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My barber and the Easter palaver
It is not easy looking for your barber if your hair has overgrown and you look like a bushman. It is even more serious if your moustache has crossed carpet and is seen entering into your nostrils, some straying into your left ear.
The problem is that some of us do not like changing barbers. My barber, for instance, is a very short akupa who often has to stand on his toes to reach the top of my head. But I maintained him because he understands the international shape of my head and gives me the right cut. Moreover, he has promised never to cut my ears.
Although, he has been cutting my hair for the last five years, I still do not know his name. I’ve never asked and he has never told me. It is a business relationship, not a family affair. He comes at certain specified dates, does his job, gets paid and vanishes.
When he was supposed to cut my hair two weeks ago, I waited in vain. Last weekend he didn’t show up either. Was the guy on strike? If he wanted more pay, he could come for a discussion, although I have been paying him better than his colleagues were getting per cut. I could even offer height allowance if he asked for it.
I was quite uncomfortable with the over-growing hair which everyone was reminding me of, so I undertook a search for the missing barber. The possibility was that other barbers would know his house and direct me accordingly. So from barber shop to barber shop I went asking if they had seen the shortest barber in town. No one seemed to know him.
I decided I couldn’t go another week without a cut, so I reluctantly went into the last shop and asked the barber there to do the job. He studied my head, nodded and asked me to sit on a stool outside and wait. He was finishing another person’s hair and then he’d jump on mine.
Soon, he called me in, and I told him I dislike nonsense.
He was stunned. “Massa, have I offended you?” he enquired worriedly. I said no. Then what was the matter? He begged me to explain.
“I don’t like the kind of haircut that would scare my boss,” I said. He laughed. I continued, “I don’t want my boss to see me and start running away; he should give me promotion.” The barber laughed and promised me a fashionable cut.
“I don’t want a fashionable cut. I want it simple according to the shape of my head.”
“Don’t you like Jojo Special? Your girlfriend will dig you. She’ll believe!”
“Just do as I say.”
I was pretty sure the guy was going to mess me up like I had done to some two or three. The Law of Karma. In Legon I told my room-mate, Akotey Anaara, that I was the best barber the breadth of the country. He brought his head platter and I gave him a wonderful design.
The next morning when he went for lectures, everyone including the lecturer asked him whether he was sick. Actually, the cut I gave him made him look like one of those dull-looking mental patients who often escape from the Psychiatric Hospital and were seen directing traffic or getting into some.
Akortey Anaara had to find another guy to shave the damn hair off his skull and it was even worse. He looked like an obrafor (human head-cutter). His girlfriend didn’t recognise him.
Well, when the barber was cutting my hair, I realised that many people were lining up to have theirs cut today too. When I asked him why his customers were so many today, he said they were preparing for Easter and needed ‘wild’ hairdos to impress the girls in the village. It was then that I knew preparations for the Easter were well underway.
In fact, when Easter is approaching and it is amusing to see the seriousness people attach to the celebration, especially when they are travelling from the city to the villages and cottages. The idea is that you must impress rural girls.
Actually some people start saving for well over six months so that preparations for the occasions are not beset with financial bad-weather, monetary El-Nino or back pocket load-shedding.
For the young man, preparations border on having a stylish haircut, a second-hand but colourful camboo, jeans, third-hand pairs of socks, bottle of Kasapreko Gin, singlet, fashionable shirts and some trousers and shorts. The idea is to go and show to the folks that he is not a hopeless person in the city, but a prospering gentleman who must, therefore, be admired and loved by the girls.
Some money is set aside for ‘show,’ that is buying drinks for friends and for inducing young girls for seduction on Easter Sunday under the cover of darkness. Whatever monies that remain is just enough for transportation back to the city. Such monies are never touched because if you do, you’ll remain in the village or be forced to walk back to the city.
It is the preparation made by the women-folk that is even more interesting. The kaba and slit must be of ultra-modern and custom design so that the wearer can look like a vulture which is about to take off. Then the hairdo, the lip-sticks, the full-shoes, whatever. If the typical celebrant is not careful, she would finally look like a crow.
She would be seen in various colours on Easter Sunday during church service, and it is always a sight like to remember.
Some of the areas where Easter is best celebrated are Peki, Kwahu (Okwahu United, Obo Kwahu and all), Tapa Abotoase, some parts of Ashanti and Brong and some cottages in Central, Eastern and Western Regions. You’ll be surprise they never forget the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.
With every Easter though, it is the Palm Sunday which matters to some people. The triumphant entry into Jerusalem is of more significance to them than his death and resurrection, because of the ‘palm element.’
Palm Sunday must indeed be marked with the copious drinking of palmwine and if necessary, the eating of fufu and palmnut soup, a ritual they claim is endorsed by the Holy Spirit.
This article was first published on Saturday, April 9, 1999
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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