Esaaba went to her room, closed the door and sat on the bed. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks as she took her decision. If she was going to have her peace of mind and get along with her par­ents and sister, the only way was to find a place to rent and live on her own.

She picked up her phone to talk to an estate agent when her door opened gently, and her par­ents walked in, Esaaba following. ‘Esaaba’, her dad began, ‘we are sorry for what has happened. We are very sorry. But I wish you would understand that as your parents, we mean well.

We want a good future for you. Naturally we are concerned that you have been, er, a little late in settling down with a man. That is why we took the steps we did. We will continue to pray for a solution. In fact, it is possible that Stanley will realise what he’s missing and get in touch again’. ‘Dad, I’m not going to discuss this issue with you again. It is quite ob­vious that you don’t agree that it is my right, as a right thinking adult, to make my own choices. So I am going to rent a place as quickly as possible and move out.

If I don’t, we will continue to argue over this issue. I’m not pre­pared to allow anyone, even my parents, to choose a husband for me. And as for you Baaba, let me warn you, never get involved again in any issue concerning me, be­cause apart from being very simple minded, you need to learn a few things in life.

Don’t assume anything’. ‘What do I care?’ Baaba snapped. What do I need from you?’ ‘Get out of my room!’ she shouted. Beesiwa walked out, followed by their par­ents.

Esaaba decided that she needed space to clear her head. She went to the bathroom, washed her face and brushed her hair and, after checking to make sure that she had her copy of the front door key, went out. The only place she could think of, she thought, was Jackie’s, the open air joint.

It was never too full, and they played mostly soft music. And the food was nice. It was just what she needed to clear her head. She decided against a taxi and strolled down, and took a seat.

She sat down, and as the waiter walked up to take her order she saw Marian Mensah sipping a drink. ‘Hey Marian! Where on earth have you been?’ ‘Look who is asking questions. I have been trying to find you for ages. Where have you been?’ ‘I live some two hundred metres from here. And you know I’m a TA on campus’. ‘I didn’t know that. And guess who has been asking for your number, almost desperately?’ The only person I can think of is David Essel, and apart from the fact that he’s not in Ghana, I don’t think he will want to call me’.

‘Well, it’s him alright. He came back a month ago. He called last week, and said he heard you had gone to do a Master’s programme on a university scholarship, and he also heard you were working with a drug company. But he obviously didn’t know you were on campus, because he would have fished you out a long time ago’.

‘Why, is he do­ing anything on campus?’ ‘Yes, he’s just got a job as lecturer at the Statistics Department’. When he called and said he wanted to contact you, I teased him that you hadn’t changed, that perhaps you were the same difficult person you were, and he replied that perhaps you had changed’.

‘Do you know what? I really liked the guy, but maybe I didn’t know him well because of the three year gap. Perhaps if he had taken a little time I would have agreed. He is quite good looking, always looking neat, and he had a great sense of humour. And you know, I was afraid of the girls who were always hovering around him. Do you have his number?’ Marian called him, and within twenty minutes David had joined them at Jackie’s. ‘Good to see you ladies. ‘Esaaba, it’s been ages. I thought I would never find you’. ‘Listen, you two’, Marian said, I’m sure it would be best for you if I vanished from here. So off I go. Call and let’s meet, this week­end if possible’.

They ordered food and drinks, and chatted for quite a while about their activities since they last met. David went to Denmark on a PhD scholarship from a food processing company that is well represented in West Africa.

He also spent some time working in the company’s research Depart­ment, for which he was paid rather well. Esaaba, on her part, told him about her experiences as a National Service person and Teaching Assis­tant at her department.

She was hoping to start a Masters Degree programme at the Depart­ment, but was also exploring the possibility of getting a universi­ty scholarship to study abroad. ‘David, I don’t mind hanging around a little longer because I live close by, but in your case you will be driving for a while, so if you like, we can meet again in the next few days’.

‘Okay, my car is parked over there. But first give me your number. Can we meet in the next couple of days?’ ‘We certainly can. I will be moving from my parents’ place very soon, maybe in the next few days, so I will tell you my location when you call’.

‘Why are you moving from your parents’ place, if I may ask? Some­thing interesting happening?’ ‘How shall I say it? My parents think I am delaying in getting a husband, so they have been putting pressure on me to get married.

In fact they tried to force a guy on me, and it backfired’. ‘O dear. I was about to ask you a question on this topic

By Ekow de Heer

The arrival of the MP is an occasion

Some parliamentarians are re­gretting their MP status, because they find it difficult to visit their hometowns in broad- daylight. When they were nobodies, they spent every weekend at home, savouring the best palm wine somewhere in the corner, rendez- vousing with old-time girl­friends and reporting back to work on Monday with a hangover.

Today, when they visit home, they normally do so under the cover of darkness. It has nothing to do with security. Neither has it to do with the dregs of palm wine. It all borders on financial strategy.

The problem is that the folks back home see their MP as a bag of money. He is regarded as the only person who can solve their school fees problems, settle the funeral bills, offer free palm wine and pay for tobacco snuff so that the nostrils of the old folks can be sufficiently cleared noisily every dawn.

So the MP’s arrival in the village is an occasion in itself. He must be welcomed with drumming and danc­ing. The latest dance styles must be released in honour of the son of the town, the honourable of honourables, okatakyie MP, Nana-o- Nana!

A mini-durbar can even be or­ganised post-haste in his honour and he would be expected to deliver a speech. If he has no prepared speech, he must all the same make an address extempore, like J.J. Rawlings.

Such a speech will be expected to be a sequel to the campaign promises, an extension to the good things prom­ised on the political platform some one-and-half years ago. The MP had indeed brought himself; nobody asked him to come.

The master of ceremonies who is likely to be the town crier also known as gong-gong beater, will officiate. The town criers are noted for their alcoholic licence, their caustic tongue and their long memory. They can recall events, dates, speeches and resolutions. Most importantly, they can embarrass.

A typical gong beater is sure to take a quarter-size of ‘yayaaya’ be­fore delivering his welcome address.

“Keep quiet, keep quiet!” he’d begin.” If I hear you talking. I’ll hit your buttocks with my coconut head.” That is enough to bring more mirth and noise than the man wanted to curb. Finally, a measure of silence will be maintained.

“We welcome our illustrious son back in our midst. We are all happy that he has realised that he cannot hide forever. Your hometown is your hometown. We acknowledge his busy schedule, but we also expect him to be among us to propel our spirits to heights unimaginable.

“We politely remind our son of the promises he made to us for which we exercised the power of our gonti (thumb) in his favour. The promises need to be fulfilled. Look at my mous­tache, it is overgrown. When a man’s moustache outgrows his upper-lip, it means he is overdue for poverty alleviation.

“We would not take the words out of the mouth of our dear son. May be the poverty alleviation fund is in his briefcase, who knows?”

At this juncture the entire crowd will be thrown into pandemonium. Different interpretations would be given to the briefcase palaver and speculations would be rife as to the contents of the magical briefcase.

At least one person in the crowd will volunteer the information that he actually ‘peeped’ into the briefcase when the honourable MP opened it to get a receipt he was looking for. It was full of Sikaman dollars.

The MP knows that the occasion is not auspicious for a long address. The people have grown wiser and are not impressed with long speeches and grandiloquence. What they want is money to buy mahogany bitters to cure their kooko.

“Ladies and gentleman, I’m glad to be with my kith and kin once again. My schedule doesn’t allow me to come home every weekend as I used to do. I must admit that I miss the weekly palm wine I used to have in times past.

“Nananom, ladies and gentlemen, the promises I’ve made are meant to be fulfilled. In fact, that is why I’m here today.”

The uproar must surely be deafen­ing. The man had indeed arrived. He has brought the money to transform Owuokrom overnight. The excitement ends up in drumming and dancing.

The MP is quickly whisked to the venue of an outdooring. He donates to the couple. A funeral is around the corner and he is promptly made the chairman of the occasion. He donates heavily.

“Honourable,” an oldman will stop him in his tracks. “Don’t you recog­nise me? I held your legs when you were circumcised 35 years ago. When I saw your car coming I felt proud. I’m your uncle Kofi Badu.”

The MP looks at the oldman. None of his uncles is called Kofi Badu. He knows the oldman wants something for his afternoon and dashes him GH¢20, 000. The palm wine and snuff. The man is overjoyed and breaks into a native dance.

The MP must now run away. The briefcase is almost empty. Yet he has not remitted his old man and old woman, He does so in a flash and the next minute he is speeding towards Accra. “These people, they’ll kill me-o,” he will say to himself.

This article was first published on Saturday, July 13, 2001