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Misplaced priority: The bane of Ghana
When I started studying journalism, the very first essay I wrote was titled: Misplaced priority. The English lecturer just gave the students the liberty to choose any topic and write about it.
For some of the students, that freedom meant “anything goes.” So, they took the easy way out and wrote on things that had no bearing on journalism, such as: The food I like best. At that level? Yes! I know it because we were made to exchange scripts and read someone else’s essay.
As I pondered what to write about, my instincts nudged me that the lecturer wanted to test how journalistically inclined the students were, and so the assignment must be about universal issues common to humanity.
So, I reflected on the ills in the society and I was surprised at the degree to which priorities were misplaced by all– students, mothers, fathers, governments, churches, and what-have-you.
At the time of the assignment, President Hophouet Boigny of La Cote d’Ivoire was building a miniature model of Rome’s cathedral, that is, St. Peter’s Basilica in Yamoussoukro while his people had a shortfall in affordable housing as well as other critical needs. I saw it as a misplaced priority.
I observed also that as students got their loans for books and other logistics, the first place they headed for was the cafeteria. What for? You see, hard times had deprived many of them of the ability to drink a bottle of beer or two.
So, when they got the money, it was time to get even; it was time to revenge against the system for “making them unable to enjoy small.” Before they realised it, the one or two bottles had moved into overdrive. The party must go on, and it did with everything in the mix – khebab of all types: guinea fowl, beef, and goat meat at the expense of what the money was meant for. Misplaced priority, indeed!
My reflection also brought to mind the imprudent behaviour of some fathers who tarried long at the bottle daily, enjoying a cocktail of drinks with friends while their children’s fees were in arrears. Their personal enjoyment and comfort seemed to be more important than their children’s education. Misplaced priority!
What about women who, in spite of the dire circumstances of their families, and the need to cut their coat according to their size, insist on a new cloth for every funeral to be abreast of the times? I wondered if that was really necessary while the family budget was always under some form of constraint. I saw that as a misplaced priority.
My attention drifted to contractors and how most of them used their mobilisation fee which at the time, was given to them, to, as it were, mobilise some equipment and logistics for the work to begin in earnest.
Instead, many of them opted to buy the latest Mercedes Benz or BMW to flaunt their opulence around their areas of conquest. How could you hire the necessary equipment for the work? Why not finish the work, get the big bucks, and then do all the somersaulting you desire to do? Misplaced priority!
Before long, I had a long list of examples to write about and concluded that the bane of Africa’s development was misplaced priority. That was several decades ago. And to our big shame, it still is.
Accra and other parts of the country have been flooding from Osagyefo Dr. Kwame Nkrumah’s time six decades ago, leading to loss of precious lives and extensive damage to property, and no government deems the problem huge enough to be accorded priority status in our development plan. At best, it is ad hoc measures, and they are not paying off.
One word that Ghana used to describe itself was “unprecedented.” Until Egypt, Nigeria, and Cameroun either overtook us in the trophy haul of the Africa Cup of Nations, or equaled our tally, we prided ourselves as the unprecedented four-time champions. Now, Egypt has way overtaken us and got seven, while Nigeria and Cameroun are at par with us.
We have relinquished the title in football but when it comes to flooding, Ghana now seems to be unprecedented leaders in how to maintain the status quo. This is what I call trailblazing in reverse. The Akans would say, “Adikan bedi akyire” meaning “The first shall be last.”
A country that was seen as the beacon of hope for other African countries, has now been overtaken by novices like Rwanda in terms of implementing development targets.
Last Saturday, May 21 2022, this fact was brought to the fore. The rains descended heavily on Accra and its environs, and as expected, huge swathes of land were flooded once again, a ritual that has become the rule rather than the exception.
Various media outlets corroborated one another’s coverage of the disaster with similar reports that the areas worst affected were Kaneshie Lorry Station precincts, the Kwame Nkrumah Interchange, Adabraka, North Kaneshie, Alajo, Tema, and Kasoa.
Homes were submerged and valuable property destroyed, including documents and computers at the head office of the Lands Commission as well as the State Transport Company
Vehicular traffic was impeded by the flood at some locations as the overflow gushed through major roads and highways, causing a major gridlock, especially, at the Kwame Nkrumah Circle, and bringing business to a halt in many places.
In the hardest hit areas, residents had no option but to evacuate their homes to seek refuge on higher ground elsewhere, including homes of friends, relatives, and just anywhere they could find shelter.
Even residents of areas like Adenta, Teshie, Nungua, Madina, and Spintex, which did not flood, had to grapple with currents of the surge from the drains that had brimmed over.
A timely warning by the Ghana Meteorological Agency and the Ghana Police Service served to avoid serious casualties. The public safety tips by the police for people to avoid certain areas proved particularly helpful.
Years back, a female medical officer tragically lost her life along the La Beach-Kpheshie Lagoon Road towards Teshie/Nungua stretch during a similar downpour as she was sadly swept off while driving.
Social media platforms were awash with videos, still pictures of the flood as well as comments about what government is doing about the situation and when Ghanaians will be free from this torment.
The government cannot pretend to be ignorant about how to solve the problem. And everybody knows that people have built unauthorised structures over waterways, preventing the free flow of water when it rains.
And these structures are still springing forth left and right as if there were no regulating authorities to oversee development planning. What are the assemblies doing? What is the central government doing? What is the problem? Is it lack of political will? Definitely! Is it misplaced priority? Of course!
For the sake of political gain, government after government has turned a blind eye to this crime, fearing that they would lose votes if they demolished such unauthorised structures.
Given the inaction of the authorities, the encroachers have concluded, and rightly so, that the government is just a toothless bulldog. It barks on end without ever biting. Consequently, they have been emboldened to continue their trespass with impunity without fear of retribution.
The solution is simple, and the authorities know it. Show some steel. Flex your strong muscle. Use all the arms of government – the Executive, the Judiciary, and the Legislature to do the right thing. And that is, demolish, demolish, demolish!
If the perennial problem of flooding in Ghana, especially in Accra, does not deserve to be accorded priority in our national development agenda, what other problem qualifies for premium attention? If this albatross is not removed from our neck, it will sink us like lead dropping to the bottom of the sea.
The police warning explained that the flood in certain areas was caused by the high level of the Odaw River which is dredged periodically. So, what shall it profit the nation if we dredge the lagoons and desilt the drains without tackling the root causes of the problem?
That is putting the cart before the horse. Unless we do the first things first, all the dredging and desilting would amount to nothing. They would just be an unnecessary dissipation of our scarce resources.
Apart from demolition, the government must ban plastic bags. They are non-biodegradable and are disposed of indiscriminately into drains, on the ground, and just anywhere. When it rains, they choke the drains and cause them to overflow and spill into the streets, leaving in their wake a huge trail of garbage.
Parliament and the assemblies must enact laws that impose heavy sanctions on people who dump garbage anyhow, especially plastics. That would stem the tide initially. Then, draining would work; then the demolitions would finish the job. Stop barking and bite.
Contact: teepeejubilee@yahoo.co.uk
By Tony Prempeh
All over the world, it has been recognised that nations who have developed, paid attention to education and continue to do so. If we pay lip service to the development of our educational system, we might as well forget about our development in the foreseeable future.
In order for effective teaching and learning to happen, the teacher who is the centre of it all, must be well motivated. Every person working in an office, every parliamentarian, every minister or deputy minister, all the way up to the first gentleman of the land, owes his or her status to a teacher.
Unfortunately, for some strange reason, our leaders who are the decision makers, do not seem to care very much about the welfare of teachers. The leadership of the various teacher unions, also appear not to be doing their job as is expected of them, leaving the teacher who had worked for over a year without being paid, frustrated.
The lack of seriousness that is attached to teachers’ issues is very worrying. My parents were teachers so I am very passionate about teachers’ issues. Gone are the days that we used to say that teachers will get their reward in Heaven.
Now those in the teaching profession are mostly youthful and they have a different mindset from that of our parents. They do not want their reward in Heaven, they want it here on this very earth.
A teacher sees his colleague who he was academically better than in school, from the same background socially, becomes a Municipal Chief Executive (MCE), an Member of Parliament (MP) or a Government Appointee and overnight, this guy becomes wealthy and you say he the teacher, should wait for his reward in Heaven?
His going there is not guaranteed anyway, so if he or she does not make it to Heaven, then what? Promises of government after government to teachers, remain unfulfilled and so they become disillusioned and demotivated to ensure effective teaching and learning.
I read a story of a lady, who as a child was suffering from Dyslexia but her teacher gave her the needed attention to help her and this even led her teacher to run into problems with the school authorities, resulting in the loss of her job. This lady grew up and became a famous actress and won an Oscar.
She then gave the prize money attached to the award, which was three million dollars, to her teacher who put her career on the line to help her out of her dyslexia challenge as a child.
There are many such teachers in our educational system because teaching is a calling, like medicine, like nursing etc. and therefore teachers who are the first point of call before we can climb the ladder to become the engineers, the lawyers, accountants and the rest, deserve special attention.
What is even important is the crucial role they play in shaping the moral character of future leaders which is invaluable.
Let us all, especially our leaders, place a high premium on the teacher who is at the centre of our educational system and who can make or unmake our future as a nation. How do you ask a teacher to go to a place, far removed from his or her parents and for a year and above not pay any salary to him or her?
How is the teacher to survive? If the same thing was done to any of our leaders, especially the leaders of the various teacher unions, will they be happy? How do they expect the teachers to survive and also be motivated to deliver quality teaching? Funds must be found to immediately resolve their unpaid salaries do they can be in the right frame of mind to do their very precious job. The teaching profession, in my view, is number one, when ranking professions because as an advert displays “If you can read this, thank a teacher”. Let us give our teachers their due. God bless.
By Laud Kissi-Mensah
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GREETINGS from Korkorti and from Kofi Owuo, alias Death-By-Poverty. When this column took a short break, the two friends summoned me. They wanted to know whether the column had gone on pension or was just on strike. I explained that the column was not on retirement and neither was it on a hunger strike. Rather, the column was of the habit of falling into coma for four weeks or thereabout every year.
Kwame Korkorti and Kofi Owuo (who is addicted to poverty and has sworn not to prosper) are two of my former classmates I cherish so much. And it was great fun to be a Nino in those days. In fact, on the first day on campus, Korkorti was bold enough to bully his own mates who tragically mistook him for a senior.
In fact, when the first-years arrived, Korkorti was one of them but quickly pretended he was in Form 2. So he began pulling the noses of his mates and brushing their faces when the real seniors were not quite in sight. It was when classes began that his victims realised the so-called nose-pulling senior was in fact their own classmate.
So Korkorti got famous for that gimmick. But his English was poor.
The English master was a tall, bombastic young man who claimed he was a former soccer star. In fact, he swore he had a magical left foot that was comparable to that of the legendary Pele. And his grandiloquence par excellence clearly distinguished him from other members of staff.
He did not quite like Korkorti because although the boy was stubborn and his head did not have a nice shape, the girls adored him. Moreover he never did his English Language assignments.
Stand up, you tall fool, the English master often ordered. Korkorti wouldn’t stand up but would just smile broadly.
“I say stand up” the teacher would bark now like a dog suffering from rabies “Get up and let me measure your stupidity.”
Korkorti would stand up this time round and yawn.
Certainly, lunchtime has been long in coming and a good yawn often relieved the young student’s stomach of gastronomic stress.
Invariably, the English guru did not like it when Korkorti yawned. For one thing, the boy opened his mouth too widely. For another, he yawned a bit too audibly and that caused laughter among his mates.
Certainly, the master must have figured out that the boy’s height was proportional to his stupidity. But there were no school rules against yawning
Merari Alomele’s
• A female student walking away from some male students
or wide mouth. In fact, there was freedom of yawning and snoring and Korkorti exercised both freedoms judiciously and democratically.
“Do you know when you yawn you look like a hungry crocodile,” the master once asked him.
“Yes sir, I am aware sir,” Korkorti confirmed and yawned again. This time he nearly swallowed the whole class. There was an uproar and the whole class reverberated in good laughter.
The English master shook his head and then nodded it like an agama lizard. This Korkorti boy was a real character, a phenomenon, a one-man thousand. Meanwhile lessons had to continue.
It was in those days when school was exciting and we often gathered and talked about girls. I had often dreamt of having a girl from Holy Child School because I had heard very saintly and curious things about them, I had learnt from a guy from Saint Augustine’s College that Holy Child girls were of a special breed, in fact a hybrid between the cultured home-bred variety and those of inner holiness. They were born of the Holy Spirit. The only thing was that they didn’t suffer under Pontius Pilate.
In short, they were angels in human form, spoke in a special way, walked with a unique and danced with heavenly steps. They were taught by Holy Nuns and so were quite different from us who had no hope of making any spirito-culturo-scholastic progress.
I confessed to Korkorti that I wanted a girl from Holy Child, not for immoral purposes but to partake of their saintly ways so that when it was time for going to heaven, Kwame Alomele could also be considered.
During vacations we met girls from Mawuli, Ola, Accra Girls, St. Roses, Wesley Girls but none from Holy Child. Then one day, Kwame Korkorti whispered into my ear that a Holy Child babe was in town and that he was sure my dreams had come true.
Korkorti organised it and we positioned at a spot, knowing the girl would traverse en route to the library or the market. After a boring period of waiting, Korkorti suddenly espied the child coming. I looked at her face and saw of an angel. What! This was the kind I always wanted. God bless my soul! This was really my chance and Korkorti had prophesied it.
“Hello Sister,” Korkorti called her when about to leave us.
The girl slowed down and looked at us. My heartbeat increased in tempo. What really was I going to tell this angel? Wouldn’t she think Korkorti was Satan and me a common red-eyed demon? I gathered courage.
“What do you want?” she asked in a sweet voice. My heart melted instantly. Spotless beauty with voice that did something to me. Good gracious!
“Eh-h, my friend says he likes you,” Korkorti to her bluntly.
At that very moment I felt as if a sledge-hammer had hit my chest with the force of a dynamite. What a blunder! What a shock! I felt dizzy instantly. My bosom friend had balked the whole agenda. Before I could recover from the shock, the girl had walked away. From that day. I never met another holy child.
In January, this year, I miraculously received a letter from an 18-year old Holy Child student who said she was my fan.
It was a nicely written letter and I enjoyed reading it. I then relived the Korkorti incident and laughed aloud to myself.
So when Korkorti and Kofi Owuo summoned me, I reminded them of the day my heart melted at the sight of the angel; that angel which disappeared before my eyes and made me go back home not crying and yet not laughing.
Proofread
Searching for the Holy Child
GREETINGS from Korkorti and from Kofi Owuo, alias Death-By-Poverty. When this column took a short break, the two friends summoned me. They wanted to know whether the column had gone on pension or was just on strike.
I explained that the column was not on retirement and neither was it on a hunger strike. Rather, the column was of the habit of falling into coma for four weeks or thereabout every year.
Kwame Korkorti and Kofi Owuo (who is addicted to poverty and has sworn not to prosper) are two of my former classmates I cherish so much. And it was great fun to be a Nino in those days. In fact, on the first day on campus, Korkorti was bold enough to bully his own mates who tragically mistook him for a senior.
In fact, when the first-years arrived, Korkorti was one of them but quickly pretended he was in Form 2. So he began pulling the noses of his mates and brushing their faces when the real seniors were not quite in sight. It was when classes began that his victims realised the so-called nose-pulling senior was in fact their own classmate
So Korkorti got famous for that gimmick. But his English was poor.
The English master was a tall, bombastic young man who claimed he was a former soccer star. In fact, he swore he had a magical left foot that was comparable to that of the legendary Pele. And his grandiloquence par excellence clearly distinguished him from other members of staff.
He did not quite like Korkorti because although the boy was stubborn and his head did not have a nice shape, the girls adored him. Moreover he never did his English Language assignments.
Stand up, you tall fool, the English master often ordered. Korkorti wouldn’t stand up but would just smile broadly.
“I say stand up” the teacher would bark now like a dog suffering from rabies “Get up and let me measure your stupidity.”
Korkorti would stand up this time round and yawn.
Certainly, lunchtime has been long in coming and a good yawn often relieved the young student’s stomach of gastronomic stress.
Invariably, the English guru did not like it when Korkorti yawned. For one thing, the boy opened his mouth too widely. For another, he yawned a bit too audibly and that caused laughter among his mates.
Certainly, the master must have figured out that the boy’s height was proportional to his stupidity. But there were no school rules against yawning or wide mouth. In fact, there was freedom of yawning and snoring and Korkorti exercised both freedoms judiciously and democratically.
“Do you know when you yawn you look like a hungry crocodile,” the master once asked him.
“Yes sir, I am aware sir,” Korkorti confirmed and yawned again. This time he nearly swallowed the whole class. There was an uproar and the whole class reverberated in good laughter.
The English master shook his head and then nodded it like an agama lizard. This Korkorti boy was a real character, a phenomenon, a one-man-thousand. Meanwhile lessons had to continue.
It was in those days when school was exciting and we often gathered and talked about girls. I had often dreamt of having a girl from Holy Child School because I had heard very saintly and curious things about them,
I had learnt from a guy from Saint Augustine’s College that Holy Child girls were of a special breed, in fact a hybrid between the cultured home-bred variety and those of inner holiness. They were born of the Holy Spirit. The only thing was that they didn’t suffer under Pontius Pilate.
In short, they were angels in human form, spoke in a special way, walked with a unique and danced with heavenly steps. They were taught by Holy Nuns and so were quite different from us who had no hope of making any spirito-culturo-scholastic progress.
I confessed to Korkorti that I wanted a girl from Holy Child, not for immoral purposes but to partake of their saintly ways so that when it was time for going to heaven, Kwame Alomele could also be considered.
During vacations we met girls from Mawuli, Ola, Accra Girls, St. Roses, Wesley Girls but none from Holy Child. Then one day, Kwame Korkorti whispered into my ear that a Holy Child babe was in town and that he was sure my dreams had come true.
Korkorti organised it and we positioned at a spot, knowing the girl would traverse en route to the library or the market. After a boring period of waiting, Korkorti suddenly espied the child coming. I looked at her face and saw of an angel. What! This was the kind I always wanted. God bless my soul! This was really my chance and Korkorti had prophesied it.
“Hello Sister,” Korkorti called her when about to leave us.
The girl slowed down and looked at us. My heartbeat increased in tempo. What really was I going to tell this angel? Wouldn’t she think Korkorti was Satan and me a common red-eyed demon? I gathered courage.
“What do you want?” she asked in a sweet voice. My heart melted instantly. Spotless beauty with voice that did something to me. Good gracious!
“Eh-h, my friend says he likes you,” Korkorti to her bluntly.
At that very moment I felt as if a sledge-hammer had hit my chest with the force of a dynamite. What a blunder! What a shock! I felt dizzy instantly. My bosom friend had balked the whole agenda. Before I could recover from the shock, the girl had walked away. From that day. I never met another holy child.
In January, this year, I miraculously received a letter from an 18-year old Holy Child student who said she was my fan. It was a nicely written letter and I enjoyed reading it. I then relived the Korkorti incident and laughed aloud to myself.
So when Korkorti and Kofi Owuo summoned me, I reminded them of the day my heart melted at the sight of the angel; that angel which disappeared before my eyes and made me go back home not crying and yet not laughing.
This article was first published on Saturday, March 18, 1996
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