The Man Behind The Books

In this era of frequent worrying reports about internet scams and fraud, crowdfunding is rarely considered as a viable platform for fundraising in Ghana.

However, the success story of a 31-year-old volunteer teacher from a rural school in the Central Region, in his bid to make a library out of empty shelves, proves that the model can be utilized for genuine reasons to make an impact on society.

When Abeku Adams joined the staff of Akyen Senior High School, at Ekumfi Mbroboto, in the newly-created Ekumfi District, as English Language and Christian Religious Studies tutor, little did he know that the school's library, which was built in 2014, had no books.

Mr. Adams, an ardent reader, immediately sought permission from the authorities, and began crowdfunding among his friends on Facebook by posting pictures of empty shelves inside the library, accompanied by the hashtag: #booktheshelves.

Although the initial target was 1,000 cedis, which in his estimation, could have fetched as many as 1,000 books, according to an offer from a renowned book seller, by 16th March,  he had received a total of 2,493 cedis, mostly via mobile money.

Yesterday, new pictures of Mr. Adams and his students filling the empty shelves with books were posted on his timeline along with receipts from EPP Books, and other outlets.

"After sorting through, and choosing carefully, we were able to transport 2,000 books from Tema and Accra. Every donation or payment is posted on my timeline," he said.

"Donations came from all over the country. One friend even sent money from Australia. It is just amazing that all this was started on Facebook some two months ago."

"For the purpose of continuity, I deemed it prudent to invest the 'excess' donation into an EdFund account at GTBank. Accountability is an expressive attitude that stems from deeper understanding of life. My grandfather (an ex-soldier) once told me that a person who can dubiously spend a group's money on his personal needs can kill another person to make life comfortable for himself, because stealing 'public' money is actually like spilling blood," he concluded.

Abeku Adams, a product of Mfantsipim School, and past president of the University of Cape Coast chapter of National Union of Ghana Students, is currently working on a project dubbed "Rural Literacy," a model he believes could be replicated nationwide to compliment existing government-funded educational programmes.

Asa Baako 2015

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.

B-Bovid

There are moments that change you forever. There are people who cause you to be better. When you live those moments, or meet such humans, write about them.

I was recommended by a respected journalist to cover a trip to a modern agricultural facility in the Mporhor District of the Western Region yesterday. Time: 8 a.m. The purpose was to introduce extension officers from the Ministry of Food and Agriculture and farmers who were
selected for this year's National Farmers Day Awards to a unique agricultural model which emphasizes on a new socially-inclusive commercial farming.

B-Bovid, brainchild of Issa Ouedraogo, is the name of the project. According to him, it means "Building Business on Values, Integrity and Dignity." Mouthful, huh? And yes, it really is.

It is seven hectares of so much I have ever seen. From food crops (all types), to rubber plants, fish ponds, pigery, cattle ranch and all types of birds. It's variety at its best. Almost everything agriculture. There is also a factory, where huge machines process palm nut to palm oil, and palm kernel to palm kernel oil. In the end, nothing really goes waste: all by products are used for other purposes.

The model combines all the subsectors of agriculture, using modern farming methods for large-scale production, without compromising on quality of production and its impacts on the environment.

As he took us around his farm and factory, Mr. Ouedraogo spoke passionately about his project. He spoke so much, but so cleverly. Even his occasional jokes were made for the mind.

"He is building a paradise," one team member said. And I agree. There is actually a 'Garden of Eden,' an eco-tourism centre, where B-Bovid farmers grow every fruit that the tropics can support. Acres and acres of everything. Every fruit. Every variety. A really special tourist site. A very beautiful place. A place for children and adults.

Back to the factory proper, Mr. Ouedraogo hosted all forty-something of us with a PowerPoint presentation at their ICT centre. He spoke about the model, future plans, and the B-Bovid initiative of empowering local farmers through ICT training and profit-sharing.

His future plans are not really future plans (as I have known future plans all my life). They are visible, and near. They include a supermarket, abattoir, restaurant, and the installation of additional machines for the production of 'dzome' palm oil.

The restaurant is almost completed. The structure is as the size of the ICT centre. The fairly-equipped ICT block is as the size of a church hall -- probably bigger than any nightclub I have visited. It can take one hundred people at the same time. Easily. I can even increase the number. It depends on the purpose. Hundred in a church, can be fifty at a restaurant, or two hundred in a nightclub. Oh I love mathematics.

A journalist who was part of the team suggested to me that we consider the restaurant as venue for future GJA (Ghana Journalists Association) programmes. I nodded. The truth is, I am not even a registered member. I attended only one GJA local chapter meeting and I regretted it, mainly because of poor attendance. It needs a B-Bovid awakening. We are all involved.

Issa Ouedraogo hails from the northern part of Ghana. His father worked on the State Farms during the leadership of Kwame Nkrumah. He has travelled widely and worked in Europe and several African cities. Ouedraogo will joke that B-Bovid started from birth. I agree.

Currently, he employs close to eighty men and women on his farms and other facilities. But shockingly, a government of hungry people isn't so interested in B-Bovid, or someone like Issa Ouedraogo. He has received little or no direct assistance from Ghana since the project began almost a decade ago . You can tell it is just one man's passion, perseverance and love to feed his people.

B-Bovid has received numerous local and international recognitions for its efforts towards ensuring food security in Ghana: a country where most people cannot afford to feed themselves; a country where farmers are among the poorest.

An extension officer from the Central Region shared something about his experience in Australia. "Here reminds me of what I saw in Melbourne. They cultivate several hectares of farmland using machines. The only difference is that, they get funding from their government and big companies. As a result of that, they have enough to eat and so much more to store."

According to the most recent Ghana Living Standards Survey report issued by the Ghana Statistical Service, majority of Ghanaians engage in farming. However, majority of Ghanaians cannot afford two decent meals in a day.  How can we have enough food while our farmers continue to rely on cutlasses and hoes, and rainfall?

The first time I saw a windmill (in real-life) was yesterday. It was pumping water from one of Ouedraogo's artificial ponds, for irrigation purposes. For someone like me, it's a shame.

When I Don't Buy The Coconuts (From My Notes On Facebook)

I'm hungry. Asɛm o ...

I can't cook and I don't remember ever eating three square meals in a day. If a square meal must be a balanced diet containing all the major food nutrients - carbohydrate, protein, vitamins, dietary fibre and fats and oils, in their right quantities as we were taught in JSS, then I don't remember the last time I even had two of those in a single day. I seldom see one. Sometimes I wonder how I'm still alive. Often my entire day's combination of edibles may not equal a standard meal. I can score more points with vitamins and dietary fibre considering the amount of fruits I consume. But that's often all I eat. I don't know whether to admit it as bad eating habit or simply call it poverty. That is all I eat. My food. My medicine too. I believe so, because I haven't known illness throughout my adult life -- perhaps ten years. Or maybe fifteen. I'm not on any strict diet. I'm not a vegan. I eat what I want. Except pork, or fufu, or something that smells like too much garlic.

It is often chaos in the mornings -- since I am told that breakfast is the most important of the three. My body has embraced that theory very well that I feel half dead when I skip it. I will eat anything from 'paanoo' to biscuits, just to fuel me. Sometimes, I get the typical proper local breakfast -- porridge and milk. I love any of the cereals. What is known in Ghana as "tom brown" is my favourite. That alone can power me the whole day.

In the afternoons, it's either roasted plantain, or coconuts, or both, depending on my cedi power. I get my coconuts from small truck, just down the road from the office. I'll walk past the SSNIT building and turn right, just in front of the old Bank Of Ghana building. Welcome to the famous Takoradi Liberation Road.

On a typical weekday afternoon, you'll find at least two trucks loaded with coconuts. Each, manned by two or three young men. I love coconuts. Kube. The water and the inside. I love it. It's only one cedi and I can afford it. I'll joke that "mifi Akyemfo... " which means "I come from Akyemfo (Saltpond) -- where coconut trees far outnumber humans beings" That is something I created from nowhere. You hear it first from me. But it's just a joke. My coconut joke: tailor-made for the afternoon ritual. I don't want to be just another buyer. I want to be remembered as a friend. And I'm always not satisfied with one. I buy one, and will surely buy another. Then I'll boast that I can do three, only to surrender when they dare me.

I always cherish my time there. It seems it's always a different group everyday, because I don't meet the guys I met on Monday when I go there on Tuesday. There are always people to give you coconuts, even though their presence is not guaranteed the next day. There will be equally good guys who can get you refreshment everyday. New people each time means my joke is always new.

However, there are times I don't buy the coconuts, or joke. Those are the days that I think that the entire group, or someone in the group should be in a school classroom at that time. Wrong place at the wrong time. I won't buy from minors, and honestly, I won't hide my thought from them.

I see children between the ages nine and fifteen wielding machetes and busily selling coconuts during school hours. Sometimes it's an entire group of three, or four. When I get near them, I talk to them about the essence of education, and surprisingly, they thank me, even when I refuse to buy from them -- rather intriguing, because they never thank people who buy their coconuts. I believe they see that society doesn't care about them so much, as most 'rich people' will park their cars and order the stuff to be sent to them as they sit in the comfort of their vehicles. But how comfortable can that be?

Speaking to them, I have realized that most of the boys come from small Ahanta villages -- Beaho, Kejebir, and other small communities lying between Takoradi and Agona Nkwanta. They speak Ahanta and Fante and they love music -- of course, I could figure that one out quick. One began singing to me after he apparently had been told that I work at a radio station. He composed right in front of me. Freestyle. He sang about the smoke and sound of a speeding motorcycle and later, answered my question of why he was walking barefoot, with a song. He began to sing in Fante, saying he'll buy new slippers with his share of the day's sales.The music was interrupted when some buyers approached us. I was impressed by that kind of creativity. I wondered how well he could be raised to become. I wondered what other qualities and talents they possess, that we allow to go waste. The musician looked very dirty and unhealthy, and it amazes me how well he worked the blade on the big fruits as he would hold each with each hand at the same time.

Now what is wrong with us? In the 1950s Ghana had the 'Education Police', who were to ensure that no child of school-going-age was seen anywhere apart from school during school hours. At that time, we had massive enrollment which led to the establishment of new schools across the country. In poorer communities, education was made totally free and compulsory. More schools were built across the nation. Government sponsored students to do advanced studies in all parts of the world. That was the Accelerated Education Programme, introduced by Kwame Nkrumah in 1951. The Young Pioneers were also trained and given special skills to provide manpower for industry. The Pioneers were young people being prepared to build Africa. Government prioritized the promotion of civic education in schools. Ghana was really a shining star. What happened?

Sankɔfa. Sankɔfa. Sankɔfa.

This is the 21st century. Africa needs thinkers, not 'prayers.' We need patriots, not priests. A nation cannot develop when its people lack knowledge and skills. No child must suffer this fate. No child must be left behind. Our children must be guided to be well-positioned to be able to compete with their peers in every part of the globe. It is our responsibility. It is our duty. Every child deserves a good beginning. That is how we can assure ourselves of a brighter future. That is how we can shine again. Until then, if I don't buy coconuts, I'm angry.

“Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”

The Boy From Atuabo (From My Notes On Facebook)

Yesterday I went to Ghana's 57th Independence Day durbar at the Takoradi Jubilee Park to do a radio report.

Present at the ceremony was the western regional minister, representatives from the regional house of chiefs, and other dignitaries. The programme started at exactly 9 am. as the minister inspected and observed a march past by various security forces, trade union groups as well as pupils and students of selected junior high and senior high schools.

All three main stands of the Takoradi Jubilee Park were full to capacity with members of the general public particularly school children who were present to support their colleagues in the parade.

Highlighting on the theme for the celebrations, the regional minister Enoch Teye Addo cautioned citizens to desist from corrupt practises in order for the nation to achieve economic independence.

Awards were presented to best school cadet corps as well as students who excelled in last year's basic education and senior high school examinations.

James Kwasi Mensah, a first year student of Nsein Senior High School was one of the award winners. When I saw Kwasi and the other award recipients taking photographs with the regional minister, I remembered something. "I have met him before." I met him at another award-receiving programme at Axim. Hess, an American oil company in partnership with Ghana National Petroleum Corporation (GNPC) was assisting "brilliant but needy" students in the Nzema East area. Kwasi, who finished Atuabo Methodist Junior High School received the biggest honour for getting "eight ones" in the Basic Education Certificate Examination. As he walked by the 'media men' to receive his award from the country's Minister of Energy and Petroleum, I quickly whispered "ayɛ adze," which means "well done."

On the front rows were many white people, apparently 'PR' seat-filling staff of the company who were wearing the same branded t-shirts and caps as the children. Those white people looked very modest unlike the few of our sisters who came with them and were acting as ushers. The whites were simple. They looked like they were on a religious mission.

Kwasi was the last of the children to be mentioned. My interest was revived as soon as I heard "Atuabo." I had been fiddling with my phone the entire 'roll call.'

I watched him climb the podium in his 'tinabu' trousers and over-sized Hess t-shirt, which was so large it looked like some 'long sleeves.'

Atuabo, Atuabo. Yes, Atuabo. I had been there the previous week. I went with a team of journalists for an expert briefing on the progress of work on the new gas processing plant. I had a good time at the project site. I was able to interact with some members of parliament who were also present for the same reason. It was a great trip. I remember everything about Atuabo. The canoes. The many 'foonoo.' Those many coconut trees. The small but cement plastered houses -- you might never see the typical Ghana village mud house in Atuabo. That long, dusty, untarred road. Looking through a window of the air-conditioned press van, I saw a few schools by the road. 'Atuabo Methodist' is the only one I remember. It's just on your left hand side if you're exiting the community. It's a weak structure : you can see when you stare for a few seconds. Just another village 'syto' school. Just another place to waste your youth.

Kwasi's presentation was accompanied by lots of applause and photographs. He was also re-invited to give the vote of thanks, which so far is the most memorable of such a thing I have ever witnessed. He spoke like one of those 'head boy speeches' you only hear in Mfantsipim.

When I spoke to him after the programme, I asked him why he chose Nsein Senior High School above all the bigger ones. He told me his dream was to go to Tarsco (Tarkwa Senior High School) but the scholarship package wouldn't support him if he goes out of the district. "Your grades qualify you to go to all the top schools". "Like Achimota, like Mfantsipim..." Obviously I was a bit disappointed. Then I encouraged him with a lot of kind words. I spoke like they were my last words. Deep down I felt he will be great.

Then yesterday. 6th March. Independence Day. Takoradi. It was no fun occasion. Soldiers were 'never at ease.' They wore berets and stood in the sun and shook like it was some form of punishment. As the minister delivered his speech, there was a power outage. PA system shut. I quickly pressed the pause button of my voice recorder: so fast that my machine resumed recording. I double-tapped. Fed up already. I left it to tape the 'wahala'. After all I edit everything. After a few seconds, I gave up on that one too. I pressed 'stop' on the recorder. I can't be recording 'nothing'. It will drain the batteries. I wondered what the soldiers were thinking too. About a minute later, the speakers were powered again. Regional minister clears throat. "Fellow countrymen, I will go over what I was saying once again." Immediately there was a chorus of "ebei" and "eii" and "eish" and "aarh" from the direction of the soldiers. I started laughing. The minister was talking about Mahatma Gandhi's seven cardinal rules of whatever whatever. But it seems no one wanted to hear more. Not the soldiers. Not the civilians. I was listening and recording and even though I was interested in Gandhi's philosophy, I knew it won't be part of my report.

Then the sellers. Adults and children carrying a variety of ugly things in trays and pans of anything from sachet water to peeled and 'polythened' sugarcane. I saw a girl (about nine years old) carrying something that looked like yellow gari mixed with sugar and milk powder, tied in long pellets like how groundnut is sold now at twenty pesewas. I took photos of those child traders. I took many photos.

No one should tell you where's heaven or hell. Just look around where you are. You'll see yourself in one of those places.

It was all disgusting and shameful and full of hopelessness until I saw the young brother from Atuabo again. There came hope. Light. And light. It revived my hope in the future of this nation. It reminded me of Kwame Nkrumah. It was a good day.