How Economics Is Changing Ghana For The Worse

I was staying at a bungalow between Bunso and Atukrom in the Eastern Region at one time when, in the morning, I decided to take a walk to meet my chauffeur, who would be arriving from Asiakwa, nearby. I walked and walked.

No driver.

But I didn't mind. Not only was the walk good for my health (I rationalised) but also, it gave me a chance to reacquaint myself with the vegetation -- what was left of it. For this area, which used to be thick forest, has been denuded of most of its hard woods, by chain-saw operators. They carry out illegal logging close to dwelling places all over Akyem Abuakwa and other parts of the Eastern Region, working on Sunday mornings, when the people leave the l woods to what is left of the animals and the birds. For the animals the people used to trap or hunt for food -- grass-cutters, bush rats, antelopes, bucks, monkeys and squirrels -- have all been driven away farther afield by the noise of the chain-saws and the destruction of their habitat.

The corrupt police let the loggers pass with their lorryloads of wood, on the way to Accra -- for a consideration. It is the singe most wanton act of eco-vandalism you can think of. And it is done under the noses of the law-enforcement agencies. Carry one bag of wee (Indian hemp or ganja) and they will grab you and take you to court, where you may face a minimum sentence of ten years imprisonment. But destroy the habitat to be inherited by our children and grand-children, ad you will go free after paying a bribe of a few cedis.

By the roadside, as I walked, my eye was caught by a plant that was bearing some nice, juicy-looking, very red (ripe) berry-sized type of fruit that transported me into early childhood ecstasy. It was a fruit called asoa. I picked up a couple of fruits, peeled them and put them in my mouth. It tasted as sweet as I expected.

But the real miracle of asoa is not that it tastes sweet -- ij fact its sweetness is quite subdued. It is what it does to other fruits that one eats which is the marvel. It can make literally everything taste sweet -- I mean really sweet. This includes unripe oranges and lemons! And -- three-day-old, foul-smelling palm wine!

As I walked along, meditating on why we haven't put asoa into industrial production to replace sugar, which everyone knows can causes diabetes, I soon came to a junction where -- as if by my command -- oranges. maize and other things were being sold.

The impulse to put the asoa I had eaten to the test was so strong that althogh I wasn't carrying money, I went to the orange seller and asked her whether she would sell me some. I warned her, "I am not carrying any money."

Te woman looked me and down. I was just dressed in jeans and T-shirt. There was no sign of money about me whatsoever.

But she gave me four nice oranges, and peeled them expertly for me, cutting a hole at the top for me to suck the juice from. I thanked her and continued my walk.

The oranges, need I say, had a heavenly deliciousness. I'd hardly finished eating them when my car showed up. We went back to the bungalow and I picked up some money. Then I came and paid the woman and gave her a huge tip We got talking. It turned out that she knew two of my uncles -- Wofa Kwadwo 'Ade and Wofa Kwadwo Kuma -- who reside in her nearby village, Nsutem, and I asked her to convey a message to them that I would be coming to see them the next day.

When I remember that day -- the unexpected delicacy and even more important, the amazing trust the woman reposed in my impecunious self -- my stomach develops cramps. Are such things still possible in our miney-crazy world?

It made me feel good. This was home -- as it should be.

One day, I was staying at a bungalow between Bunso and Atuukrom in the Eastern Region. In the morning, I decided to take a walk to meet my chauffeur, who would be arriving fro a nearby town. I walked and walked. No driver. Then I saw by the roadside, some nice, juicy-looking, very red (ripe) berry-type fruits that transported me into early childhood. It was a fruit called asoa. I picked up a couple of fruits and put them in my mouth.

Now the miracle about asoa is that it can make everything taste sweet -- I mean really sweet. This includes unripe oranges and lemons!

As I walked along, I soon came to a junction where oranges and other things were being sold.

The impulse to put the asoa I had eaten to good use was so strong that I went to the orange seller and asked her whether she would sell me some. I warned her, "I am not carrying any money."

I was dressed in jeans and T-shirt. There was no sign of wealth about me.

But the woman gave me four or so oranges, and cut them expertly for me. I thanked her and left.

The oranges, need I say, had a heavenly deliciousness. I'd hardly finished eating them when my car showed up. We went back to the bungalow and i picked up soe money. Then I came and paid the woman and gave her a huge tip We got talking. It turned out she knew two my uncles who reside in her village and I asked her to convey a message to them that I would be coming to see them the next day. When I remember that day, my stomach develops cramps. Who told me to ever leave?

I felt good. This was home -- as it should be. So how come

Ghanaians in the Diaspora call their homeland “Ogyakrom", which literally means "Place Of Fire".

The reason why Diasporans call their country "Ogyakrom" is that when they visit there from Europe or America, money "melts" in their pockets at such a fast rate that theirs pockets become like a crucible in which the temperature is somewhat nigh to what is to be found in Hades itself.

For once it is known in one's village that a "Diasporan" is in town, all one's relatives -- both close and newly close -- (we call the latter members of our "vulture family" because they are many, and they only gather around one when one has something that can be devoured)

come to him to narrate their tales of woe. The only way to shut them up is to "melt" some more cedis and shower it on them.

On one trip, I had almost reached my car from my room, en route to Accra, when a woman I hardly knew approached me, leading a child. "Blaa," (Brother) she said, "your niece fell into some hot water and was burnt badly. I need money to take her to hospital." And before I could say anything, she'd taken the little girl's cloth off, displaying terrible scabs all over her stomach.

I was extremely upset. I don't have a stomach for unsightly things. So, to me, this was callous emotional blackmail.

I had given no indication whatsoever that I would not accede to her request. So why did she have to show me the kid's scabs to seal the deal, as it were?

At such moments, one cannot help feeling that one is looked upon as a source of loot, not as a human being with sensitivities of one's own.

But this sort of thing is child's play, compared to the way some other guys go about extorting money from others in Ogyakrom. When a friend's mother died and they went to Korle Bu Teaching Hospital in Accra to collect the body for burial, his sister was moping about in distress outside the mortuary, wondering why it was taking such a long time for the body to be released by the mortuary attendants, when one of them beckoned to her to come.

"Madam, are you related to the lady who has passed away?", he asked her in a conspiratorial whisper.

"Yes, I am her daughter."

"Oh, I am so sorry for you, Madam."

"Thanks for your sympathy.... Could you please hurry it up? We have very far to go."

"Do you know something, madam? We are the people who do all the dirty work for you people oh! But you people pay big, big money to the hospital but we who dey do all de work, dem dey pay us only small," he said. "If we tell you how much dem dey pay us, Madam, you go cry! So, we be hungry, Madam. ... Madam, do something!"

Before the lady could react, the mortuary attendant had npushed her into the mortuary. There, on a table, lay her mother's body, cut open.

The lady screamed and ran out. The people with her caught hold of her and tried to calm her down. They saw she was totally traumatised. When she told them what had happened, someone said: "Hmm, as for these mortuary people, that's what they do here oh!” They went and “dashed” the mortuary people some money and gave them a bottle of vodka. Within minutes, they had their perfectly dressed body to take away for burial.

"What annoys me is that I would have paid them the money anyhow, without being subjected to seeing my mother in that state," the lady said. "As the case was, I could have died of a heart attack myself, from the shock. I mean I nearly fainted! Imagine seeing your own mother cut open like that!"

"Ah," her companions said, "as for you you don't know them. They don't want to give you a chance to be able to say "No, I didn't bring money", or "I've paid all the money I brought into the hospital accounts. They want to hoist you at the end of a fait accompli. That's how they get you!"

"It's straightforward emotional blackmail!"

Of course it is. An oh, they do care so much about the way they do it, don't they?"

When my mother was still alive, I used to send her from London money whenever anyone I knew came there. One day, a "by-force" uncle; that is, one who was not really an uncle but represented himself as such, phoned to say that another distant uncle was in town and "we" should go and see him together. Of course, as someone with a car, my "uncles" simply multiply.

I had great difficulty finding the place in Croydon, but eventually, we got there. It turned out this guy was a true uncle/ I remembered that in my childhood, he used to visit us, as he and my mother shared the same step-father and grew up together. So I had no hesitation in giving him what, to me, was quite a large sum, to go and give to his “sister“, my mother.

I learnt later that he had used the money to buy himself a uniform for an Oddfellows Lodge of which he was a member! Meanwhile, there I sat smugly in London, thinking I'd made my mother financially ok for some time. In fact, to my chagrin, she had sent me messages asking for money. But I'd ignored them, thinking, "What's coming over my old lady? It's not three months since I sent her money through her brother and she's asking for more?" I didn't know that my "uncle" the Oddfellows champion had not given her a penny of what I'd sent her. All that travelling into the nooks and corners of Croydon at night, when I hate to drive, Al for nothing. And it had left my mother close to the point of need. How could anyone do such a thing? But that's the Ghana of today. I could see this idiot on a Saturday night clad in his Oddfellows finery from London. And my mother starving. None of the ideals of being an Oddfellow mattered to him. It hurt me --it hurt me badly.

When my mother passed and this guy came to the funeral and came to shake hands with me, I was sorely tempted to snub him by refusing his outstretched hand, or even to denounce him publicly. But I had the cowardice of the well-brought-up kid. It wasn't something my mother would have approved of, I thought. She was so sweet and would have hated to see me make a scene -- especially when the butt of my anger was her own step-brother..

But this was one day when I secretly wished I was one of those rough-hewn coves who got extremely pissed when someone they loved died, for had I been stoned out of my head, I would have been able to tell the crowd, in a loud voice, that this bespectacled windbag with a bald pate, the so-called timber merchant of means, had stolen money meant for the upkeep of his own "sister”, in order to buy a Lodge uniform to bask in in front of his peers! Superficial fool.

I really should have accosted him, for (if I may adapt Shakespeare)

"Thus good breeding doth make cowards of us all!"

Compare his action to that of the the woman who gave me some oranges, without knowing whether she could expect ever to set eyes on me again. Hmm, maybe the

greedy and the selfish among our countrymen are there to drive the home point to us that if you ruin your economy, you stand the risk of changing the very nature of your people too.