The first chimes of the Methodist Church bells in the big commercial town in which Grandma lived was only her cue to get her bath ready on Sundays. Her headgear always consisted of 3 scarves. The first tied up her hair so the hair would stay in place; the second provided the foundation for whatever style was on for the day; and the third... well that was a sight only to be held at first hand. Naturally, we were always late to church. The priest and singing bands would have settled down after the procession and first praises segment. Even Christ’s Little Band would have quietened down by the time we reached the church.
Grandma was held in high esteem in the church and had a seat reserved right in the front row of pews. As a rule, we always entered through the wide back entrance properly positioned in the centre. Turns out the distances from the side entrances, 2 on either side in front and 2 on either side mid section of the church were too close to her seat. All eyes turned back to behold us as we entered each Sunday. The priest paused and there was silence; except the ko.........ko..........ko.........ko of granny’s stilettos and the kum, kum, kum of my “guarantee” shoes otherwise known as block heels.
Grandma was always compelled to restrain me from frolicking off un-majestically to my seat with a grip on my hand. This particular activity made her cross because apart from showing that I had retained none of her painstakingly delivered lessons in royal sauntering, my behaviour often threatened to destroy her well composed demeanour. Nose in air, head upright, shoulders straight, tummy tucked in and a look of slight disdain about her as she floated to her place. When we finally reached our seats and after Grandma had taken the pains to wipe off any imaginary dust particles left by the cleaner’s rather “unclean” rag, we settled in for the sermon (30 minutes gone) and all went back to normal. Not quite really; the buzz usually continued and it was clear grandma’s presence was a distraction more suited for a high society event.
Grandma was a show off, no doubt about it, and why not? She felt she had “arrived”; the only one among her peers married to an educated man and an educationist for that matter, a successful trader herself, and 2 daughters all of whom had gone through university even though she never saw the four corners of a classroom herself; she had more than “arrived”. The church ritual was only one of the many ways she got the message across.
[To “arrive” is to attain a level of achievement
determined by one’s own sense of self actualization.
It is known to induce mindboggling antics of various proportions]
Grandma’s credentials may have matched her times but would most certainly not stand up to any sort of “arrival” in our day. The stakes are increasingly upped. For example it is no more enough to have a degree; the basic is a second degree or better still MBA. A car is normal; a 4/4 is average unless it’s a Touareg or something in that range.
The great thing is, this sense of self actualization is a very personal experience (albeit to be manifest for the public good) so different levels are permitted. So then, what reaaly catches my fancy is not so much what is being celebrated but how the what is celebrated.
Say, celebrating adolescent years with the tallest “Punk” or “Grace Jones” haircut. Dude you are gee! Or, announcing after school status or the acquisition of a “new” weather beaten car by revving and screeching around your neighbourhood or other public places. Charlie you are more o!
The working classes i.e. adult, business leaders, career types have a much wider range of attention-grabbers. Fidgeting with the “latest” models of mobile phones while discussing its features or giving up human interaction for conversations between computer tablets in public places. Electronically locking, unlocking, and locking their cars at least 5 times after walking a few paces away from the car and having loud conversations over the phone about meeting up at the latest hangout. Other times taking root in front of the plebeians for the most part of a live stage performance as they record the act with iPads, camcorders, what have you. Eii you fit flex!
There is also the intriguing trend of personalized car numbers. These are truly brow-raising given the diversity in the types and conditions of vehicles they label. I mean, whereas they look quite in their place (notwithstanding ridiculous labels like FRESH PRINCE 1) on snazzy BMs and Touregs etc., I have wondered what kind of “arrival” occasions their presence on vehicles that my old Honda would outshine with ease. Anyway, that gives way to labels like AKUYA 1 so I am not complaining! My good friend will say "I fit die!"
The smell of his cigar preceded him, followed closely by the smoke, then the guffaws. After a little while, the tips of his shinny, heavy, ankle length boots. He stopped at the top of the stairs presumably to survey the terrain of his intended physical assault. From where I was sitting I could not see his face yet but I could almost swear I heard the music... you know like in cowboy movies ... Tanana tana nana-a-a. Then the shadow slowly reveals the man from the feet up. Cigar in the right and a snigger around the left end of his mouth, he let out a few puffs and thumped down the stairs, each step sending some shock waves through the hall.
He had on a wide cowboy hat, a T-shirt, khaki shorts almost down to his ankles and white socks. As he swung through the glass doors into the open air area, I noticed he had what I later found out to be his name embroidered on the pockets of his khaki shorts, “YAWO”. Now, that’s admirable personal branding at what 50 plus? Something that could be useful for Ghana’s branding intentions at 55 I should think.
Anyway, to cut a longish story short, all eyes were on the new guest. All else stopped. My cappuccino was late. The buzzzzz was on.
I must say Grandma had style! But this was a show stopper granny would have approved
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