make-up shake up

Those who know me know that I don’t do make-up, wear dresses, tweeze my eyebrows, hate high heels or sing in a high pitched voice. It’s not me. Sadly, this has been the case since I was a toddler. Occasionally, my parents would put me in a dress; this included kaba and slit, “3 sisters” and a few others. All those moments have been captured on film and I will release it sometime in the future when I write my biography. As I didn’t have a choice as a child, I wore them. The only things I could do was to act defeated and my mum, God bless that woman, knew that something was up. She noticed the change in demeanour and never quite bothered me with dresses or skirts any more after I was 9. Friends and family who thought they were being nice and bought me dresses for my birthday and such other occassions did me wrong, but they didn’t know it.

All my life, I can literally count the number of times I’ve worn a full dress or matched a skirts with a top. It’s a rare occasion which involves days of planning and psyching myself up. I have an older sister who adores dresses and has a wardrobe full of dresses of all colours and a dressing table overflowing with make up kits.

When in secondary school, I wore a skirt once and by the time I went from my house to the dining hall, half the school had already heard the momentous occasion that had befallen them. I think my entire class was made to stand on their tables because they were making so much noise during Prep hour. I, on the other hand sat at my desk, even though I couldn’t study the entire period. So in short, wearing a dress is a big deal for me. For one, they are uncomfortable to wear. And when you wear them you have to sit in a particular way as you don’t want to reveal certain private areas. Second you can’t walk as you naturally can, especially in high heels, which obviously leave you helpless in the hands of gravity, making you prone to spilling over.

[caption id="attachment_142" align="aligncenter" width="400" caption="Why would any body want to wear this?"][/caption]

While in the university, I wore a skirt and top, all of 2 times of was it 3? It was for matriculation and in my 3rd year for a faculty dinner. And for the record, that weekend of the awards night, I was unwell and my best friend, coerced me into it. Had I been fit, I would have wriggled myself out of the situation. Growing up didn’t change matters. I’m close to thirty now and do not own more than 5 dresses - 3 kaba & slits for family funerals and the other two for emergency situations.

Recently, a very good friend, she’s older, gave me make-up as a gift. She doesn’t know me that well so I pardoned her mistake. It was an assortment of Chanel lipglosses so it’s not that bad. Of course my sister had wanted to hijack it, but I didn’t let her. She usually wears my dresses when people buy them for me. My brothers on the other hand, go into my wardrobe when they have to go to a party and don’t have any clean clothes. I don’t mind. Soon after I got the lipglosses, my brothers came into my room and saw the lipglosses on my table. They asked “who bought this for you?” I’m like, don’t you think I can buy my own make-up? They simply laughed and said; “just answer the question, who bought you this make-up?” I refused to answer the question. So what am I saying? I’m simply saying that I am me. An uncut diamond. I present myself as naturally as I can and if you can’t take that, well I make no apologies for that. If you think I look ugly without it, fine, like it that way. When I decide to wear a skirt/dress, it is simply to gain attention and get the mood a little lively, and not to impress anyone. Simply just for kicks. It can almost be equated to wearing a costume for Halloween.

Rebel Poetry

Ok guys, thanks for hanging in there patiently since my last post, decades ago. So I'm giving my blog a little twist with a bit of poetry.

Please, enjoy. This one is still untitled, so please feel free make suggestions.

Simple things made great

Confusion set straight

Unbelief turned trust

Dawn into dusk

Smile into frown

Mime & a clown

Cats after mice

Judas betrays Christ

Bondage into freedom

Protection - use a condom

Together as one body

Alone as nobody

Numb to your beating

Dumb - has no meaning

Lamb, please no bleating

Mum, no speaking

Guilty! There's no pleading

Ashamed yet proud

Blind but seeing

Applause, then a bow

Gang Who?

I was going through some of my old documents and I chanced upon this piece here. I enjoyed reading it once more and thought you would too.

It's from my days writing "In the Couch with Freddy" in JIVE Entertainment Weekly a while back.

 

First of, you guys need to forgive me. I know this column has been missing from Jive for the longest while, and possibly this might be my last entry for a long while to come. famosfreddy needs to take a little break.

But lemme get right down to business!

Last week I had several calls from all over to check out this new addition to the silver screen. Now y’all know that the moment something like that comes unto the screen, it’s just begging me to comment.

Hmmm… to begin with, the name is cheesy! Which creative minds over at TV3 decided that this was the best name to give to a contest? Gang Stars paa, some dey inside. I think they got the Gang bit right, but fell short of the Stars aspect. How do they manage to round up all the “kankpe” (hard core) people in one single slot of television time? It’s funny how Stars of the Future manages to get one type and TV3 ends up with another. Although I think that this year’s Stars of the Future wasn’t entirely up to snuff. That’s another matter for another medium.

Ok now, the only difference between this one and the Mentor is that they come in twos and threes and fours; male and female alike.

So I set up myself to watch this great show I’d heard so much about. There’s one mistake I made though; I had my dinner at the same time I was watching it. And if TV3 has any feelings for this poor soul of mine, they should compensate me for every time I nearly choked on a morsel. My brother recounts his displeasure of watching the opening of the show under the attack of mosquitoes. Now that is a sad story.

To be fair, I’ll say that not all the Gang Stars were utterly appalling, some were disgraceful and others were an embarrassment. Rather than call them Gang Stars, I’ll refer to them as Dimmed Shimmers. They need to realize that the songs they sing aren't theirs and as long as they are in that contest, and might want to merit the name “Star”, they’ll have to come up with something better than simply putting mime to an already established song. I like the judges, B.B., Jackie and DKB. But I hate their position. I wonder if they truly enjoy that role. It must be horrifying. Each time a group comes on stage it’s like a battlefield with guns going off in all directions. Duck! Bomb’s away! Sheesh!

If you saw my face when one batch came up to do Backstreet Boys’ “Quit Playing Games”, you might understand, albeit fairly, how my insides were churning. With all their might, they masterfully owned the song (not in the good sense as we would have hoped) and destroyed the music sheet with which the song was composed. The Backstreet Boys are not exactly my favorites; nonetheless, I can’t begin to fathom what they will make of this dirgeful rendition of the song. It was a complete and utter mess. There’s something interesting I noticed as well. When they were done singing and the hosts, Black Boy & that squeamish lady with the rat attack hairdo who tagged along, came up to talk to them, at least 70% of the time, the mics of the contestants didn’t work. That certainly raised my eyebrows. Besides the lead singer, how did the rest back him/her up? Hmmm?

The proceedings of that entire night reinstated my belief that clearly we have no sense of music! And that’s where all the work need be targeted. Not when they are old and set in their ways. Too late to teach and old dog new tricks, you know?

They need to be told right this moment that they can't keep riding on somebody else's choo-choo train. What's the skill in simply lip synching another's song? No real exhibition of talent in that. Somebody, please tell me the purpose of this gathering of Gang Stars. I implore you.

Instead of propelling us ahead of all four mentor seasons, they took me way back to secondary school days when entertainment night was all about getting on stage, miming and getting off stage. As my mosquito-bite ridden brother said, it reminded him of Saturday evening Variety Shows in SSS. There was no real need to sing, just look good on stage and everyone will like you.

Anywho, you’ve got to admire TV3’s unquenchable desire to entertain it’s audiences. They try. Truly they do.

But before I leave, here’s one word of advice to my Gang Star buddies; the fact that you enjoy singing a Mary J Blige/Mario/Jahiem song in your bathroom doesn't mean you can torture is with it.

 

Adios amigos

 

Gossip, Cheap, Small Talk

So lately, there’s a trend going on. I’m at that stage in my life when all my friends and colleagues are getting married, making babies and starting families. So, as you can imagine, there are several texts back and forth inviting me to weddings and engagements. I get at least 3 a month. It’s all well and good. But then I have problem. Yea, I always do. Even if there's no problem, I'll create one and have a fit over it.

See, over the past 3 or so years, I’ve received hundreds of SMSs inviting me to weddings and engagements and so on. It’s a quick and simple way of sending out information. All you have to do is to squeeze all you want to say into 160 characters (punctuation included). You can use every form of shorthand and cyber lingo to do it. No one will complain. Well...no one except me, of course.

 

[caption id="attachment_116" align="aligncenter" width="474" caption="texting texting texting"][/caption]

 

 

Allow me to say this emphatically once and for all: I do not and will not attend weddings or any other events based on texts. If you can't afford to spare more than 160 characters on a message as important as that, then maybe I shouldn't bother myself with looking for a suitably coloured dress, in some cases, even order a dress, make myself up, perhaps buy you a gift and drive several miles from my house only on the whim of a text. I won't do even do it for my best friend. And in any case, none of my best friends are cheap...well...some are. They are way too enlightened for that. It's not about being old fashioned, it's about doing it right. You wouldn't send the president of any country an SMS as an invite to an event. You would probably send him an official invite and then you can follow up with an SMS or a call.

 

[caption id="attachment_118" align="aligncenter" width="290" caption="An example of a proper Wedding Invite"][/caption]

 

 

That is the kind of respect I would like young people of today to exercise. The cyber world is great and all, but it can certainly not be used to trivialize important events like weddings, christenings or naming ceremonies. Notification by emails are acceptable, but texts, you can't possibly be serious.

 

[caption id="attachment_117" align="aligncenter" width="321" caption="They Say I Lack Writing Skills"][/caption]

 

 

According to my theory, SMSs are for gossip and small talk and they are above all, cheap! Therefore if you consider your wedding/engagement gossip material or that which makes small talk worthwhile, then consider me officially uninvited to your event. And by all standards I don’t attend cheap events. It’s bad for my image.

I don’t mind if you send the SMS days prior to the event as a reminder or perhaps an email blast to all your friends reminding them of your special event. But to send me an SMS as the first point of call is totally sub-standard for me. So here and now, I apologize to anyone whose wedding or engagement I’ve not attended. If you invited me via SMS now you understand why. If not, then maybe, I just don't like you. There are some that I was unable to attend for very genuine reasons. Truth hurts, but it has to be told.

If you can’t send out proper invitations, then at least you can manage a phone call. But simply sending invitational SMSs fall way below the credibility line and I will not, I repeat, I will not make anything of it.

That’s all. I had to say it and I did. So sue me!

The Love of Christ Constraineth Us

Read this today and thought I'd share with you...

"The love of Christ constraineth us." --2 Corinthians 5:14

How much owest thou unto my Lord? Has He ever done anything for thee? Has He forgiven thy sins? Has He covered thee with a robe of righteousness? Has He set thy feet upon a rock? Has He established thy goings? Has He prepared heaven for thee? Has He prepared thee for heaven? Has He written thy name in His book of life? Has He given thee countless blessings? Has He laid up for thee a store of mercies, which eye hath not seen nor ear heard? Then do something for Jesus worthy of His love. Give not a mere wordy offering to a dying Redeemer. How will you feel when your Master comes, if you have to confess that you _did_ nothing for Him, but kept your love shut up, like a stagnant pool, neither flowing forth to His poor or to His work.

[caption id="attachment_111" align="aligncenter" width="400" caption="LOVE"][/caption]

Out on such love as that! What do men think of a love which never shows itself in action? Why, they say, "Open rebuke is better than secret love." Who will accept a love so weak that it does not actuate you to a single deed of self-denial, of generosity, of heroism, or zeal! Think how _He_ has loved you, and given Himself for you! Do you know the power of that love? Then let it be like a rushing mighty wind to your soul to sweep out the clouds of your worldliness, and clear away the mists of sin. "For Christ's sake" be this the tongue of fire that shall sit upon you: "for Christ's sake" be this the divine rapture, the heavenly afflatus to bear you aloft from earth, the divine spirit that shall make you bold as lions and swift as eagles in your Lord's service. Love should give wings to the feet of service, and strength to the arms of labour. Fixed on God with a constancy that is not to be shaken, resolute to honour Him with a determination that is not to be turned aside, and pressing on with an ardour never to be wearied, let us manifest the constraints of love to Jesus. May the divine loadstone draw us heavenward towards itself.

mayhem.@.the.mall

So, we are back at the mall once more and it’s a galore of mayhem! Well…maybe that’s an exaggeration. But for me, it is mayhem enough. To all those who think I’m just a nitpicker, well here’s your proof!

Just so you know, I noticed this mishap long before I had the SHOPROT experience. I was simply waiting for the right moment. And now that I have you as an audience, what better time and place could there be?

When I first step into a new environment, the very first thing I do is to locate my bearings; where am I and where do I want to go. So I take very seriously road signs and maps and whatnots. It doesn’t matter that we hardly have any in Ghana. Whatever I find which shows me where I am going or where I should have gone is good enough for me. If it is a GINO tomato sign or a Guinness bill board which says, this is Makola, that’s fine by me.

Now I trust that you’re all too familiar with the Accra Mall by now. Y’all probably know where everything is, how to get what and where to get what. Well good for you! But what about the first time visitor who has only now seen what a mall looks like and wants to know how to locate everything there?

One day, I pretended to be this first time visitor to the Accra Mall and I was amazed at the map at the two entrances of the mall. I wanted to find my geographical location in the maze of people, pets and plastics and I found what I hoped I would never find.

For me, my map has to know how to be completely legit. That includes spelling. Who knows what might happen if you show me NEKE instead of NIKE? The implications of this can be  horrifying.

Maybe you need to see this for yourself to know just how severe this is. So scroll down and take a look at the pictures yourself and see if you can defend them on any level. I know that many of you hold degrees from the Thomas Doubting College, as such, a Kodak moment is required to make a genuine case.

[caption id="attachment_98" align="aligncenter" width="459" caption="The Bigger Picture"][/caption]

Now I’ve not been back at the Mall since my last “incident” there. But I have no doubt that this (pictured below) still exists.

[caption id="attachment_102" align="alignleft" width="277" caption="STATIONARY. adj. not moving or not intended to be moved"][/caption]

[caption id="attachment_100" align="alignright" width="295" caption="JEWELLERY... not JEWELLARY and TELECOMMUNICATIONS comes with a double 'M'"][/caption]

No matter how you try to explain this, you simply can’t defend this. But by all means, give it a try. Let’s see what comes out of it.

SHOPROT

[caption id="attachment_59" align="aligncenter" width="495" caption="the bag of rotten nectarines"][/caption]

I don’t get it. I really don’t. I have played back the incident in my head over and over again but I still don’t get it. Maybe the concept is too astute for my simple mind to understand. Someone please enlighten me. How many people in modern day Ghana spend over 30 minutes in traffic, waste fuel, time and energy just to tell a lie? Hold on, I’m getting to the point.

Yesterday some lady at Accra Mall’s Shoprite pissed me off big time!!! I’m still fuming through my ears. Let me start from the top. On Monday afternoon, I decided to buy some fresh fruits from the mall. I tried Koala but didn’t get enough variety as I wanted. So the next obvious grocery shop for me was Shoprite. It was a little after 4pm Monday afternoon, when I drove into the parking lot of the Accra Mall. At exactly 16.22.35hrs I had checked out the following (see pic below):

[caption id="attachment_57" align="aligncenter" width="412" caption="my authentic shoprite receipt highlighted for easy clarification"][/caption]

I got home and did the usual, took out the fruits from the plastic bags and put them somewhere airy, like the kitchen counter or any other prescribed cool and dry place. Now by Wednesday morning (barely 30 hours after purchase), the nectarines had gone completely bad! I mean totally and absolutely rotten. I was disgusted. Just when I was about to dump it in the garbage, my mum asked that I go to Shoprite and show it to them. Knowing the negative standards of customer care in Ghana I was hesitant. But there was no harm in trying…or so I thought.

So I get to Shoprite with the bag of bad fruit in it and I ask at the entrance whom to see when a complaint had to be lodged. They directed me to the “1^st window on the right”. I got there with my brother [he had suffered a similar attack earlier in the afternoon at Celsbridge. That's the subject for my next upload]. Nobody was there, then I see a lady coming in from the sweets section with a scared/worried look on her face. I tell her my mission, she takes the bag from my hand and takes it into another room.

Moments later a bigger, bearded, glum looking lady wearing some uniform walks up to me, puts the bag of bad nectarines on the checkout counter and proceeds to interrogate me. She first asks “Where is this from?” referring to the white grape holder I got from Koala. I tell her its from another grocery shop. She asks me why it is included in the ‘package’. I tell her it is because I wanted to prevent the rotten fruit from soaking the seat of my car. She then tells me that she finds my story very hard to believe because first of all the bag with the rotten fruit is from another shop and second, the grape container doesn’t bear the barcode of Shoprite. I ask her, “Madam, are you listening to me? I am not here to complain about barcodes or the grapes. I am here to tell you that your fruits are rotten!” I’m sure at that time she expected me to whip out the plastic bag I got when I bought them from under my sleeve and slap it in her face with it. No lady, it is usually the first thing you throw out. If you’ve ever bought stuff from the shop, you would know.

[caption id="attachment_60" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="Rotten Nectarine I"][/caption]

[caption id="attachment_73" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Rotten Nectarine II"][/caption]

By this time my temperature was peaking. If I had any heart condition, now would have been the ripe time for it to show itself. I tried a little harder to make her understand where I stood in all of this and how very little I stood to gain. I showed her the receipt and the time I bought the product. Then she asks me where the other items on the list are. Heck woman! Are you comprehending any of this? Why do you want to know where the mixed dried fruit and the peach juices are? How does this help you address the fact that the fruits I have got rotten before ripening? Wait, there’s more. The next thing she asks is whether I refrigerated the fruits when I bought them. Now obviously this was creating a scene ‘cos I couldn’t keep my voice down any longer and neither could she. This went on for over 20 minutes. I heaved a sigh of disbelief and asked her if she thought I had nothing meaningful to do with my life other than to simply waste my time, steal a Shoprite receipt from someone, buy bad fruit from someplace else, jumble them up with Koala labels and walk chest out into Shoprite and ask for money or some form of refund? ¢10.50 may be a lot, but not enough for the stress involved in this level of scheming.

[caption id="attachment_74" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="Rotten Nectarine III"][/caption]

[caption id="attachment_78" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Rotten Nectarine IV"][/caption]

During this altercation, one of her colleagues came trying to explain to me that the temperature that the fruits are kept in is different from that in my house, and without the same [weather] conditions, the fruits were bound to go bad. He, a little bit more reasonable than the bearded lady, asked what I wanted. I’m like dude, I don’t want your money, I don’t want anything from you, all I wanted to do here is to lodge a complaint. That’s all. You can eat all the rubbish fruit in this shop for all I care!!! You can very well shove it! (I didn’t tell them that though, I had to contain myself). Man, was I angry!

Next time I'll stick to buying banana and oranges from the side of the street.

rebel.ryter.a.la.kitchenette

I don’t cook. For the same reasons why I don’t wear a lab coat with a stethoscope around my neck and write out prescriptions for sick people. Why? Cooking is a profession! A full time chore! One that cannot be mixed, confused or combined with any other.

Last weekend, I whipped out my dusty apron and hit the kitchen. Operation Jollof the Rice. Now before I stepped out into the kitchen it took me all of 30minutes to outline the steps. It didn’t make it any easier that the stew had already been prepared. The last time I cooked was over a year ago.



I know a couple of you might be tossing your noses in the year out of disgust. But I couldn’t care more even if a cheetah were rushing in my direction. I spend close to 10hours a day at work. Another 2.5 hours in traffic in and out of home. That makes 12.5hrs. add another hour for showering and dressing up. we are up to 13.5hours. ironing takes about 30mins take or leave (I like linen fabric and those can be hellish to iron). That’s 14 hours already. Let’s add another 3 hours for recreation and time with God and the family. That makes 17 hours. Take that out of 24 and we are left with 7hours. That’s bedtime for my very sore body. Now tell me, out of these hours spelt out, which of these can I replace with cooking? The answer is simply, none of the above. Perhaps over the weekend, you say. In between family engagements, funerals and church activities. Where will be the time for rest? Trust me, I'll never be like those women in the Gino/Royco/A1 etc ads who cook a banquet for dinner and still look good afterwards. It's a lie!



My argument is very simple. Just as we go to the doctor for treatment when we are unwell, let’s go to the cook and not the cooker, when we’re hungry. Let’s stop being primitive minded, (yes I said primitive minded) and let’s give cooking a professional stand. What’s the point in pretending you can cook when you can simply pay someone to do it for you for a stipend. It saves you the time, effort, burnt finger, cut finger and it most of all, it creates employment opportunities! Cooking should by no means be belittled or trivialized. Suffice to say, when I grow up and get married, the most important bride price/dowry needed from the husbands family will be a chef. Plain and simple. I don't need all those bails of cloth and boxes of jewellery. That is another matter for another blog post.

If we enjoy going to the restaurant ever so often, what stops us from bringing the restaurant home - in the shape of a Chef?

And for those who were thinking my jollof didn't turn out well, think again! I’ve had that jollof three times already after I cooked it and it tastes better and better each time. Almost everyone in my family had some. I think I even kept the “kanzo” for the weekend. And no one’s invited!

the.republic.of.rytersville.vs.russia

It turns out that I’ve been hoodwinked by Kojo Russia. I never thought it could happen, that me, Obaa Yaa like myself could and would ever be taken in the the seeming innocence of a basket weaver, the one called Kojo Russia. After all my degrees of knowledge and PhD'd experience in life, how is that possible?!!!

Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, members of the jury, I present to the court exhibit A. displayed as a picture below.

[caption id="attachment_12" align="aligncenter" width="461" caption="This is a frontal view of the ¢12 (twelve cedi) paper bin"][/caption]





This ladies and gentlemen is what the defendant here Kojo Russia, sold to me for a ridiculous amount of money.



Member of the jury, if I may, allow me to draw your attention to the figure you see behind the basket of the picture below. You will notice the defendant Kojo Russia shying away from the lenses of my 3.2 mega pixel camera; obviously ashamed of the act he has just committed.

[caption id="attachment_13" align="aligncenter" width="461" caption="Waste paper bin on left and the defendant, Kojo Russia"][/caption]



On that fateful day, your honour, as I set out to collect the basket which I had pre-ordered from the factory, I was called into an urgent meeting at my office. I therefore asked that our office messenger ride his bicycle and go and collect this specimen you see before you today. Upon my return, I noticed two different items; 1) the cheap basket you see pictured above and 2) a heart shaped basket which I gave to my sister (not pictured above).

This was not what I had ordered for! So immediately after my meeting, I called his tiGO number and enquired of him why this was the case? He replied with an "Ooooh!!! i.e. he'd forgotten.

You honour, despite my fatigue, I drove to his factory and placed the basket in his hand and requested that he re-do it to my specification. He obliged and asked me to pick it up the next day.



That your honour, brings me to Exhibit B, pictured below.

[caption id="attachment_14" align="aligncenter" width="461" caption="The bigger, stronger, better looking, less expensive waste paper bin"][/caption]



While heading for home, I happened to pass by another basket weaving center. There, I chanced upon this fine specimen you see above. I parked my car on the shoulder of the road and a gentleman came to my aid, by name Aban (pronounced “ah-bine”). I motioned to the waste paper bin standing by the side of the road and he told me that it was only ¢5 (five cedis). Ladies and gentlemen, at that very moment, my jaw dropped in shock. First of all, it was bigger, stronger and better looking than what K. Russia had promised and second, it was cheaper!!! Immediately, I wanted to buy it. But he told me that that too was an order, but if I wanted one, he could finish one for me within a day! Obviously faster delivery than Mr. Russia had promised me. This is what you see below here nesting below on my bed.

[caption id="attachment_21" align="aligncenter" width="461" caption="my cherished and much cheaper waste bin"][/caption]



Evidently Kojo Russia had managed to pull the wool right over my bespectacled eyes!!!

This, my jury is where you ooos and aaah, shake your heads in disbelief and give each other knowing looks.

Ladies and gentlemen, members of the jury, your honour, I rest my case.

Defense attorney, your witness.

designer.bin.for.sale.

How much would you pay for a waste paper bin? I’ll give you a price range: between $3 and $30, where would your line of preference be?

You see the guys over at Flair who do the basket weaving and whatnots, I drove past about a week ago and saw some waste paper bins hanging on the tree branches that overshadow their “factory”. I decided that it was the exact thing I was looking for to help make my room “sesky” enough to live in. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stop because my lunch break was over and I had to get back to the office in time.

Today, I passed by. Sadly enough, they had all been bought. I then asked the weaver guy Kojo Russia (who got the name as a child as a result of his spiky hair. Why Russia? Search me). Anyways, he told me the ones I saw a week before had been pre-ordered from the "factory". Therefore if I wanted one, I had to place an order. Yes, an order for a cane woven waste paper bin. So my next step was to ask for the price. Wait for it … GH¢25! Whoa?!!! GH¢25 so I can throw mere “bola” into it? That was my entire week’s lunch money.IMPOSSICANT! As my brother would say. 

I simply couldn’t understand why a bola bin would cost so much! There’s nothing like expensive trash! All trash be trash; all bola be bola!!! Plain and simple. So why pay as much as for it GH¢25? We bargained and settled on GH¢12 after I confused him with some calculations as to why it needed to be no more than GH¢12. I think I may even have quoted the current stock market rate. In any case, I still think it is way too much for a bola bin. But I’m happy all the same. Now my life will be complete … well … momentarily.

I pick it up on Friday. I’ll take some pictures and upload them on the blog.

00.00

His body clock woke him up just as it had done for the past decade or so, every morning without fail. 


But this morning different. He stirred from his bed, grudgingly getting up. He tossed a glance at his watch, it read 00:00. It must be the sleep in his eyes he thought. He reached for his eyeglasses, wore them, and took another look at the clock. Same thing: 00:00. 


Maybe the lights went out in the night. Maybe his glasses were misty.
He got out of bed, checked the power cable. Strangely, it wasn’t plugged in and as far as he knew, it didn’t run on battery. He presumed the display was broken. He took the cable and plugged it back in. No different: 00:00.

He walked up to the window, the rooster hadn’t crowed, the birds didn’t chirp, even the dogs couldn’t be heard. The sky was pitch black, as though it were midnight. He resisted the eerie feeling that begun to creep over him. He opened the window to let in some air, but he couldn’t even feel the wind on his face.


He glanced back at his watch, out of habit. Still 00:00. He shook his head, picked up his towel and hit the shower. All dressed up now, he peeped at the clock, almost afraid to look now. He remembers to check his wristwatch, he looks for it, but can’t find it. “Ah! His cell phone! he thought. Why didn’t he think of that before? He jumps unto his bed and picks it up. The time read 00:00.

He tries to make a call. No signal. Maybe it’s the network. He tries another other phone. No different. Now panic begins to mount. 
One more glance at his clock. It still read 00:00.


He picks up his bag and runs out the door. On the outside, there was an uneasy stillness as he stepped out into the night … or was it day? He couldn’t tell anymore. He sits in his car, turns the key in the ignition, but the car won’t start. He pauses for a prayer. Gives the key another turn and the car responds. He revs up the engine and moves out of the driveway. As he hit the road, it could have very well been midnight as he drove in utter darkness. Did he wake up too soon? Did he even wake up at all? There was not a creature in sight, not a sighted creature. The roads were completely empty. 

no more time

No streetlights or traffic lights to guide him. Now he was completely terrified, gripped with fear! He steps hard on the accelerator pedal, racing against what he was uncertain of. And yet, the car goes no faster. In fact, the odometer reads 00 00 00, the indicator of the speedometer also reads 0 mph. 


Then he realized what was happening. It was true. He had heard it and it was his turn now. He had ran out of time.

Hello world!

Hello world, it's me again, is it I, the ever famous, the indefatigable, the unstoppable, the unshakable, the unflappable ME.

I know, different place, different blog(host), same famos freddy, and also called the rebel ryter! At ease soldier.

I'll be doing pretty much the same thing here, as I have the others. Welcome aboard the revolution of the one and only ... drumroll please ... rebel ryter!!!!!!!!!

sacred.favourites

You know that feeling that you feel when you don't like the feeling you are feeling? Maybe you don’t. But I felt that feeling this morning as I drove from home to work. Some of you might know Dewland fruit juices. They are one of my favourites and most treasured natural juices, after Blue Skies of course.


Therefore, you can easily imagine my horror when I saw it being peddled on the street like common food! Inside me, I wanted to cry. But my outer man kept it bottled in.

I consider cheap, things sold on the street, therefore I most certainly do not appreciate it when my most cherished and highly favoured fruit drink is “commonized” into streetware! I take offense, immediately! They did the same to grapes. I mean I love grapes, truly, I do. But not when it is counted, bagged and sold for me along the street like "ebro ena nkate". They are grapes and by all means should be treated as royalty. Maybe I'm fussing unnecessarily over this, but if you were part of the ancestry of the kingdom of grapes, you will not encourage defaming your legacy by calling you "glips" (I italicized the ‘p’ because it is barely enunciated). This woeful pronunciation of my wonder fruit emanated from the mouthpiece of a hawker. Grapes, if I recall correctly from Greek myths, were served to kings on silver platters. Ask anyone who’s watched any of those movies.

Newspapers I don't mind; apples I've gotten used to but my Dewland, oh my Dewland. This can't be how it ends. These sales & marketing guys have gotto come up with more imaginative ways of selling their products.

all.the.things.i.couldn’t.be.

Usually when you think about life, you think of all the things that you could be and could do when you’re older or when you get the chance. But I bet you never think of all the things you couldn’t do and be happy about the fact that you could never do or be those things. I have.

See this, I could never be a monk. In fact I will never be a monk. Shave my head in the middle and leave the other sides to grow? Forget about all the “never say never” nonsense. Sometimes never, is never. I could never fly. Never. Technology could advance in as many directions as it could, but a flying man (or woman in my case)…never.

Second. I could never be a rock star. I can’t play the piano, or the guitar, let alone sing. Plus I would have to wear weird clothing and scream at a screaming audience to see who screams loudest. Above all, I live in Ghana. Our music genres run a very short gamut: from highlife to hiplife. No classical, no bluegrass and no rock.

Three. I could never be a hairdresser. I have locks for crying out loud and if that’s not a huge sign that says “you can’t dress your own hair let alone that of others”, I’m not sure what that is.

Four. I could never be an astronaut. This would require me to do multiple complex mathematical computations that would take weeks and months and decades to complete. Yes, perhaps my engineering background may make it seem possible. But I promise you, an astronaut, I could never be. The most I could do is to take a trip to the moon or anywhere in outer space where humans can land. But be an astronaut and actually make sure the space shuttle functions as it should? Hardly.




Five. I could never be an alien with antennae for eyes and 3 fingers on one hand instead of the 5 fingers God in His boundless wisdom gave me. That is a definite NEVER!

Six. A size zero model in 9 inch nails. That I could never ever ever ever be. My DNA disallows it. I could starve for 300 days successively and perhaps shed 2 pounds tops. My bone structure disapproves of it and that makes it a positive and affirmative no. A size zero model ranks highest on the NEVER TO BE list.




But this is a good thing. There are so many things I could never be. Think of it this way. I could never be a goat, an automobile, a beaker, a television set, a box of tomatoes or a carton of milk. I don’t know about you, but this makes me glad and reminds me of who I am and what I can be in a sort of twisted way that makes sense to my warped imagination.

So whenever you are tempted to think about all the things you could do and be in this lifetime, think about all the other things you couldn’t and will never ever ever do or be in this lifetime of yours. Focusing on what you can’t do will simply make you realize all the wonderful things you are not. And maybe that’ll make you feel a lot better about yourself. Maybe.

Here’s where I start sounding wise.

Sometimes it’s not what you want out of life it is what life wants out of you. It is not what you expect out of life but what life expects you to do. It is not what you look out for in life, but what life sees in you. We may think we have a choice, for all one knows, we are the ones being chosen. And all the introspection, daydreaming and brooding that goes on in our heads is just a conspiracy of the universe and circumstances to get us to do what we really need to do in this lifetime. Cos no matter how we see it, there is a higher power that designs and lays out our patterns for us. If we didn’t choose how we came, from whom we came and how we look, what makes us so sure that we are in full control the whole time? It may seem that way, but we need to realize that occurrences and happenings around us twist our arms into making decisions and forming opinions that we wouldn’t have formed had we not been in those type of situations.

Some might consider this a travesty in comparison to all the feel good and do good speeches we are so used to hearing. Maybe all the challenges we face in life are as a result of us not listening to the winds of life and what message they carry in their whistling. If we were simply to conform and go along with what our inside man dictates, no matter how crazy it may sound, maybe life would sing a different tune. But we are so adamant about being our own person and making choices and defining our lives to the letter that we miss out on many good things in life.

Perhaps we should just focus on living. Letting Life choose for us. Let’s face it, Life has been here way longer than any of us right here at this moment. And It could teach us a thing or two. Although we try to go at it differently. Simply put, life was here before us and if the values of my culture are anything to go by, we need to give respect to those older than us.

Instead of carving our way through the mountain, how about we just hike around it and enjoy the view from whichever rock we step on. At the foot of the mountain where the grass grows green and life seems somewhat stable; or in the middle where we can experience a little bit of both worlds; and at the very peak where the breeze blows freedom and a sense of serenity and accomplishment. Whatever stage there is in life, wherever we find ourselves, whatever situation we’re in, let’s not think of what could have been or how we should have or could have, those are many. But what is, is one and that’s the present. That’s who we are and that’s where we’ve come. Nothing wrong, nothing wasted, nothing left behind. It’s nothing. It’s just us. Who we are.

raining rain

it rains. the rain it rains
rain drop on raindrop
drop after drop it rains
rain by rain; grain by grain
grain with rain; rain unto grain
unto grain it rains

rains into puddles
puddles into drains
drains into streams
streaming down the grains
with rains into rivers
rivers from streams drains into rivers
sea of grain and rain. sea.
sea into sea into ocean

ray by ray, the sun, its rays
ray reaches out to the sea
a sea of rays. it evaporates
evaporates into the atmosphere
again and again, until it rains
rains again. unto the grains it rains
may there always be rain,

writing.barricades.away.

Since the beginning of this year, I’ve been unable to update my blog. This sad incident could be chalked up to what the experts call the Writer’s Block. For me it’s been more of a barricade than a block! Perhaps it was because I realized that I was maturing as a writer (ahem!) and as such every word that was bold enough to spew itself forth from my imaginative brain had to be perfect. Well, I’m happy to have you know that notion was absolutely false!

As a self-proclaimed writer, I guess it was painful for me to accept the fact that I can and immensely so, do write crap! My inner critic battered me black and blue with all the “do nots” of the writing world. And for a moment in time (make that several moments in time), my brain refused to think (in terms of writing, that is). 
Sometimes as I drove through town I would see something, and unconsciously, my mind would string a line or two together, but when I sat down behind my computer, faced the new blank page I created in Word, the crap alert siren sounded loudly in my head and that ended it. The ‘vim’ was gone!

I even decided it was because I hadn’t actually put real pen to paper in a while. So I started to write in good old ink on paper. That didn’t help in any way. I was beginning to think that maybe I wasn’t that good a writer as I presumed. And my super powers has a writer had been obliterated by some invisible ray from outer space. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.

But now, after careful research … i.e. sitting behind my laptop, lost in my musings, I decided to simply write crap! Not only that, I decided to share some of my quarter-baked stories with you so you all can tell me how crappy they are. I promise not to be offended. Be at liberty to lash out at me any way you can. It might just all the inspiration I need. So go on, give it your best shot. In fact, I’ve decided to dedicate this entire blog to crappy writings. Oh by the way, if you have any poppycock writings that you are afraid will see the light of day, forward them to me. Right here on this blog, they are very welcome.

[caption id="attachment_47" align="aligncenter" width="478" caption="Specimen 1"][/caption]

Check out the second attempt. Horrible!

[caption id="attachment_48" align="aligncenter" width="491" caption="Specimen 2"][/caption]

There you have it. I don’t know why I’m doing this. One day I might regret this…or maybe not. Either which way I would be glad that I finally made a move to move this barricade out of my way. Comments, comments, comments please!

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it's the very first day