The disadvantage of being first into a trotro is that you have a long wait for it to get full. The advantage is in getting to choose your seat. So I plopped myself in the front.

One woman came carrying a heavy load of foodstuffs. The mate convinced her to pay double and lay her burdens on the next seat. She also had a worn black fertilizer bag filled with bagged gari that she placed in the space in front of the mate’s seat. Slowly, the trotro filled up. A heavyset woman walked leisurely to us as the mate shouted his lungs out, “Bawaleshie, America House, last one!” On her head, she balanced a black fertilizer bag containing three tubers of yam. “We’ve been waited for you a long time,” the playful mate chipped before he went screaming for his master, who was probably playing cards or draughts with the other station dwellers.

We zoomed out, swerving cars the driver deemed too slow, while trying to get as close to the speed of light as his aged Mercedes Benz 207 would allow. The aroma of my waakye wafted through my nostrils as the morning air whipped our faces.

“Mate, 37, bus-stop,” the big woman with yams interjected. Judging from the driver’s speed, it was a bit too close to the bus-stop, causing us to swerve sharply. Naturally, this triggered off a wave of complaints about the driver’s recklessness. As she got off, the mate gave her black fertilizer bag to her.

I don’t know if it was the driver’s wild driving or a problem at home, but what followed next was fit only for the gutters. Instead of the mate giving the woman her bag of yams, he mistakenly gave her the one containing gari and promptly yelled, “Away!” The first woman was furious. How dare this thief of a mate give the other woman a bag that didn’t belong to her? Was he blind? Or just stupid? Worse followed. Soon, the driver was caught in the war of words as well, receiving his share of abuse. I fumed. My waakye was getting cold.

Similarly, a young lady with a baby strapped tightly to her back got down with me at Shiashie on my way to work many months later. Struggling with baggage in each hand, she clumsily got out. A kind passenger was able to quickly push her baby’s head down, saving her from smashing in her own baby’s face. By this time, the mate had already run to the back, and in one sweeping motion, opened the boot unloaded her suitcase, and shut it with all his might. They were about to speed off when she shouted, “Mate, this isn’t my bag.” The puzzled look on his face gave me a sick feeling in my belly. All eyes were now on the scruffy lad.

The Fates must’ve been against him. What were the chances of similar suitcases being in the same trotro boot on the same journey? The mate was probably praying that he’d vanish. Everyone ganged up against him. Even the driver. Then the young woman started to cry. For the first time, I wasn’t curious to know how this would end.

But who can tell when one will be struck by misfortune? One Saturday afternoon, a young man got off at Banku Junction in East Legon, instructing the mate to take his box from the boot. As ill luck would have it, it turned out that when he was boarding the trotro at America House, he’d told the mate to pick up the box which lay a metre or two away from him. In his haste to pack us all in, Mr. Mate hadn’t heard. The young man was hysterical. Whatever was in the box must’ve been of great value. The driver had to quickly call the bookman at the station, who fortunately located the precious luggage. In a flash, the young man sat in a taxi without negotiating. His panic was enough to get conversation going among strangers in our trotro.

After all was silent again, one woman retorted with a scowl, “Maybe there was cocaine in the box.” I looked at her in disbelief. Here we go again.

Asomasi.

Everywhere you go, there’s one politician or the other on a poster, banner or billboard smiling, coaxing, promising the world, the sky and moon dust, just so on 7^th December, I put my fingerprint against his face.

At Dzorwulu Junction, just opposite Fiesta Royale Hotel, the president’s face is all grim seriousness on a green background. Another one, I thought to myself when I first saw it. Like a mind-reader, a perfect stranger, also risking his life speeding across the George Bush Motorway with me, shook his head in obvious frustration. He was mumbling, “Another signboard. The things that are important, they won’t do them.” I made the mistake of making eye contact. In Accra, you don’t need to know someone to share your thoughts with them. “When Atta Mills died,” he continued, “they put his picture there. Then they put the old and new presidents together. Then President Mahama was raising his hands. Now this one!” I nodded in agreement. It looked like the pictures were changed weekly! I listened with the attention of a psychologist.

We walked on, like two long-lost buddies catching up on experiences at the hands of wicked school seniors. “Massa, four years ago, I was campaigning for them. Today, look at me. I’m still taking trotro!” I wasn’t amused by the last bit. It directly affected me as well. How apt, that he should say this just as we got into a battered trotro that would drop me right in front of my office. Thankfully, that was the end of the conversation.

One morning, as the mate shouted himself hoarse at Shiashie for passengers to Kwashieman, the driver chatted excitedly with a friend under the shade of the bus-stop. The panellists on Radio Gold were lambasting Lawyer Atta Akyea, if I remember right, while rigidly defending the government’s position on whatever it was they found so important. “Away, away!” the mate shouted. The driver slowly climbed in, bumping his head to a song only he could hear. He was a beefy youth, perhaps only having earned his own elevated status as driver weeks ago. Staring down at the radio in disgust, he changed the station as an irate caller launched into an argument.

Cries of protest followed quickly. He would have none of it. “Driver, put it back! We’re listening!” one agitated commuter shouted from behind. Speak for yourself, I shot back in my head. The driver casually shook his gear as he replied, “We don’t listen to politics in my car.” End of story. Some complained. I wasn’t quite in favour of Miss Naa’s off-colour jokes and quirky comments on Y FM either, but that morning, anything was better than a bunch of self-seeking politicians on either side of the divide building castles in the air, while getting the populace excited about grandiose plans which too often have gone up in smoke.

It’s amazing how some people need to know what every aspirant has said on the remotest of campaign platforms. I once had the misfortune of sitting beside a middle-aged man with a crackling radio glued to his ear. He listened attentively. To me, it was just an inconvenient nuisance. A politician was being interviewed by the radio host. I couldn’t recognise the voices.  I reasoned that my fellow passenger would no doubt be casting his vote against the ruling party on election morning. He would be one of the many who would queue from 4am, impatiently waiting to exercise his franchise like a primary school boy who badly needed to pee. He was seething. From the way he was voicing his displeasure at the radio it was clear that nothing the government did pleased him. He had all the answers to the nation’s ills. Thankfully, I was rid of him when I got down three minutes later. Only God knows what happened to his temperature as we passed a row of NDC flags lining the Tetteh Quarshie Interchange.

The excitement is gathering momentum. Commuters who have never seen each other are freely declaring their stance, and spreading the gospel of their chosen party when they can. Clearly, the era of “My vote is my secret” is over. Minds are made up. Now can we just get it over with and return to our lives?

Asomasi.

It was dark. Very dark. The streets were isolated, except for the occasional night dweller doing nothing in particular outside. Still the music played. In his mind, the driver must’ve been in the club. Or just psyching himself up for a regular night mugging. “Driver …” I started, before shutting up. Was this the point where he’d park by the road and pull his pistol from underneath his seat? No doubt, his goons would be waiting to rob me naked. A lump appeared in my throat. Get a grip, man!

Finally, I’d had enough of the tricks my mind was playing. Just as soon as I was going to demand to get down in the middle of nowhere – never mind how unwise such a decision would be – we joined the George Bush Motorway. Relief flooded my spirit in torrents. I noticed for the first time that I sat back. Within minutes, I was tapping to the music. My guess was that this was a driver with a wild side. He knew every song, even right up to pre-retirement Mase! Keri Hilson came on, he sang along. That reminded me of Achimota School. I was actually smiling here, as we gunned down the inner lane at speeds I can’t determine, no thanks to his broken speedometer.

We finally got into East Legon in one piece. I wanted to confess to the driver that he had my heart in my mouth, but I found myself remarking that the radio DJ had made his day. He indicated with a grin that he was just remembering his heyday. With that, he screeched off in search of another unsuspecting passenger to frighten.

Normally, I make it a habit not to talk to taxi drivers. I prefer to sleep when I can, and mind my own business where I’m not able. Just the other night, this driver I encountered was in no mood to be silent. Less than a minute after the fare was negotiated and we were on our way, he considerably slowed down. He was looking intently into a spot where young people were downing bottles of Guinness. The music was loud and people were obviously winding down after a hectic week. That was his cue to spark up conversation. He told detailed stories about university students getting hopelessly drunk, and the less-than-glamorous pictures that were taken of them, with varying degrees of embarrassment.

Hardly a word he said registered as I mindlessly allowed him to ramble on. “It’s just like George Bush and Al Gore in the US elections, when ….” My head jerked left. He had my full attention. Now, I’ve been in a taxi where the polished bespectacled driver was talking to me about the part electrical conductors play in car fires. This brother here, he was nothing like that. He had a beer belly and a thick accent. Indeed, never judge a book. He was talking about how someone brought evidence about Bush’s police record in 2000. This was news to even me. The next word I heard was “New Hampshire”. The shock was complete. Who was this guy?!

It didn’t help any when we passed by Jerry’s in East Legon, popularly known as Atemuda. There, we slowed down again for my man to have a good look at the revellers. What he was looking for, I can’t tell. I guess he got kicks out of that.

It turns out he has a day job at a radio station. I didn’t bother asking what he did there, for fear it would just add to my shock. Taxi drivers too, it seems, come in all forms. There are the reckless speed demons blasting pirated hip-hop from a speaker that fills the whole boot, and there are old geezers who shake their heads at these young types and the corrupted generation they represent.

Asomasi.

In trotros in the following days, commuters spoke sparingly. I found it surprising that they merely listened to the news on their way to and from work. Had we been numbed into golden silence? The traditional flutes would play on the radio every now and then, irrespective of station. That tune is such a tear-jerker, I thought to myself on one trip. Among every group of people, there was somebody wearing black. I had never seen such an outpouring of sadness.

Within days, there were picture specials in the dailies. Tabloid headlines were screaming clues of how the president died. Shocked Ghanaians stood around newsstands reading as much as they could without buying a copy. The Daily Graphic had an insert, comprising pictures from as many eras as they could find of the good man. They were suddenly collectors’ items.

It wasn’t until the one week celebration that it turned into an explosion of black and red. It didn’t take me long to notice that I hadn’t read the memo. I walked up to Bridge in my blue shirt, earphones firmly as one with my head. It was awash with funeral colours. I couldn’t kick myself hard enough. Truly, I hadn’t felt so out of place in a long time. Individuality quickly gave way for a desire to be part of the crowd. Oh, for the ground to swallow me. Instinctively, my head dipped lower in shame with each step.

I reached the mini-station opposite Fiesta Royale Hotel as the odd-one-out. Thankfully, there was a trotro going into Dzorwulu already parked. No need to wait and feel a thousand pairs of disapproving eyes bore through my body. The mate wore a flimsy black T-shirt with President Mills’ ever-smiling face on the front. No way would it survive three washes. The driver was grinning broadly as he rushed in. He was tearing pieces of tape to stick the man’s picture up on his windscreen. I had to advise him to paste it inside, in case he activated his wipers – in case they worked – and ripped the picture. I felt it my duty, at least, having not reflected the national mood that morning. From that morning onwards, anything red would do. People wore Manchester United jerseys, wore red shirts that read “Corea”, and shirts of dead relatives from funerals past.

Gloom was represented everywhere, but in the midst of tragedy, life goes on. There was still money to be made. Plenty of it. And some were raking it in like it was the California Gold Rush of 1849. Quickly, hawkers were roaming the streets with strips of red usually seen only either at funerals or Kumasi Asante Kotoko matches. They were shoving them into cars. Being a seasonal commodity, they weren’t going to slack in any efforts to make a killing. For GH¢1, you could get yourself a strip of koogyan. Hawkers tied them to car antennas before the owners had given permission. The larger pieces of cheap red cloth, frayed at the edges from hurried cutting, cost GH¢7. It certainly wasn’t above some enterprising thinkers, the day he died, to order bales of polyester onto the next cargo ship departing the shores of China.

I’d never heard of the funeral cloth cynically named “Sε asa”. But after all he had gone through from the public, saying “It’s finished” seemed apt. In the markets, traders couldn’t stock their shelves fast enough. By the time the three-day funeral commenced, the official Atta Mills cloth had been printed and distributed. Of course, it was specially-priced, whether as a sign of its quality or to take advantage of emotional mourners.

Walking into a banking hall and seeing pretty bankers accessorised with bright red broaches didn’t seem strange anymore. Neither did seeing a red England football flag draped on a trotro. Trotro wipers were tied together by red fabric. The president’s face filled the papers like never before, advertising agencies and moonlighting laptop-carrying graphic designers filling their boots too.

The herd mentality was in full effect, and the cowherds were shedding tears of joy all the way to the bank.

RIP, Mr. President.

Asomasi.

Asomasi.

*******

It had been your typical trotro trip on the Spintex Road, slowly cooked in a sardine tin on wheels. China phones had been doing their thing, ringing too long and too loud. Mixed with the cries of babies sweltering in the heat, it was all very unbearable. It felt good to have the blood find its way to my legs once again. Turning my neck to massage the cramps that were forming there, my weak legs almost gave way when I saw a man walking in on the pavement, DVDs in hand and a movie poster tacked onto his shirt: “Azonto Ghost”. Seriously?! Is there no end to the wonders that a trip to work in Accra can churn up?

On the subject of Ghanaian movies there are two distinct categories; those in English and those in a local language (usually Twi). Personally I divide the English movies into “Shirley Frimpong Manso – Leila Djansi” movies and the rest. I also divide the Twi movies into “movies with Agya Koo” and “movies without Agya Koo”.

Gone are the days when Ghanaian movies were all about witches, ghosts and all sorts of metaphysical beings. I remember movies from the 90s like, Sabina, Sika Sunsum, Ghosts Tears, Mari Jata, Agege Spirit, Shoe Shine Boy, Bukom Lion, Crossfire etc.

In their own way, these films had an impact on me. I remember watching Crossfire back in 1992. Somewhere in the movie a human head mysteriously appears in the back seat of a car and starts laughing. The driver loses control of the car, crashes and dies. Being too much for me to handle at that age, I suddenly didn’t want to ride in the back seat of my dad’s car, for fear of a human head appearing there.

Speaking of misconceptions, another movie titled “Harvest at 17” comes to mind, a movie about teenage pregnancy. Incredibly, the movie-makers couldn’t be bothered to explain that one needed to have sex before pregnancy occurred. One area guy, a know-it-all older kid, confidently explained that just by lying next to a girl you could get her pregnant. This theory accounted for my fear of girls all the way to Class 6.

Any trip to Kumasi came with a free viewing of a local film to pass the time. Yet, somewhere around 2008 or so, there was a huge paradigm shift in the Ghanaian movie industry. Twi movies suddenly gained huge popularity. These movies were usually a strange blend of comedy and superstition. This new genre of movies was led by Ghana’s own Will Smith, popularly known as Agya Koo.

The interesting thing about the Twi movies is their often outlandish titles. Just look out of any vehicle on any street in any city in Ghana and you will find posters of them defacing buildings and anything that stands still for more than 20 minutes.

There is the Agya Koo series: “Agya Koo in London, Agya Koo Gbengbentus, Agya Koo Salamatu, Agya Koo this, Agya Koo that. Then there are the Hollywood/America inspired movies: Ben 10 vrs Avatar, Prison Break and my personal favourite, 2016.

I was brave enough to watch 2016 after watching its American version 2012. Spoiler alert for those who had plans to watch it. The CGI was so shockingly poor it was comical. The movie is a fusion of Terminator, Alien vrs Predator, Hackers and some other lesser known American releases. A scientist manages to hack into the spaceship of Twi-speaking aliens with nothing more advanced than a Pentium 2 and what looks like visualization from Windows Media Player. The scientist builds a Cyborg which runs on a real human heart gained from his son, who sacrifices himself to save mankind. This one Cyborg is able to defeat all the aliens and saves the human race. All this of course happens in the year 2016.

After watching this movie I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to cry.

There’s also another category of Twi movies based on current events. For example, ex-President Rawlings makes a joke about current president Atta Mills. Something about Atta being a mortuary man and a week later the movie, “Atta Mortuary Man” is out. Suddenly you can’t help but wonder how long it takes to write, edit and act a movie in Ghana.

And as should be expected, the moment they’re released, you’ll find Kwame Djokoto screaming “DEEVEEDEE!” and “Part Waaan and Toooo!” on TV and radio, all in a bid to promote the movie.

I walked away towards the office, my mind occupied with worries about what on earth an Azonto Ghost does. Watching Ghanaian movies is not for the faint-hearted. It requires a very strong jaw and a really really open mind.

Dela.

A trotro approached, looking to stop right in front of me. A stroke of luck? I could only get out of the way in time to miss Hulk behind me charging at the gate. It was now a stalemate, as the passengers getting out were blocked, and nobody could get in. Perhaps the rain was fuelling tempers. In a flash a young man ran swung his leg through the open back window. The next thing we heard was a long ripping sound. The laughter that followed from stranded commuters diffused the tension. How the young man’s face was one of total calm was beyond me. Poor guy.

I felt bad. After all, I could identify with him only too well. During my student days in Kumasi, I remember being late for a meeting on campus. What made it worse was that I was the one who was leading it, and here I was, my face still puffy from oversleeping and my shirt flying in the wind as I rushed to the bus-stop near the hostel. The first trotro that came looked like it was on a one-way trip to the scrap yard, but I didn’t care.

Two seconds after the bucket of bolts stopped in front of me, I was in, soon to be followed by a bad tearing sound. I looked in horror at my torn cargo trousers, releasing the wretched piece of rusted iron that had thrown £25 down the drain. They happened to be my favourite as well. To add to the cruelty of the whole freak accident my phone started ringing. They were waiting for me for the meeting to start! I resigned myself to my misfortune, kicking myself for not wearing a longer shirt to cover the destruction.

These pieces of jagged metal have caused more trouble to me and others than I dare count. Just like all catastrophes, they always come at the worst moment possible. How do the driver’s mates escape them all the time? It never happens to them.

Just the other day, I found myself sat in the front seat of a Nissan Urvan, enjoying the cool breeze of the George Bush Motorway, headed for Dzorwulu. It was a perfect day. I even found myself humming a happy tune. And then at Fiesta Royale, I froze when I felt a tug at the leg of my trousers. Dear God, please don’t let them be torn, I fervently prayed. It turned out to be a long pull of a thread. A very long pull. The trousers may not have been torn, but they were ruined. Completely. I was suddenly so self-conscious and all the imagined stares made me feel two feet tall. Of course, I didn’t get a hint of an apology from the mate. “Away!” They were gone.

Thankfully, I’ve never experienced the seams of my trousers giving way. On one routine trip to Ridge some time ago, there was this man who was struggling all the way through. He was as tall as me, only about twice as big as I was. I was at the back, adapting quietly on-the-go to the cramped conditions. He was in the second row, and had to get up every few stops to make way for someone to get off.

Just in front of Cal Bank as he got down to make way for a suited banker behind him, his stretched trousers had had enough of this shoddy treatment and split, right at the seam. I winced in embarrassment on his behalf. What a place to suffer this humiliation. I have no idea where his destination was, but I didn’t envy him one bit.

But as for the woman whose waistband was dragged halfway down her thigh by a piece of the seat, I’ll bet she wished the ground would open up and swallow us all whole. She quickly sat down, but the harm was already done.

Trotros can be the worst of servants at the worst of times. Clothes and jagged metal just don’t go together.

Asomasi.

As the city has developed towards Adenta over the past few years, the water connection seems not to have been able to catch up. Indeed, the taps in homes are nothing but decorations, and at best, a fast fading glimmer of hope that one day, water will flow and showers can be enjoyed.

Some months ago, we were breezing past the 37 Military Hospital and the pesky private cars slowing us down. Our driver gunned towards the Flagstaff House traffic light as it turned amber. There was no way we’d make it legally. The last gasp sight of the menacing policeman caused the driver to slam the brakes, violently throwing us all forward. He made it. Only just.

Yet, while the insults flowed, I could only look ahead at the water tanker mindlessly throwing water at the plants in the island of the road. I sighed. Back home, there had been no water through the taps in a while. A friend had once used 30 sachets of pure water to bath, and here was this tanker watering plants and the road. Still, for reasons difficult to understand, the Ghana Water Company doesn’t get as much public abuse as the Electricity Company of Ghana.

One morning, as I was dragging myself to the bus-stop, I met two children approaching from the opposite direction. The older boy carried a bucket of water on his head, telling the younger girl with him to hurry up so they could bath and go to school. She was struggling with her small bucket to keep up and didn’t look amused one bit.

Interestingly enough, they passed a group of four rascals who had grounded their buckets and were heartily talking. They seemed to be enjoying their fine excuse from the classroom. Soon, they started throwing handfuls of water at each other. Clearly, long division and times tables were far from their minds.

It’s not uncommon to see a young man straining behind a wheelbarrow stacked with two or three large yellow jerrycans. These bright containers held vegetable oil in a former life. Now, they are like furniture in the homes of the great and small in Accra, their presence no more that out of place. Having gained popularity during the presidency of J. A. Kufuor, they naturally assumed his name. Today, Kufuor Gallons are your ideal water containers. How many times haven’t I seen them lined up at the watering holes in the city? Or in those compounds where water is brought daily from far away?

These compounds belong to those profiteering from our collective agony. After all, even in times of war, there are those who make a killing while everyone else’s focus shifts to basic survival. Like tanks through classic CNN footage from a conflict zone, trucks carrying large tanks of water traverse the roads.

This is certainly an enterprising business operated with military precision. The routes are well mapped out, the sources of water remain top secret, and delivery is bang on time. Every morning, I see them cruising, noisily splashing water about. They come – full of badly needed water – like three-humped camels in the desert, with henchmen sitting in the back guarding the prized liquid.

One morning, I saw a battered truck carrying two medium tanks, tilted dangerously to the left. I didn’t envy the driver or anyone trying to overtake him. I doubted it would survive the trip back. However, I’m sure countless others had written it off in the past. It would make it, and the driver would be paid his due.

The past four months have left the taps at home as monuments of better days gone by. 30 pesewas per gallon sure adds up, too. Yet, how did a water bill appear at home the other day?

The guy on a white background all over East Legon and Dzorwulu, I heard, wants our parliamentary seat. If his luck shines and he wins, he better fix this problem, come hell or high water.

Asomasi.

Hours after I’d witnessed hundreds walk up in response to the call for salvation, I thought about our church programmes in Accra. There must be thousands each year, most meant to win souls. Of course, there are the charlatans who have jumped onto the bandwagon to increase the girth of their waistlines, and have become acquainted with Gucci and Prada in the process. But how do they all get congregations to flock to them in their droves, irrespective of motive? Good old advertising.

One evening, I was making my way to the Kwame Nkrumah Circle station after work. I was contending with the human traffic, while at the same time trying my best to not kick any wares laid out on the floor for sale. “Yesss, Ghana one Cedi!” the aggressive salesman shouted, as he dusted off cheap ladies’ handbags that had no doubt arrived on a ship days ago from the backstreets of Europe. The Accra Mayor’s much-hyped decongestion exercise had obviously ended in failure and a waste of my taxes. I walked carefully, in my bid not to step on any beggars’ toes as they sat minding their own business, reclining halfway across the sidewalk. How the poster along the wall caught my attention in the midst of this confusion is beyond me.

Perhaps it was because it was under one of the illegally-connected light bulbs hanging indiscreetly on the wall. Here was this pastor staring right at me from the poster. He didn’t crack a smile. He wasn’t coaxing. He certainly meant business. A cold shiver shot up my spine and snapped me to attention. The headline said it all: “THIS NONSENSE MUST STOP!” A convention? I did a double take. It would be serious battle. I hurried away from the line of posters pasted over a Nigerian movie poster. The pastor’s eyes seemed to follow my every move right up to the trotro I sat in.

The poster must’ve seized me more than I knew, for I mentally drifted off to a billboard that used to be along the La highway. It had one other pastor dressed in army camouflage advertising his church. His stern look exuded readiness for war. Too bad I was always travelling too fast to read what else it said. Speaking of theme-dressed preachers reminds me of a billboard around Emmanuel Eye Centre that probably belongs to Word Miracle Church. The sight of Bishop Charles Agyinasare dressed in baggies and a flat hat, inasmuch as it was for a youth convention, still seemed a bit out of place, especially as the other pastors on the bill were dressed to the nines.

Names always seem to have drawn in the multitudes too. Any mention of miracles is a sure banker. Having limited blessings to marriage, business success, children and visas (even those obtained through connection men), is it any wonder that these themes are amped up a good few times each month? Titles like “Catch the fire” also have pulling power of their own. Once, Rev. Eastwood Anaba commented that if he organised a crusade themed “Carry your cross convention”, he’s sure nobody would attend. I agree.

We passed a few more crusade advertisements. Indeed, rhyme and expression play their part too. “Pray through for breakthrough” and the like roll off the tongue easily, locking the image of instant success deep in the mind of the target. I chuckled to myself, remembering a charismatic preacher announce that a prayer time was going to be higgledy-piggledy. I guess that’s English for “εbεyε butubutu!”

The trotro’s coughing to a halt jolted me back to the present. It was done for the night. Furious passengers crowded around the driver’s mate to demand their change. It was dark and the traffic had taken its toll on me. I dug my hands into my pocket and walked past the crowd around the mate towards the crowd that I was about to battle with for my trip home. Eyes from the bus-stop bored through me. I ignored them. I needed a breakthrough.

Asomasi.

I was on my way to the Kwame Nkrumah Circle in the evening from the office. I’d made that trip so many times that I never even gave it a second thought. I had to be at Calvary Baptist Church in Adabraka by 6:30pm. Fairly routine, no?

Not quite. This time, I was making the journey from my office in Dzorwulu.

Origin8 moved from the old hangout downtown into a much more stunning building in a quieter and more classy neighbourhood the day before. Yet, it was hard to let go of my former lifestyle just like that, so I decided to go to Calvary for one last hoorah. It was a no-brainer, really. Right out of the front door, there was a driver’s mate half-heartedly calling out of his crawling trotro, “Circle, Circle!” I hopped on, not minding any stares – real or imagined – from the posh female staff of the Fidelity Bank branch that occupies the ground floor of our building. In my mind’s eye, we were already breaking the speed limit on our way past Accra Girls’ Senior High School, and zipping past slowpokes on the Kanda Nima Highway. I’d soon calculated the time it would take me to get there. All was going well till we took an unfamiliar early right turn.

I never reckoned the trip could be so painfully slow. The route to my destination had always been the most straightforward around. Not this time. Our journey took us through inner Nima. At least, that’s where I thought we were. The kayayoo to my left was fast asleep. Her head was bobbing in all directions. I feared she would smack her head against the rusted frame of the trotro and never wake up again. The aluminium pans on her laps, with which she carries goods on her head for shoppers through crowded marketplaces in Accra, were dented from use. They produced continuous clanging rhythms as we bounced over the pothole-ridden back streets. Human and vehicular traffic shared the road in a system which would easily confuse the uninitiated. Where on earth were we?

The slowness was enough to get me thinking about a few things. One of which was this blog. Was the name now irrelevant? After all, I now find myself working a world away from Ridge. I liked the ring of the name, From Bridge to Ridge. Just drop it? It felt like cutting off your right arm. I wrestled with the thought a long time.

We snaked our way past goods depots and night markets at Pig Farm. Or was it New Town? Our battered Nissan Urvan trotro was slowly being digested, having been swallowed into belly of the monstrous traffic jam. This was another side of Accra for me. Second-hand clothing was being set up on cheap mannequins. Kenkey sellers were making brisk business, while hits were blasting from randomly placed speakers. Every now and then, it was like a new set of passengers would get on board. Was anybody going to Circle at all? Perhaps that’s why we came this way in the first place. Otherwise, wouldn’t it have been more prudent to use the main highway?

I was now too tired to think, and with all the determination I could muster not to have to revisit this issue, I made the decision: I’ll keep the name. Sure, it’s not Ridge anymore, but does that really matter?

So my commute has changed. I haven’t even figured out how the easiest way to get to work is. I don’t fancy taking three different cars, but I still want to get to work as fast as I can, and stay off the roads as long as I can. How can it take me almost the same time and cost me about the same to get to a location which is geographically much closer to my house? (I thought that was strange until I remembered that back when we were in Adabraka, if anybody offered me a lift anywhere along my route to East Legon, thinking they were doing me a favour, I’d gladly refuse and just join the throng of workers trying to get home at the Circle station.)

Discovering a new route and all the little bites that will no doubt come with it may not seem like fun. But seated in my new and much more spacious creative studio, maybe it’s worth it, this change of environment. And the view from the rooftop sure beats the sight of a leafy Indian almond tree any day.

So, goodbye to 32 Amugi Avenue, Adabraka. I’ve had countless adventures on my way to you – some funny, some annoying, some simply logic-defying – but, I won’t miss you.

Asomasi.

Asomasi.

*******

I remembered Kwaku’s plea to share my public passenger ‘experiences’ or more aptly ‘encounters’ two minutes after I sat on the bus (Microbes Mass Transit). I had just wrapped up a business phone conversation with my colleague and bought my ticket when the lady sitting next to me motioned to the petty trader for a sachet of water.  I mentally sighed with relief; thankfully and atypically, no droplets splashed my freshly pressed AfroChic dress as she hurled a hefty arm – inches away from my face and chest – to grab the globule of obviously lukewarm water on a slightly cloudy yet warm Wednesday morning.

By the time the bus took off, I was I re-reading my Daily Word reflection for the day, while relishing the surprisingly cushioned seats on the immaculately clean bus. Then I heard the familiar light thud despite my earphones: my neighbor had done it again. She had confidently thrown the half-drank sachet on the floor in front of her. My heart immediately sank a little. At least, the radio won’t be blaring at inappropriate decibels en route, I consoled myself. The trip was further interrupted by a young passenger who proceeded to jump off the bus to make an eleventh hour purchase, just as the driver was pulling out of the station, only to then scream, “Hey, hey, door!” to get back on.

As if on cue, a loud cough emanated from an undoubtedly uncovered mouth two seats ahead of me. I knew we were really on our way now.

How long have you held your breath? No, not when under water or while escaping a smoky building or kitchen. I mean when in a trotro, taxi or on a bus, and quite possibly while being driven at breakneck speed, perhaps in town or while being ricocheted along the motorway. Don’t ask me; I have broken all my own records during my daily commute. It’s not that I am a hyper-germophobe or hypochondriac by any means, but it seems many Ghanaians really do share much more than vehicles in transit. You may get much more than you hope or pay for when you utilize public transportation.

Take my literally whooping drive to 37, for instance. It had been a long day at the office and my colleague and I were delighted to catch a taxi headed to 37 taxi and trotro station for the second leg of our trips home. I sat in front to secure room for my long legs and buckled up for the short yet significant sojourn to Accra’s mini Grand Central Station. It was just as I turned to grab something quickly from my colleague in the backseat and just made it back to position that the first wheeze came. Okay, you have attention now, I mused as I realized it wasn’t the car or any other vehicle nearby. That thing sounded like it needed emergency medical attention. I froze for a second before rolling down the window, stretching my face as far out as I safely could, lest some undesired substance flew my way from that direction as well. Simply put, I didn’t want to go from scorching frying pan to fireside.

As the whooping cough continued, I prayed we would all at least make it to the station safely, since our chauffeur was visibly wobbling more with each cough and sputter. Flashbacks of primary school chose to surface. I had never met a whooping cough patient, but I was dead certain I had suddenly finally met a fellow with one of the intriguing six childhood killer diseases whose names and symptoms had been drummed into our young heads some two decades earlier. I still have a visual of droplets drawn from the mouth of a little boy on the poster of the Class Two wall. Equally memorable is the far-reaching fanlike spray of fluids from an unrestrained/uncontained sneeze courtesy of a GAST or some other secondary school science book. I shuddered at the thoughts and snapped back to reality as the whooping cabby struggled to change gears, jerking towards the suddenly far destination. A trotro might have been faster and safer tonight, I thought, carefully counting the exact fare to avoid any physical contact with the hand that had run across the coughing mouth and sniffling nose.

Finally, the brick wall loomed ahead. We jumped out for safety across the station, as he completed the show with a loud gurgle and roadside spit.

Before I knew it, we were at Spanner Junction, and the seemingly calm elderly man next to the teen with resplendent golden highlights was happily digging for nasal gold. I averted my gaze in anticipation of my transit at 37, wondering what other horrors the day could possibly have in store.

Veronique