WhaT haS loVE GOt To dO wiTh It?

Hasn’t love got everything, okay, something to do with feelings?

I could understand the beauty bit. That it wanes, that it doesn’t cook food let alone make jollof. That it’s inferior to character. So it obviously could be a wrong reason to be in love with someone. But how about feelings? That “I can’t wait to see you”, “can’t wait to call you”, talk to you, listen to you state of love induced madness.

A lot of the times, when people talk about choosing partners correctly, it means the person gotta have some domestic skills in keeping the home, have a good character, have a job of course, and a good family if you can help it. And all of these times beauty and feelings are kinda treated the same way; not really necessary. Yet, some if not many of these folks, married ones at that, would recount the days where they acted silly and behaved rather ludicrously just from the way they felt about the other person or how the other person made them feel.

Now if that “feeling” part isn’t necessary, why is it called up often like the only proof there is in showing haven fallen in love? And why would we be advised to look out for qualities than depending on these emotions?

This isn’t that feeling of being loved or appreciated. This is about how one or you feel so mad yet sane, lost but found, good and miserable about another person all at the same darn time. That state where you’d confess that something is “doing” you and all you know is this girl or boy but can’t tell what magic or miracle they’re operating by. That cloud nine feeling. That feeling of being swept off the feet. Of your whole world lighting up when you see this person. Where you shake and shiver when they touch you or call your name. Where your heart decides to also miss a beat because you saw their missed call.

Hasn’t love got something to do with these too?

I get it, that heart breaks accounts for why people would rather rationalise love than emotionalise it. And that accounts also for the advice in trotros, salons, barbering shops, whatsapp groups, on Facebook and everywhere the conversation of love comes up, to love with the head and not the heart. To not let all of oneself go. Is that what they mean by walking into love but not falling into it? Oh, but who can deny the enchanting and consuming and inflaming passions?

Still, “what’s love got to do, got to do with it? Who needs a heart when the heart can be broken?” (Ok. Hand over the mic now Tina) Noone, it seems. The head is a better bargain. So we are adviced to not give the heart a chance, at least not all of it. But aren’t there consequences to this choice?

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.” ― C.S. Lewis.

So, with the threat of heart break, I am advised to rationalise my way into marriage, to consider all the pros in a would-be partner with stuff like possessing good manners, being from a good and rich home etc. and don’t mind much how I feel about her (or him in the case of women). Should love be this strategic, profitable, calculated venture? And would that not hurt the marriage life? If love hasn’t got something to do with how I feel, wouldn’t the marriage life be drab and boring? Because then I’d be forced to rationalise all the time what I should do to keep love aflame, and that to me would become like a chore. Yet, love should drive me blindly, insanely, effortlessly.

If we are to look for qualities at all, I think they should be ones that corroborate with our feelings for that other person. Such qualities as explained by Professor William Rawlins, a professor of interpersonal communications at Ohio University who studies the way people interact over the course of their lives. He says that “satisfying friendships (and relationships) need three things: ‘Somebody to talk to, someone to depend on, and someone to enjoy.’”

I think we should stop in our relationship tracks and face our emotions square in the face, and even risk depending on it to build relationships into marriages. Bar all those “good” reasons, how true are one’s feelings. Is that not what unconditional love is all about? Loving without conditions (reasons)? Especially since “love doesn’t ask why?”

But then, this is just a bewildered gentleman knowing not what to make of modern love. What do you know?


The Breakfast Called Waakye

People talk about jollof, and jollof this and jollof that. That’s all cool, jollof is a respectable meal. It is your typical food for the occasions : birthdays, weddings, funerals etc., where it is even said that a party without jollof is just a meeting. Throw in your usual jollof wars between Ghana and Naija and you have a more sumptuous reason to root for the Ghana jollof. And although jollof is a pride-sustaining/affirming meal, it can never be a better breakfast than waakye. Or as I like to call it, awaakye.

Noone, and I mean noone ever woke up from bed, in his home or in a friends house, especially, and upon the thought of breakfast asked: chale, is there any jollof joint in this area? It’s unheard of. Kai!

Here in my hood, there’s this woman who sells jollof in close proximity to the waakye seller (I wonder who so ill advised her). Every morning, as I make my glorious march to waakye-land, I see that her product is least patronised. I could be in the waakye queue for as long as one person buys for ten other folks and all the while, just one and a half people come and ask of what is being sold there. You might think the waakye seller uses some powers to draw all the customers but not so. It’s just the times and seasons that are not jollof friendly.

The other morning for instance, I caught my cousin Kwayne Jnr, the most diehard jollof fan I know buying waakye for breakfast. I would have let it count as one of those once-in-a while moments upon which you can’t judge a person’s true interest, except that he proceeded to give me counsel and campaigned for that waakye joint saying: oh aha de3 no nso 3y3 fine paaa ooo( oh this joint is so good oo). Waaa look! His testimony was as from one used to the place, and used to the place I couldn’t doubt. When it comes to waakye for breakfast, even the most ardent jollof supporters humble themselves.

The love for waakye on a good morning goes deep, deeper to the very base of the saucepans they are cooked in. This is truth and there’s no lie in it, no jollof joint ever sells the “under” aka kanzo together with the jollof itslef. It is uncouth and would render the jollof as having less character. Although we wouldn’t mind eating that same jollof kanzo in our homes anyway. But when it comes to waakye and it’s “under”, oh there’s no shame, we tell the seller to “please add more”.

Would you now be surprised if I told you I was inpired to pen this after a good episode of waakye for breakfast? More so, after I witnessed that respectable man buy the waakye this morning for himself and his friend and didn’t forget to ask the seller to add some of the “under? What more could such inspiration do for an old customer like me than to also follow the man’s example?

“Madam, me nso ma me ase3 no bi wae” (me too give me the kanzo some wae), I said.

And I had almost forgotten certain portions of my childhood, untill the “under” brought them back. Those times when all the love a boy knew was waakye and so would pester his mom to give him money to buy Nurse’s waakye. That waakye seller then was named Nurse for obvious reasosns; she put care in her waakye like a nurse, and the waakye took care of the community, like a nurse.

And I had almost forgotten Lab. The times back in Secondary School where we would dare risk the possibility of punishment or even suspension and break bounds just to go eat that waakye, which had been christened “LAB” for having the luck to be situated somewhere behind the school’s science laboratory. Oh the experiments we did with that early morning waakye, adding substances like avocado, spaghetti, gari etc etc.

This is not pitting waakye and jollof against each other and calling on men to choose sides, for there’s no point in that. But even as jollof when introduced at a mere meeting can turn such into a party, waakye is that morning ritual where no food, not even jollof can best substitute.

Looking For The Girl Group: A Throwback To VGMA ’17

As VVIP collected their award for best group of the year for the third time in a row, it occured to me, there were no girl group in that category.

The VGMA ceremony over the years has recognised music groups and it is curious to learn that over the last 11 years, no girl group has made it to the nomination list let alone win it.

The award was presented by vintage gospel duo the Tagoe Sisters which gives more reason to wonder. After these steller groups, there has not in recent times risen any other girl group to strongly contest with the guys.

Talk of female music groups, the gospel arena seems to do better than the secular folks. Daughters of Glorious Jesus have blazed the trail for years and they are still going. Tagoe Sisters have been outstanding in their own right. Jane and Bernice, Suzzy and Matt, would be names we would long remember. Tongues of Fire and Hallelujah Voices and quite recently Adehyemaa, though it’s sad to say that the latter’s appearance on the gospel music scene has been like a movie cameo, are some female gospel groups that caught our attention.

The promising duo of Efya and Irene disbanded and took solo roles. Triple M, who holds the record of being the first female hiplife group disappeared from the face of the earth leaving only a remnant of their wannabe musician individual selves which have also long disappeared into thin air. Dela Hayes and Women of Colour Band is another female music group who had sought to become the feminine version of Osibisa but not much is heard of them.

A case could even be made for the fact that the two strong female groups actually are made up of family members. Daughters of Glorious Jesus is made up of two sisters and their friend. Tagoe Sisters are actually twins. Which leaves me thinking, is it difficult for girls to get together unless they are family??

But while we delibrate on the matter as prevails in the local scenes, this issue seems to be a global phenomenon. I mean, look at all the music groups that have survived and a lot of these are male groups. Evidently, international male music groups outnumber female ones both in success and longevity.

Songs by Westlife, Boys II Men, Take Five, Backstreet Boys, UB40, Black Eyed Peas are easily recognisable, and you can say besides the quality of music, it’s also due to the fact that these groups stuck around for longer. Songs by TLC and Spice Girls would be hard for a young person to identify.

There are and have been more male music groups that I can count than females’, and yet the population of women is greater than that of men.

I know this is just a small observation that pertains to the music industry, but what are such observations worth if they do not allow for a broader consideration of things? And so I ask the questions: is it still a man’s world where his musculinity suppresses the woman thus? Or is it the effect of a long time ago law which did not allow women to do certain things like voting and publishing considered then as only a man’s right and has since left women needing to catch up? Or is it simply that girls can’t get together for longer?

I would love to see a vibrant female music group rise up again and give the gentlemen a ran for the money. But even noticing that our female music artistes hardly do collaborations and feature themselves leaves my hope dangling by a spider’s thread.

Baobab Shade – A Review of Afriku: Haiku & Senryu from Ghana, by Adjei Agyei-Baah.

His haiku “leafless tree” which won the Akita Chamber of Commerce and Industry President Award for the 3rd Japan-Russian Haiku Contest shook me awake to the beauty of haiku and for the first time drew my attention more closer to the art. I would then start to uncover many of such gems he had written and left behind on his Facebook page, countless journals and online haiku contests like trails. Following these with the interest and appetite he had hitherto aroused in me, I picked up his intent to not only write and make the art acceptable to poets and lovers of poetry in Ghana and Africa, his works shone of this consuming desire to make this foreign art more local, more relatable to the people of his homeland, the continent, thus his unrelenting desire to push to the fore haiku that draws on the sights and sounds of Africa.

Afriku: Haiku and Senryu from Ghana is the maiden collection of Haiku and Senryu poems by Mr. Adjei Agyei-Baah, Co-founder of Africa Haiku Network and founder of Ghana Haiku Society. Great things come in small packages and no doubt, in these wonderfully written minute pieces are depth and wealth of literary brilliance. Herein is a true embodiment of this spirit, desire and intent to tell the African story in a new voice of Haiku (a three line Japanese seasonal poem). Taking for instance:

castle cannons-
pointing where their
owners have gone

What is so identifiable with the African story than colonisation, which is aptly inferred in this poem with the poet’s use of ‘castle cannons’. It is a cruel way to point us to the past but one which cannot be helped by the poet anymore than we can delete the harrowing effects of colonisation from our history. The first line is thunderous, evoking the ‘boom’ sound of cannons plus all its destructive nature, heightened further by the use of the alliteration in the ‘c’ sounds. But we are not left in this dark stage of manipulation, exploitation and extortion. The next two lines provide some comfort; these cannons point where their owners have gone. In these lines we are reminded of no other thing than Africa waking up to independence, her colonisers abandoning their weapons, which are but representations of their forceful influence, where they only now serve as monuments. But are they just monuments or they represent something bigger, something to say that the colonial ties were not utterly severed because they left parts of their controling selves behind? This presents a good case for those who challenge the independence of Africa. But the poet in these three lines walks us through our perilous past, our confused present and perhaps like the cannons points us to an uncertain future.

As an observer, one who in his capacity as a haiku poet is only to show not tell, Adjei, without shovelling it down our throats the folly of dispute and the freedom it robs us of, points us to an example in nature to observe and see what truth we can learn for ourselves in these lines:

disputed land-
crows flout
the borderlines

The poet’s careful and good selection of words as “disputed land”, “flout”, “borderlines” shows some crows who are defiant to some borderline laws that they do exactly what people, out of the fear of sanctions, are restricted to do, flouting the rule. These crows, happily getting together, seem to tell us it is better to flout borderline orders than keep people apart over just some land dispute. Somehow, it echoes in same voice Gabriel I. Okara’s poem, “Moon In The Bucket”, who also teaches a great lesson from noticing the moon in a bucket of murky water:

…look at the dancing moon
It is peace unsoiled by the murk
And dirt of this bucket war.

But it is not only issues of politics that the poet is preoccupied with. He’s on a mission to also show the beauty (sights) of his continent and, as a result, employing the fundamental aim of haiku effectively draws the reader into his world of lights in this one below:

village night out
the lamps of fireflies

Flashlights have vastly replaced lanterns nowadays but what a beautiful way to remind us of them in fireflies who do not change with time or technology.

my footprints
go to sea

This is a fun way to suggest that one has been to sea without actually being a sailor. Perhaps those of us who have envied sailors on their adventures in movies can console ourselves knowing our footprints at beaches have done so for us. More so, it is a reflection of the peace and serenity gained from having to go for a walk at the beach and yet another implication that we can boast of good beaches.

mountain walk . . .
only our shadows
dare the cliffs

These poems do not only elevate the pleasure we feel in reading them, suddenly we see ourselves atop this mountain where our fear of heights is exposed. But a part of us still dares to take a risk with our shadows daring the cliffs. Herein are we exposed as people with strengths and weaknesses, courage and fear. But besides, this is a beautiful picture of the mountainous side of the homeland, the greeness, trees, valleys etc.

We observe also that Afriku serves from within its pages doses of Senryu as well. Described as a cousin of haiku, Senryu is seen as a non-seasonal poem unlike haiku. Plus, Senryu focuses on idiosyncrasies which render them satirical or ironical in tone.

tipping on the escalator
the new migrant
introduces himself

Adjei Agyei-Baah has been successful in this uncompromising grit to make his haiku more African that he translates all the poems into his native language, Twi. It is a way to make even these accessible to those of his homeland who may not be familiar with English, as well as to show that haiku can be enjoyed in whatever language of expression.

In all, this is a very good collection and one suited for this very time as haiku takes a solid stand in Africa. It is a highly recommended book for all lovers of literature; teachers, students, lecturers, professors etc and for any purpose; research, lecture, pleasure etc.

Afriku enjoins all of us, anyone anywhere in the world to take a rest under one of Africa’s giant baobab and in the shade enjoy the friendship that is haiku. Thus brought together we help the poet achieve his dream . . .

black coffee
white sugar
I stir the world into oneness 


Kwaku Feni Adow is a writer, poet and student from Ghana. He is a member of Africa Haiku Network, Ghana Haiku Society and UHTS (United Haiku and Tanka Society, America). He writes Haiku from his home country and has received publications in haiku journals the likes of The Mamba, Brass Bell, Under the Basho, Frameless Sky, Cattails, including Honourable Mentions in online haiku contests. He is the winner of Babishaiku 2016, Africa’s first haiku contest organised by Babishai Niwe Poetry Foundation, Uganda.

Ghana In An ‘Information’ Age

Communication is a lesson we’ve all been taught right through basic schools to whichever level of the educational ladder a person’s will, wit or wealth has taken him, or her. The art of giving and receiving information is the basic definition of communication you’d likely hear given by anyone. And it’s almost impossible to explain communication without mentioning information.

Our understanding of information even as kids was so well, so much so that it manifested in the games we played. In football, sometimes, we would switch from playing “small poles” to playing “information,” a quick passing of the ball to team mates, what you’d recognise as tiki-taka. 

You might presume we so called it because that’s when a player could telepathically communicate with his team mate to give him short passes without having to look up to see where that player stood, while the opponent chases the ball around. Of course, this style of play then was not so named by us for the knowledege of the reasosn above nor by any incredible wit we had to describe it as such in our terms. It was just a sheer case of ignorance and unenlightenment. 

Before our generation however came to understand and be exposed to communication and information, there existed primitive but indegenously ingenious modes of communication, some of which we were taught about in classrooms. Luckily I grew up at a place where I was blessed to witness a few which were in their fading phase. 

Sending messages through someone who happened to be going where the recepient lived was common, easy and cheap. Lighting fires in forests to let the smoke speak of a human prescence was risky but effective. Howling like a wolf was another effective mode of transmitting information in the forest especially when tree cutters would be felling trees near farms. To hear a howling response was the two ticks that turns blue on whatsapp when a message has been sent, seen and read. 

When it came to circulating information within the town or village, a gong beater or town crier, one proficient in the dialect and with matchless wit was a priceless asset. Nonetheless an aggrieved person who couldn’t find his or her missing goat could just take a piece of rusted roofing sheet or any such material that could make noise to awaken the dead and with such announce the missing goat. Such announcements mostly informed whoever took the animal of the only two options they have, to return it or prepare to meet his maker. 

And then again I was privilleged to witness another classic way of sending information. This was done using the audio tape recorder. The sender only needed to buy a blank audio cassette, insert it in a tape recorder, press “record” and pour his or her heart out. When money was not forthcoming to get a blank cassette, an old Daddy Lumba cassette or that of Amakye came in handy. The benefit to this alternative was that the receipient got to listen to a song before and after the message. I guess now you know where the idea of caller ring tunes by these telecom operators is coming from. 

But communication has evolved. From smoke signals, wolf calls, audio recordings, gong beating to more modern forms: mobile phones (pay phones no longer work in Ghana), TVs, radio, the computer et al. And when churches and roadside preachers changed with the times and moved on from using ahuja horns to PA Systems, these horns have found a good friend in Information Center Operators.  

My edginess about the rise of information centers in Ghana was finally put to bed, to cope with the situation rather than contend with the already blossoming phenomena in my head when I recently visited my folks in Kumasi. It was Bohye 95.3 FM that was broadcasting their evening news when my untuned ears suddenly picked up on the names of broadcasting houses that were, in the habit, disseminating that very evening news. I was in awe, because names like Osookoo, Ama Nima, Obi Nte, Chairman Boama, Wofa Solo, Oly et al were to my judgements eerily befitting of radio stations. My enquiry revealed to me, courtesy my big brother, that these were Information Centers. Staring back stupefied I realised, we as a country have arrived and are well in an “information” age.

Information centers, the THING in Ghana now. Frankly, I am not one who is overly enthused to see their rise in Ghana. My disdain for these centers springs from one reason and one of first impression, which they say matters. How the tones of these horns can wake you out of sleep at dawn. Then again the more prevailing phenomenon, just like everything new that happens in Ghana or gets to be popularised over time, information centers are springing up like mushrooms in every nook and cranny. 

In Ghana, we are apt to copy like cats but are worse in improving on quality. One would expect that the increase in radio stations and TV stations nowadays should wrought a competition whose results should see improved standards in journalism, good ads, better radio and TV programs, news reporting etc. Sadly, a half-baked cake is worth chewing than listening to some of these radio staions and watching some of these TV stations. 

It bugs me therefore to wonder whether or not this new phenomenon of information dissemination will not soon go out of its way with the prime reason being that a lot of people  are now doing it too. 

But put my concerns aside, an information loving country like Ghana looks to bask gloriously in its current “information” age status. This as seen in the myriad of purposes in information dissemination they serve: forwarding radio news, making community announcements on behalf of individuals and groups, even promoting wannabe music stars with their demos and a host of others. And then the proof in political affiliation to some of these informatian centers. Yes! I recently caught wind of the fact that two information centers located in one community apparently had affiliates in the two leading political parties. And since almost anything of importance to Ghanaians is given a political tag, you should wonder little but then it only gives credence to the truth of how well information centers have beem embraced, an exodus of a nation into a new “information” age.

Information Centers may as well perpetrate the rivalry between these two political parties, I am particularly sad that these give more reason for roosters who already have lost their place to alarm clocks and phones to end up under cooking pots.

(C) Kwaku Feni Adow, 2015.

Photo Credit: justdial.com.


Finger Tip Food Sales

At the koko seller’s one Saturday morning, I observed. Besides the koko seller herself was another lady who helped in selling koose. Her job was only to give out koose to those buying some to go along with their koko. In doing so she uses a fork to draw out of its container these little deep-fried-balls-of-beans-dough. Apparently she used this fork to serve my order. However, going in for the very last ball, she let go of the fork and used her fingers. A gesture I should well understand. The very last addition isn’t part of what I’m paying for or the number of koose I should be given according to how much in cash I was buying. That is supposed to be my “ntosoɔ”, “gyaara”.

It is a common practice typical of roadside food sellers to use their fingers to dish out that small quantity of the food they are selling, somewhat, as a testament of they holding true to the norms of “ntosoɔ”, a benevolence of a sort. The waakye seller lets go of the laddle, which is both a serving tool to the customer and a punishing device to the pan, beating the brims hard after every dip but with her fingers adds the “ntosoɔ.” The fried yam seller, akrakuro seller, even the ‘bofroat’ seller, when need be, would take off the plain plastic she covers her hands with only to finally add the “ntosoɔ”.

But if the seller is obliged to do this act of benevolence, which is almost always in the expectation of the buyer, why can’t it be done with the serving devices but the bare hands are employed at these moments?

The sellers’ way of showing true intergrity to add “ntosoɔ” seems to lie in their serving that alone with bare fingers. If you ever stand close to a waakye joint and hear, “ei Amina, enti wo nto me so kakra?” Watch how Amina goes in for the last dip albeit protesting. Even if she unwittingly changes her method at that instant to use the laddle, the reason for her referal in the first dishing would’ve been that she failed the finger test. And to such a customer, contentment might still be at arms length because of the lack of fingerprints on the “ntosoɔ” as evidence.

The Europeans among us the Ghanaian folk may want to enquire whether I brought the koose home. For we like to think of them Europeans those whose concerns and attention to such little instances of respecting hygiene are rather different from what the bunch of us perceive as “normal.” I must confess, I’d be a betrayer of a national custom should I deny that I’ve always thrown or rejected such foods handled with bare hands away, for even that koose did end up in my tummy. But what makes us so comfortable with accepting to eat such meals, no matter how they are served us from the roadside?

In a century where diseases like cholera sadly still exists in our part of the world, making hand washing a very important rule of hygiene much like brushing the teeth morning and evening, selling food with bare hands cannot be something to trifle with. But it seems we are quite comfy to accept this, thus many compatriots are served ntosoɔ this way. Some even go out of their way to demand for it, increasing their bowls at the risk of their bowels.

It may look like I am making a vituperative attack on poor ntosoɔ. As if it is to blame for implicating Amina in the first place. And then that I am by this robbing the fine Ghanaian of his proper diet right. Before you say, “to arms”, my dear fellow country men, allow me to say that I am with you in common solidarity. Ntosoɔ cannot be stripped off our identity. It is to us as the Nile is to Egypt. To deny us of it would be as falsely accusing us of a wrong, just sad. It is with this reason that we must insist on its proper handling. We can’t afford to let the blessing be our doom. The seller serving us ntosoɔ with bare hands must sadden us as much as it does when she forgets or refuses to. Otherwise we may be paying more to the doctor than we whined when we bought that food.

But it is not only to ntosoɔ that our attention to better handling be centered on, however, also to the general serving of roadside foods.

So much goes into food preparation that you begin to flinch in imagining what could’ve gone in wrong. We cannot anyway have the blessing of seeing which hands handle the food we buy, how they were handled. For matters such as this we can only hope in the good nature of the seller to respect proper hygiene, the law that allows food vendors to operate under aprroved conditions and then, a walk by faith and not by sight. However, where we become prime witnesses of food mishandling, we would be doing ourselves and others a greater good if we demand and insist on the proper way.


Photo credit: infoboxdaily.com

Kwaku Feni Adow. (C)2015


Election Day!

The atmosphere that Friday morning, of a Junior High School I shall leave unnamed was one of dense nervousness mixed with excitement. Pupils who made it through vetting were to read their manisfestoes, the only enterprise I find as wooing a woman; bold claims to justify just why you should be prefered than others.

The presentations would take turns with questions from the rest of the pupils following. To these kids, both presenters and listeners, it was a very new experience. They had always only watched on TV or seen on election periods how men who rode big cars, with large following come to their town as elsewhere to tell the throng just why they should be voted for. This time they were these “big men” to woo the pupils to their side, except with no cars nor any large following save the occasional whistling and chanting of nicknames by their peers, who by this action couldn’t well prove to be loyal supporters or not. The height of chants of names was almost same for whoever came.

The candidates to begin the presentation were those vying for the post as Compound Prefects. From among them, the electoral lot had fallen on one lad whose face was all of one gripped by anxiety, and whose hands quivered making the sheet he held look to be receiving jolts of electricity. But placing this sheet thankfully on a pulpit provided, this lad began nonetheless and from his manifesto started making the promises. Not for long he made his most prominent promise, which was that he “would buy dustbins for the school.”

These words fell out and met a roar of imperial joyousness shrouding the apparent disbelief. The entire student body reeled and were jubilant, as if in a celebration of a sort. To get dustbins in themselves wasn’t something underserving of the school. But for this pupil to say he’d purchase them himself was quite incredulous.

A question immediately asked by one of them when the chance arrived however seemed to disperse any notion of improbability the jubilation had seemed to suggest. The question simply was, would he (the candidate) use his own money or rather the school’s funds to make the purchase? This receiving another awesome ovation.

It seemed suddenly that there was reason for which doubt was dispensable. As the room grew quieter, the pupils, by their muffled jubilation and expectant countenances looked to have been offered light in the question to know from their would be leader just how he plans to achieve this goal.

Eyes quickly shifted from the enquirer, who himself was the last person any would have thought could ask such a revealing question, and peered at the candidate who stood seemingly confounded.

If only he could kill the skepticism these showed to be so full of. But there he stood. A spider caught in his own web. He pondered or looked to ponder over the question with his eyes rolling and searching about him like the answer lay somewhere nearby. For honesty sake he could neither say he’d buy dustbins with his own money. Nor that he’d use school funds. His confidence, lack of it, made sure the latter was unutterable.

Having observed the whole proceedings with much exhilaration thus far, I did a very unconventional thing. Out of impulse rather than from preconception, I jestingly blurted out a suggestion to the poor lad to “do what politicians do, lie,” quite enthused about how this nature of politics–if it were–was being played out before us by these JHS pupils.

The lad was released and relieved to walk off after manoeuvering around the next two questions which were not as intriguing as the first. Next was his partner in contest. Ever have birds of the same feathers flocked together, just like these two. But more than flocking together they chirped the same song, only louder from the latter.

With an air common to the callous nature of some women politicians, this Margeret Thatcher of a school girl took her turn and promised to make the school as beautiful as Royal Senchi.

Heads rolled once more. Corners of eyes were dabbed. Applause reverbrated.

With the knack for luxury our leaders possess, to only consider that a whole Economic Forum happened at this Royal place is enough to determine how lofty this girl’s promise was.

Albeit, this one didn’t compel an uninvited suggestion from me. Rather it knocked me off into a meditation spree. Gradually forming out from the chaos of excitement, like an apparition of a man to eyes recovering from a daze emerged the thought: politicians cannot help but rely on promises like meat. But one man’s meat is another’s poison.

Had they (the pupils) learned anything? I hope. At least that come the time they would be eligible to vote in national elections, many would come deceiving, convincing and coaxing. And that it would be their responsibility as mine to elect people they can trust to deliver or hold them accountable for their promises.