The wahala of Sikaman MPs (1)

The arrival of the MP is an occasion

Some parliamentarians are re­gretting their MP status, because they find it difficult to visit their hometowns in broad- daylight. When they were nobodies, they spent every weekend at home, savouring the best palm wine somewhere in the corner, rendez- vousing with old-time girl­friends and reporting back to work on Monday with a hangover.

Today, when they visit home, they normally do so under the cover of darkness. It has nothing to do with security. Neither has it to do with the dregs of palm wine. It all borders on financial strategy.

The problem is that the folks back home see their MP as a bag of money. He is regarded as the only person who can solve their school fees problems, settle the funeral bills, offer free palm wine and pay for tobacco snuff so that the nostrils of the old folks can be sufficiently cleared noisily every dawn.

So the MP’s arrival in the village is an occasion in itself. He must be welcomed with drumming and danc­ing. The latest dance styles must be released in honour of the son of the town, the honourable of honourables, okatakyie MP, Nana-o- Nana!

A mini-durbar can even be or­ganised post-haste in his honour and he would be expected to deliver a speech. If he has no prepared speech, he must all the same make an address extempore, like J.J. Rawlings.

Such a speech will be expected to be a sequel to the campaign promises, an extension to the good things prom­ised on the political platform some one-and-half years ago. The MP had indeed brought himself; nobody asked him to come.

The master of ceremonies who is likely to be the town crier also known as gong-gong beater, will officiate. The town criers are noted for their alcoholic licence, their caustic tongue and their long memory. They can recall events, dates, speeches and resolutions. Most importantly, they can embarrass.

A typical gong beater is sure to take a quarter-size of ‘yayaaya’ be­fore delivering his welcome address.

“Keep quiet, keep quiet!” he’d begin.” If I hear you talking. I’ll hit your buttocks with my coconut head.” That is enough to bring more mirth and noise than the man wanted to curb. Finally, a measure of silence will be maintained.

“We welcome our illustrious son back in our midst. We are all happy that he has realised that he cannot hide forever. Your hometown is your hometown. We acknowledge his busy schedule, but we also expect him to be among us to propel our spirits to heights unimaginable.

“We politely remind our son of the promises he made to us for which we exercised the power of our gonti (thumb) in his favour. The promises need to be fulfilled. Look at my mous­tache, it is overgrown. When a man’s moustache outgrows his upper-lip, it means he is overdue for poverty alleviation.

“We would not take the words out of the mouth of our dear son. May be the poverty alleviation fund is in his briefcase, who knows?”

At this juncture the entire crowd will be thrown into pandemonium. Different interpretations would be given to the briefcase palaver and speculations would be rife as to the contents of the magical briefcase.

At least one person in the crowd will volunteer the information that he actually ‘peeped’ into the briefcase when the honourable MP opened it to get a receipt he was looking for. It was full of Sikaman dollars.

The MP knows that the occasion is not auspicious for a long address. The people have grown wiser and are not impressed with long speeches and grandiloquence. What they want is money to buy mahogany bitters to cure their kooko.

“Ladies and gentleman, I’m glad to be with my kith and kin once again. My schedule doesn’t allow me to come home every weekend as I used to do. I must admit that I miss the weekly palm wine I used to have in times past.

“Nananom, ladies and gentlemen, the promises I’ve made are meant to be fulfilled. In fact, that is why I’m here today.”

The uproar must surely be deafen­ing. The man had indeed arrived. He has brought the money to transform Owuokrom overnight. The excitement ends up in drumming and dancing.

The MP is quickly whisked to the venue of an outdooring. He donates to the couple. A funeral is around the corner and he is promptly made the chairman of the occasion. He donates heavily.

“Honourable,” an oldman will stop him in his tracks. “Don’t you recog­nise me? I held your legs when you were circumcised 35 years ago. When I saw your car coming I felt proud. I’m your uncle Kofi Badu.”

The MP looks at the oldman. None of his uncles is called Kofi Badu. He knows the oldman wants something for his afternoon and dashes him GH¢20, 000. The palm wine and snuff. The man is overjoyed and breaks into a native dance.

The MP must now run away. The briefcase is almost empty. Yet he has not remitted his old man and old woman, He does so in a flash and the next minute he is speeding towards Accra. “These people, they’ll kill me-o,” he will say to himself.

This article was first published on Saturday, July 13, 2001