Every Country Has Its Own Kind of Crazy

Just as I promised in this anniversary month, we have another guest commuter today, my really good friend, Enyima. Enyima has escaped the wahala of Accra and exchanged it for the wintry bliss of the UK, where she’s lived and worked for a couple of years. She has a good few stories of Transport for London (TfL) commutes, so if she’s good, maybe – just maybe – I’ll give her another chance. Comment as usual. Share it, and feel free to send me mail if you can. You’ll love this one.



I was tired. After a long day at work I had decided to take what I thought would be a time-saving detour home. Instead I found myself in a freezing cold waiting room at a train station a good few miles from my house. And by “waiting room” I mean a dimly lit brick structure with a single bench, no heating and the acrid smell of day-old urine emanating from all four of its corners.

You see, public elevators and waiting rooms are to the hooligans of Britain what the roadside gutters are to the desperate-for-a-pee tro-tro mates of Accra. But poor hygiene on public transportation is a gripe worthy of its own blog post – one which I may one day write (should Asomasi ever invite me back). I could rant for days just about the spitting on the bus!

Anyways, back to the story…

…So at last, the train I had been waiting for finally arrived (only 5 minutes late) and I fled the stinking waiting room and the chatty old lady who was insufficiently disgusted by the smell to be deterred from eating in there (ewwww). I hopped aboard the train and sank into the nearest empty seat with an audible sigh of relief. I was homebound! I could already smell the egusi and goat-meat stew my Nigerian housemate would probably be cooking for dinner (yummm).

As the train set off, I realized with joy that my seat was right above a heater. Glory Hallelujah! I slipped off my shoes and let the warm air thaw my freezing toes. I let myself relax, flicking through a newspaper someone had left behind and enjoying the elbow room that is the only comfort to the few poor souls travelling home after the sardinesque crush of rush hour.

All was well until I broke the number one rule of UK commuting – I made eye contact with a stranger – and with hindsight I couldn’t possibly have picked anyone worse. I still can’t remember what initially made me look up from the riveting story I was reading about Lindsay Lohan’s latest attention-seeking act of immense folly. My eye-contactee (I like to make words up) was about 21 years old, with a sullen, pock-marked face further disfigured by a multitude of unsightly brow, nose and lip piercings. His fraying black leather jacket had DEATH printed on one shoulder in hell-fire red, with other morbid images of bones, blood and gore dotted along its sleeves.

His movements – pick, sprinkle, roll, lick, seal – were carried out so calmly and methodically that it took me a few moments to realize what he was doing: rolling up his joints for the week (or by his dilated pupils, the night). The pungent smell of marijuana soon filled my nostrils and undoubtedly those of twelve or so the other weary commuters on our carriage, but no one had the strength or curiosity to even raise an eyebrow. I just stared at him with a mixture of awe and disgust, until a scowl so foul it could’ve scared a hippo out of the Serengeti was shot back in my direction. I quickly hid my face behind my newspaper, trying to continue my education in Lohanology where I had left off.

A few minutes after I was caught silently judging our budding drug-lord, the train manager announced my stop. I quickly gathered my belongings and, still using the newspaper as a shield, stepped off the train into the freezing rain, carefully picking my way across the icy platform to the station exit.

I looked back to make sure Mr Pierce McSpliffison had remained in his seat and wasn’t standing behind me with an axe in his hand, ready to turn me into a real-life version of the bloody skull on his jacket collar. To my relief he was where I had left him – on the southbound train rolling his joints, ready to flood the local marijuana market with enough stock to depress the price of a quick high for weeks.


So Asomasifo, there it is – an example of the kind of drama I face on my daily commute – hardly the gut-churning, temperature-raising, side-splittingly funny stuff Asomasi regales us with every week, but full of crazies in its own special way.

Oh, and this is my first ever blog post. I’d love to hear your feedback.


About Kwaku Dankwa

By day, I'm an advertising copywriter. That's what I've done all my working life (National Service doesn't count). Husband of Esther, father of Jesse and twin boys Mark and Andrew, and servant of Christ. I previously wrote a blog on the dramatic side of public transport in Accra, "The Daily Commute: From Bridge to Ridge." Enjoy.
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28 Responses to Every Country Has Its Own Kind of Crazy

  1. Ama says:

    I found that really funny! Pierce McSpliffison – I really feel ya! Good start Enyima, maybe one day you can talk about mobile phone conversations you’ve heard – and what it feels like to miss the only train of the hour on a cold winter’s night … Whatever Asomasi’s trials may be, at least he does it in relative warmth!

  2. abyss says:

    Great post for a first and if Asomasi does not invite you back, maybe you should think about blogging yourself. 🙂
    Every country has its own kind of crazy indeed. I remember sitting on a bus and had this complete stranger chatting incessantly in my ear.

  3. slimpo says:

    Good job Enyima. As for Asomasi, if he doesnt invite you back, i will lead a revolt. After all, that is the new wave of change blowing across the continent.lol

  4. Sis says:

    I really enjoyed this! Enyima you’re a natural. More n more I say! By the way, do I know you?

  5. Yaw Perbi says:

    Good one! The blend of creativity and picturesque writing is simply ‘out of this world.’ Keep èm coming! But then it’s no wonder since you’re in the company of greats like Asomasi! 🙂

  6. Raj says:

    I simply love your creativity in making up words…and the best one for me is “Lohanology”. Aside that i think is a nice piece. keep it up.

  7. Kodjo says:

    That was a great read…loved every bit of it!!

  8. kwame says:

    I loved it. I was hoping the budding drug lord would follow you though! Action!!

    • Enyima says:

      Eish as for this one, I beg oh! If he had followed me you would probably be reading my obituary. But you’ve given me an idea – now I may pick a fight or two on the bus just so I can write about it. Hehe.

  9. sharl says:

    cool. you have a way with words.very comfortable and i like it that you make up your own words. there’s lots of room for that in the English dictionary. Good job on your first

  10. RAY JAY says:

    Lohanology…..now dats somefin :)…i must say i like the clarity with which u capture hapenins…good post.

  11. Sebastian says:

    Good piece.Keep it up.Aside the vivid scenes worded up in your post, you had suspense too.I like the way you made your readers all have the thought that the drug lord was going to follow up and just stopped it in its tracks.Way too good for a first timer.
    Mr. Pierce McSpliffison.This name really sounds Fanti though.lol

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