“Fear Red Devils and save your life.” So all this while, my Waakye seller had a phone and she refused to give me her number, decided not to call me too, despite taking my number twice.
A type of phone I’ve never used before. She fooled me with the statement, “Oh, he is my husband, lemme serve him”, gave me “L”-shaped fish, gave me two fishes for 2GH—all in vain.
This and many more thoughts were going through my mind as I lay backward on the bed, eyes fixed on the blank ceiling and the plantain chips by my side.
It’s already another day.
“Enough!! [Opoku nfa ne nku, me dware a me ho mpa yi]. I have to look elsewhere,” I angrily told myself. I couldn’t control myself from pouring out harsh words.
“I will NEVER buy her Waakye again. At least I will save some money. The Waakye is not even tasty. It’s mostly salty and costly too. She is not a beautiful girl koraa. She is short and has a big forehead. Me, I like tall women without long foreheads. Oh yeah, those are the type of women I love to date. Who does she think she is, the most beautiful? Apuu! The beautiful ones are not yet born. I will start going to GMSA (Ghana Muslim Students Association) programs. I will get one, a reliable one of course. I will ask Malam Hussein to add me to the GMSA WhatsApp groups. Going forward, I will be buying Waakye from Katanga. Moda’s Waakye is tastier. Her location is even far. I don’t even know what kept me going there. Her colour koraa, I doubt its originality. It could be toning or she did her bleaching in childhood. Aa hweɛ nanim bi.”
I ranted!!
Ah, girl wei paa.
If not because I wanted to propose to her, does she think I will be coming to buy Waakye from her always? For over a year? Apuu! It’s because I wanted to, that’s why I kept spending 5GH always on her Waakye.
[Wo nti aseɛ a gyae]. I will even save a lot.
Ah, this lady paa.
Seriously, who does she think she is?
[Bibi ntia, bibi na afiri soro abɛti homa mu, anka ono koraa ne hwan?]
Who the fuck does she think she is? Is it her fake beauty, or her Waakye profession I’m jealous of?
[Ah, palm wine cutting is disgusting. Abɛ twa yɛ abufu ampa!]
I think I need to let her know whom she is playing with. I don’t really like trumpeting my successes, but in cases like this, I think I must.
“The lizard that jumps from the high Iroko tree to the ground said he would praise himself if no one else did.”
Yes! I need to tell her. [ɛdeɛn nsɛm fo no no]. This lady must know who I am.
She must.
She must know that Kaunda has jumped from several high Iroko trees to the ground successfully. Ah! What are ladies to Kaunda?
I think I need to write a strong warning letter to her. She should never joke with my heart again. Yes, that’s what I must do. She needs to know who I am. Yes, I’m going to write that on the next page.
Nansis! Warris that? Mtweeeew
Post Office Box 100
Broni Krome, M157
Near Boolaso
Behind Wofa Nikanipa
Wamfie, B/A, Ghana
West Africa
Africa, World, Solar System
Date of No Return
Hey Zainab, or whatever you call yourself.
THIS IS KAUNDA
Listen, Madam seller, this is Kaunda, and I have no time for pleasantries. I don’t care whether you’re fine or suffering from dysentery. Born in Wamfie and hoping to live in Coventry, I pray I’ll soon leave this country. BUT, by a quarter of this century, when you see me in my Ferrari, remember: you once had all the chances but fucked it up, legendary.
Listen, this letter is straightforward, no skipping, and it’s full of dissing.
I’ve been to the mountain top, and I need to state this in clear language, not spiritual tongues. You can’t bluff on me because of your fake beauty. I’ve seen several of such ladies before wai, and many who are more beautiful than you. Warris dat?
Wei, ɛyɛ JSS time a, anka makye wo awe dadaada.
Had it been JHS time, I wouldn’t have bothered to propose koraa; you would have come by yourself. If you don’t know, seek and you shall find. Go to Wamfie and ask of Ahmed, or go to the UK and ask Konama.
Madi me mmrɛ pɛn wai. ɛdeɛn dwɛ so no no.
Attached to this letter, starting from the next page, is my achievement at JHS, just to let you know whom you’re playing with. Do you think if Alan Cash were my father, I’d be walking up and down KNUST Campus, buying that tasteless Waakye? Saa your Waakye tantan no? Or do you think if Dr. Bawumia, the Digital Man, the next offline president of the Republic of Ghana, had responded to my Facebook chat, I would be here chasing you?
For what?
[Ah! Anka me ne nam Harvard baabi koraa doing global wonders.]
Your beauty under my foot. Mtweeew
Welcome to Light International Preparatory School
Waakye lady, listen. In 1998, I made a triumphant entry into Light International School at an undisclosed record signing fee, from Wamfie Islamic Primary School. Right at the entrance, I realised the future is bright.
Eii, ɛmmaa paa nie. Beautiful ladies!!!
[Saa yɛ di ndwe wo Islamic Primary School]
I kept admiring them every day but couldn’t talk to them. There was a big challenge: English. I couldn’t speak it.
[Brofo yɛ duru – English is heavy.]
[Yɛdi fitiri fitiri saa], then first term ended. Still, I couldn’t speak to any of them—not even greetings.
The first term terminal report was terrible. In the overall position, I got 82nd. The total class size was 98.
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Mathematics – 82nd position
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English – 92nd position
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Science – 85th position
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The rest of the subjects were equally bad, especially French.
[Asɛm bɛn nie? Islamic School “Champion Atta” hwej mawie yj.] I got home and told my Mma Ramatu: “There was no report this term. So I don’t know my position.”
Me boa, ma we.
Dear Waakye Seller,
I quickly made Plan B:
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I must get from 1 to 10 at the end of second term exams.
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I must befriend the beautiful ladies in class—at least Serwaa Joyce or Tutuwaa Constance. Lydia Agyeiwaa deɛ, she is too beautiful; I can’t talk to her this year.
To overcome my English headache, and better my report next term, I must study like crazy.
And I did exactly that:
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I took money from Erinya (my mom, Mma Ramatu) and bought notebooks for each subject.
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I wrote all backlog notes.
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I studied like crazy and practiced like crazy.
The second term began, and gradually, my English proficiency increased. My friend-list in class also grew. I began to move around with other friends. Yes, all this while, I was moving alone on campus because I couldn’t speak English. I also began to answer one or two questions in class. But note, my freeness was only with the guys and not the ladies. That still was a mirage.
Gradually, all began to go well as the second term entered into revision week.
But something terrible happened.
I spent the next two weeks at Berekum Hospital. I was injected with 12 bottles of water. Finally, I could walk, and I was released—but the second term exam was over.
My vision to get between 1st – 10th position got truncated, big time. Now, with this terrible performance in the first term, and No Show in the second term, will I be promoted to Primary 5?
Ah well, to quote Alukube again: “Time will tell.”
The third term began, and the class was normal. I began making free with some of the ladies, but they were not my target. I only wanted to use them as a proxy.
Ahmed, the Lionel Messi of his time.
Listen, Waakye Seller!
I never played football since I arrived at Light JHS. The reason was obvious: How would I even communicate with other players on the field? How do I even tell someone: “Jack, I’m here, give me back pass”? I can’t! English is heavy.
But now I can, so I gave it a try.
My first match at Light International was a tough one. It was Friday, games time. Primary 4 would play against Primary 5. I made it in the first eleven, courtesy of Oliver and Oduro. Both lobbied for me. Naturally, I’m a midfielder [8 or 10], an offensive type, but that day I chose to play NUMBER 5. [Kaamaa, John Mensah].
I said it; no one forced me. What a fucking decision it turned out to be. How I wish I had played my usual role.
As the saying goes: “When the gods want to kill you, they first make you go mad.” In my case, the gods made me take a stupid decision—the decision to play number 5.
“Can you play 5?” our coach asked.
“YES, I can!!” – I replied.
You might be wondering why Number 5 when my favourite position is 10 or 8. The reason is simple: There was this guy in Primary 5 then that I hated for a good reason, of course. First, he used to beat children a lot!!! I knew him way before going to Light Preparatory School. At the primary level, he was the best keeper in the whole district. Light has lots of mango trees in the school and we normally go to plug before I even came to Light. No student dared stop us if the person knew we were from Zongo, except that goalkeeper. His name is Mumuni, also a Zongo guy. He always drove us away, but not before exchanging stones.
That aside, in a football game too, you dare not tackle him when he has the ball. He will crush you down. He can be with the ball from his goalpost, walking majestically, to the other post to score.
When he comes, opponent players give way. Everyone feared him. All teachers, including the tough headmaster (Kipson) and the school team coach, knew: “This is how Mumuni is.” If you tackle him, he will “cut” you. That was what I observed, right from the first term.
“If we can score against Primary 5 then Mumuni must be stopped,” I said to myself, and I took that responsibility.
In short, I decided to play number 5 so that I would be the last man standing before our goalkeeper, Odenke, a.k.a Casillas.
All was set. The referee whistled, but unfortunately, my first touch of the ball resulted in an own goal.
[John Boye!!!]
The most Oliver-hyped Ahmed has scored an own goal on his first touch in his first match. Oh, what a shame!!
This is how it happened: The opponent passed the ball and kicked it into our 18-yard box. It bounced nicely, right in front of me. I could have just kicked it straight away, but the gods, who planned to hang me, sent another thought to my mind:
“It’s your first match, your first touch, beautiful ladies are watching. Lydia is watching. Betty is watching. Serwaa Joyce is watching. Why not give a bicycle kick so that the observing ladies will clap for you? That can enhance your plan of proposing to them later. Udiot,” I told myself.
So, I turned to give a nice bicycle kick. Unfortunately, my kick hit my forehead and went straight into our net—an own goal. [Ayɛka!]
After that match, I went into hibernation and never featured in a match again for a long time. But I bounced back and became the Messi of Light International School.
Do you know what that means?
Finally, ladies loved me. I can give a tall list of them, but for lack of sheets, I will write about just one of them: Konama Felicia.
Konama is so special in my life, so in this book, I will dedicate a complete page for her.
Starting from the next page is how it all happened, step by step, with no step skipped.