Belly Don Full

Except in a few select places, buffets are not my thing anywhere. They have a way of spreading all that is usual and available at home most of the time. When I am out eating I want to do something exotic or at least something I feel for so I prefer a la carte. Plus bounty food mounts actually cause me much distress for I have to exert too much energy in my view to decide what to eat.

                          

I was at my favourite weekend lunch place the other day and watched with both amusement and derision; a family of four display a different approach to buffeting. Mother, father, son and daughter were all fleshly well endowed. The males even threatened popping little tangerines on their chests and competed favourably with their female counterparts in the rubbing bums department. No sooner had they found seats than the young male was off food scouting. Following closely at his heels was Mother. Mother’s report back was necessarily more comprehensive than the young man’s declaration that he wanted fried rice.  The young lady quickly chirped her agreement with her brother’s choice, not forgetting to add “and salad!” Yep kids will always be like that and that’s okay. Drinks was Malta Guinness all round. It’s the drink for all those who “don’t drink”. So anyway, Mother Hubbard sets off back to the food with the kids. They return many minutes later from their exploits, glowing with pride and joy. The wide plates were heaped with jolloff, fried rice, chicken, bread, gravy, shito, and off course salad- the Ghanaian type. Ghanaian salad is the one that comes with all the works- the basics plus baked beans, sardines, salad cream, corned beef...you know. 

Each plate must have been pointing to the stack of plates at the buffet table and wondering what distinguished them for such attention. By the way, Mother’s plate also had some boiled yam and palaver sauce in addition! Daddy looked at the booty approvingly, shuffling his feet in preparation for his turn.

As the kids settled to what was to be a ferocious battle of the jaws, daddy left to fetch his bit; with Mother in tow. I wondered what Mother possibly could have forgotten. Daddy returned with a plate similar to those earlier described and Mother with a tray of three fat bowls all brimming with soup and at least four pieces of meat apiece. As the two adults approached their seats they started looking sheepishly about them as if expecting someone to relieve them of a burden. Luckily an extraordinary waiter whose eyes had keenly followed the pair came to the rescue with two smaller tables. It was then that their concept of buffet came home to me. As the waiter left the family, he remarked courteously that they could return to the buffet as many times as they pleased. It’s a buffet remember? I almost fainted!

I really can’t fault the bounty family for caring to make the most of the money they were to dish out after their meal. These things don’t come cheap. Their approach to buffets however is not confined to those who insist on eating more than their contribution to the cost of the food before them or stretch their bellies to contain more than their bellies would call enough of a fill or yet still those who believe it’s better to leave food enough for someone’s meal on their plate rather than leave it on the buffet for those who might actually eat it.

I have noticed, interestingly that when no contribution is made to the cost of the spread, the average Ghanaian belly’s elasticity tends to triple, probably through some biological messaging between the eyes and the mid section.  I think this must be researched. The phenomenon occurs frequently at parties ... and funerals too! On courses, meetings, conferences and the like where there are usually two “tea breaks” the scramble for pies, cakes and other little eateries takes minutes. If you are one of those who chit chat and linger to the table of goodies, chances are, you have developed a thing for “black coffee; no sugar no cream”.

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Scenes From The Big Hospital (3)

A Negotiation

 “..That’s how it’s done here. You have to pay things separately” he tells me furtively, looking the part of the helpless messenger of the unbelievable news. I ask if I will get a receipt and rather than a response, the young doctor goes off to confer with lord knows who; but not without informing me of the price of the “gun”. I am left baffled. Two days earlier, I had paid what was due and more at the accounts section of this particular sacred confraternity which by all indications is indeed the very heart of the big hospital. I had the receipt in hand as proof and was therefore having a real difficulty, not to mention a practical one, comprehending the request. Someone pulling the puppet’s strings wanted a portion of the money to be collected from the accounts section and handed over to this very same young round stooge of an elite club whose members dissolved and reconstituted depending on the job at hand.

My mind drifts to the “gun” for which I am grateful to the young man. Barely a month ago, I had secured one from a Sister of the fraternity. It had been put out of service in a first procedure undertaken by the very same multi-skilled young med. Right, some enlightenment may be necessary here. The thing is this; the gun is really a special devise for drawing liquids and tissue from parts of the body for examination. It can only be used once just like needles for injections. My good friend here had managed to remove considerable substance with the first gun. This was duly sent off for examination in a place not to be reached without a stamp in a little green book. After 2 weeks of waiting, the results came back “no result” because apparently nothing useful had been offered for the examination; thus the current tussle.

The young doctor’s return rouses me from my reverie. “There will be no receipt” he tells me. I ask again if I could at least get a hand written undertaking that I have parted (doubly if you please) with a certain amount of money for a said contribution to a procedure. This sends him off again to confer with the unseen hand. He returns presently with a man who walks rapidly towards us. He is obviously the linchpin, for in a voice and manner very different from the stooge’s, he announces that he is a very busy man. He has things to do elsewhere and if the money paid to the accounts section is not returned to him the procedure could very well be postponed to another day. He is agitated, almost angry, flinging his arms about and all the time pacing around. My relative and I are beside ourselves. What ensues would be called cajoling, begging, pleading, bidding, all at the same time.  In the end, the king of hearts (bless his heart) whose subjects have gone awol descends to our aid. He manages to get the accounts section to release a portion of the money already paid, to the ill-tempered doctor whose protégé botched the first procedure. That does not end it; we get a list of to buys (items that were all covered in the cost of the procedure already paid) including stuff like gauze and others of a special kind only to be procured from our negotiating partners.  

All this while, the old man has been lying on the stretcher in the lobby. He made the more than 90km journey to the big hospital in an ambulance; arriving at noon for the procedure that had been scheduled for 2pm. As I turn in his direction I am fiercely fighting the very thought that this may be the final stretch. But at this very moment, as I look at his half paralysed, shrunken body waiting the butchery of an already agitated negotiator, I wish he is not awake to this frightful haggle.

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Scenes From The Big Hospital (2)

 A Transaction

She sits facing the door with her head bent over a notebook; dressed in all white with lipstick to match. Her straightened hair, dry with split ends, flays about her face in the hot air blowing from the rusted standing fan directed at her. She seems to be writing something but this task is so frequently interrupted with orders at someone or the other, singing and excited nodding to a radio pastor’s exhortations that it is quite certain it would be another hour before she journeys across one ruled line in her notebook. Her desk is cluttered with files. Two chairs and a bench are positioned across from her. The people who have managed to squeeze onto the seats including those who are leaning against the walls are chattering in low tones and looking on helplessly at the intense activity of gum chewing at the desk.

The radio is at full blast even though it is not visible. A man in blue overalls is manipulating the radio from behind a curtain that divides the room into a waiting/ consulting area and an examination area. We have so far travelled all the local language stations where either some politician is receiving a backlash from commentators or a man of God is delivering miracles. After hanging about the spirit world for a bit, she asks the man in blue overalls to search for BBC- much to my relief. Unfortunately we never manage to catch the BBC because Blue Overalls keeps skipping it! I want to tell him, “that’s it, that’s it” every time he gets to the station but for some reason I cannot find my voice. Without raising her head, she has so far silenced anyone who tried to attract her attention through various innovative pretentions. She carries on with all the activity afore mentioned as if oblivious to the people in the room and yet all to the benefit of her audience.

I resign myself to the wait and instead take out my note book to jot down matters of interest about the environment to keep me from losing it – my head I mean. I have been standing adjacent the bespectacled Sister for 40 minutes and I figure something must come out of all this in the end.

A few minutes after airing my note book, Sister takes a sudden interest in me. “You are writing about us?” she asks. “Off course not”! I respond with a sly smile. There’s no gain blowing my chance of getting my hands on the gun. It has been two weeks since the good doctor prescribed a procedure which required the use of what they called a biopsy gun and only the timely intervention of another whose knowledge of the dark and mysterious ways of Sister’s world has unearthed this one. Officials at Sister’s big hospital had said it was not available, even to buy. So when the call came from the insider that one was available at the same place in the same hospital, I just knew it was coming at admirable cost.

 

Sister reaches into a drawer under her desk and reveals a black polythene bag. For the first time, she smiles to acknowledge the good lady that brought me here, hands the polythene over to her and says, (..) Ghana Cedis. I quickly dig into my purse.The theatrics is over and the deal is done.

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Scenes From The Big Hospital (1)

An Appointment

I get there at 9am thinking I am in good time for a meeting with the doctor who I am told is usually available at 10am. I am surprised by what I see; the waiting area is chocked with people – sick and not; standing and in wheel chairs or on stretchers. There is hardly any standing room so many more people are standing or crouched outside.  

Some skittish nurses are strutting about, chatting and at intervals moving files about aimlessly as part of what seems to be a ritual to look busy. Nonetheless nothing is happening. There’s a big meeting happening someplace and though only the chief priests are attending, nothing is happening. I show the referral note to the nurses and I am told to "hang around" and wait for the doctor to come. So I "hang around" listlessly as I watch the old man’s puzzled examination of the goings-on about us. There's not much else to do anyway except actively try to block off the buzz (ocassional wailing of a child or elderly person,  multiples of hushed conversations and the Nigerian movie showing on the TV) and stare at the floor.

                                                                                                                                      

About 11am; a rustle from beyond the hall, nurses hurrying through swinging doors. By some instinct I figure this must be ushering in the celebrated king of hearts. I accost him (just knew it was him) as he pushes through the waiting bodies; “Hello are you doctor…”. “Err...Maybe”, he replies still moving. I am not to be thrown off easily so I determine he is who I think he is and I skirt around the people in pursuit. He enters a consulting room bustling with at least 5 young men in white overalls and a few giggling females in white. I am left sharing the doorway with other pursuers. There’s no room to step inside but I intend to attract attention to myself so I ask, “May I come in?”  I am hoping the answer will lead to someone making way for me to enter the consulting room. “No” is the answer. “Could I wait for you?” That’s a silly question as everyone is waiting but as is said often, desperate situations call for desperate measures. There is no answer this time but he is sporting a smirk which given the circumstances, I find encouraging.

The seeming good natured, sufficiently good looking but brash man leaves his desk. He seems to have developed a sudden need for air as he rushes through the door leading into the open air. I am hot on his heels. He stops suddenly after walking briskly some 3 minutes and turns around. I am almost panting when I catch up and I virtually push the note at him. He seems amused by my obvious naivety and asks me to give the note to the nurses.

Its midday now and the nurse has just asked me to go and get a card. From the cage that holds the man producing the cards I look over the waiting hall. Those with long necks have stretched them full height while those with shorter ones are standing on their toes in an attempt to hear their names mentioned by any of the roving nurses. I am not certain whether the extra height aids hearing; in any case once every 20minutes, 5 names are yelled out and a “y...e...e...s madam” is yelled back in response from somewhere in the room. As I wait for my card, I wonder when it would be my turn to yell.

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Mirror, Mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?

Long ago I watched beauty pageants in a state of wonder, dazzled by all the glitter. shimmering dresses and flashing lights; long spiky eyelashes and equally long and lustrous black, brown, blond, you name it coloured hair; tall, slender females on stilts.

And no-o-w from the Apollo theatre in A-thens let’s welcome the contestants; Miss USA! (Usually from Texas); Miss Singapo-o-ore! (a definite finalist); Miss A-a-r-rgentina! (a favourite); Miss Venezuela (born to win) and Czechoslovakia, Ukraine, Sweden ....

They all vied for Miss World or Miss Universe and later Miss International, Miss Earth and quite a few others. Participants floated onto the stage, waving their hands just beside their heads and smiling non-stop to take their spots. But for the peacock dress which featured almost each year, I imagined myself in all the stunning drapery even though people from my continent were hardly visible on that platform at the time. That was like in the 70s? The world pageants are now truly international affairs in which all continents including mine are represented. The consequences of this “internationalization” of staged beauty for whatever reason is what is threatening my childhood love for pageants.

                                                                                                                       

From the national contests that feed into the world event to those inspired by regional celebrations, traditional festivals, and yet still school based contests, beauty pageants have taken on a life of their own in my country. Indeed Ninos (new comers) nights in some secondary schools in Ghana are now sporting the event as a main attraction. In this case the main beneficiaries are the senior boys who challenge each other to win the “trophy” and subsequently monitor the list of “been to’s”.

The events have kept the spirit and drama of earlier world pageants intact; eyelash extensions that would cause damage on more delicate skin; thin to the bones figures and best of all long, straight pony-tail hair that reach to the protruding section of the behind. The hair is usually purchased at great cost from the stables; the rubber factory or someplace else I don’t want to imagine. Unless there is a prize for presenting as a Black Chinese, Blonde Black, or Black anything else not related to origin, I am not at all sure why the exertions. But then again, what do I know? The only snag in the copycat series so far is the saying something bit to which a rich variety of LAFA (you really should know what it stands for by now- Locally Acquired Foreign Accent) is being attended.  Those are the moments I turn the TV off and imagine how many Oyibos are being entertained at that particular time.

Thankfully current Miss Whatever’s seem to be picking on the thrust of collegiate contests which featured more brain battles and less skin. Personality and Intelligence for example first became part of the evaluation of Miss World contests in 1980 after 30 years. Vital statistics was also said to have been downgraded that year. The Miss World contest now runs the Beauty with a Purpose program. There are also titles such as Congeniality, Best National Costume and a few other newfangled ones to be won on the Miss Universe contest. Offcourse these attempts to de-objectify women do not wash with feminists groups who last bared their teeth in 2011 at the Miss World finals in London saying the contests reduce women to the sum of their parts.

At home the likes of My Village’s* Most Beautiful are making a good effort to highlight aspects of the female beyond her physical contours. What can I say? I am filling in some history and loving it! A young woman had to spoil my fun not too long ago on the show though. She was asked the capital of the region she was representing. Before she answered, I was like haaba! That’s easypeazy and unfair to others lining up for the audition. Clad in blue tights and the “traditional” pony tail, a Chinese bob in front and a dash of blue paint to match and block heels in which she could hardly take coordinated steps, she managed a catwalk quite like a hen about to drop an egg. Let’s just say her answer surprised me.

Later, I wondered. Could it be the interviewer got it wrong? Should the question have been along the lines of “who is Britney Spears?” After all these are all “Miss World” hopefuls.  

Look left, look right, look left again!

I loved zebra crossings as a kid. Anytime I appeared beside them, cars stopped and I got to do a dainty skip across the white patches; if such a thing was ever possible. Many times I did it just for the heck of it. I loved the way vehicles stopped promptly at the sight of my commanding self – or so I thought. The one in front of my nursery school was conveniently positioned and of particular interest. It was right at the gates to the school so I reckoned I had no use for the school’s playground; much to the chagrin of the sweet street warden! 

Sad to say zebra crossings as I used to know and experience them are tough ones to pin down on our roads these days and I am no more the kid that wants to skip across them, even if I could find one. Motorists whiz across the hardly visible few on the roads as though they were mere street adornment. I am now the driver that desperately prays for a zebra crossing to materialize whenever I see just about anything that breathes along the road because I cannot tell at which point of the road and when it may jump in the road and cause me to do the unthinkable.

As I pondered the many wonders and hardships of life on the road in Accra it has become clear to me that the seeming absence of zebra crossings may actually be the natural attrition caused by the evolution of the zebra. The process of enlightenment simply involved the unravelling of how the monkey came to be my great grand Pa and voila, the descendants of zebra crossings had been right under my rather wide nose all the while!  So now unlike many who believe zebra crossings are an endangered species, I believe they have evolved. Road users simply have to recognize them and appreciate them for what they are. So here are a few pointers to help you along the way.

I think speed ramps are the most novel descendants of zebra crossings.  They are permanent fixtures on the road. They force you to slow down and in many cases stop to contemplate and negotiate your passage. Sometimes even reconsider your route. And if you so fatefully fail to see them, you are bound to feel them! Perfect road masters. But these are not what make them relatives of zebra crossings. I found that out on a lunch expedition recently. As we approached a speed ramp- my friend was driving- I held my breath as I always do.  No matter how gently one tries to get over them, the average speed ramp in Accra tends to give you a knock on the head anyway. Now my friend is usually not given to slow driving so in addition to holding my breath, my foot instinctively reached for the brakes and found air. They need not have bothered for my friend had come to a stop. A woman, burdened with a large basin of something that she balanced capriciously on her head had stepped onto the speed ramp and was making her way slowly but confidently across the road. On the speed ramp she stood tall and visible. The vehicles simply had to stop to allow her across the road, I mean ramp. The picture so reminded me of my own journeys on the zebra crossings at nursery school and I burst out laughing. Your guess is as good as mine. Speed ramps make excellent zebra crossings and since there is such a craving for them, I am thinking we might as well do the noble thing - cloak them in the white stripes.



decidedly for the neighbour's goodies



 “Cow Crossings” on the other hand were marked by wooden sign posts with cow symbols along country side roads in the past. The animals were hardly in sight. However, since the onset of urban migration the cows have also gone to town, literally. I came upon my first Cow Crossing one fine 6.am while on the school run. At that time of day, vehicles on the dusty road behind my estates – a road that is bound to decide the votes of the people in my area come December 2012 - have their headlights on, are speeding like demons on the run from the famous Bishop and in this frantic contest to wreck their vehicles, rendering the fact that I wash my car every evening seem like a needless fib. Little wonder the vehicles are usually from the direction of a place called “Nsamanpom”, which means “the place of ghosts”. Anyways, just on the outskirts of a posh neighbourhood, I was forced to stop behind most of the vehicles that had rocketed past me. I must say I was quite gratified by the fact that I was side by side with my tormenters and for a brief moment felt minded to stick out my tongue at them. The spectacle before me took that thought away.

Right in the middle of the road was a herd of not less than 20 cows seeming to be having a lively mooey conference to decide their next grazing location. Given the environs of this particular scene, I wondered if my neighbour’s backyard garden was in peril. It was not immediately evident to me where pasture for 20 cows a-grazing was to be found. With no herdsman in sight it took close to 15 minutes of shooing, nudging and some nifty manoeuvrings by daring taxi drivers to create a route for passage in between the bewildered creatures. And soon my former tormentors who had been huffing and puffing pretentiously into their mobile phones began to follow the lead of the taxi drivers.  This encounter was not my last so I look out for the Cow Crossings these days. A word of caution should you come across a Cow Crossing; they do not share the temperament of their forbearers. Those who have ventured to ride over them have paid dearly for that audacity.

As for People Crossings which in my view have an uncanny similarity with Cow Crossings (even though the subjects of the former are bound to insist on a different ranking in the order of species), they leave me speechless. How’s that for shutting my trap for now on this matter?