TALES FROM DIFFERENT TAILS
BY
NANA AWERE DAMOAH
TALES FROM DIFFERENT TAILS
Nana Awere Damoah
Published by Nana Awere Damoah at Smashwords
All Rights Reserved
Copyright 2011 © Nana Awere Damoah
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by photocopying or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
ISBN for this Edition: 978 1 4658 4269 5
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Praise for Tales from Different Tails
There are many works by writers of mind-boggling intellectual ingenuity. But Nana Awere Damoah is a different breed of writer: he is not only a mind-boggler but also a literary nurse of the convalescent mind. He is an author of boundless creativity, whose wit acts as a brush that paints a beautiful picture of an analytic world that unites fiction and reality. And if there is a simple, objective term to describe him, he is simply an intellectual rebel who invests a new world of endless creativity. Nana succeeds in taking his reader to a higher level of abstraction about life without the usual uneasy sense of guilt that comes with rebelling against established norms. He bears the incisive penetration of a master surgeon.
Business and Financial Times
Nana Awere Damoah's stories have a way of taking us way back to the villages where we all have our beginnings, to University years laced with excitement and longing, and then dropping us right in the middle of bustling city life with its hustlers and everyday people struggling to earn a cedi. Each story has its lessons, both for readers and characters, sometimes tough, other times hopeful, and after reading Tales from Different Tails one is left with the sense of having lived so many lives, of having encountered so many personalities. What a delightful collection!
Ayesha Harruna Attah, Author of Harmattan Rain
I have just thoroughly enjoyed reading October Rush and found it full of so much wit, suspense, empathy and humor. Well done to Nana, for so easily transporting me back to my university days, with such vivid descriptions of his characters, scenes and events. I can’t wait to buy copies of the book as gifts to my non-Ghanaian friends to give them a brilliant glimpse into one aspect of Ghanaian college or university life.
Ben Dotsei Malor, Communications Advisor, United Nations, formerly of BBC World Service
Also by Nana Awere Damoah
THROUGH THE GATES OF THOUGHT
EXCURSIONS IN MY MIND
Dedicated to Scripture Union, Burning Fire, Joyful Way Incorporated, Literary Wing of the Inter-hall Christian Fellowship (IHCF) of the Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology and the Graduate Christian Fellowship (GCF) of University of Nottingham – groups that shaped my writing and my life.
Acknowledgements
Special thanks to my wife Vivian for her support for my writing career. To my extended family and in-laws, meda mo ase.
Kofi Akpabli, David Donkor, Kodwo Abban-Mensah, Henrietta Hammond-Boadu, Ben Dotsei Malor, Joseph Omotayo, Isaac Marion S-Darko, Isaac Neequaye and Vera Viva Nkrow, I am grateful for your editorial and proof-reading work. I am also indebted to Qouphy Appiah Obirikorang, Abubakar Ibrahim and Kwame Gyan for their inputs into this project in diverse ways.
I have had great support, ideas, feedback and correction from my friends on Facebook. Most of these stories here were literally cooked and refined on the online canvas of Facebook. The names are too many to mention, thank you all.
Nana A Damoah
September 2011
Table of Contents
October Rush
Truth Floats
Dribble de Zagidibogidi
Hope Undeferred
Kojo Nkrabeah
Guardian of the Rented Well
Face to Face – Trotro Palaver
Project Akoma
FOREWORD – TICKLING THE TALES
Each time a writer digs into his resources and brings out a story, humanity is largely, well- served. But it first begins with curiosity and plenty of generosity. In other words, one must first be interested in observing the human situation, and care enough to share.
Tales from Different Tails sets out exactly to achieve this. In this selected work of fiction, Nana Awere Damoah gifts the world with his and our story and tells them in terms that enable us relate effectively. Set in contemporary Ghanaian society, the stories are themed on fate, romance, love and camaraderie betrayed.
There is an inherent relationship between mankind and the literary phenomenon known as the ‘story’. This link is instinctive, almost biological. Whether told by the African fire side setting or from the Western-styled Uncle Arthur’s bedside, every child grows up loving tales of adventure and intrigue. In any narrative, the phrase ‘once upon a time…’ is one that tickles the ear and prepares us for the juice of news.
The truth, really, is that we live in a world that floats on stories. Functionally, storytelling is very much what nearly all the professions do. Explaining this is not a hard nut: the simplest form of sharing information is through story-telling.
Take journalists. After they have researched and gathered news materials they have got to tell the story. Same with our scientists, historians, statisticians, teachers and preachers. To a non-negotiable extent, the success of these vocations depends on how well they tell their stories.
Happily, in Tales from Different Tails, the stories are very well told. Indeed, what the author has done is to use the story telling techniques of the various professions to thrust the plots forward. The result is a compact, adrenaline-driven, easy to read work.
The main setting for many of the episodes is the university campus. The tertiary level is the last formal arena for preparing our leaders for various fields of encounter. The interactions and experiences that take place behind those walls are thus instructive for a nation.
The author shows an understanding of human insight such that he is able to switch the narrative voice from the girl on campus, to the street hustler and then the medical doctor; all in virtually one breath. His use of relevant concepts and jargons helps to unlock the door to a world all its own.
This book makes the ordinary worth celebrating. In part, the author fuels his narratives on nostalgia. For someone who happened to have grown up in the Accra Newtown-Kotobabi area myself, the landmarks and encounters are truly a home drive to familiar warmth.
All told, Tales from Different Tails is also serious commentary on societal shortfalls. It is the story of a nation that has not done very well for the citizenry. Facilities such as public transport and public places of convenience make mockery of our human dignity. This book also teaches that trust is a must, betrayal does not pay and love is beautiful.
But that is not all. There is a bonus that runs through. Humor. In this delightful work, Nana Awere Damoah demonstrates that he has a soft spot for the funny side and, (to the advantage of the reader) he has much difficulty keeping this to himself.
As people of a great heritage, we have to tell our stories- each of them, all of them. For this is a culture that leads to the road of self-knowledge critical for the national development agenda.
KOFI AKPABLI
CNN African Journalist for Arts and Culture
(Winner for 2010 and 2011)
OCTOBER RUSH
Akua
Tina was a timid girl, the sort whose timidity enhanced her looks. She looked stressed and it was clear she needed a listening ear. As a leader in our hall fellowship, I was an appropriate downloading site for her worries, one to offer the occasional comfort and advice. My presence in the room at that moment was in response to a note she had left for me: could she talk to me, please, urgently? She had been there three times already, without luck since I kept a busy schedule and hardly studied in my room. She didn’t keep me waiting, and appeared on schedule, taut and ready to explode. I wished to put her at ease, but all I did seemed inconsequential; all she wanted was to get the issue off her chest. I braced myself for what she had to say. After a few minutes of hesitation, during which I sat looking at her, encouraging her in silence, she blurted:
“It’s the boys! They are pestering me so, and I just can’t cope!”
It was about three weeks into the new academic year and the school was under the siege of the phenomenon known as the “October Rush”. A new academic year brought many changes, but most significantly, it brought fresh female students who were termed, in campus speak, as New Stock. The continuing (or senior) female students had various tags too. Second year ladies were Reduced to Clear, and the third/final year students belonged to the Buy one, Get one free category.
Campus wisdom held that the beginning of the first semester was generally the best time to shop for desirable ladies, freshers in this instance, before they got acclimatized. I looked knowingly at my guest; the Rush was on, evidently.
“Sister Akua, you see, I am confused already. Is it a sin to be fresh and beautiful in this university?” she lamented.
Fresh? Beautiful? Eish! Wasn’t she a tad too confident of her looks? Or was it arrogance? But the words that came out of my mouth gave no hint of my thoughts. “Of course not. But take heart and tell me exactly what is getting you so worked up.”
Nothing could have prepared the poor girl for such an experience. In the maze of activities crowded into the first month of the academic year, many a first year student became perplexed. Orientation programs, registration procedures, accommodation search, getting used to new lecture schedules, learning to find one’s way about the large campus and preparing for matriculation – it was all unnerving for a fresher.
“Sister Akua, take this Archito guy. He is in the second year and in Katanga. I met him on the STC bus when I was coming to Kumasi and we struck a good conversation. Now he’s taken to visiting my room every other day. He is cool, handsome, and speaks good English. He’s already been of immense help and has devoted a lot of his time showing me around campus. My room-mates say he is smooth and I shouldn’t lose guard. He has already proposed and says he is coming to visit this weekend for his answer. I mean he was my first friend here on campus, but I’m not sure I’m ready for anything deeper at this point.”
It was a Thursday evening and I had a scheduled a discussion with my room-mate Adwoa. She dropped in, saw how intense our conversation was, and merely changed her attire. I signalled that I would be following her to the Games Room as soon as I was done. The fresher looked at me with sad eyes before continuing.
“Then there is this guy I met at Paa Joe during the joint prayer meeting the Student Chaplaincy Council organized in the first week. He showed up to accompany me to the program every evening and has been visiting me regularly ever since. He hasn’t said anything yet but, sister, actions speak louder than words. He is always sharing scripture with me and I learn he is a powerful Christian brother. Well, I respect him for his life and brotherly affection, but I can sense he wants more. He becomes visibly uncomfortable whenever he comes across me talking with other guys and sulks the rest of the day.”
Inte Gorang
Inte Gorang stood in front of the mirror, putting finishing touches to his make-up. He turned this way and that way, brought his palm close to his mouth, fingers pointing upwards and exhaled through his mouth to smell his breath. Yes, the mint breath freshener was working perfectly. His shirt was well-starched and ironed, the edges razor-sharp, the texture almost brittle. His hair shone from the Sportin’ Waves cream he had judiciously applied. Yellow, the shoe shine boy, had ensured that one could see his image looking up from the flat top of Inte Gorang’s shoes. A few sprays of his designer perfume used only for the most important occasions, and Joe Pabitey was ready for the evening’s visit to Africa Hall.
Joe Pabitey. Few people called him by his real name. His nickname Inte Gorang was adulterated from John Garang, the Sudanese rebel leader. His friends teased, that Joe Pabitey had been fighting for years, four years actually, to get an inte, a girlfriend on campus. Such persistence was both admired and jeered, and every time he approached the Porter’s Lodge immaculately dressed, he was sure to receive applause and sometimes, blessings, from his Katanga Hall colleagues. A few times, even as he turned up the hill towards the Great Hall, the chorus of a song composed for him by his hall mates followed in his wake…
Ma ensi wo yie
Inte Gorang eeei
Inte rebel leader eei
Fa nkunim die bra nne!
to wit, “May it go well with you, Inte Gorang, Inte rebel leader, bring victory back today!”
Now in his final year, Gorang was bent on avoiding the proverbial four-zero, the term used to describe students who completed their four year degree courses without getting hitched, without grabbing. Along the way he had become a veteran of the October Rush. And each year, after failing to win a province, he had returned doggedly to the drawing board to re-strategize. His advances were not limited to the freshers though. It was just that having failed to succeed in the past three years in all the year groups, he had decided to really focus on freshers this final year. It was his last battle, going for the kill, do or die, be victorious or die trying!
In furtherance of this strategy, he had returned to campus two clear weeks before re-opening and befriended all the porters in the female and mixed halls. With heavy tipping, almost amounting to bribing, he had secured their tacit agreement to note down all the nice girls and their room numbers, so he wouldn’t have to waste doing reconnaissance. By the time school re-opened and the freshers started arriving for the orientation program, he had been on the Accra route more than four times, journeying back to Kumasi on the STC buses, to get acquainted with some of the ladies at the bus terminals. With such rich experience, he could pick out the freshers with ease – their large suitcases, parents dropping them off and anxious at their departure, eager conversations on mobile phones, and more private information obtained from discrete eavesdropping.
He was extra helpful to them and once they got to Tech junction, he ensured that he was visibly available to get them taxis to campus, a coincidental good Samaritan to the freshers – all part of the warlord’s battle plan.
Bazook
It was convenient for him to be a resident of the Independence Hall. The hall’s proximity to the school’s stadium, (popularly known as Paa Joe), suited him well for he loved to pray in the open expanse. Brother Bazook was very prayerful, an ardent Christian who spent at least two hours each day interceding for souls and his nation, his foremost prayer topics. He earned his nickname when he acted in a play at church. In that drama, he role-played what he loved doing in real life: praying. In one of the scenes, he led a group of ogyacious or zealous Christians in prayer and called on them to “shoot the devil” with spiritual intercontinental ballistic and other long-range missiles. That was in the years just after the first Gulf War. As the leader of that counter-terrorist army of Jesus, he naturally employed the bazooka and thus his nickname Bazook.
He was in the third year and a relationship with ladies was way out of his mind. He felt he was too spiritual for that carnal indulgence. Brother Bazook was known to have exorcised the demon of carnality from another brother when the latter simply asked him for bread, rebuking him: “When souls are perishing, you are thinking of bread!”
During the first week of his third year, Bazook had just spent two hours at Paa Joe, praying in tongues and interceding for souls. He felt really fulfilled; satisfied he had done his Christian duty, as he rounded up his prayers around 8.30 pm. As he climbed up the stairs to cross the street and take the footpath through the Annex Block, he espied a guy sitting by the security box. He walked on, until he heard the guy walking behind him, calling his attention before striding up to catch up with him.
“Brother, God bless you for your prayers. May I ask what you were praying about?”
Bazook smiled at the stranger, wondering: “Perhaps he wants to tap into my passion for souls?”
“Well, I was interceding for souls this evening.”
The stranger responded, “Brother, the Spirit intercedes for us with groans we cannot understand, and He knows our real heart’s desires. I can interpret tongues and all I heard you say for two hours I have been here at Paa Joe was ‘Lord, give me a wife!’ That is the true desire of your heart, even though you may try not to listen to that inner voice.” Just as he appeared the stranger said a quick goodnight and disappeared into the night in the opposite direction.
Bazook spent that night reflecting deeply. Indeed, he had begun to think about relationships lately, much as he tried to push it out of his mind. Perhaps, God had used the stranger to tell him it was OK to have such thoughts, they may not be carnal after all? Perhaps he wasn’t supposed to be a Paul? A spiritual Peter was also in the Bible.
As he reflected on these, it hit him that it was October. The Rush. Yes, there is, The Rush!
Patty
The length of the queue behind your door is a reflection of your popularity as a fresh girl during October Rush, she had been told. She knew she was beautiful. That fact had been forcefully appreciated whilst she was in Wesley Girls, in Cape Coast. During the InterCo (inter colleges) competitions, she had the most enquiries from the boys from Kwabotwe, Adisco and Augusco, much to the chagrin of her friends, who tried very hard to hide their envy. It got to a point where she had to play pranks on those boys to keep them off. She always recalled one particular incident with mirth.
The guy, from Kwabotwe, had pestered her the entire duration of one competition, for two days. From all indications, he was not used to being bounced by girls, one of those boys who felt every girl should melt at the mention of his name like Blue Band margarine under the onslaught of a hot knife. He just wouldn’t take “No” for an answer. And by then, she, Patty Sutherland-Graves, had learnt that for such boys only humiliation would teach them that even though all heads may look the same, the thoughts in them differ.
On the second day, she grudgingly acquiesced and gave him her name; he wanted to visit her at school. She told him she was called Pat Ricia and they agreed for him to visit – two weeks later, on the girls’ visiting day.
On the appointed day, Alan Quartey – for that was the guy’s name, she could never forget it – duly turned up and asked for Miss Pat Ricia. By prior arrangement, the request filtered to Patty’s friends who took Alan to the Assembly Hall and gave him a seat at the center of the main stage, with the promise of informing Miss Ricia of his arrival. Back in the dormitory, Patty and her friends were rolling across the floor in laughter, completely taken up by the hilarity of it! The guy was clearly a toke - a dimwit, to come asking after a Pat Ricia! Her friends took turns passing by the Hall, ostensibly to search for a missing item or to look for a friend, the main purpose being to have a look at the latest toke (local slang for fool) to visit their campus.
After about two hours of waiting in vain for Miss Ricia to appear, Alan Quartey got the message and left, with his tail between his legs
Patty was a veteran at playing love games and had arrived on campus for her first year well aware of the October Rush and eager to partake. Clearly, she would not be on the receiving end.
Akua
We were sitting on the lower bunk of the bed. I got up and went to the fridge to pick two bottles of Fanta, opened both and gave one to Tina. I insisted when she refused the drink. I had been out studying the whole day and needed to boost my sugar level; perhaps I needed the drink more than she but it wouldn’t do any harm for her to relax a bit more.
“What you are experiencing is called the October Rush, it is seasonal and it will pass. Tina, the question to ask is: Are you ready for any relationship at this time in your life?”
“No, not really.”
“But you do appreciate that you cannot fend off young men forever, and that you will have to make a decision one day, don’t you?”
“Oh yes, I do. It is just that now with all of them coming towards me at the same time, I feel confused, like a pollen-laden flower in the land of a thousand bees!”
“Yeah, that’s right and we all experienced it. The important thing is to ascertain whether any of these guys – and there will be more, I can assure you – is serious and will still be around after the Rush. Some of the guys see it as a game, some are also serious. Some of the guys come your way accidentally, others encounter you by plan. We will have to see how it goes. On the other hand, there are some girls who also take advantage of guys during the Rush and even after.
“One of such girls was my room-mate in first year, Christabel. If ever there was a female player, she was one. Christy could wind the hearts of men like a Bonwire kente master weaver! Her tongue was sweeter than the honeycombs of Babylon and her tales were more intricate than those of legendary Kwaku Ananse. All the guys who came proposing to her were accepted, none of them suspected they had rivals, and each of them thought he was the only one on the throne of her heart. Her admirers were not only students; lecturers, businessmen and teaching assistants had their names in her catalogue. She often said you needed some for study support, some to pay your bills, some to fund your shopping, and some just for going out to functions with. So she grouped her love-struck or highly-infatutaed admirers into relevant categories of need. There was one who took care of her educational needs only. Another existed in her life just to provide finance. Other took care of “tourism” needs and public affairs. She even had a guy whose main use was ironing! I always pitied that guy.