Features
The Cop, press and lost fingers
The job of a policeman, whether he is short or tall, is not a cheap one. He is supposed to keep the peace, protect society and monitor the activities of local magicians and money doublers who are specialists in making civil servants lose their pay within seconds.
By far the most difficult job of the policeman is when he is expected to arrest a murderer who is not only armed but also has a record of appearing and disappearing at will. Even if the tough cop is in the company of other policemen all armed to the teeth, his stomach will turn to water when the criminal suddenly appears.
He is terrified not because the criminal is a better marksman, but because nobody dies twice. The problem also is that a criminal might be prepared to die in a bid to shoot his way to freedom. But is the police-man prepared to risk death in the course of duty when he has a family to rear.
If he had just acquired a new girlfriend with whom he is enjoying life, should he not run away with his tail between his legs and tell his boss that the criminal is uncatchable?
Before some policemen go on patrol duties, they actually pray solemnly. “God send me into the wilderness and bring me back safely with my nose intact because I’m worth more than a common rat. I also do not want to die like a stray dog. If a bullet is targeted at my forehead, Holy Spirit please let it go over the bar, because six children is not a small palaver. If I die, who will look after them? Lord keep me safe day by day. Amen!”
The Sikaman policeman’s job is a risky one because he is not properly equipped with even a trained dog to help track down criminals easily. So he has to use his own nose judiciously in sniffing out suspects while making sure a bullet doesn’t catch him square on the jaw.
My friend Sir Kofi Owuo, a.k.a. Death-By-Poverty was telling me journalists are in an even riskier profession. Apparently, he had been reading about the palaver of journalists in places like Algeria and Columbia. Algeria, even women journalists are not spared assassin’s bullet. You’d see them lying in front of their homes with their heads full of bullet holes.
In Columbia, no journalist is safe. When a journalist is leaving home, he has to tell his wife. “Darling, when I don’t come back by 7 p.m. check the mortuary
The drug trade in Columbia has made journalism a profession not worth practising. If you write on cocaine and the harm it is inflicting on society, you’ll certainly receive a phone call.
“Hello, Mr Journalist, your article yesterday was great. Congratulations! We never knew you were such brilliant writer, championing the cause of society. Again we say congrats! But you know something, by your article, you want to take the bread out of my and that of my family. You don’t want us to beak. We are aggrieved beyond measure”
“Oh, I was just… “You’d try to say something
“You don’t have to explain. The harm has already been done by your award-winning masterpiece. We have an appointment with you. You’ll hear from us.
Rest In Peace!” After such a phone call, you just have to pray to your soul, sing a hymn or two and get prepared fort appointment with death. For, death will surely come
I think pressmen in Sikaman would also have start informing their families appropriately before leaving for work now. “If I don’t come back early, I’m probably at the Ear, Nose and Throat Department of Korle- Bu checking a leakage in my left ear due to a gendarme slap from an AMA official. If you don’t see me there, track me down to the emergency ward. If you see a newly-made cripple, I’m the one”
What about referees? These days they are guarded during football matches so that the risk they bear in terms of lost teeth is minimal. Formerly, it used to be a job full of woes and tribulations.
You were expected to oversee a match in such way that would favour a particular team. If that is not done, you’ll get back home and your wife will not recognise you. She’ll mistake you for Frank Bruno who had just lost a bout. When she finally recognises you, she’ll fix some hot water to massage your poor face.
I hear that these days, apart from the protection referees receive, some are well-armed with Damfo Dzai, a kind of jack-knife that can carve a rowdy supporters face in several designs.
My Press Secretary and part-time bodyguard Devine Ankamah, was telling me if he happens to be a referee, he’d surely carry a Kalashnikov AK 47 rifle with him, complete with loaded magazine, before officiating matches. According to him, that is the only way to do the job without fear or favour. Anyone dares will lose his jaw.
Anyway, risky jobs require good remuneration. As Kwame Korkorti once said, risky jobs require risky salary. A policeman would require a good pay so that when a criminal targets his left ear it would be worth the ‘amputation’. Same for journalists and cameramen.
But go round private workplaces and factories and you’d see really risky occupations where workers are receiving salaries they can’t see with the naked eye.
In fact, in some private workplaces, environmental safety is completely absent. Workers breathe in fumes, poisonous gases and risk lung and respiratory problems. Their employers do nothing about protecting them against these hazards. Check out their payer.
In other places, workers have their fingers chopped off on the job, some losing as many as four fingers in stretch. The compensation they get can best be described as “wicked”. Their employers live big, chop big, ride big but are not willing to pay more than ¢120,000 for lost fingers.
Actually the more fingers you lose, the more money you get. So if you intend losing your fingers on the job, it is advisable to lose as many as possible so that you can get more cash. Those who have lost one finger have not benefited much and are encouraged to lose more next time around.
Sikaman Palava is undertaking to investigate some of these cases of very risky jobs in private setups and companies where workers are being exploited to unnecessarily but not offered protection against health hazards, and not properly compensated when they sustain injuries.
This article was first published on Saturday, September 28, 1996
Attention-Deficit or Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) is often mistaken for laziness or indiscipline. In consulting rooms across Accra and in reports from school teachers, the pattern repeats: children who are bright but forgetful, parents who feel helpless, teachers who see incompleteness.
Research is clear-Barkley (2015) and others describe ADHD as a difference in the brain’s regulation of alertness, impulse and working memory, not a lack of effort.
The family’s role begins with structure. Regular sleep, predictable meal and homework times, and a simple visual list (uniform → books → water → corridor) provide the external scaffolding of these children need. Praise what is completed—“You opened the book and wrote the first sentence”-instead of rebuking what is missing.
Schools can help by seating the child front-row and centre, giving short written plus verbal instructions, allowing brief movement breaks, using quiet nonverbal cues and, where possible, grading effort and method as well as neatness. These adjustments reduce conflict and raise submission rates without lowering standards.
Couples and caregivers should share roles: one grounds, one pivots, and both protect rest. Shame-“bad parenting, bad child”-needs replacing with fact: different wiring, needs scaffolding.
Outcomes improve not by promises of perfection but by daily routines, clear limits and warmed connection. One homework slot kept, one instruction chunked, one calm repair after blurting-these small wins shift the family climate and let the child be seen beyond the label.
Resource
• CPAC (award-winning Mental Health and Counselling Facility): 0559850604 / 0551428486
Source: REV. COUNSELLOR PRINCE OFFEI’s insights on special needs support, relationships, and mental health in Ghana. He is a leading mental health professional, lecturer, ADR Expert/Arbitrator, renowned author, and marriage counsellor at COUNSELLOR PRINCE & ASSOCIATES CONSULT (CPAC COUNSELLOR TRAINING INSTITUTE) – 0551428486 /0559850604.
WEBSITES:
https://princeoffei22.wixsite.com/author
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After two weeks of hectic activity up north, I drove to the Tamale airport, parked the car at the Civil Aviation car park as usual, paid the usual parking fee and boarded the plane for Accra.
Over the last two weeks, I had shuffled between three sites where work was close to completion.
One was a seed warehouse, where farmers would come and pick up good quality maize, sorghum and other planting material.
The other was a health facility for new mothers, where they were given basic training on good nutrition and small scale business.
And the third was a set of big boreholes for three farming communities.
The projects usually ran on schedule, but a good deal of time was spent building rapport with the local people, to ensure that they would be well patronised and maintained.
It was great to be working in a situation where one’s work was well appreciated. But it certainly involved a lot of work, and proactivity. And I made sure that I recorded updates online before going to bed in the evening.
When the plane took off, my mind shifted to issues in Accra, the big city. The young guys at my office had done some good work. They had secured five or six houses on a row in a good part of the city, and were close to securing the last.
When we got this property, unusually, Abena greeted them casually, and appeared to be comfortable in the guy’s company.
I was quite disappointed to hear that, because until the last few weeks, it seemed as if Abena and I were heading in a good direction. Apart from the affection I had for her, I liked her family. I decided to take it easy, and allow things to fall in whatever direction.
Normally I would take a taxi to her house from the airport, and pick her up to my place. This time I went to my sisters’ joint, where they sat by me while I enjoyed a drink and a good meal.
“So Little Brother,” Sister Beesiwa said, “what is it we are hearing about our wife-to-be?”
“When did you conclude that she was your wife-to-be? And what have you heard? I’ve only heard a couple of whispers. Ebo and Nana Kwame called to say that they have seen her in the company of—”
“Well said Little Brother,” Sister Baaba said. “By the way, Nana Kwame called an hour ago to ask if you had arrived because he could not reach you. Someone had told him that Jennifer had boasted to someone that she had connected Abena to a wealthy guy who would take care of her.”
I was beginning to understand. For some time, Abena had been asking me what work I was doing up north, and after I had explained it to her, she kept asking. So I think Jennifer fed her with false stories about me in order to get her to move to the Ampadu guy. Jennifer must have been well compensated for her efforts.
“In that case,” Sister Beesiwa said, “you should be glad that Abena is out of your way. She is easily swayed. Anyone who would make a relationship decision based on a friend’s instigation lacks good sense. I hope the guy is as wealthy as they say?”
“Who gets wealthy running a supermarket chain in Ghana?” Sister Baaba said. “Our supermarkets sell mostly imported products. Look at the foreign exchange rate. And remember that Ghanaians buy second-hand shoes and clothes. Supermarkets are not good business here. Perhaps they are showing off that they are wealthy, but in reality they are not doing so well.”
“Amen to that,” I said. “I’m beginning to understand. For some time, Abena had been asking me what work I was doing up north, and after I had explained it to her, she kept asking. So I think Jennifer fed her with false stories about me in order to get her to move to the Ampadu guy. Jennifer must have been well compensated for her efforts.”
She said that David Forson was only an agricultural extension worker in the north who did not have the resources to take care of a beautiful girl like her. And apart from being wealthy, the guy comes from an influential family, so Abena had done much better leaving a miserable civil servant like you for him.
“Amen to that,” I said. “I’m beginning to understand. For some time, Abena had been asking me what work I was doing up north, and after I had explained it to her, she kept asking. We would be able to sell all five houses to one big corporate customer, and we had already spoken to a property dealer who was trying to find a buyer in order to get a good commission.
That was going to be my biggest break. I had asked the boys to look for a large tract of land on the outskirts of the city where we could develop our own set of buildings, blocks of storey houses and upscale apartments. Things were going according to plan, and I was quietly excited. However, things were not going so well regarding my relationship with Abena.
My buddies Ebo and Nana Kwame had called to say that they met Abena and her friend Jennifer enjoying lunch with a guy, and Ebo believed that Jennifer was ‘promoting’ an affair between Jennifer and the guy. They were of the view that the promotion seemed to be going in the guy’s favour, because only an agricultural extension worker in the north who did not have the resources to take care of a beautiful girl like her.
And apart from being wealthy, the guy comes from an influential family, so Abena had done much better leaving a miserable civil servant like you for him.
“As I’ve already said, I will stop by her place, but I will mind my own business from now. Hey, let’s talk family. How are our parents? And my brothers-in-law? And my nephews and nieces? Why don’t we meet on Sunday? I’m going to drop my bags at my place, and go to see Mama and Dad.”
