A young man was travelling to the city to look for a white-colour job after his university education. Jojo woke up in the morning hours before his departure to find his grandma, grandpa, aunties, uncles, nephews and nieces, friends, cousins —all waiting at the forecourt of their residence to bid him safe journey and offer a piece of advice.
Also there, were Jojo’s girlfriends, classmates, teammates, and friends from the church. The head pastor of the church Mr. Akamenko was there to pray for him. The head teacher of Jojo’s elementary school –Adeapena Roman Catholic School, Mr. Diabene (his Godfather and role model) was there and the villages’ watchdog group, which he served as a member had also come to say fare well.
At the lorry station he was met with yet another batch of people—-almost everybody in the village was there. His six siblings tailed him (the youngest Aku carried Jojo’s tiny luggage) as he strolled to the station. The fresh graduate looked terrified. The expectation appeared way too high for him.
“Mom what’s going on?” he turned to his mother and wondered.
“Fret not son, you’ll be fine. This is how we do it here. But you can make it work better, if you play smart and be clever,” his mother told him.
Indeed it’s a mundane practice. You’re advised to be law-abiding, avoid bad friendship or company, don’t indulge in drugs and don’t womanise (if you’re woman beware of men -Akos) and so on and so forth, they’d tell you.
The advices often don’t come alone. For example they would say: “Kwadwo mma wo wirenfrii, me mpaboa nooo.”
In translation: Kwadwo don’t forget the shoes you promised me.
The irony is that Jojo hasn’t even arrived in the city yet. He hasn’t found a job yet. Jojo was like Bongo Man in Tema—Ghana’s port city. Everything seemed new when he finally set foot in the capital. He was yet to taste the hustle and bustle life in the big city. He found Accra to be populous, more vibrant faster than he thought, far bigger than he imagined—a city that never goes to bed.
City life was livelier, he discovered. But he couldn’t keep pace with it.
Life in cities can be unfriendly and tough but perhaps none of them considered that. None considered the worst case scenarios. Monies don’t grow in trees and white-colour jobs are difficult to find or come by.
While sitting in the car his girlfriends also stole the least chance to pass on their love letters.
“Hey Jo, you know I will die for you. You’re my world, and I don’t mind dying for you,” one of the letter s read.
The request lists could fill an 18-ton barrel. Jojo’s ears were full to the brim. His eyes were popping. The pressure had been building from Ahodwo his tiny town and it would follow him to Accra the capital city where he later secured a job as a post master.
Such is the pressure our MP’s Ministers, Mayors, DCE’s and public officials face very four (4) years. And I should think theirs is sickening. The pressure mounts from Suhum to Bole, Axim, Fawomanyor, Bibiani, Gyinni, and Asempa Asa to Accra.
The foot soldiers are demanding their pound of flesh. If you fail to yield to their demand they would seize the public toilet(s) in the locale and collect the monies. Or they’d issue a threat saying, we won’t vote for you next time around. The pastors who predicted your victory would never let your cell phones go to sleep. And the chiefs, and the people, and the friends and the loved ones would knock on your office doors time and again.
Where is the money coming from?
Please tell them you’re just a trustee. “I’m forbidden to thrust my long hands into the national kitty and I will face the full rigours of the law if I do so.”
The distance between the Flagstaff House (the seat of government) and the ministries isn’t far, yet what goes on in this enclave often times sneak the lenses of the chief executive –the President. What goes on in the ministries, departments and agencies seem to be alien to the Commander In Chief the man who appointed them.
There’s a buffet between the appointees and the appointer. And the middlemen often don’t speak tell the truth. They’re fair-weather friends. It’s always good. Everything looks great. “Obiara seye.
Really?’
Well I’m told there’s an Eagle in the citadel who has promised the good people of Ghana that he will keep their purse safe and make them rich again. That remains to be observed going forward. Nonetheless, it can be done if we all change our old ways of doing things. Things that tend to stifle our growth, things that make our cities unsanitary, things that have the potential to kill our hopes, dreams and aspirations.
If we can act as watchdogs in our respective outfits, departments and ministries corruption would flee even before the Eagle mounts a fact-finding tour.
Remember there used to be ministers in this enclave not long ago, who served under the first gentleman of our nation from January 7 2013 to January 7 2017. They’re gone now, new faces are here and they’ll also go. Power belongs to the people, they decide, they elect and they have the mandate. Therefore let’s always remember that we are accountable to them and would remain answerable to these people.
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