Retro Ghana Movie Art hits the big time in imagination and reach

I’ve always been amazed/intrigued/amused by the roadside posters in Ghana. These enterprising artists advertise their work with the most kitsch drawings… It’s not uncommon to see a slightly asymmetrical Osama Bin Laden, raising a toast (with a local Star Beer in hand), to George Bush and Kenny Rogers… all portrayed in oil colours on the canvas of a 6 foot plywood board…

I also discovered a few years ago, during my work with artisans in Ghana, that the typical barbershop signs, made by these same artists, had become quite popular in some art circles in the USA and Europe.
I even bought my son one when we redecorated his room, but having grown up in Accra for the majority of his life, he didn’t appreciate the kitsch factor and thought it stupid to pluck a badly drawn painting of three guys with various geometric hair designs up on his wall… so the idea was scrapped… but I digress. These paintings can be found online, selling for between $200-$400 each!!

Today I learned another industry has embraced the art of our beloved Ghanaian roadside painters… the movie industry! Look out Hollywood – here comes vintage Ghanaian movie posters – advertising so much more than the original film intended… The history as explained in my source site:

“In the 1980s “mobile cinema” operators in Ghana traveled from town to town creating temporary cinemas by hooking up a TV and VCR onto a portable generator and playing the films for the public.

Artists were hired to paint large posters of the films for promotion, and were given the artistic freedom to paint the posters as they desired - often adding elements that weren’t in the actual films, or without even having seen the movies. The “mobile cinema” began to decline in the mid-nineties due to greater availability of television and video; as a result the painted film posters were substituted for less interesting/artistic posters produced on photocopied paper.”

On this great art appreciation blog, I found an article that explained the history of the posters, and when I looked further I found many sites that have been selling these unique bits of Ghanaian 80’s popular culture – again, averaging $200 each, despite their raggedy condition.

Here are a couple examples – I also found the ‘real’ movie posters for the films.. quite the artistic license I must say!!!



You gotta love the head in the field eating someone's amputated arm... oh, and the red bugs coming out of the lday's head. I just can't figure out why she's only in a bra?! And the main guy there looks like a bad cross between Beetlejuice and Freddie Kruger! :)



The real poster is just so dull in comparison!



With this one, it appears the artist may have seen the actual poster, but decided to localize it - Bond and his female companion have become browner.. but I can't make out what the huge red fish is for?!! Then there is the issue of tenses - the spy obviously still loves this girl!



I bet Bond never knew he was a black star in rural Ghana!

No way to bridge the digital divide: Internet fraud crippling Ghana

One of the annoyances of living in West Africa is the fact that I can’t use my credit card. Now to be fair, this is mostly a cash economy and I really don’t purchase many things that require a credit card, but if and when I need it, I cannot use it.

Fraud is the single reason that comes in many forms. Fraud is so rampant in this area of the world, that in February this year, it was announced that the majority of U.S. and Canadian retailers had blocked any Internet orders originating from Ghana and Nigeria.

Back in my early days in Ghana, 1997 – 2003, I was a lowly volunteer with no credit card to use. My first experience with fraud was during my parents’ epic journey across the waters, to visit me in my new ‘homeland’. My dad was uneasy about just about everything, and just to exacerbate the problem, he got called to the bar at the hotel – where we were all lounging around the pool (me in heaven at the decadence!) – and on the other end of the phone was Visa International. They explained that his card had been used in a global whirlwind of purchases, ever since he used the card at the hotel and a restaurant two days earlier.

All these years later, in the modern age of online bookings, I’ve had to recently contact my offshore bank and go through the highly laborious process of changing the billing address from Ghana to Canada.

JW and I travel a lot for work and as many holidays as possible, and it has become impossible to book car rentals, hotels or air tickets.

We tried to book online with Emirates and South African Airways in the past month and both times their Ghana website states that due to excess fraud, tickets must be paid for in person within 48 hours of booking online. This totally defeats the purpose of booking online! Gone is the convenience of not having to get through insane midday traffic to make a purchase. The only benefit now is that you can choose your seats in advance…. Whoopee!

Ghana has their own word for this rampant fraud now – rivaling the Nigerian 419 scams – the Ghanaian term is Sakawa.

Cyber cafes in the Nima slum run a booming business… rows and rows of 17 – 25 year olds (mostly guys), lit up behind the monitors, with the intense sounds and smells of the gritty streets outside, drowned out by the dream of getting rich quick.

There are as many types of scams as guys running them. The numbers are mind-boggling. In a continent that represents only 3% of global Internet users, and a country where Internet penetration is at less than 1 million people, Ghana has ranked among the world’s top 10 for Internet fraud.

This month Ghana’s government has announced their plan to “set up an emergency Cyber Crime Response Team, to review existing legislature governing the Information Communication and Technology (ICT) activities and strengthen the country's cyber security.”

I hope that this makes a difference, but if we look to ‘big brother Nigeria’, the chances are slim… There is just too much promise for those with the cleverest new scam. Easy money is too tempting to a population of impoverished kids who long to emulate the bling bling, gangster deifying rap stars of the USA, and there are no tangible repercussions… except for those of us who want to use our credit cards in Ghana – legally! Users beware...

If I Were a Boy... the Caster Semenya Controversy From All Angles

There has been quite a debate raging at my office and in the house, and I’m sure it reflects discussions going on globally this week. It’s about Caster Semenya, the gripping controversy surrounding her 800m gold medal win in Germany, and the subsequent doubts as to her qualification as a ‘true’ female.

It’s actually quite amazing that this story has become such a globally followed issue, but for me, as for many others, it is so interesting because it involves both the human side and the not-so-simple science of sex and gender.

I’m sure there was a day not so long ago when gender was viewed as a cut and dry issue by the majority of us – if a person had the external sexual organs associated with either sex, it was accepted that the person was that gender. Since then science has delved further and discovered a variety of cases where this simple identification is just not as straightforward as we’d thought. There is a very interesting 'Intersex' association in North America that answers many of the questions here.

In terms of sexuality, more and more people are identifying themselves as transgender – and are convinced that they are ‘in the wrong body’. There are a myriad of combinations of sexual orientation, along with gender identifications. One of my favourite stand up comedians, Eddie Izzard, commonly wears traditionally ‘female’ clothing and identifies himself as a ‘male lesbian’ or a ‘straight transvestite’. Are these people right or wrong? Who are we to judge?

But when it comes to the case of Caster Semenya, if we look for a minute beyond the personal side – beyond the fact that the media coverage her case has attracted is no doubt humiliating and demoralizing – there are the complicated yet unavoidable scientific and ethical issues.

There are pictures all over the Internet of Caster now, with everyone trying to scrutinize every aspect of her appearance. The fact is that she has the complete outward appearance of a male.

Her speech and mannerisms confirm that view.

So when then is a girl not a girl? If Caster identifies as a female, who are we say she is not?

If Caster is subjected to all possible tests, there will be one of many possible outcomes; anything from true hermaphroditism (where a person possesses both male and female sexual organs, internally and/or externally, to variations like male pseudohermaphroditism or a type of gonadal dysgenesis. The bottom line is that it goes far beyond a simple physical inspection of someone's 'private parts'!



There have been numerous cases in the western world, where these conditions are diagnosed at birth, are closely monitored through childhood, and the child is gender assigned, based on their tendencies. I believe if Caster Semenya had been born in different circumstances – i.e. not in a rural village with no access to expensive modern medicine, she would have been one of these people.

Accounts of Caster’s life only reinforce this. She is said to have identified always with boys – and competed on par with her male peers in school throughout her childhood. However, due to the fact that she had no visible penis (and this is really the only reason), she was assumed to be a girl.

The biggest question is an ethical, moral and philosophical one. It has been my opinion that if a person is found to have a Y chromosome, to possess more than 3 times the testosterone as the typical female (as in the case of Caster), then they have an unfair biological advantage over other females (in terms of muscle development etc.), and hence it would be unfair to compete against 'entirely female' women, especially at this level.

Another perspective (that of JW) is that if the person has been classified at birth as a female, with no outward evidence that this is not the case, then she should be able to compete regardless. Her biological advantage is something she is lucky to have, in the same way that people with higher IQs have a biological advantage to others when it comes to academics – yet we all compete on the same level, regardless of the advantages of the smarter people.

It is a very intriguing debate!

However, this is not a theoretical issue. There are victims. The very sad side of this story is Caster herself. As far as she is concerned, she is a woman. Despite any questions she or others she knows have had about her appearance, she is simply a tomboy… however, the IAAF has strict guidelines that may just determine that she is not in fact female. This would mean they would have to strip her of her medal. Imagine the devastation! Not to mention that the whole world (including me) is currently debating her gender. It is a controversy that she has found herself trapped in, through no fault of her own.

I believe that the South African ASA could have dealt with the issue discretely in advance, completing the tests before the Berlin race, so as to eliminate all the aftermath, but their conduct has been uneducated, boorish and infantile. They have accused the IAAF and international media of being racist, despite the fact that these tests have been carried out on female athletes globally, regardless of race or origin, for decades. In interviews, Leonard Chuene, President of the ASA repeatedly ignores the complex issues at hand.

In 2006 Santhi Soundarajan from India, was robbed of her silver medal after the same type of controversy about her gender. Raised as a woman, this blow devasted her and soon after she attempted suicide.

Gender may not be as simple and straightforward as we’d once believed, but it remains a delicate and taboo subject, and when questioned, can have devastating effects...

From Mojos to the WWF - a lifetime of suspicion of religion

I’ve always had an incredibly suspicious view of religion. I guess we are all products of our upbringing to an extent, and neither of my parents were religious, despite the fact my father was raised a Catholic. There was no mention of God or church in my house, and it all seemed quite fine…

My first encounter with church was a mixed experience, and it went progressively downhill from there. Somehow at five years old I had been enrolled in Sunday school with a friend. The fun part was the bus that picked us up and dropped us off. We sang silly songs (which I’m sure were geared toward familiarizing us with the Lord’s word, but was utterly lost on me), and best of all they gave us little toffees called Mojos. Looking back it seems like shameless bribery! However, at the time it seemed great. Free candies and songs…

The actual Sunday school was in the back of a church, smelled musty and looked like a dusty store room. We sat on metal fold out chairs and made crafts out of uncooked macaroni, sparkles, Elmer’s glue (always a bit too much was used so that it oozed out from under the macaroni…), and paper plates. I was unconcerned as to the significance of the guy with the beard and the cross. I was always just waiting for the ride home for more Mojos.

I promptly forgot all about it until around the age of twelve one of my friends invited me to church with her family. I asked my mom and her answer seemed strange. “If that’s what you want, by all means go and check it out”, or something along those lines.

I think it was an Anglican church. It was all very stark and somber. Everyone was white and middle class. Everyone dressed up, but not too flashy. Lots of brown and grey suits. Dull floral dresses and sensible shoes… and it was BORING! There were hymns that no one knew the words to, but opened the booklets in the pews and made a half-hearted attempt at mumbling through, along with the priest/pastor. The actual sermon was irrelevant in it’s topic and content. I wondered why anyone would consider the tribulations of people centuries ago, given that the world had changed so much.

It seemed like the longest hour of my life – akin to math class, where I always had to come up with clever ways of keeping myself awake.

I never went back.

When I had a Jamaican boyfriend in my later teens, his sister invited me to her ‘revival’ church. Wow! That was the closest thing to a pop concert that I could imagine a church to be. It was held in a huge hall and 95% of the worshippers were black, despite the fact that it was in downtown Toronto. Everyone was dressed to the nines – big hats, flashy dresses, snake skin patterned suits (it WAS the 80’s…).

There was an air of excitement as everyone made their way in, serenaded by a full gospel choir with a rock band accompaniment. When the preacher took the stage everyone cheered. He was an ex-WWF wrestler, turned born again preacher. This seemed like a major career change until I compared the both - on stage, performing.. I guess it was a good fit. He preached with vigour and might, enthusiasm and omnipotence. It all seemed so happy and lively until he started with the ‘scare tactics’. I was shocked when he brought out the old testament threats of fire and brimstone… I looked around and the people looked entranced, like docile lambs. Why would they believe this stuff? Why would they come every week to be threatened with supernatural horror movie style afterlife nightmare speeches?

And then came the ‘healings’. There is a Steve Martin movie that comes to mind. In the movie he is a ‘preacher’ who does a completely bogus ‘healing roadshow’…

One after another, people went down to the front and fell willingly to the ground when the ex-wrestler’s chubby hand touched their forehead , some in crumpled heaps, some rigid and convulsing like epileptic seizures, many in tears. I was amused but flabbergasted.

There followed obligatory dancing in the aisles and I slowly realised the insistence on everyone getting up and moving was a ploy to get each of us to pass by the collection box. Extortion!!!! And this church service lasted close to 6 hours!!!
I never went back.

In the meantime I had been learning about evolution in biology class – I found it one of the only truly interesting topics. And I couldn’t help but think how drastically these scientific theories contradicted the simple teachings of the bible – with the 7 days God created the earth, and the clay moulding of Adam with Eve as his rib…
It confirmed to me at the time that religion is a tool in society/culture; something that gives simple answers to the questions that in reality none of us can comprehend. The world and it’s creation is beyond any of us, so how preposterous for certain people to claim ‘the knowledge’. How even more preposterous to teach that there are certain rules of conduct that ‘please’ a god…. More mind control….

This was all before I headed to the mind-opening years of University, and my sojourns in Africa where I came to learn so many more things – where I saw the similarities of the Christianity practised by Afro-Canadians and the continent they ultimately came from. Where I learned about traditional religions and colonialism and power struggles and politics and the role of Christianity and Islam... but I’ll blog about them tomorrow.

Thanks Esi - for inspiring my contemplation on the topic today in your great blog post.

Istanbul, not Constantinople

Things I used to associate with the country Turkey:

1. This silly song, that is very catchy by The Four Lads - originally released in 1953, covered by They Might Be Giants in the early nineties...



2. Turkish delight (a disgusting jelly like candy sold in squares, dusted with icing sugar) comes from there.

3. The country's name is synonymous with the festive food (read dead bird) centerpiece at Christmas and Thanksgiving

4. The country's name can be used as an insult, by calling someone 'a turkey' - implying stupidity and simpleness...

5. They made it into the International news for wars, violence and corruption over the years..

That's about it really.

THINGS I NOW KNOW ABOUT TURKEY:

1. Turkey is bordered by 8 countries! Greece, Bulgaria, Georgia, Armenia, Azerbijan, Iran, Iraq, Syria (and even Cyprus if you count that...)




2. It is divided into 81 provinces and is very different geographically and culturally across the provinces

3. Turkish is a completely unique language - unlike Arabic or the European languages

4. Turkey is a Muslim country but in the cities it is rare to see women covered up, and drinking is completely accepted

5. Turkey has amazing tourist areas, and even an area called the Turkish Riviera that is made up of a series of south facing bays, that are tourist magnets every summer - complete with great beaches, restaurants and nightclubs (some of the best in the world - Ibiza has nothing on the southern Turkey nightclubs!)



6. Istanbul was the capital city of the Roman, Latin and Ottoman Empires

7. St. Nicolas (later known as Santa Claus) was born in Patara, Turkey

8. Istanbul is the only city in the world built on two continents!

9. Abraham (of biblical fame), Aesop and Homer were all from Turkey

10. 70% of the world's hazelnuts come from Turkey

11. It is illegal in Turkey to make fun of Turkishness (can you imagine?)

12. Mustafa Kamal Ataturk, who founded the Republic of Turkey in 1923 is the country's hero, and his image is displayed EVERYWHERE - homes, boardwalks, businesses, bars - everywhere.

13. Turks have a long standing rivalry with the Greeks

14. The island of Rhodes in Greece is closer to Turkey than to the Greek mainland

15. Parts of Turkey are absolutely beautiful - mountainous, warm, lakes, lagoons, beaches, and numerous famous ruins dot the countryside.

Last but not least - I recommend a visit by all!

Olu Deniz - a little piece of paradise

Excuse my silence, but places like this inspire awe, and silence. And for the past three weeks, these are the types of scenes that I've awoken to - in Dubai, around the south of Turkey and on Rhodes Island, Greece.

And now I'm back in Ghana - back to reality. Reviews from the holiday to follow - but for now - soak this in!

Accra, Ghana - Local talent creates decadent dreams in sand

Another amazing thing seen on the streets, or rather in this case, the beach of Accra - sand sculpture at La Pleasure Beach, Labadi, Accra

Photo courtesy Ann Botchway (facebook)

Obamarama - the mania is over but the message persists.

With Obama’s visit come and gone – been there, bought the t-shirt (two actually) – Accra has returned to normal.

Definitely the Obama family had a profound effect on the country. Firstly, the cities of Accra and Cape Coast were literally brought to a halt on Saturday, and the circling helicopters made us feel their presence.

Apart from that, there was a buzz in the air, and all radio and TV stations were focused on the historic visit, following Obama on his few planned and strictly controlled visits. The streets were lined with supporters - with flags, scarves, t-shirts...

Everyone wanted some little part of Obama – of the fame, the hope, the power that has now come to signify his name. This was a visit that topped any of the other foriegn dignitaries or prior American presidents. Ghana and Africa felt a deeper sense of connection, they claimed to welcome Obama HOME. There was a wild pride in the air...

But Obama did more than shake hands and smile and feed the politicians of Ghana and Africa what they wanted to hear. He was firm in his speeches, asking the African leadership to take responsibility for the future of Africa. He focused on the US supporting Africa’s independent development and made some giant steps away from the typical western leader’s promise of never-ending aid. At his farewell address at the airport he pointed out the Peace Corps volunteers and asked that if these youngsters had come so far to work in the communities, there was no reason that the youth in Ghana and in Africa could not do the same. And he was right.

In a way, I believe that only Obama could have gotten this message across without any repercussions of being labelled racist. After all, he is considered ‘one of us’ among Africans.

This is a point that has annoyed me during the presidential campaign last year and the ramp up to his recent visit.

How is it that a man who had an absentee father (who happened to hail from Kenya), but was raised completely by his white mother and grandparents and Indonesian step-father, far from Africa, can be called an African man?



Surely we cannot forget the woman that raised him single-handedly, with the support of her own family, while his father lived out his life continents away with other wives, other children. Where is the acknowledgement for those that played the key role in his biological and cultural upbringing, when Africans proudly exclaim Obama’s blackness and African heritage?

It all seems a bit hypocritical, if not deceptive.To put it in perspective for Ghanaians - it would be like Scottish people taking credit for the accomplishments of J.J. Rawlings. It would be like other Europeans welcoming Jerry 'home' back in his heyday, for being the first 'European' leader in Africa. But we all know that despite Jerry having a Scottish father, he is culturally a Ghanaian and there is not much of a connection between him and Scotland. This is because his father did not play much of a role in his life, and he was raised in Africa as an African. The same is true in reverse for Obama...

I agree that Barack Obama has the X Factor, that he is extremely intelligent and an excellent motivational speaker. He is one of the only politicians that I honestly believe has positive motives for genuine change.

Whether Africa or Africans or black America can take the credit for a man with his history and upbringing is quite another story altogether.

I think it’s fair that we ALL take pride in such a leader, globally, and stop harping on a simple biological fact that did not entirely shape Obama’s character.

He is a global citizen, an American, and a figure for positive change. He is not technically a BLACK man nor culturally an African – and it doesn’t matter in the least!

Obama's Ghana - ghost streets and a palpable police presence...

The pre-Obama frenzy is in full swing in Accra. But instead of the excitement felt by the rest of the world, locally we are reeling at the extreme measures being taken by the Obama-planning-and-security-committees, that will render the city of Accra and Cape Coast completely at a standstill for most of Friday and Saturday.

As we walked down to our local luncheon spot in Airport residential area today, the skies above us were alive with the drone of military helicopters – circling, circling.

Rumours are growing and spreading and mutating about where Obama will stay, what time he will arrive, what time he will leave and everything in between. It is generally agreed now that all roads around the airport will be closed from 7pm Friday evening until most likely Saturday night or Sunday morning. All office buildings in the area will be completely evacuated and even the regularly scheduled commercial flights will be cancelled or rescheduled. The airport is to be emptied completely from 7pm Friday night. This is serious!

The latest I’ve heard is that the Holiday Inn will be evacuated, including staff, and completely sterilised by American security personnel. This gives me the impression that Obama and his family will sleep there.

The roads will also be closed – but no one knows which ones, from what time etc. So we’re guaranteed to have mass chaos... I also just read that Ghana has vowed to dedicate 10,000 police officers to the Obama visit – both in Accra and Cape Coast. I find this amazing, if not completely impossible – given that the entire Ghana police force is less than double this number. Imagine the logistics in a feat like that?!
It all makes the mind boggle, that the 24 hour visit of one man and his massive entourage, could cause the complete immobilization of a city!

The usual last minute city clean-up is also underway – the teams in overalls can be seen, weathering the seasonal rain, white wash painting all the curbs on the roads the Obama delegation will drive down, as well as American and Ghanaian flags posted at regular intervals along the main boulevards. This is standard practice whenever a foreign dignitary visits. But this time it is on a much higher scale. There is a drive by authorities, who are not afraid to use physical force, to remove all of the hawkers and beggars that line the streets of Accra daily.

Today’s Graphic newspaper, dedicated to Obama’s visit, describes the clean-up: “The recent exercise to clear the central business district and other parts of Accra of street hawkers and traders gives a vivid posture of official intolerance to general indiscipline before and during the visit of Mr. Obama”.

I read with interest and melancholy, a letter to Obama, posted online, with such care and detail - by an average Ghanaian, who, like others, has so many high hopes from Obama's visit. She mentions how many thousands of poor rural Ghanaians will be making the long journey to the capital with the remote hopes of 'catching a glimpse' of the President. But this is post 911, and this is OBAMA. What chance will the average Ghanaian have to get within 10 city blocks of the world's most highly protected and revered man?

Well we hope that the visit goes well – Obama’s speech (to be delivered to a select, private, invited audience), will no doubt be inspiring – they always are! – and no doubt the international media who follow him here will be abuzz with feedback. There are numerous online forums set up for live discussions during his visit... and at the end of the day, when he goes, Ghana will definitely be on the world map. But by Sunday the roads will open and the average Ghanaian will emerge (now allowed back on their streets), jumping puddles on their way to church - and apart from their new commemorative t-shirts, life in Accra will be back to normal.

Barack like a Cadillac: Ghana Hiplife Collaboration celebrates the coming of Obama

You have to hand it to Ghanaians for enthusiasm. They have put together a music video showcasing about 10 of Ghana's well known pop/hip-life artists - all in honour of the Obama visit.

Alot of the song is in Twi, but I've captured some of the english verses here:

ASEM:
"Ever since I set eyes on you Barack
I felt good like I bought a new Cadillac.
I talk about you to my Granny, I have pictures of you and your Granny.
And I heard that you won a Grammy.
When I get mine it will make us family!"

ECHO:
"Is the first time in Africa
To see a hero in America.
Is like seeing a Godfathah
Welcome home Obama.

You you you you
Fathah of the Nation
And we are proud to have you here
Obama Obama Obama
Welcome to Ghana..."

Ghana to Welcome Obama 'Home?'

‘Friends For Obama Ghana - Welcome Home!’ Are the words that adorn hundreds of strategically placed posters around the Accra city sprawl.

Welcome Home? I know we are all getting excited for the imminent visit of the most famous American president (of all time?!) – certainly during my lifetime. But these posters are a testament to the completely unrealistic expectations that the world, and especially Africa has placed on this man. An American man with partial Kenyan heritage. How can he solve the problems of the world? Africa will not be his number one priority – how could it be? Obama is the American President - and no matter how much enthusiasm we generate in Ghana, he will never be a Ghanaian and this will never be his home!

We cannot be so naive as to believe Obama is visiting Ghana simply to reaffirm his African heritage, to acknowledge his roots – if this was the case he would be visiting Kenya!

Everything is political – especially for politicians! Ghana recently announced the discovery of oil. Within two years we have become visible on the American radar, to the extent that we will have seen the visit of two presidents! Coincidence? I am no conspiracy theorist, but hey...

There is also the less known issue of America’s determination to establish a military base in the region. Ghana seems the most stable, the most inviting environment. Again, no coincidence.

So as the world has been following Obama’s recent travels, the streets of Accra have been showing signs of the growing excitement around his visit – which still remains shrouded in mystery.

Which hotel will he stay in? When will he arrive? Will the streets be blocked? How tight will the security be?

As life has gone on seemingly as normal around here the last month, there have been numerous security exercises carried out quietly under our noses. Obama’s team has sent over 100 security personnel in advance, to take care of every little detail in preparation.

When Bush visited last year, his entourage took over the two largest 4 star hotels in the city/country. I know this because our company had a prebooked conference of 80 people that was unceremoniously bumped, without warning or compensation.

The visit of an American president is a big deal – especially in a developing country like Ghana where there are only a few hotels that could cater for the entourage, and there are basic things to ensure, like running water and continous electricity supply!

But Obama’s visit is even bigger. He is the world’s hero, the ‘blue-eyed boy’, to coin an ironic phrase... Obama chose Ghana and has angered Nigerians and Kenyans alike. The Internet abounds with theories on why he has forsaken the others. Ghanaians are full of the pride they do so well.

Obama fever is here! There is Obama wax print cloth being printed with fury – in time for the people to sew commemorative outfits in his honour. I have to get my hands on some of that – even if just for the kitsch value. Banners with Obama and Prez. Mills huge beaming faces line the streets. There is a palpable excitement in town.



I had the privilege of a VIP ticket to this year’s Ghana Fashion Weekend on Saturday at the Conference Centre in Accra (quite impressive!), and as I sat in the front row, I was not surprised to see the Obama themed collection of t-shirts by Jojo Costello, strutting down the catwalk, pinned tightly around the young female bodies. One of the t-shirts stated “My President is Black”. Obviously this did not in fact refer to President Mills of Ghana, who actually IS black. But Barack Obama, who is not Ghana’s president, and is not technically black.

At the finale of the show, the organiser, Mr. Ibrahim Sima of Exopa Model Agency, wore a shirt that read, “YES WE CAN, AND WE HAVE!” It was a great Obama-positive message – though I am confused as to exactly what Ghana has to do with the achievements of Obama in far away America. But we were of course all caught up in the enthusiasm, and when he made the statement aloud, the room was electrified with the energy of the cheers of the crowd.

Obama is coming! And to the people of Ghana, despite the reality, he is coming home!

Incredulous! Joe Jackson uses Michael's death to promote a record label

I am not one to start blogging about celebrity news, and EVERYONE is blogging about Michael Jackson this week, which is precisely why I wasn’t going to... But I just caught sight of the press release on Sky News, held by the controversial, activist yet self serving Reverend Sharpton, and who else but Joe Jackson, Michael’s ‘father’ and it drove me to this post...

We’ve all heard about the tragic abuse that exemplified Michael’s upbringing – he described it himself in the 2003 documentary Living With Michael Jackson. Michael described the beatings and resulting fear he had of his father. He explained that his father refused to let his children call him Daddy, and banned playing. The boys were whipped for missing a step when practising for shows. It wasn’t much of a childhood. When he reached puberty and suffered from acute acne, his father was the first one to criticize. He teased Michael viciously about his wide nose and his developing appearance to the point where Jackson was traumatized for life. (It puts the whole skin and plastic surgery obsession into perspective!).



A less well known documentary called Louis, Martin and Michael, written and produced by the witty British pseudo-journalist Louis Theroux, (who had lost out to Martin Bashir for the 2003 interviews), eventually got the opportunity to interview Joe Jackson. It was almost amusing then. Joe behaved like a second rate mafia boss. Louis was introduced to Joe through a shady cab driver cum magician (who called himself 'Magestik'), who was a ‘close friend’. Joe agreed to an interview late at night in a Vegas hotel room, only if the price was right. They eventually agreed on $5,000, but neither Joe nor his ‘friend’ were happy about the figure for the extortion, so they only granted an hour long interview.

Guess what happened in that interview? Joe Jackson used the opportunity to plug some new acts he was planning to sign to his new record label. He paraded these groups through the hotel room and made them perform. When they were finished, the interview was finished. He did meet Louis again another night for 15 minutes in a hotel room at 2am.

When Louis tells him Michael had been so scared of him as a child he'd regurgitated at the site of him, Joe replies, "He regurgitates all the way to the bank". Nice...

Well tonight took the cake. Michael is dead. After an amazing career and a highly troubled adulthood. A press conference was scheduled, purportedly to discuss the upcoming funeral plans. Joe Jackson came out of their Hollywood home, flanked by the coiffed Sharpton and a yes-man, dressed like ‘Pimp my Dad’ had gotten hold of him just before the appearance, complete with black fedora tipped forward, mirror glasses and some ‘big ass’ chains. This is a man supposedly in mourning, holding a press conference to discuss plans for his uber-famous son’s funeral. And what came out of his mouth? A shameless, pathetic plug for his new record label. Of course he introduced his mafia-esque sidekick as well – his partner in the new label – nothing at all to do with Michael. Joe smiled, laughed, slurred his words. Sometimes his answers to the press's questions were incoherent, at best they were plain ignorant. It was a disaster, a shamble, the most distasteful media stunt I’ve seen.

All of this confirms my speculation that Joe Jackson was the single most influential force in Michael Jackson’s spiralling psychological problems, and complete breakdown as an adult. The only other factor with as much devastating repercussions was the extreme fame. But fame is not by it’s nature, an evil force. Joe Jackson on the other hand, has proven himself an insecure, self centered, brutish, callous coward with only malevolent intentions – having exploited his children as pawns in his pathetic grasps at fame. Luckily his lack of talent or charm ensured that the children achieved the fame, and left him behind. Today, he is a washed up sorry old fool whose transparent lack of concern for his child, exposed him in front of millions.

Poor Michael. With a foundation like that – there was no hope of a well-rounded life. And then there is the case of Michael’s children! I don't even know where to begin with that one...

The Obruni Scooter Girl

The first time G (the Ghanaian ex), walked through our rickety compound house door with the red and white little mini-scooter I was at once excited and terrified.

At the time, being a struggling volunteer, my main source of transport in Ghana had been by tro tro. The world of tro tros is one only understood through experience. They wait in their lorry parks in a chaotic form of organization, each with their final destination , and wait to fill up before moving. This can be anywhere from minutes to hours. In 34 degree Celsius heat, as the rows get jammed fuller and fuller with all sorts of travelers and their wares, children, livestock… Needless to say, I was ecstatic to be presented with an independent form of transportation that would eliminate all the waiting and the cramped conditions, but it would mean taking on the roads of Accra directly, on the tiniest form of motorized transportation known to humankind.

The little scooter immediately became one of the family, and despite the fact that we already had five people with numerous additional compound children at any given time living in a 10 x 10ft room, the scooter slept inside with us. It fit right between the TV and the coffee table, and on the hot nights, we all lay in various configurations around it's little tires, on our straw floor mats.

At first G was the brave driver and all of us took turns on the back, feeling the exhilarating whizz of the air as the compound and the gawking, shuffling excited children were left behind in the swirling dust. It was fun! The first time we headed out into the main roads was another level of terrifying. We negotiated potholes that were bigger than the scooter, then there were goats and kids, that represented unpredictable moving targets on the sides of the roads where we carved our little path. We splashed through puddles of unidentified opaque liquids, and made it back home safely to the cheers of our little audience.

Then they all pressured me to take a spin alone. In all honesty, driving one of those things is beyond easy, and immediately I was hooked.

It wasn’t surprising then that a few years later I met many people from Tamale to new foreigners, who said I was ‘known’ as the Obruni scooter girl. That was after I had graduated to the larger, upscale model. My blue Suzuki with a custom made black ‘boot/trunk’ welded on the back. To think that I had become the thing of myths - a mysterious pale face woman, a strange foreigner, whizzing through the streets of Accra, my hair flowing in the wind...as deified as the one obruni girl who acted a few episodes of the Sunday musical drama on GTV (she had been a Peace Corps volunteer who had learned to speak Twi fluently)... but I digress.

It didn’t surprise me either though, that despite my limited notoriety on the scooter, it never became an expat trend, in fact in the 12 years I’ve lived in Ghana, I’ve never seen another white girl driving a scooter. In recent years I’ve seen two African women (who I doubt were Ghanaian, since driving scooters in Ghana is not regarded highly, but is quite common in all the surrounding Francophone countries). There are also the mad Ghanaian and Lebanese motorcyclists who use the Tema motorway to pull wheelies on their mammoth beast, with the front tire high in the air. These are of course men –as the motorcycle seems to be an ego extension, exhibiting macho prowess – the louder the better.

For me, the scooter represented ultimate freedom and adventure – it took me to so many places I never would have known or ventured. It was a catalyst to me breaking through my own fears, cultural and gender barriers, and it was always a topic of great interest to Ghanaians and foreigners alike.

I’m sure most thought I was nuts, and indeed I may have been, but I’ll never regret it.



I even took my boys on the scooter, two at a time once we had the bigger one – and this has provided countless stories that we remember with sheepish grins. It was careless, it was dangerous, it was improper – I’m sure had I done this in Canada I’d have been arrested for child neglect or abuse or some variation. But we loved it and I will forever cherish our little adventures on the scooter – just the three of us. I remember one day when I had Q on the front and we were singing at the top of our lungs, cruising down the Ring Road, en route to visit a friend, each of us with our helmets on (I think his was actually a bicycle helmet), and boom! Out of the blue were dive bombed by a bird that had just fallen from the sky. It ricocheted off my son’s helmet and into mine and bounced off, leaving us stunned and bewildered and then consumed with laughter. The things that happened on that scooter!

Even when I was unceremoniously mugged by some thugs in a passing car, the scooter cracking in two and ending up in a gutter with my passenger (a visiting Canadian friend) and I ending up scraping along the gravel….I did not give up the scooter.

When I was faced head on one day in an incredible split second game of chicken with a crazed tro tro driver, I had to succumb, jump off and watch as my scooter hit it’s side and slide off, engine running, into the roadside sellers, while I dropped and rolled off to safety in the other direction.

I still wasn’t deterred.

There came a time though when the scooter was just abandoned. In fact, it had been sent to our trusty mechanic and we just never went to pick it up. It represented the end of an era – there was a break up of the family, of the frivolousness we had all shared, and with it went our beloved scooter.

I just found these photos and had to share the days of old - from the Obruni scooter girl.

A day in the life ... married into a Ga compound in Accra

I haven't always been an expat princess, living in a big airconditioned house with swimming pool and servants. I knew a very different Ghana once. I came to Ghana as a volunteer and I got married here. And I moved into the family compound. For 5 years. Below an excerpt from the old life:

I’ve been up all night. There’s a power outage that’s persisted since the evening before, when the hum of music, laughter and buzz of the naked lightbulbs everywhere were simultaneously silenced, our busy little world falling into darkness. And heat. “Ohhhhhh!” the unanimous disappointed shout comes up from the neighborhood like so many fans at a football match. “Light off, oh!” Candles and paraffin lamps take over and the night takes on a hush. Bedtime comes early.

3am I’m woken from a broken and sweaty slumber, my light cotton nightgown plastered to me – a nocturnal street preacher has chosen our street to tout his doomsday warnings. In Twi. At the top of his voice. At 3am… Am I the only one who finds this an absolute outrage?! I lie silently, noticing the peaceful breathing of my little boys, and Abina our ‘housegirl’, the three of them oblivious to the shouts and to my frustration. The only other beings awake are the eternally confused crowing cocks. They add their annoying squawks to the night preacher’s noise. I suppress the urge to run out there and demand quiet as a personal right. Am I the only one who finds this untolerable!? The answer is yes.



I live in a Ghanaian compound in Osu, the centre of Accra. 56 of us live in the compound. I am the only one who is not Ghanaian. I’ve come with my personal baggage. Apparently I am the only one who hasn’t trained my brain to sleep peacefully through the sounds of the night.

It’s 6am and around me the compound has slowly come to life. The first sounds are the incessant scraping of the brooms. All the girls are given the daily chore of waking before dawn and sweeping the entire compound with hand made reed brooms. This instills discipline and an appreciation for cleanliness I’m told. By now Aunty Josephine is awake as well, singing her church hymms in an unashamedly off key pitch as she starts preparing for a day of selling minerals on the roadside. The sound is strangely comforting. She’ll soon be joined by Aunty Akwele, Sister (‘Sta) Narde and Kofi Mommy. In Ghana all women are given the title of either Aunty or Sister depending on their age or status. When a woman gives birth to her first boy, she is henceforth given the title of ‘his mother’. In the compound I will forever be Kobina Mommy.

By 7am the entire compound is busy like a hive. I lie on my straw mat, grateful for the coolness of the concrete floor underneath, and soak up the pulse of life around me. The children have gathered in the corridor just outside my window, queuing to shower in small groups, each with his or her small bucket of soap, toothbrush, paste and a ‘sponge’ made of brightly coloured plastic mesh. The first time I went to the communal shower without the obligatory sponge, the children found it so funny they laughed at me until some of them fell to the ground in an exhausted little pile of brown bony limbs. I stood mortified and clueless. This has characterized many of my experiences in the compound. There are rules of conduct that one must know, by instinct. Obrunis like me – we just don’t get it.

The children are the best teachers. And at once the most brutal. I love them for this. They taught me on that fateful day that the only way to get clean is to scrub with a sponge. Now I know.



This morning they are debating whether Ronaldo or Ronaldinho is the better football player. It is quite a heated debate and everyone has something to say. Even the littlest ones pipe in, just managing to say the names of the players aloud. My boys are out there in the queue, waiting for the morning shower, under the early morning sun.

I’m up and fumbling around to make a coffee in our kitchen which is essentially a 2 x 2 ft corner of our sitting room, or ‘hall’ as it’s called in Ghana. Through the curtain is the ‘chamber’ where the five of us sleep in various configurations nightly. In all the rooms around me there are families of four to eight in similar or smaller rooms, managing to live out the domestic reality of compound life.
Through the window I peer at the courtyard where all converge. It’s Saturday and all the women are washing. Sitting on low stools they bend forward, hands immersed deep in soapy suds in huge basins. Beside each a mountain of the week’s dirty clothes. The chocolate brown and manila government issue school uniforms prominent in each pile.

Aunty Maude has set her two girls the task of washing today, as she prepares for baking. Aunty Maude is a nurse at the government hospital, but supplements her income by baking bread and pies. She sells these to others in the compound and neighborhood at large throughout the day, as we all smell the warmth of yeast and sugar in the ovens and are loured in… she also provides cakes for weddings, funerals, birthdays and any other occasion. Aunty Maude also makes the best banku and fish in Ghana. She knows I like it and makes it for me as a treat often. Aunty Maude has been has been my mentor, my guide, my sister, my friend and my mother figure in the complex world of adjusting to compound life. She is a testament to human kindness and selflessness. When I gave birth to my son in the nearby hospital, she sensed by nervousness and stood by me through everything. She helped me bathe my little boy and sat awake many nights with me when he was ill. She has a knack of taking control of situations with a sense of calm akin to Zen.

I will forever admire her. Once when I had severe malaria, I told Aunty Maude in a hallucinatory haze that I would surely die. I’d never felt as sick in my life. She just changed my sheets, gave me my medicine and smiled that peaceful grin. I knew then I’d make it.

Some Saturdays after pay day Aunty Maude goes to the market and comes back with a feast of ingredients. Then she sets up in the open pit kitchen on her small stool and sets to work cooking soup in a massive cauldron for everyone. The children scramble to help her with her bags when she arrives back from market. They are as excited as western children on Christmas morning, their eyes aglow. They push and shove and manage to get the bags to the kitchen. They help unpack, and at once find what they’ve been looking for. The game today will be snail races. The large slimy snails are set out on a chalk drawn line on the concrete floor. The children then cheer on their snail toward the finish line. Most snails do not even head in the right direction, but that’s hardly the point. They laugh and joke and poke fun – they even name the creatures. However Ghanaian children do not have frivolous sentiment for the animals they play with. When tonight’s soup is ready, they are fully aware that their snail did not escape the pot. It is the same for the rabbits and the goats that come home over Christmas.

At 9am I emerge for the day. The children are dressed and fed and are engrossed in a game of oware or ampe or football, each sucking a small mango.
ob
When I walk out the compound gates and hit the streets I am an obruni. A visitor. I may head to the craft market or go to a coffee shop with friends, but by evening I will be back here, in the compound that has absorbed me into it’s fold. That has so many stories to tell and so many lessons to teach me. I’ll be home. In my Ghana.

This article was published in "Obruni Where Are You Going?" a Mirror Productions publication, by Light For Children Ghana

As seen on the streets of Ghana today

I couldn't have made it up! Ghana-o... now I've seen everything.

It's a long road to Takoradi...

We had to drive down Ghana’s coast to Takoradi this week for an Oil & Gas trade Show. The highway has finally been repaved and fixed all the way past Takoradi (all hail the Japanese for their donations and subsequent contract win – oh and the Japanese construction overseers on the ground!).

So – you’d think the 200km drive would be reduced from the 5 hour journey it used to be (during the good old pothole days…)



BUT NO! Alas, this is Ghana and nothing can be straightforward. Now since the road was smooth and clear, the trotro drivers decided to take it a step too far and drive like ABSOLUTE lunatics, and consequently there have been something like 60 massive fatal accidents on that road since mid last year. All along the way you are reminded by Toyota sponsored bright red signposts that warn, “Overspeeding kills!” and then list the number of people who died at that particular spot in a tragic accident. One of the signs listed 70 people! Others were 12, 5, 32... and there were many! And you just know that didn’t include the numerous others who were carried away (in taxis) and died at hospitals later due to neglect, inability to pay etc.etc…

So now, as a reaction to this carnage, they have put up 50km limits on half of the highway, and numerous speed traps to ensure you don’t go a kilometer over 50… but mostly the speed traps ensure a steady income for those lucky officers… not to mention the fact that the ‘highway’ was rebuilt right in the same place, running directly through every village along the way, with random goats and unaccompanied three year old kids wandering across….

Also, since the new government has taken hold, the police are hungry and hence there are about 20 police roadblocks between Accra and Takoradi… which are annoying and depending on how hungry the guys are, can be quite expensive too!

Then there are the infamous rumble strips… everywhere along the road you are subjected to butt jiggling, kidney shuffling road bumps – put in to replace the potholes I presume…. All with an aim of slowing everyone down.

The brave start overtaking at every corner keeping me with white knuckles in the passenger seat and gasps aplenty... it seems some people just cannot judge distance or danger! All the while, the road provides enough emissions to choke a nation... cars here pass roadworthy through a cheap 'dash' (read bribe)....

So coughing and cringing and stopping and whinging... it eventually took us 4.5 hours both ways…

Overall the journey is a ridiculous experience of Ghana at it’s worst.

Stressed out on life!

I promise - this is the last cartoon I post for a while - serious posts to follow. I just thought this was my perfect super hero... I can relate!!!

Do you ever call someone and then wish you hadn't?

Thanks to Natalie Dee for the cute comic.

A Day in the Life... puberty initiation ceremonies, power outages, electrical fires and garden showers...

Having just returned from a well appreciated mini-holiday in Germany with a one day Dubai shopping stopover, I returned back ‘home’ to Ghana over the weekend. Back to the ‘expat life’.

Sunday morning we headed off to Somanya, a village about 90km out of Accra that holds a series of annual female puberty initiation rites ceremonies – called Dipo. (A more culturally sensitive and detailed post with photos to follow). My good friend had gotten us an official ‘obruni’ invitation to come and observe.

So the day started in true Ghanaian style, dodging church traffic and hawkers, through a maze of roads, avoiding road construction and trotro drop offs – and this was a Sunday!

Armed with full bottles of Voltic water, we were all set and arrived in the village just in time to realise we all needed to pee. Uh oh. This is not a desired state to be in, arriving as an obruni in a village in Ghana. You can’t just straddle the gutter unnoticed as others can... and the chances of finding an actual flushing toilet with – gasp – toilet paper - were slim. Luckily one of us had been here before and knew a trustworthy ‘spot’ (Ghanaian roadside restaurant). This one was indoors, WITH a toilet AND toilet paper. No flowing water though, but two outta three ain’t bad. We ‘dashed’ the waitress a tip for saving our butts literally, and headed to the ceremony.

It was about a million degrees in a tight little dilapitated compound, writhing with about 20 times the bodies safe for such a space, and we pushed our way in.
We emerged three hours later, after having offended half the village TWICE through some daft and semi-serious cultural faux pas, having nearly passed out from heat and over-crowding, and having witnessed quite a spectacle – shot gun salutes and all!
And with that we headed back to Accra, conscious not to be caught on the roads after dark...

As we came into the city we realised the entire spanse of Accra was bathed in darkness. ‘Light off’ is the affectionate term... A few spots of light here and there, accompanied by the deafening din of diesel generators led our way.

At home we followed the usual procedure, flashlights in hand, switching over to the generator. Only this time the lights danced and whirred and flashed and the
generator answered with a few gasps and sighs. And then in a millisecond the flames had lashed out and jumped fast – one of our trusted voltage regulators in the socket had turned into a hot orange melting fire block. JW calmly shouted orders, “Bring me a wet cloth, quick!”, and “Bring me a broom! Quick!”. And Q and I did as we were told. And within a minute the fire was out. The computer room had been reduced to a smoky, stinking grey cell, with a blanket of black ashes everywhere. The white wall, now mostly black, branching out in a fan pattern from above the socket.

We spent the next hour testing what had caused the generator to ‘misbehave’, and then started cleaning away the evidence of the fire. With all the windows and doors open, the smoke had cleared and everything was now in order, apart from the bloodthirsty swarm of mosquitos that had come in, taking advantage of our vulnerable position...

Then Q wanted his hair done – this involves a straightening chemical treatment from a box that I smear on his head every couple months, in the name of his vanity...this treatment tames his wild locks, and we’ve got it down to a science, but as the chemicals involved are actually quite serious, it must be rinsed out at just the right time or... or I just wouldn’t want to know. Visions of hair clumps and singed scalp come to mind.

So as Q headed up the stairs to get the gunk out, the generator started playing it’s tricks again and after a few coughs and spurts it died. And there was Q – up in the shower, in the dark, water having stopped (being powered through a pump it’s dependant on the electricity). Panic. Plan B was put into motion immediately. I instructed him to squeeze his eyes shut and get a towel. Marched him down the stairs, through the darkness and out the front door. We have a water tap that runs out in the garden, under the mango tree and mess of bouganvillia that is not dependant on the power from the house. He crawled under the trees, turned the tap on full blast and proceeded to rinse and rinse, down on all fours, knees in the dirt, the white chemical mixing with the mud, making a greyish sludge out of the garden. With the moonlight as our guide, I passed the special shampoo and conditioner down, one by one, until the job was done. Emergency averted.



Just then the power came back and the neighborhood came to light and to life. Great.
Exhausted I headed up to bed, stopping for a well needed shower. But on entering the bathroom, four – yes four – giant cockroaches decided to peek out from under the dark dank hole they occupy under the tub. Instead of my usual scream and evacuation, I decided they needed to simply be dealt with. It was that kind of day. I calmly got my weapon – RAID (Fast Acting) and let them have it. Half a can of it. I left the room feeling quite satisfied with myself and came back soon after to find them writhing uselessly on their greasy brown backs, limbs jerking wildly from the nerve toxins I’d subjected them to.

Another day in the life was over. The next day, Monday – back to work. With the memories of the crisp cool air, German perfectionism and view of the Alps in the distance fading faster than my cockroaches would succumb to their punishment...

Questional.com - Where were these guys when I was 16??!!!

The Internet continues to amaze me and yet at the same time, it keeps evolving in ways that address our perceived needs.

I remember vividly my teenage years, wanting to know so many things, and being so frustrated by the lack of a resource. From simple debates with friends and family as to whether the actor in the movie we’d just watched was the same actor we’d known from a TV show years earlier. There was just no way to solve the debates. No library resource could help. I was perceiving the NEED even then.

But I was no computer boffin – I couldn’t even figure out the Commodore 64 game my Dad has just bought, and the computer class that had just been introduced alongside typing was my most dreaded course. The flashing square on the black screen, with the robotic font and all that basic programming language was the farthest thing from a usable tool. I would never in my wildest dreams have imagined what the Internet would become. I realize these comments risk me dating myself horribly...

Today I look to the Internet for almost everything! I pull out my iphone around the table at a restaurant with friends and log in to the Web to answer the question everyone is hotly debating. It is so gratifying! This is what I wanted at 16!
(This statement is REALLY going to date me>>> The kids today are amazing. Their imaginations are in tune with what the Internet has become and what it can become.

They have been creating it, masters of it’s evolution… and some of them have become millionaires for their vision and their dedication to making those changes. Look at the history of Google, or Skype or even Napster. All of them have one thing in common – kids with a vision and the guts to introduce it to the world, with the result of changing our lives through the Internet.

My son has always been a dreamer, a creative soul. He is also an Internet baby. He can talk your ear off about Web 2.0 (those of you ‘aged’ like me may not know that Web 2.0 is the next phase of the evolution of the Internet). It is what is happening now. Web communities are developing and providing forums for people on every subject, every interest you could imagine, and many you couldn’t.

If you ask him about his friends, he might give you a list of people from around the globe, most of whom he’s never physically met. They are people he’s ‘met’ on the Internet. Yes all the parental red flags go off as we’ve all been brain-washed into believing the Internet is full of pedophiles posing as nice kids… but he’s proven me wrong.

In fact, he has teamed up with some of the kids that are making the changes to the Internet that make the news and enhance our lives in the end. These guys have worked day and night for over 6months on a new website that is a new concept for the Web 2.0 generation. He’s now involved with them on the design of the site and he’s having Skype meetings weekly. My son, ‘working’ at 16!

Questional.com is the site and it’s the brainchild of Robert Newcomb aka ‘Bobbo’, a 21 year old from Philadelphia who has been doing web design since early 2003. He realized that there was something missing in the traditional search engines, in that they are simply designed in an ‘ask a question, get an answer’ format. He decided he wanted to build the frontier website about questions and answers. He created a clean layout (only showing you things you need), easy to use by anyone with an Internet connection, and ensured there was zero spam. He approached his friends with the idea in October 2008. They are now a team of five.

After working 14-hour days, he released the site in February this year to a tremendous reception. The site is called Questional.com. Questional.com has the strength, motive, and the dedication behind it to produce something that will, in time, become the leading source for answers on the web. Despite the site still being early in its expansion, I can see the potential it has.

Questional.com is not a search engine, but provides a community, giving you real contact with real people who are willing to answer your questions and give their views. The Googles of the world can look through something that's already been written, but an entire community, devoted to organizing their thoughts one subject at a time, is truly amazing.

Instead of searching all over the web for your information, you can directly ask your questions on the site and get direct answers by other members. When you’re not asking questions, you can then browse around and answer questions that you have certain expertise in. With enough growth, you have a powerful machine at your disposal. Where were these guys when I was 16?!!!!

The site has a true sense of community, and quite a number of regulars.

The team is working round the clock with new upgrades and they are coming out with a tagging system to increase the organization of the questions, and to allow members to be fully enveloped in subject matters that interest them.

To go the way of Google and the others that mushroomed to success, they need some financial backing and some exposure - and what better place to find exposure than the World Wide Web!

I think it’s amazing and I’m proud to have anything to do with it – even if it is living vicariously through my son’s involvement. Go guys!!!



You can find Questional.com on:
Twitter page
Facebook Fan Page
Facebook Group

And of course, Questional.com

Melting in the African sun...

Oh what I'd do for a grape popsicle....

After yesterday's heavy post, I just had to put up this adorable light hearted comic - borrowed from the great Natalie Dee.

There is nothing harder than the softness of indifference - Ghana shows it's darker side

I’ve been blogging a lot lately about the perils of the health system, or lack of it, in Ghana. Combined with corruption, horrendous driving (with the resultant high rates of car accident deaths), and a general lack of respect for life, Ghana has a serious side that so many of my fellow bloggers choose to ignore or are simply naïve about.

One of my cyber friends, the Irishman in Ghana, recently took a trip from Accra to Kumasi – which is generally known as one of the most dangerous roads in Ghana He was in a tro tro at night. BAD idea.

His blog post HERE is worth a read. I of course chimed in on the comments section with my jaded reply.

As a foreigner it is a common reaction to assume a car would stop if it hit or ran over a person! And an equally normal assumption that someone should call emergency services. In this case however, the tro tro he was in kept driving, and to his amazement all the passengers were fine with that. When he reported the incident to the police later, nothing was done about it (except for the police no doubt bribing the driver).

The next day when he asked his fellow colleagues who were Ghanaian what he should do about it, they told him to drop it. Today I shared his story with some Ghanaian friends and colleagues, and people laughed. Not a happy laughter but once of futility and despair. Their responses were all along the lines that he was naïve to think anyone would care.

Over the weekend in Accra, a man was hit at about 4am by a taxi which did not stop. By 6am the body had been run over by no less than 3 other vehicles. That means no one stopped – and even once they had crunched and bumped over the mass of a body under their tires, they carried on. This article was published in the local paper, but when I tried to find it online today, I realized it wasn’t important enough to make it to the online news in Ghana.

Recently a friend of mine came to me to tell me that his 36 year old brother was missing after having a minor argument with a fellow tenant in the compound where he lived. It was discovered that three thugs had ‘beaten’ the man and since then he’d not been seen. Two weeks later, thanks to an article the family had run in the newspaper about their missing brother, his body was identified at a local hospital. They had been about to bury his body in a mass grave. No investigation, no questions asked. Luckily the family had closure. But now there was a murder case to follow surely??

You would think so, but then you would be a naïve foreigner. In fact, the three people responsible were taken reluctantly into custody, but bailed out within a day. Now the family is being asked for installments of money to ‘help the inspector’ with his investigations. Yet nothing is happening. No one shows up at the court for the case. The family is not wealthy or well connected and they cannot afford the bribes... the case will die. And that is the sad fact. A 36 year old man beaten to death – no repercussions for the perpetrators.

We went to the funeral and across the crowd, who sat on the rented chairs straddling the open gutter in the heat of the midday sun, fanning themselves with the funeral pamphlet, I made out the dead man’s mother. I saw the genuine grief in her eyes. A grief I know too well. A parent should never outlive their child. I realized though, as I watched the neatly dressed men load the coffin into the ambulance, as they do here (ambulances being used for bodies as opposed to the sick but alive), that in Ghana it happens all the time.


You could be a toddler in a village and catch malaria, or an unfortunate cyclist on the road to Kumasi at night. You could have an argument with the wrong guy or stumble out in front of a car. In Ghana you will probably die. And there will probably be a funeral and Ghana will move on.

My Irish friend likened the reactions of his fellow passengers to fear, assuming that it was this fear that stopped them from forcing the driver to stop and assist the person he’d hit.

But I’ve been thinking and come to the conclusion that is the opposite that is true. What happens in society when there are no consequence for our actions? When we have nothing to fear from authority and also nothing to gain. No welfare from the government, no protection from the authorities. It makes people lawless and also concerned with themselves only. Why help an accident victim on the road if you will be asked to pay his hospital bill or watch him be ignored? Why stop to help someone you’ve hit when the police don’t care and will not persecute you in any way?

I guess I’m the Thomas Hobbes in this discussion, with Ghana representing humans in a state of nature - in a 'war of all against all', without a controlling authority… I'm definitely thinking far too much, far beyond my reach…

All these sad events have made me a backyard philosopher. Time to indulge in some soft fleshy mango and slices of the sweetest and best pineapple in the world – and remember some of the things I love about Ghana!