out of the cockpit to go to the washroom. The co-pilot locked the door so no one could enter the cockpit without him opening it.
He then proceeded to set the aircraft on autopilot to crash the plane. When the Pilot realised that there was something wrong with the plane he rushed towards the cockpit, only to realise that it was locked.
He banged on the door to no avail. They tried contacting the co-pilot but he would not answer. Nothing in this world will be more painful than to see death coming and being helpless to prevent it. They could do nothing until the plane crashed.
A former girlfriend of the co-pilot revealed later to the investigators that he once told her that one day, he would do something that the world will forever remember his name. It came out later also, that he was told by his Doctor not to fly a plane again until his medical condition improves.
Apparently he had a mental problem but he kept it to himself and his employer never knew anything about his condition and he sadly killed high school students, about 60 from the same school, returning home from an educational tour in Spain.
This is one thing I have been praying against and I can imagine the grief of the parents of these students who tragically lost their lives.
In 2005, there was Hurricane Katrina which brought in its wake such a huge devastation in the United States. In that same year, an earthquake occurred in Kashmir resulting in over 86,000 people losing their lives, again note the last digit of the figure 2005.
I am therefore inclined to believe that we need to intensify prayer this year, 2025 to avert disaster. History has a way of repeating itself. Until I grew up, especially at the secondary school level, I wondered why we should study history and that apart from it being a reminder of dates on which certain events occurred, there was really no use for it.
I now know better that it is the basis for forecasting future events. Our teachers did not help us by not telling us the importance of history, maybe I would have become the National
By Laud Kissi-Mensah