Photo Ops in the Midst of Crisis

It is a press briefing. An important one. 

It will be broadcast live like all the others. A Minister of State is going to be explaining the President's almost weekly policy statements and various other state officials and high level experts will be on-hand to answer questions from eager journalists who claim to ask the questions on our behalf. It is just as well, people like me do not want to hang around other people at this time anyway.

I want to understand what the President meant when he promised free water for the populace for 3months, and free electricity for some. I want to be clear the President's tax breaks, somehow cover people like me even though I know better. And I want to know how the homeless and daily wage earners are going to access the promise of free meals without the provision of shelters even if temporary. I had suggested (to a friend in conversation of course) that perhaps managed temporary shelters would be one way of containing and protecting many people who live on our streets. That way we would likely be able to take them off the streets, provide them with food and the bare necessities for the period without worrying about their daily livelihood, monitor their health statuses and intervene effectively should there be the need. I had imagined this would be possible if organized at the level of each district in the country. Anyway, it does not look like it is a suggestion being considered in the corridors of power; even my friend was not so taken by it. So I make myself comfortable in front of my television and hope for some relief. 

The Minister goes through introductory formalities. He tells his audience, including me, that before getting into the day's briefing, there are 5 companies who want to make contributions to support the governments efforts. I am thinking what that has to do with the briefing? The contribution could have been presented already and the list of contributors run on the screens or mentioned. But the Minister cannot hear my thoughts and I am clearly not knowledgeable in these matters.

The first company is invited to the podium. The company official takes us through the protocols. He treats us to the history of the company he represents and its operations in the country. He then offers some words of encouragement to the populace in general. His company is in this with all of us, he says. Another Minister of state is now invited to receive the contribution from the company official. He mounts the podium and gets through the 'protocols', reminds us what a great thing this company is doing and blah d blah d blah. Then the cameraman gets into action. All officials must take their turn. 

Its about 20 minutes into the briefing now. I figure I will not get my answers at this briefing.  There are 4 more company presentations  to get through and I don't care much for what is being labeled as corporate social responsibility.

  

Like Seriously?

I was simply watching television.....

young woman presents with swollen tits ...at the house of ... let's say Wonders

Wonder Man directs application of anointing oil with the help of a female

expectant flock look on ...bemused or in awe?

 

prostrate - a spirit in flight? 

..... I was still stuck to the TV when she was done with. Waiting to see if someone would come along with a swollen penis.

When Comforting Turns Chilly

I certainly am not great with words of comfort. I find it easier to offer practical help. Say, help beat the crap out of an oppressor (no I really couldn’t); give money or material assistance if I have it to give; offer my opinion on some matter etc. 

That is why I commend, even admire those who struggle to find the right words to say to a person in distress, disappointed, grieving, or facing one life challenge or other. It can’t be easy. 

But sometimes intended words of comfort, assurance, hope and encouragement really suck. Why is this so? Because bad timing, insensitivity, even inappropriateness of the circumstances make them so even if by themselves they are harmless.

Consider that I meet an acquaintance who wanting to commiserate with me on the death of my dad, asks how old my father was. I say to her, 80 plus. And her response? “Oh that’s a ripe age (to die she means). Lucky you, your dad lived a full life”. Translated in my grief, “lucky that my dad died”? Well guess what, I made a mental note to return the compliment.

I was once sent a comic picture of a mouse that had escaped the trap that was apparently set for it. The caption was, “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” I was in a cranky, mildly dejected state so I retorted that what doesn’t kill you could very well maim you! I clearly need to rethink my sense of humour I know. 

When a woman whose husband did that despicable thing, leaving her all scare-faced, potentially paralyzed for good and broke heard those same words on her hospital bed, she did not find much solace in them either. Why couldn’t she see the wisdom in those words?   

Now I know as a child of God, I must trust the saying, “when God brings you to it, he’ll take you through it”. It’s very reassuring - when you know it is God who did bring you to IT. 

A similar saying, “what God puts together let no man put asunder” is often used to support an aversion to divorce. And when it comes in the form; “what God puts together no man can put asunder”, it is meant to be a warning to relationship breakers or a guarantee that no matter the difficulties in a relationship, it will survive … if God willed it. But suppose He did not and often we know he didn’t, pretty much the same way we know the devil didn’t – so how comforting is that?  

I am tempted to say that when people are in doubt about what to say to another person, they should stay silent but then again, we are usually not in doubt are we?

The Reality in Reality Shows

Reality shows have been around for a while now. Essentially a bunch of people “act out” “real” situations in real time. I think it goes like this; a situation is created that becomes the reality of participants in a show. The participants respond to the situation as they would “normally”  and their actions in response to the situation is the show.

Right, that was only an attempt to appreciate the expression better for myself. I find the concept of reality shows a tad elusive being a little slow upstairs. First off, the reality thing- is it about real life, or that there’s no script or no staging or that the audience is watching the show live? The “show” is pretty straight forward. It’s on TV so it’s a show.  It is when the “reality” joins the “show” that I get conflicted but I guess that’s the way to get a good sense of what reality shows “really” are?

Now while the show goes on, the rest of us are emotionally drawn into the journey of participants as they scheme, writhe and wriggle in the slippery labyrinth of the human dynamics that evolves from the common interest that also divides them.

The nature of reality shows tends to demand high expectations of entertainment and intrigue for target audiences who need to remain engaged and to participate in the show. So be they money making ventures that come with a prize tag; a project in corporate social responsibility or a need to project a celebrity’s fortunes, the innuendos set forth by designers of the show are always adequately matched by the craftiness of participants, depending on what is at stake.

Many of the shows hold true to the intrigues and entertainment. Big Brother Africa has quickly become noted for conniving alliances, manipulations, sex bargains and trading, plain old gossip, back stabbing... all the headline issues that will arise if a $100k were to be up for grabs anywhere. BBA belongs to the purely money making venture shows which are built around the capacity to survive human travails and make no excuses for niceties. 

For celebrity shows like The Salt n Pepa Show, which I totally love there is no price tag except viewer showings and ratings. Clearly celebrities want to endear themselves to their fans and seek to show themselves as real people; not the crack pots they pretend to be. I don’t feel their reality hitting me in the shows but hey I don’t live the life of a celebrity!

Then there are the talent search types where there’s quite a variety; Vodafon Icon, Project Fame, Talented Kids and so on and so frigin forth. Their real message is probably “Gh’s not got Talent”. Compare for example the American Idol, Nigerian idol and Gh Idols.

One of them which seems to have defied the “reality” in reality shows and still managed to take it to even greater heights hit our screens a couple of years back. The Pulpit it is called. True to its name, it’s all to do with what happens at the pulpit except that the show’s target participants are 12 to 16 yr olds who in real life are hardly in the pulpit business. I wonder why the many novice pastors are not the targets of the show. The organizers are however following the catch phrase “catch ‘em young”. In their own words; the show is [designed to groom and prepare young aspiring preachers and prospective teachers of the gospel, giving them the platform to build confidence and also unearth their God given talents.
Proverbs 22:6 says it all “Train up a child in the way he should go and when he is old, he will not depart from it’’. The pulpit is made up of teenagers within the ages of 12 to 16 to mount the pulpit to showcase their charisma and preach the word of God.]

2011 contestants of the Pulpit Show

In my layman’s language that translates to; “train up a child how to put up an act and he will cling to it with his/ her dear life”.

In the show, well rehearsed contestants have mastered “the art of preaching”; they regurgitate bible verses back and forth and best of all play out all the verbal and physical spirit- filled expressions. “Did I hear somebody say amen?...Somebody Shout...Ha...llelu...Lift up your hands and say amen...Give the Lord a clap offering......(the audience provides all the appropriate responses)

In the meantime, the wannabe pastors (actually wannabe winners of some prizes) pace from one end of the podium to another, bang the pulpit, stop and suddenly point their fingers towards the audience like Oral Robert’s “something good is going to happen to you!” ... all that is in the works. The “actors” are great mimics of their seasoned role model bishops and chief priests.  

The reality that seems to be eluding many commentators on this matter is simply this; yes the era of “a calling”, whatever that meant, is so so passé.  Preaching is a deliberate choice people make, not the “Eli Eli...here am I” type of conversation with the unseen voice. The Pulpit simply brings that reality home.

A story was told me once by a priest who had to endure a group of people who figured that a spot behind his apartment was a good place to learn to speak in “tongues” at night.

Sheribaba sheribaba baba baba baba. Now that is what I call a reality show!

 akuyaafriyie@gmail.com

“Oh Taste and See”

A sweet woman I know who owns a shop once tried to get me to buy the sachet water she was selling. Toffee-nosed as I am I had asked for a small bottle of water but she had none in stock. Pointing to one of the variety of sachet water brands she had, she said; “fa wei. Eye de papa”. What she meant by this terrible transcription of the Twi language was this; “take this one. It’s very sweet”, alternatively “it tastes good”. That particular brand of water was very nice according to her and she carried on telling me just how sweet and different it was from the others. Just like comparing Fufu from bush canteen and Fufu from some other eating place.

The whole concept of “sweet” or good tasting water was, well a teeny weensy bit bizarre in my view but I hastily overlooked the comment as a marketing ploy and rather than get into a debate with her about what my primary school teacher taught me, I declared I was not thirsty anymore.

When my teacher said that water is colourless (transparent), tasteless and has no smell I felt no need to verify that teaching because at the time, there was no need. It simply had no taste and that was precisely the reason why I did not like to take my medication with water and pleaded for “caca cola” instead! But it may be better not to take the characteristics of water for granted. Turns out there is some logic to water being labelled “pure water” on the streets and the invitation to treat says it all.

akuyaafriyie@gmail.com

Flaunt it if you’ve got it

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!"

But none of these contemporary show offs had managed in my view to beat Grandma’s more sophisticated performances until recently. I sat lazing in the bistro of a well-known hotel, enjoying the ambience and occasionally eavesdropping on some really interesting conversations (actually I could not help hearing them with a little straining of my ears), smiling smugly to myself and beginning to feel a gradual sense of my own “arrival” coming over me. A sudden change in the general calmness around me turned my attention to some activity of much interest.

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

akuyaafriyie@gmail.com

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”.

akuyaafriyie@gmail.com

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?