Olympic Habits

IF I HAD one, just one Ghana Pesewa for each time I heard ‘Are you sure?’ I certainly wouldn't be here telling this story but somewhere on a beach in the North East of Brazil, in my skimpy bikini swinging in a hammock strung between two coconut trees and sipping a long cool drink, listening to some nice samba-reggae or bossa nova and watching cute muscular men playing football.

There's nothing wrong with dreaming, is there?

Now, considering the thousands of Cedis needed to fulfil my dream of being on that beach, you can imagine how often I hear, ‘Are you sure?’ Why do Ghanaians have to 'Are you sure' everything? I know it's not the intention, but every time I hear that phrase it's as if my honesty is being called into question.

There is nothing wrong with questioning things, curiosity is a healthy pursuit, but people don't seem to question the things they really ought to. You know, those pressing issues of corruption, crime, education, health, increasing fuel prices and vanishing cocaine parcels. No, it seems those things aren't important.

What is important is something trivial like me declaring I'm a Ghanaian. Oh yes, that would get questioned instantly. ‘Are you sure?’

When my made in Ghana friends complain about our people - who doesn’t? - the other made in Ghana Ghanaians, I always philosophise (as if it’s going to do any good) by telling them that the majority of any country's population is made up of the rabble and the riffraff, so they shouldn’t be surprised.

Obviously, these hair-tearing-out events happen with those riffraff and not the intelligent minority, such as your good self, reading this article right now. No Siree, no riffraff here!

One night, a friend and I were the last customers in a restaurant. My friend made a call on his mobile phone and so, not wanting to be a space invader, a concept most Ghanaians still don't understand, I left the table to give him some privacy.

The two waiters sat idly waiting for us to go, boredom etched over their weary faces. I sauntered around and finally ended up at the bar. I smiled at them, and proceeded to look at a magazine.

This is the conversation that ensued.

Waiter 1: You are Malian!
Me: No, I'm not.

It is a well known fact that Ghanaians know everything - especially, the male of the species.

Waiter 2: You’re Senegalese!
Me: I'm not Senegalese either.

They were stunned, to say the least. How dare I tell Ghanaians that they could possibly be wrong. Immediately, I earned my first pesewa of the night. Yes, you've guessed it!

Waiter 1: Are you sure?

You see how absurd this question is. I'm a grown woman, so, you'd think by now I would have, at least, known where I came from? Or, were they implying that I was masquerading as a Ghanaian?

Okay, let’s play devil’s advocate and say I were masquerading as a Ghanaian, shouldn’t they have taken my desire to be a Ghanaian as a compliment? Not my people o! ‘Are you sure?’

Still waiting for my friend to finish his call, I decided to have some fun.

Me: Of course.
Waiter 1: You don't look like a Ghanaian.

What does a Ghanaian look like, you may ask? My exact sentiment, so I went on to do exactly just that.

Me: So, what does a Ghanaian look like?

The conversation got sillier.

Waiter 2: Your hair is not the way Ghanaian ladies have their hair.

I have natural hair, which is twisted into locks.

Me: Oh! And what else?
Waiter 1: Your accent is not Ghanaian.
Me: That's because I've lived abroad most of my life.
Waiter 2: Eh, and your skin colour, it's the Senegalese people who have that skin colour.

You see what I mean by riffraff.

Me: Are you trying to tell me that no other women in Ghana have this skin tone?

I'm very dark and exceedingly proud of it, but maybe all the women they know have bleached that lovely darkness away. Therefore, being as dark as I am, I had to be Senegalese. I presume that was his reasoning.

Waiter 2: Also the way you are slim.
Me: Are there no slim women in Ghana?

I see lots of dark, slim, lovely Ghanaian women every day. But then, they may be Senegalese masquerading as Ghanaians.

Waiter 2: And your face, long and slim, just like Senegalese people.

This man wanted to be right at all costs. I wondered if he had ever been to Senegal or if he had a PHD in Senegalese anatomy and features. It sounded like he did.

Me: Why would I say I was a Ghanaian if I wasn't?
Waiter 2: Okay, so where do you come from?

At bloody last!

Me: My father is from Kumasi and my mother is from Kade.

They were shocked. If I had mentioned any of the larger cities, they could have stayed in denial. But Kade, little ol' Kade, even they had to accept that maybe I was telling the truth, but it was still too much for them.

Waiter 1: Are you sure?
Me: It's true! Kade, just after Akwatia.
Waiter 2: Ei, so you know Kade?
Me: Oh, yes I do!

The penny finally dropped and all of a sudden I was one of them, they grinned from ear to ear, and I suffered for the umpteenth time, “Wo ho te sen?”

This was the final test to prove my Ghanaian-ness.
I replied, “Me ho ye.”
That was all it took to pass the ‘Ghanaian test.’ I was now their sister and we chatted away like close family members. I didn’t want to bring the good times to a close, but my friend had finished his call and I’m sure those waiters wanted to go home. It was really late.

On the way home, my friend said, “You and those waiters were getting on really well.”

I looked at him with a wicked grin, as I couldn't resist it, and asked, “Are you sure?”

“SO YOU'RE TRYING to kill me eh?” he gasped loudly for all to hear. Sweat rolled off his gleaming face as his protruding belly wobbled in tempo to the loud throbbing music, his legs threatening to give way from underneath him. Men have all the fun, don't they?
As young men, they can swagger around, invincible as if the universe were created for their benefit and, while after a certain age, women are expected to throw in the towel and sit at home like perfect Madonnas, men in their ripe old age can continue as if gravity and age had no effect on them. I have great admiration for their tenacity, though others may call them foolish.
All one needs to do is to go to the clubs and discos to see them with pubescent, nubile women, young enough to be their granddaughters, as they make the sad statement, ‘We too, we dey.’ Let's hear it for the boys!
From what I know of the Western world, older men, trying to chase away the proverbial male menopause also run after younger women, but I rarely saw any of them trying to keep up with the young women on the dance floor. They are smart enough not to 'go there,' or risk the embarrassed laughter of others. The same embarrassment children feel when their parents are publicly affectionate towards each other.
Even in clubs here in Accra, the older white males would either sit watching their young catches dancing or if they do take to the dance floor, they keep to the safe two-step. No use in heading out into deeper waters, apart from the fact that it's a universal truth, that most white people don't know how to dance in rhythm.
All this takes a new twist when the black male becomes involved, or to be even more specific, the Third World black Ghanaian male.
My friend and I were shaking our thang at a nightclub and though I was having great fun giving the fat boy who was trying to keep up with me a hard time, I knew my body would pay the price the following day, though I consider myself relatively young.
So this old man, in his late fifties at a guess, was trying to keep up with a very flexible young woman who's moves would have sent any Dancehall Queen or professional Mapouka dancer running for cover.
“So you're trying to kill me eh?” His attempt at keeping up with the agile young woman was the most likely thing to hasten up his encounter with his Maker.
The impressed young woman laughed and upped the tempo by gyrating vigorously towards the ground, her waist and hip movements bringing a new meaning to the word 'wind,' and of course, the old man felt inspired to follow suit.
At this point, I decided to get off the dance floor and watch the action that was about to unfold. I have great instincts for such things so my friend and I got ring side seats.
There are certain songs that I class as songs to misbehave to, and 'Wind the punani' by Freddi Funkstone, is one of those. If that song is playing, as it was, wild horses wouldn't have been able to drag me off the dance floor, but my instincts told me that something special was about to happen.
Once the young woman had gyrated as low to the ground as possible, she stayed there and homeboy, not to be outdone, went with her. People gave them space and watched with admiration while he turned his head around grinning at all and sundry as he basked in the glory of his fifteen seconds of fame.
His face continued to shine while his belly, now trapped between his knees and chest, had little room to manoeuvre and his backside jerked awkwardly backwards and forwards. I thought I detected a pained look flash across his face, but maybe it was just wishful thinking.
People started to applaud, but the young woman had tired and had moved back into a standing position. Homeboy on the other hand, was still crouched on the floor.
The song finished and another one started, the woman started to wind again and the dear fellow was still on the floor, jiggling about pathetically. That's when everyone sussed that something was not quite right.
He continued to grin, as losing face was not part of his script for the night. All he needed to do was get up and he would have been home free. The young woman would have been assured that He Da Man.
My friend laughingly said, “He's stuck-o, he can't get up.”
“Oh don't be so wicked, he's just looking for his contact lenses,” my reply dripped with sarcasm.
Others started to titter, it was the third song since he'd achieved his crouching dragon position, his grin had completely vanished and he looked white around the gills. He looked around helplessly, but in everyone's minds, bets were being laid as to whether the old man would ever get up of his own accord. His cover had been blown.
After many pitiful attempts at getting up, he had to appeal for help. Smiling secretly, others eagerly rushed to his aid, unfortunately for him, gravity had locked in and he was stuck in that position.
The unimpressed young woman had moved on and was gyrating with a younger man who looked capable of keeping up with her.
To cap it all, the old man had to be escorted to a taxi waiting to rush him to hospital. It was a sad but funny sight; there he was, suspended in midair still in his crouching dragon position, and hanging off strong arms that gripped him under the armpits.
A word to the wise. Gravity catches up with all of us in the long run. I'm not saying that old men should keep out of the clubs; I certainly don't want to be robbed of free entertainment, but we all have limits and there is only so much the body can take.
I know how I feel the day after major exertion on the dance floor, so what is it about our older Ghanaian men who can't get it into their heads that excessive jiggling about at the night clubs is not the way to impress the young women, apart from the fact that their age, stamina and gravity will undoubtedly rear their ugly heads when least expected.
I'm sure older men across the African continent also have those feelings of invincibility that our Ghanaian club hopping geriatrics exhibit. But what is it about the African man?
Is it arrogance, invincibility or those silly myths that white people hold about black men? A mixture of the three, I suppose.
But is the embarrassment worth it, especially if after the Herculean attempt, the young woman is lost to a much younger man, you become a laughing stock, a comic tale for others to tell their friends and you wake up the next morning feeling like death warmed up or worse still, in a crouching dragon position in a hospital bed with Hell's Angels (Ghanaian nurses) screeching and admonishing you to act your age? Is it worth it?
Let's hear it for the boys!

MY FRIEND ARRIVED ranting and raving, tearing his hair out about the problems he was having with a carpenter he had contracted to make some chairs, obviously furious, as things hadn't gone the way he had envisaged.
It got me thinking about some of the issues I faced when I moved into my house, and then I remembered that other group of bad service providers who deserved to be exposed.
Carpenters, tilers, electricians, plumbers, so-called interior decorators, you know whom I'm talking about - Artisans. At some time or other we all come into contact with them, and if anything goes wrong, you have to painfully enye hwee and 'take it as it is.'
I have had two particularly hellacious experiences, which left me feeling so powerless, until I took my own action.
While living abroad, if I experienced the artisan from Hades, I would be on the phone to the Citizens Advice Bureau faster than a bullet or ringing the workman's company to make a stiff complaint and expecting results. Here, the 'take it as it is' syndrome is so prevalent that everyone expects and accepts bad service that the artisans - who in the majority are self employed - think it is their right to dish out whatever they want.
Recently, I had carpenters at my house to discuss putting shelves up in my kitchen. While I talked about shelves, the head carpenter talked about cabinets. I kept reminding him that I wanted shelves, not cabinets.
He insisted on cabinets, saying, “In Ghana, shelves and cabinets are the same thing.”
Shelves and Cabinets the same? Ha! I quickly invented a sudden urgent appointment and promised to contact them later on. I didn't.
Artisans here don't ever want to accept that the consumer, though not knowing the intricacies of the job, knows what they want.
The moment you ask an artisan to do something that deviates from what they know, they tell you that it's not possible, that their way is the only way things are done here.
I call them the ‘Masters of Can't.’
Even worse, they'll listen attentively, assuring you that they know and can do exactly what you want, then turn around and do what they want.
I contracted another carpenter to make a set of very simple chairs. Thinking I was smarter than my ugly chairs friend, I gave the carpenter pictures from a catalogue and wrote down all the dimensions. We discussed everything at length and I was naive enough to believe that he knew what he was talking about and would do a good job. He sounded so plausible.
Boy, did I learn a lesson!
After chasing him for months on end and hearing story after story, he finally arrived with the chairs one late evening. The first thing I noticed was that one of the chair legs was shorter than the other three. All the chairs had the same problem of balance. I rocked backward and forwards on each one in an exaggerated manner while he stood grinning sheepishly. I asked him to sort out the problem and bring the chairs back in the daytime for me to inspect properly. He promised to return the next afternoon.
He returned four days later in the night. Again! There was a minute improvement in the way the chairs balanced, but the rest, I was lost for words and just took them in, plucking splinters out of my palms.
The finish was horrendous, to say the least.
I looked at those chairs for two days getting more and more upset, and to make matters worse, friends would make derogatory comments and tell me that they knew a better carpenter - they weren't helping matters.
On the third day, I took the chairs back and demanded a refund.
The carpenter had a handy bag of excuses. As far as he was concerned, the chairs were fine.
Yeah, they had four uneven legs, a back and a seat, but the finish!
Never in a million years was he ready to admit that his handy work was bad even though other passers-by agreed with me. He refused to pay up, but he didn't know that he had met the unhappy customer from hell.
I hounded him for months on end and still he refused to refund my money. It got so bad that he would run away from his workshop when he saw me coming, or duck into a corner if he saw me on the streets. When we did come face to face - when he hadn't been quick enough to hide - he would tell me that he intended to pay but he needed to sell the chairs first.
Looking at the state of the chairs, hell would have frozen over first before he ever managed to sell them. In effect, he was saying that I'd never get my money back.
Oh, how little he knew.
I became the bitch from the hell!
Amazed and exasperated by my tenacity, he turned up at my doorstep with several of his relatives to beg on his behalf. They begged and cajoled but I was insistent that I wasn't going to enye hwee it or 'take it as it is,' I didn't care whom he brought to beg on his behalf, I wanted my money back.
He returned the next week with even more family members, asking me to forgive and forget as he didn't have the money. Sorry folks, but I got annoyed and made it clear to them that the only solution was for him to either refund my money or improve the quality of the chairs - which I knew he was incapable of. I showed them the door.
A few months later, he finally threw in the towel and paid up.
It's the only way to deal with them, if not, they'll take you for a long ride.
At the time of getting my money back, it had devalued considerably, so you may think I went to too much trouble, but it's the principle not the money that counts. Am I getting defensive?
I once had a cheeky tiler tell me when I specified how the tiles should be cut and positioned, that I must have white blood in me. I didn't like what the statement implied and asked him to explain.
He said, “It's only the white people who are so choosy about things.”
He thought that it was fine for white people to be specific and fussy about their things but not Ghanaians. Or is it that Ghanaians don't care enough or deserve good quality things? I bit back a sarcastic comment and asked him through painfully gritted teeth to do just as I asked. Especially, as I was paying for the service.
He did a fantastic job but I had to stand over him and watch all the time, which leads me to the conclusion that they are capable of taking their time and doing a great job, but only if you are physically present, if not, then you will suffer the consequences.