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Obituaristic and marital nonsense
It was a yearly ritual. Every year, on the day her husband died, she dressed up beautifully, went on top of his grave and danced to her satisfaction. For several hours, she’d boogie up and down, style after style, until she could dance no more. She’d then descend the grave and walk home panting yet contented.
When asked by reporters why she had taken to the yearly open-air disco dancing, the widow said it was in honour of DEATH which took away her husband. “When he was alive. I never had a moment’s peace,” she said.
What an honest confession about a dead person. She minced no words. The man gave her no peace, and that was exactly what she was saying. A widow in Sikaman would dare not say that of her deceased husband. His family members would procure pick-axes, hoes and cutlasses and descend on her with red eyes and tear her to pieces.
It is traditionally not proper to speak ill of people when they are dead, but some people are beginning to feel that the custom of speaking well about even dead criminals at funerals is not helping society either.
They claim that if the living know that all their misdeeds will be recounted at their funeral when they are dead, they will endeavour not to misconduct themselves while alive. I think that is a valid point, because the dead have had it too easy.
When someone volunteered to say that a deceased fellow died of alcohol, his neck was nearly twisted. What right did he have to air the cause of death even if it was true that the guy had died of too much bitters? In any case, did he perform any post mortem to ascertain the cause of death? And for what earthly or heavenly reason did he have to associate their loved one with an evil called ALCOHOL? “Next time you talk nonsense, we shall physically weaken your jaw.
It was at a funeral when a pastor undertook to say nice words about a dead common criminal that he was corrected by the deceased’s own professional comrade.
He raised his right hand to signify that he wanted to chip in a point of order as the resident pastor spoke of how exemplary the dead man’s ways were. When no one bothered to give him the chance, he stood up and raised both hands, meaning that he had the constitutional right to slot in a rejoinder before the lies became over-whelming.
He was heavily drunk. Asked what he wanted to say, he broached the subject that first and fore-most, he would recommend that the pastor be ex-communicated from the church because he was a congenital liar, a quality unbecoming of a clergyman. He then proceeded to say the deceased was a criminal just like himself and deserved no praises in any church.
He intimated that the deceased, when he was alive, cheated him out of a booty, not once or twice, but many times, for which he never forgave him till he died. He said such a person’s body should not be brought to contaminate the holiness of a church room. Before church elders could drag him out, he had spoken his mind.
I guess if the dead man had a soul that was present where he was laid in state, the soul would have repented right in the church room.
Well there are many problems associated with modern-day funerals. One of them which is getting solved gradually is the wake-keeping palaver. The Akyem Abuakwa Traditional Council has banned wake-keepings as a means of cutting down cost of funerals in the traditional area. The Presbyterian Church is also not encouraging its members to opt for wake- keeping in any event of death of a member.
What are wake-keepings for anyway? When there were no mortuaries in the past, wake was kept because family members could not leave their dead bodies and go to bed. Keeping wake has, therefore, outlived its usefulness in present day circumstances.
A wake-keeping today is an occasion where you can get a married woman drunk and seduce her, where young girls elope with married men for amorous purposes, and where people either get married or lose their spouses. Everything is under the cover of darkness, supervised by Jimmy Satan.
A funeral that is without an elaborate wake-keeping can save at least a lot of money. A funeral that is without frivolous eating and boozing can also save a fortune. The dead must not be a burden for the living, just like getting married shouldn’t be any big deal.
The average Sikaman bride is married at least three times without any sane reason. Her Caucasian or Anglo-Saxon counterpart gets married just once in a very simply ceremony.
Why are many young men unable to marry? The fact is that they can’t. They don’t have the dough. They must KNOCK DOOR, ENGAGE and WED-three in one. By the time they are through, they are in debt to a tune of 5 million. No marriage is stable when the foundation is built on a $5 million debt.
I guess my great grandfather married his loving wife with two bottles of akpeteshie, five tubers of yam and a bottle of zomi. Check out how much I have to spend when I want wife. You can’t get a woman with akpeteshie, yam tubers and palm oil anywhere in Sikaman today. Even in the remotest cottage, they ask you to “do wedding”. It is a command, not a suggestion.
The result is that the young men can’t get married, and once they are virile and not impotent, they continue impregnating the young and unmarried girls, littering communities with kids born out of wedlock, many ending up as the street kids we see everywhere hawking barefoot instead of studying in school.
This article was first published
on Saturday, April 18, 1998
A haircut I had about a week ago didn’t go down well with many. Someone quite close to my heart saw it, examined it critically and felt dizzy.
“What’s this?” she proceeded to ask me.
“An international hairdo,” I replied.
She was disgusted, in fact disappointed. The problem with the haircut is that the style is neither Punk, Tokyo Joe nor Show Your Back. If anything, it is a combination of all—and I liked it, for a change.
It was when I bounded downtown that someone called me and enquired whether I was no longer a journalist. He said I looked like a well-fed Warrant Officer.
“Class One or Class Two?” I asked.
Another studied my head as if he was studying physical geography and pronounced that I looked like a boxer who can throw dangerous punches. Still, someone was of the opinion that the haircut didn’t quite fit me, but admitted that I looked like a prosperous merchant.
Commendation
I remember some three months ago, I had a haircut that made two girls fall in love with me. In spite of the fact that the barber was not a graduate, the cut was such that they couldn’t help admiring it. One of them actually ‘checked out’ the style and commended the barber.
The other was more bent on the ‘love matter’ but I was too busy to give her any attention. LOVE!
I was reminded of this when I viewed a premier showing of the latest Sikaman film titled THE POWER OF LOVE. The film kept me thinking. Some of us have long forgotten about what it is like to be head-over-heels in love. When we were students, we had such experiences because there was nothing doing anyway.
We were either learning how stylishly to smoke ‘jot’ or how romantically to fall in love. Anyhow, I was intrigued by this latest movie because of the way love unlimited was portrayed on screen. It took my memory back many years to relive those youthful days when we felt we’d really die if jilted by our lovers.
The storyline of THE POWER OF LOVE is really an exciting one. The combination of love, treachery and intrigue made me feast my eyes intently on the screen, unbelieving the extent the force of love can reach.
Ama and Afua are good friends. But when it comes to matters of the heart, they have different tastes; Ama is content with only her boyfriend (a student) and Afua samples the bigwigs around town. Afua, not satisfied with the shots in town, wants Ama’s boyfriend Joe in addition. She lies to Joe that Ama has often been picked by a man on four-wheels, whereupon Joe dismisses Ama and takes on Afua.
Ama doesn’t realise that it is her best friend Afua who is destroying her relationship with Joe until she catches her having sex with him. She collapses and goes out of her mind from the broken heart. But before then, she had been made pregnant by Joe.
Having escaped from a psychiatric hospital, she roams town murmuring Joe’s name. Heavily pregnant now, she espies Joe boarding a mini bus and runs towards him. Joe, seeing her approaching, quickly disembarks and takes off.
Ama pursues him furiously, and he runs to his home where he finds his bosom friend Frank making love to Afua. He immediately realises the treachery of Afua who instigated him to leave Ama.
He intends leaving the home in disgust and meets mad Ama at the door and embraces her despite her madness. Instantly, she regains her sanity.
Love indeed heals the wounds of the mind and it is the greatest positive force in the world. Incidentally, the greatest negative force is hatred.
Greatest force
Now coming to talk about love, I reiterate it is the greatest force imaginable. That is why a man will butcher his rival to death if he catches him climbing his wife without asking permission; and a woman will go mad if jilted.
It is also for this reason that a young boy who is scared stiff of cemeteries and under normal circumstances would not dare go near one, will this time walk boldly through a cemetery at midnight if that is the only way to his lover’s abode.
The Bible describes love for our neighbours as the surest way to heaven: Love thy neighbour as thyself.
Unfortunately, what Ghanaians are more interested and skilful in is loving the opposite sex. Romance under the cover of darkness is what we understand love to be all about. When it comes to loving our fellow human beings, we are found wanting.
People hate others just because they are of another tribe and do not speak the same native language. Too much grudge-bearing that does not augur well for national development.
War in Liberia, carnage in Rwanda are the results of the absence of love for one’s fellow being. If everybody could express a little bit of love for his fellow being irrespective of tribe, race, politics or religion, Sikaman—and indeed, the world—will be a more habitable place.
This article was first published on Saturday, October 29, 1994
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“Sir,” Ms. Odame said when David Asante answered the call, “my name is Victoria Odame. I’m a teacher at Research School in Koforidua. I would like to come and see you concerning a student called Sarah.”
“Okay, madam. I would be very glad to meet you. How can I make your trip easier?”
“I was going to join a bus to Accra.”
“Here’s what we will do. Take a taxi and ask them to bring you to Accra. I will speak to the driver, give him the directions, and pay him when you get here.”
The taxi stopped in front of the house. The gate opened, and the driver moved to the long driveway and stopped.
“What a beautiful house,” he said.
David and Adoma came out to meet them. Adoma paid the driver as David and Sarah stared at each other.
“Please come in and sit down,” Adoma invited. She served them water.
“You are welcome,” Adoma continued. “We have been waiting anxiously since you called this morning. So please, let’s hear you.”
Before she could open her mouth, Sarah rose, moved to David, hugged him, and sat on his lap. They both broke into tears. Adoma and Ms. Odame also broke into tears.
“Sorry, madam,” David said. “This whole episode has been a very difficult one. But let’s do the proper thing. Let’s hear you first, and I will also speak. I’m sure we need to answer some questions immediately.”
“Okay, sir. I have been taking an interest in Sarah because, although she’s brilliant academically, she seemed to be troubled. Following my discussions with her and some whispers I had been hearing, I went to Aboso Senior High School and spoke to your former colleague, Mr. Hanson. He told me that you were an exemplary teacher who was loved by all, and he also told me about the unfortunate events that caused you to leave for Germany. So I returned to Koforidua with the view to finding the appropriate means of helping to solve this problem.”
“Great. Ms. Odame, I have to thank you for finally helping us to solve this problem. Now, let me state the facts. This is what happened.
“Gladys and I met and got married whilst we were both teachers in the school. Some months into our marriage, she told me that she needed to spend some days with her parents, and I agreed.
“It turned out that she was actually spending time in a hotel with her ex-boyfriend, Simon. This happened again after Sarah was born. I got wind of this and told her that I was no longer interested in the marriage.
“I started preparing to travel to Germany. She pleaded for forgiveness, but I stood my ground. Then she told me that she would punish me for rejecting her.
“She came out later to say that Sarah was not my child, but Simon’s. She went and hid her somewhere, obviously expecting that I would fight to take my child. I was actually going to do that, but my parents advised me that it was almost impossible to win such a fight.
“They advised that, difficult as it sounded, I should leave the child with her because she would come back to me eventually. I have absolutely no problem taking care of you, Sarah. I am taking care of quite a number of kids who are not mine. So that is what happened. My hands were tied. I have been trying to find out how you are doing.
“I kept hearing that you were doing well at school. I also heard that Gladys and her husband were having problems, but I kept hoping that my daughter would at least be okay till it was possible for me to go for her.”
“Sarah, now you have met your dad. You will be free to—”
“I’m not going anywhere!” she declared as she held on to him.
“You don’t have to worry about that, Sarah,” Adoma said. “We have been looking forward to the day you come home. This is your home. Now, you have to meet your siblings.” She called Abrefi and Adaawa.
“Girls, we told you that you have a sister who would join us anytime. Now here she is.”
“Sarah?” Abrefi asked.
“Yes,” Adoma replied. The girls hugged her and took her away.
“Now,” David said, “I think it is time to call Madam Gladys.” He dialed the number.
“My name is David Asante. I’m here in my house with my daughter Sarah. I hear you have told her all sorts of crazy stories about me. I could make life very difficult for you, but I won’t.
“You are your own worst enemy. I don’t think you should be expecting her anytime soon. What do you say?”
Gladys stayed silent for over a minute, then cut the line.
“Food is ready,” Adoma announced. “Everybody, please come to the table.”
Sarah chatted excitedly with her siblings as Adoma and David spoke with Ms. Odame. She kept staring at her father.
“Now, Ms. Odame, after you have brought such joy into our home, should we allow you to go back to Koforidua today, or should we wait till we are ready to release you? I could call your husband and ask permission.
“And please don’t tell me you didn’t bring anything for an overnight stay. There are several supermarkets around here. We can fix that problem quickly.”
“I will beg you to release me. Now that I have been so warmly welcomed here, I already feel part of this home. Koforidua is not that far away, so I will visit often.”
“Well, let’s see what the kids have to say. Ladies, shall I release Ms. Odame to go back to Koforidua?”
“No!” they shouted, and all broke into laughter.
“Ms. Odame, I will have mercy on you. But we are going to do something to make it easy for you to visit us. My wife wants to show you something. Please follow her.”
Adoma led her to the driveway as the others followed. They stopped in front of the car.
“This is a Toyota Corolla 1600. It is very reliable and good on petrol consumption. We are giving this to you in appreciation of your help in getting our daughter back to us.
“And here in this envelope is a little contribution to help you with maintenance. And here in this other envelope is a gift to help with your children’s school fees.”
As she stood, stunned, and stared from the car to the envelopes, David put his hand around his family.
“Let’s leave her to take a look at her car. Ms. Odame, one of my drivers will drive you to Koforidua and leave your car with you. We are waiting inside.”
By Ekow de Heer
