An SOS call from the motorway

Driver from Accra to Tema is often thrilling when you hit the fast-track idea and get cracking down the motorway almost airborne. In six or seven minutes, you must ease up. Welcome to the Harbour City.

While decelerating, you are like­ly to look to the left, and there lies Ashaiman, a town of many parts. You are forced to make a slight bow in honour of one of Sikaman’s unkempt habitations. That is also where some armed robbers are born and bred, using the motorway for their practical attachment.

Some of the robbers were not born criminals, though. They began life as corn-mill attendants and as magi­cians, but magic is not paying these days. Armed robbery is the single most lucrative profession today after church business. So the magicians now turn to procure arms not to fight a civil war, but to make money.

Along the length of the motor­way, there are various camps for the robbers, some of whom come from Baatsona area, some from Accra suburbs and of course Ashaiman, otherwise known as Hanoi. Business begins at about 8:30 p.m. on week days, 7:00pm at weekends and public holidays.

The targets are motorists. There is an overhead bridge somewhere along the motorway, from where some crim­inals drop boulders or blocks on cars to disconcert the drivers. It is a trick to get them to stop to find out what the hell is happening. They are then pounced upon and robbed.

Cars that break down are rath­er easy prey. The robbers just walk leisurely to the driver and demand all the money on him, his briefcase, watch, shoes, shirt, trousers and all. If you are not careful, you can end up at home like a mad man completely naked.

That is, if you are not lucky and they ask you to hand over your “sup­porter” as well.

Well, if you are a lady, you can well imagine your fate.

The problem with the motorway is that when you break down at night, the palaver is between you and your God. No motorist is prepared to stop and help you because everyone is thinking you might be an armed rob­ber posing as a motorist in distress.

On February 1, 2001, I was cruising comfortably on the motorway in my Concord, listening to some good music on Atlantis FM, wishing to get home early to catch some rest. Perched on the front seat beside me was a lady colleague I lifted. She usually alights at the end of the motorway.

I was enjoying the ride and it was about 5:50 p.m. when the Concord developed a fault with all the jerks and power off. I veered into the pedestrian lane and realised I was really in for it. Luckily, a taxi had also developed a fault and a mechanic was fixing it up. He came up to me and asked to help. I opened the bonnet.

He did what he could and asked me to start the engine. It kicked into life and I was delighted. “What’s my charge?

He picked up the money and I zoomed away. 100 metres away, the car grounded to a halt again. I asked the lady to stay by the car; I’ll do a quick dash to fetch the mechanic.

“I’m afraid,” she said. “What of if armed men come here?”

Okay, I’ll stay here. Walk briskly and get the mechanic down. He took the money and did no job. Drag him right here.”

She walked back to get the me­chanic. It was about 6:30 pm and she wasn’t getting back early enough with the guy. I was worried. I started walk­ing after her to see what the hell was happening. I saw her from the dis­tance returning alone. “Jesus Christ of Nazareth,” I said to myself.

I didn’t know I was such a good Christian. The word “Jesus Christ came naturally to me, the only one who could save me.

The lady and I now started waving down speeding motorists and none stopped. One attempted to stop, but I guess he decided otherwise when he saw my height and frame.

I am six feet tall and I look like a semi-professional heavyweight before. Actually I can deliver a slugger when it comes to it, but that has never been my style. I’m quite sure the man who decided to stop but sped on thought I was a very dangerous crimi­nal playing a trick.

The lady and myself kept begging for anybody to stop and just listen to what we had to say. For about one hour, we were at it. At a certain point, I wanted to kneel down so that passing motorists would not be terri­fied at my height. Of course, nothing worked so far.

I had to seek the face of God. Ear­lier, I had alerted Jesus Christ that an SOS call was in the pipeline. I started praying silently to myself. The time was about 7:45pm. Time was running out. “Oh Jesus, it is only you who can deliver me, Kwame Alomele and this lady from evil. If you don’t do it, who else can? Our trust is all in you….”

It is a long time since I attended church, and I wondered whether Jesus was listening to me. “Jesus, you came to redeem sinners, not the righteous,”

I reminded Him, “Please, save me.” And He did.

A car sped by but miraculously screeched to a halt about 100 metres away “Oh glory! Oh glory!” I intoned.

A man came out. “I think I know Are you not the writer?”

Yes sir. My car broke down here and none is stopping to help us out. What’s your name sir?”

That’s not necessary now. I’ll get you to Tema and then we can find a mechanic or someone to tow your car.”

I picked up my briefcase, removed the tape and locked the power win­dows. We hopped into his car and off we went, leaving the Concord behind. Even if they removed the wind­screens, it could be better than going home naked.

It was about 9:00 pm when we tracked down my mechanic and by the time I finally got home it was 11:00 am. A day well spent on a motorway that had no police patrol, no security of my sort, to phone system, nothing. That is why the armed robbers are having a field day on Ghana’s beloved motorway.