I had a great weekend. I went to Busua, to Asa Baako Music Festival. It was a real adventure. A trip I didn't even plan. It just happened 'kpa.' And before I started to think, I had joined a van with my childhood friend, Abeiku Mensah, on a trip to Busua. We went on Friday night, and returned Sunday.
Abeiku, who is now an insurance agent and also an artist, had brought some of his paintings from Cape Coast to Takoradi, and was going to Busua to exhibit and sell to revellers when I decided to join him. I had less than five cedis in my pocket. And I wasn't going back home to take anything. I had only taken 5 to buy Vodafone prepaid credit. It was 5 p.m., Friday evening, and I was thinking I could return Saturday morning. I wouldn't eat at all, and Abeiku is taking care of transport. With a good car, the journey should be less than one hour. My phone battery was a little above 80%, and I was thinking vigil. No budget for sleep.
First, we went to see Auntie Asibi, an art dealer (Abeiku's business partner) at Takoradi Harbour View. They had their little fight, but I was happy to know her. She asked me if I could paint. I said "no."
We reached Busua late. The show proper had come to an end at the beach. The action had shifted to the "Rooftop" of probably the second biggest hotel in Busua. We went there and joined them. Abeiku got a girlfriend right there. Lena, she's German. They started 'whatsapping' right there. I saw DJ Afro Nick. He came in as an intern when I was at Melody FM. I used to call him Afro Fresh or 'Kuntunumu.' He was the one bombing the Rooftop. However, the amplifier stopped working deep in the night -- ruining the Rooftop experience. Kuntunumu looked powerless.
The party continued later, but the excitement was missing. A Caucasian DJ took over with his Apple MacBook and portable turntables (which looked very professional), but was nearly lynched for his selection of music. DulI. I was standing right next to him when he was taking all the mean talk, but I encouraged him to do his thing. Slowly, the dance floor was reduced to a chatting floor. People became deaf to the music. DJ Apple was the only one enjoying it.
Then on Saturday. Saturday. Saturday. So much happened on Saturday. First, we had free, quite decent accommodation inside Dadson's Lodge. We had met the owner, Auntie Betty, and befriended her in the taxi that took us from Agona Nkwanta to Busua. We later learnt that all rooms in Busua were occupied. Even people who were willing to pay twice or thrice the charges had no option but to sleep in cars, or just loiter around.
Auntie Betty's guest house was full, but she found us a place inside, charged us nothing, and gave us the proper typical Anglo-Fante breakfast each morning. She gave me soap and a clean towel, and would talk to us like we were VIPs.
Saturday afternoon, I went to play football at the beach. Just earlier, I had met a French-Moroccan or Morrocan-French lady. Whatever. A French citizen with Moroccan blood. She wanted to convert me to 'sci-fism'. She held a French language version of Asimov's Foundation. She said it was her favourite.
I met Papa Ocran and Papa Nkrumah -- little local boys playing in the sand at the beach. Ocran is seven years old. And when I asked him to tell me his name, he said "John." When I asked again, he said John. When I asked the third time, he said "Papa Ocran."
While playing football, I saw Wanlov Kubolor on the stage, performing alone with his guitar. I went up, cheered him on a little, climbed the stage and did a duet with him -- me singing Mensa's part. I had climbed the stage in my boxer shorts. Beach style. One of the housekeepers at Dadson's Lodge who had been touched by my stage presence, went back to tell her colleagues. When I returned to take a quick shower and charge my phone, the rest of the ladies were doing 'konkonsa' about me. They were scrutinizing my walk and talk, and paying attention to me. I began to feel the pressure that goes with fame. Paparazzi issues.
I met a few Tadi people and Cape Coast friends. I met old mates from Mfantsipim, and also folks I had left in the University of Cape Coast. I was happy to reunite with Elikplim Akorli, a former course mate (in Philosophy) during my years in UCC. Eli looks just the same as I first saw him during our matriculation in 2006. He was the only dreadlock man.
I met one Cameroonian brother whose only English was "We are enjoying." He kept jumping around song-after-song. He gave Wiyaala fresh 50 cedi notes as she thrilled us with her music and dance moves. The spirit of Mansa Musa manifesting right there before my eyes at Busua beach -- devaluing our love for Wiyaala. The Cameroonian brother wasn't even trying to show off. It looked like it was just a part of him. He later became friends with us, and bought Abeiku a can of beer. That's when I got to know his nationality. However, after getting all the money sprayed on her, Wiyaala betrayed him by singing her popular song "Rock My Body". Lyrics like "I need a man to rock my body/ If he has no money, I don't mind...," put some of us back in the game.
Also, the cameras were awesome. Real cameras, not smartphone cameras. Sophisticated cameras. Definitely the organizers would want to capture every moment. I saw a tall brother I had been seeing in Takoradi, busily taking shots from all angles with the aid of a tripod. We were in the same salsa dance club sometime ago. I hadn't known him to be a photographer. I only discovered that at Asa Baako. There were also camera drones that hovered above us like mini-helicopters. Wireless. Some of the children wanted to catch them. That was my first time seeing flying cameras.
There were beautiful girls from all over the world. One sister I saw in the evening wore a t-shirt that said "OHIO AGAINST THE WORLD." I told her she was beautiful, and danced with her a few times. She was really beautiful, and stood out from her other group members -- almost a dozen of them, who were all whites. They might have been volunteers from America.
There were also a lot of Ghanaians with funny English accents. I won't say more.
Busua, arguably has the best beach in Ghana. Very clean and simply beautiful. Busua people behave like Takoradi people. Same lexicon. Even prices of goods and services are same. These similarities also drew my attention to the traditional geopolitical arrangement, where one cannot be chief of Takoradi, unless he is approved and installed in Busua, by the Busua chief. Thus, even though Takoradi is bigger and far more developed than Busua, Busua, is recognized by the Ahanta people as a more influential traditional authority.
Busua people look very healthy. Healthier than those in the next village, Buture (Butre). I had gone to Buture two years ago with a team that included executives of the Pharmaceutical Society of Ghana, as well as regional officers and personnel from the National Service Secretariat. I was the only 'press man'. It was an educational and health-screening programme for the people, as part of the celebration of National Service Week. One of the poorest places I have ever been to. The biggest landmark at Buture still remains a 17th century trade fort, built by the Dutch. Fort Batenstein, a UNESCO-designated World Heritage Site, now lies in ruins. Abandoned. However, the fort remains the most magnificent structure in the whole community. There's also a beautiful estuary at Buture. A very long bad road nearly destroyed my spine even though we went there in a convoy of Land Cruisers and Pajeros. However, there is an 'Appian Way' linking Busua to Buture that, when upgraded to allow vehicles, could miraculously cut the distance and shorten the journey by approximately half-hour, to improve access to Buture. Until that is done, you have two options to go to Buture from Busua. Via the walk way, it can take about twenty minutes, whiles the 'car way' can take you close to an hour (even in a 4x4).
Back to Busua... to the bikinis. OMG. It was the dress code for the white girls who far-outnumbered our sisters by a ratio approximately 5 : 1. White girls everywhere. They went barefeet and bikinis. Our sisters preferred shorts or even jeans trousers. Wonderful Copenhagen. Life is good.
I was also impressed by the 'knowledge on display'. Leadership, obviously, is a major challenge in Africa. Personally, I think Ghana's 'democracy-plus-capitalism' is a big joke, and we'll remain poor and miserable if we allow it to continue. The status-quo, so-called free market, is a turf we cannot win on. Well, just in front of the stage, was a wooden board which had about sixteen pages of Nana Kobina Nketsia's 2013 work, 'African Culture in Governance and Development: The Ghana Paradigm.' At least, something for the mind. I wasn't going to read those many pages at the beach. I skimmed through the first three, and the last two pages. AFRICAN CULTURE IN GOVERNANCE AND DEVELOPMENT: THE GHANA PARADIGM. A must-read.
Saturday night, after the performances, was the craziest. Organisers called it "The Jungle Party." The jungle, to me, wasn't really a jungle. But that doesn't mean we didn't have jungle fun. It's in the bush -- about two kilometres away from Busua Town. No electricity. Everything powered by loud generators. The organisers controlled everything effectively like a classic communist state. Food was only noodles. Drink was Faxe Beer (apparently official sponsors), drinking water, coconut water, palm wine, akpeteshie, or any cocktail one could make from those options. They also had moringa for the akpeteshie drinkers. Money was exchanged for labelled chits that said whatever a buyer wanted. No police, no security, just a few volunteers (who weren't even macho men). Everything was well-executed. Somewhere in the bush -- out of town, but it felt like the safest place in the world. No one reported anything evil. Not even once. It was just beautiful. DJs took turns to send the party deep into the night. The only time I felt that I had to leave them was when DJ Apple had his turn. Although he played better than the Rooftop session, he made more enemies than the previous night. This time around, he played some raggaeton and descended down to some Middle-Eastern something. People weren't ready for that. "We want to dance!" one reveller kept yelling at him. And I wasn't ready to go and say anymore kind words to Apple. That's when I moved out, got a taxi, and went back to Dadson's Lodge. It was around 2 a.m. That was also the time Abeiku took a taxi and went to the bush. He had been sleeping while we were jungling.
I left Busua in the morning. Abeiku left later. I didn't ask him about sales -- I hadn't seen much though. But I know he did a lot of 'connecting,' which is equally-essential in today's business.
We left with many positive things and beautiful stories, Wonderful experience. We made friends in minutes. We got favours. Also, the real adventure -- when we attended parties with no tickets or wrist bands. Shame on us.
Asa Baako Music Festival 2015 at Busua was my first-ever. Best weekend ever.
Abeiku, who is now an insurance agent and also an artist, had brought some of his paintings from Cape Coast to Takoradi, and was going to Busua to exhibit and sell to revellers when I decided to join him. I had less than five cedis in my pocket. And I wasn't going back home to take anything. I had only taken 5 to buy Vodafone prepaid credit. It was 5 p.m., Friday evening, and I was thinking I could return Saturday morning. I wouldn't eat at all, and Abeiku is taking care of transport. With a good car, the journey should be less than one hour. My phone battery was a little above 80%, and I was thinking vigil. No budget for sleep.
First, we went to see Auntie Asibi, an art dealer (Abeiku's business partner) at Takoradi Harbour View. They had their little fight, but I was happy to know her. She asked me if I could paint. I said "no."
We reached Busua late. The show proper had come to an end at the beach. The action had shifted to the "Rooftop" of probably the second biggest hotel in Busua. We went there and joined them. Abeiku got a girlfriend right there. Lena, she's German. They started 'whatsapping' right there. I saw DJ Afro Nick. He came in as an intern when I was at Melody FM. I used to call him Afro Fresh or 'Kuntunumu.' He was the one bombing the Rooftop. However, the amplifier stopped working deep in the night -- ruining the Rooftop experience. Kuntunumu looked powerless.
The party continued later, but the excitement was missing. A Caucasian DJ took over with his Apple MacBook and portable turntables (which looked very professional), but was nearly lynched for his selection of music. DulI. I was standing right next to him when he was taking all the mean talk, but I encouraged him to do his thing. Slowly, the dance floor was reduced to a chatting floor. People became deaf to the music. DJ Apple was the only one enjoying it.
Then on Saturday. Saturday. Saturday. So much happened on Saturday. First, we had free, quite decent accommodation inside Dadson's Lodge. We had met the owner, Auntie Betty, and befriended her in the taxi that took us from Agona Nkwanta to Busua. We later learnt that all rooms in Busua were occupied. Even people who were willing to pay twice or thrice the charges had no option but to sleep in cars, or just loiter around.
Auntie Betty's guest house was full, but she found us a place inside, charged us nothing, and gave us the proper typical Anglo-Fante breakfast each morning. She gave me soap and a clean towel, and would talk to us like we were VIPs.
Saturday afternoon, I went to play football at the beach. Just earlier, I had met a French-Moroccan or Morrocan-French lady. Whatever. A French citizen with Moroccan blood. She wanted to convert me to 'sci-fism'. She held a French language version of Asimov's Foundation. She said it was her favourite.
I met Papa Ocran and Papa Nkrumah -- little local boys playing in the sand at the beach. Ocran is seven years old. And when I asked him to tell me his name, he said "John." When I asked again, he said John. When I asked the third time, he said "Papa Ocran."
While playing football, I saw Wanlov Kubolor on the stage, performing alone with his guitar. I went up, cheered him on a little, climbed the stage and did a duet with him -- me singing Mensa's part. I had climbed the stage in my boxer shorts. Beach style. One of the housekeepers at Dadson's Lodge who had been touched by my stage presence, went back to tell her colleagues. When I returned to take a quick shower and charge my phone, the rest of the ladies were doing 'konkonsa' about me. They were scrutinizing my walk and talk, and paying attention to me. I began to feel the pressure that goes with fame. Paparazzi issues.
I met a few Tadi people and Cape Coast friends. I met old mates from Mfantsipim, and also folks I had left in the University of Cape Coast. I was happy to reunite with Elikplim Akorli, a former course mate (in Philosophy) during my years in UCC. Eli looks just the same as I first saw him during our matriculation in 2006. He was the only dreadlock man.
I met one Cameroonian brother whose only English was "We are enjoying." He kept jumping around song-after-song. He gave Wiyaala fresh 50 cedi notes as she thrilled us with her music and dance moves. The spirit of Mansa Musa manifesting right there before my eyes at Busua beach -- devaluing our love for Wiyaala. The Cameroonian brother wasn't even trying to show off. It looked like it was just a part of him. He later became friends with us, and bought Abeiku a can of beer. That's when I got to know his nationality. However, after getting all the money sprayed on her, Wiyaala betrayed him by singing her popular song "Rock My Body". Lyrics like "I need a man to rock my body/ If he has no money, I don't mind...," put some of us back in the game.
Also, the cameras were awesome. Real cameras, not smartphone cameras. Sophisticated cameras. Definitely the organizers would want to capture every moment. I saw a tall brother I had been seeing in Takoradi, busily taking shots from all angles with the aid of a tripod. We were in the same salsa dance club sometime ago. I hadn't known him to be a photographer. I only discovered that at Asa Baako. There were also camera drones that hovered above us like mini-helicopters. Wireless. Some of the children wanted to catch them. That was my first time seeing flying cameras.
There were beautiful girls from all over the world. One sister I saw in the evening wore a t-shirt that said "OHIO AGAINST THE WORLD." I told her she was beautiful, and danced with her a few times. She was really beautiful, and stood out from her other group members -- almost a dozen of them, who were all whites. They might have been volunteers from America.
There were also a lot of Ghanaians with funny English accents. I won't say more.
Busua, arguably has the best beach in Ghana. Very clean and simply beautiful. Busua people behave like Takoradi people. Same lexicon. Even prices of goods and services are same. These similarities also drew my attention to the traditional geopolitical arrangement, where one cannot be chief of Takoradi, unless he is approved and installed in Busua, by the Busua chief. Thus, even though Takoradi is bigger and far more developed than Busua, Busua, is recognized by the Ahanta people as a more influential traditional authority.
Busua people look very healthy. Healthier than those in the next village, Buture (Butre). I had gone to Buture two years ago with a team that included executives of the Pharmaceutical Society of Ghana, as well as regional officers and personnel from the National Service Secretariat. I was the only 'press man'. It was an educational and health-screening programme for the people, as part of the celebration of National Service Week. One of the poorest places I have ever been to. The biggest landmark at Buture still remains a 17th century trade fort, built by the Dutch. Fort Batenstein, a UNESCO-designated World Heritage Site, now lies in ruins. Abandoned. However, the fort remains the most magnificent structure in the whole community. There's also a beautiful estuary at Buture. A very long bad road nearly destroyed my spine even though we went there in a convoy of Land Cruisers and Pajeros. However, there is an 'Appian Way' linking Busua to Buture that, when upgraded to allow vehicles, could miraculously cut the distance and shorten the journey by approximately half-hour, to improve access to Buture. Until that is done, you have two options to go to Buture from Busua. Via the walk way, it can take about twenty minutes, whiles the 'car way' can take you close to an hour (even in a 4x4).
Back to Busua... to the bikinis. OMG. It was the dress code for the white girls who far-outnumbered our sisters by a ratio approximately 5 : 1. White girls everywhere. They went barefeet and bikinis. Our sisters preferred shorts or even jeans trousers. Wonderful Copenhagen. Life is good.
I was also impressed by the 'knowledge on display'. Leadership, obviously, is a major challenge in Africa. Personally, I think Ghana's 'democracy-plus-capitalism' is a big joke, and we'll remain poor and miserable if we allow it to continue. The status-quo, so-called free market, is a turf we cannot win on. Well, just in front of the stage, was a wooden board which had about sixteen pages of Nana Kobina Nketsia's 2013 work, 'African Culture in Governance and Development: The Ghana Paradigm.' At least, something for the mind. I wasn't going to read those many pages at the beach. I skimmed through the first three, and the last two pages. AFRICAN CULTURE IN GOVERNANCE AND DEVELOPMENT: THE GHANA PARADIGM. A must-read.
Saturday night, after the performances, was the craziest. Organisers called it "The Jungle Party." The jungle, to me, wasn't really a jungle. But that doesn't mean we didn't have jungle fun. It's in the bush -- about two kilometres away from Busua Town. No electricity. Everything powered by loud generators. The organisers controlled everything effectively like a classic communist state. Food was only noodles. Drink was Faxe Beer (apparently official sponsors), drinking water, coconut water, palm wine, akpeteshie, or any cocktail one could make from those options. They also had moringa for the akpeteshie drinkers. Money was exchanged for labelled chits that said whatever a buyer wanted. No police, no security, just a few volunteers (who weren't even macho men). Everything was well-executed. Somewhere in the bush -- out of town, but it felt like the safest place in the world. No one reported anything evil. Not even once. It was just beautiful. DJs took turns to send the party deep into the night. The only time I felt that I had to leave them was when DJ Apple had his turn. Although he played better than the Rooftop session, he made more enemies than the previous night. This time around, he played some raggaeton and descended down to some Middle-Eastern something. People weren't ready for that. "We want to dance!" one reveller kept yelling at him. And I wasn't ready to go and say anymore kind words to Apple. That's when I moved out, got a taxi, and went back to Dadson's Lodge. It was around 2 a.m. That was also the time Abeiku took a taxi and went to the bush. He had been sleeping while we were jungling.
I left Busua in the morning. Abeiku left later. I didn't ask him about sales -- I hadn't seen much though. But I know he did a lot of 'connecting,' which is equally-essential in today's business.
We left with many positive things and beautiful stories, Wonderful experience. We made friends in minutes. We got favours. Also, the real adventure -- when we attended parties with no tickets or wrist bands. Shame on us.
Asa Baako Music Festival 2015 at Busua was my first-ever. Best weekend ever.
