TRAVELLING BROKEN AND IN FEAR…

The sun had long set and it was very dark. In the tired quietness of the evening, the severe headaches which had became a feature of my existence in the last couple of months manifested itself, I could afford to ignore it now, that was now my reality. What I feared had already occurred and done so without me noticing anything or hearing anything till the deed was done. I was in the dark and was to remain in the dark even after the discovery.

I was quiet about it but wondered for how long? I knew the sadness like dust had settled into my soul. My innocent, unassuming wisdom had failed me. I had failed spectacularly. The tears threatened to break forth. It stung my eyes, the tears were from a place of deep bitterness, hurt and regret. They were not cried out or wailed, they were silent tears. The sorrow was unbearable and it lasted for days until the headaches took over. The aching in the head grew into a vortex. I was buried in the sorrows of my loss. My world had become cold, too cold. The coldness was a relief in its painful destruction. I knew I had had better times and this time was not one of those.

It was a Friday, following that fateful Thursday. Thursday, July 27, 2023 was my last day in the office before the beginning of my annual leave. Since 2018, I had always scheduled my annual leave in August and it was a period I used to travel around the country, try new foods, read books and listen to various musical records sitting in my digital music library. I knew this year’s was going to be a bit different. It wasn’t just going to be different because of the peculiar economic circumstances we found ourselves in this particular year. Hotel costs had tripled, fuel costs were five times higher than this time last year when I was on leave.

It was going to be peculiar because of the turmoil in my own life. I was at a crossword and scared and yet I knew I could not stay in Tema. On that fateful Thursday night when my annual leave officially began, I found myself in Accra’s downtown district of Lapaz.

It had began like a dream when she called and uttered the words she said to me. This was the kind of reality which blended into a dream and you could not place certainty on it. But I knew it had become a reality. The drift of nothingness had become a presence engulfing my reality.

As I drove into the pub along the N1 highway, close to the Abrantie spot in Lapaz, I noticed there were few people on the street having fun. It was few minutes after midnight, but it was cold. And there was a wind with a little rain in it. People in this part of the city hardly slept at night, it was a city that came alive at night, it was therefore unsettling to see so few a people at the ‘Coded Pub’ at this time. Most of the businesses along the stretch had closed hours ago, very few of the hawkers that have made the night market in Lapaz such a sight to behold in the last decade were present this night. The intermittent rains could account for that.

Now and then you could see the lights of a pub or of a small restaurant in the distance. The neon lights advertising all kinds of products clumisly littered the neighbourhood. The ‘sisters of the night’ were briskly going about doing their business. As I slowed to park by the kerb just in front of the pub, few of them looked in my direction, hoping to catch my attention, if per chance, I was hoping to have some fun but despite my bravery, I was not yet adventurous enough to indulge in such act just yet.

I quietly entered the pub and took the seat just left of the counter. The leather sofa was comfy but unusually low. I had to adjust my position every now and then to avoid getting stucked in that overused sofa.

I ordered for a bottle of Guinness but my mind wasn’t on that bottle. I had stayed off alcohol for the last three months and wasn’t particularly enthused about taking one this night. Guinness was always my favourite drink but on this night, my mind was on O Henry’s short story, ‘After Twenty Years’.

I had always been fascinated by O Henry’s writing prowess but it was his short story, ‘After Twenty Years’, that really cemented his legendary status in my mind. O Henry’s evocation of the themes of friendship, loyalty and the sense of duty raised interesting questions on moral philosophy. Short stories are usually bleak but in this story, I got a sense of poetic justice at the end.

It had rained earlier in the night and there was wetness everywhere. As I thought about O Henry’s classic, I wondered how many of my acquintances I could discuss the nuances of that story with? I had often wondered how many of our people were genuinely interested in reading fiction for the sheer pleasure of it. I was always intrigued by some of my highly-educated acquintances whose only interest in reading were textbooks with which they could advance their professional and economic standing. None of them seemed bothered about fiction. I am also too reluctant now to actively join a book club so I’m left always thinking to myself in some of these moments.

Friday, July 28, 2023 was the first day of my 2023 annual leave. I had spent the day travelling through the central business district of Accra. Moving from Makola to Tudu and then finally visiting a friend at that colonial edifice that houses the Greater Accra regional SWAT now.

I lalways wondered why I never saved his number but his call this particular morning definitely startled me. I wasn’t expecting it. His message wasn’t all that surprising. I knew she was going to confide in him again even after I asked her not to. I have always had that complicated relationship with her. We could hardly talk to each other despite caring deeply about each other’s welfare, so our most difficult conversations were done through intermediaries. I didn’t care about the loss of emotion in this channel of communication, maybe that was what was needed.

A conversation devoid of emotive undertones! My response to the message this day even surprised myself. I was used to quietly listening, keeping my thoughts to myself but I found my voice this day. I could not control myself any more. I had had so many things to bottle up for years and I had learned to leave unsaid my unhappiness. But on this day, I said part of what I needed to say because I was tired.

And the longer the saga went on, the more I was losing myself and therefore my inhibitions. My response might have had an effect on him, judging by his unusual quietness, devoid of the usual interjections as I spoke. He was silent for a second after I ended my monologue. He sighed and his first response wasn’t surprising to me, for he was a member of the generation that cared more for form over substance. He was worried about my public image. I countered that I was more worried about the state of my mental health. He then went philosophical, invoking the fear of death, I countered that I was never afraid of death and that I’d choose a short life of happiness over a long life of sadness and misery. I wondered if they knew the curious psychological effects their stories were having on me, for it was in their hollowing, unhappy stories of such epic apology of a life sadly accepted that I resolved to avoid a similar fate. If the stories of physical and emotional abuse were meant to normalise what I considered deathly living to me then it failed.

But the shocker was yet to come! I wasn’t prepared for this one. He muttered; “Kobina, it is in your own interest to conform”. I was quiet! Quiet! Not because I agreed but because I was shocked. Here was a man I deeply respected. A man I definitely looked up to growing up as a young teenager in the higher civilisation of my childhood. He was a quintessential intellectual but at this moment I was tempted to regard him as the wise man of the world of yesterday but I had learnt long ago from the venerable Yaw Nsarkoh to learn forgiveness at the feet of the elders so I held back my judgement.

But how could a man of such deep learning and thinking utter something as fundamentally wrong as that?

To succeed in the world we live in now, I have always thought one needed to be a non-conformist. To conform simply for the sheer simplicity of it was cowardice to me and it was that which had exactly brought me to my present plight.

Where was the place of the contrarian in such a society where conformity was the celebrated norm? Where was the inventive and creative mind going to thrive in such a society? How would the revolutionary Nazarene, Jesus Christo, have fared in such a society?

It was that kind of society that condemned the brilliant Alan Turing to his sad fate despite his enormous contributions to the society. Because Alan had not conformed to what the society saw as acceptable.

It was such a society that looked with derision at the eccentric, philosophical mind of Kobina Sekyi and didn’t pay attention to his words and yet after sixty years still struggling to deal with the issues Sekyi had raised some seventy years earlier. There is definitely such a thing as society, if one is tempted to read me as a Thatcherite. But for that society to progress, conformity should never be the standard. There can be no progress achieved in conformity.

The coffee at Jamestown coffee is definitely as good as any I have tasted from across the world. I always considered East African coffee as the best but after trying various varieties of coffee on offer at the Jamestown coffee shop, I was left in awe when I learnt all the coffee on offer were grown in Ghana. The space itself is also an epitome of the kind of space I’d love to spend an afternoon alone or with a loved one. Very good choice of music with great customer service but the place is always bustling with people so you must pray for that solitude when you’re there. I got that rarity for twenty-five minutes and finished this part of the writing…

The cab I ordered from one of the many ride hailing services available in the city now just arrived. I’m taking the short trip to the national museum next. I’d tell you more about that in the next write-up. Until then, stay safe and live your life peacefully