Features
Festivals and human stomachs
Festivals are supposed to be an important part of our lives such that once in every year, every single soul in the capital is supposed to go back to his or her people to celebrate, drink fresh palm wine and crack grass- cutter bones.
But how many people think of going back to celebrate the festivals of their origin?
Perhaps if we had a Secretary for Festival Affairs with plenary powers to ensure that once in a year, everyone goes back to his grandfather’s village to celebrate the festival of his people, the importance of festivals might be more appreciated.
It is so sad to note that because of financial, mourning and ‘brokages,’ many don’t dare go back to their villages during annual leaves and festivals.
Festivals as we know are inseparable from our culture and as such, indissolubly linked with our roots.
Anyone who is therefore a hopeless ignoramus as far as the festivals of his people are concerned is in a cultural wilderness, lost and cannot be found. A search-party would be on a wild goose chase unless he himself retraces his steps to his origin to learn the ways of old.
Since most people have taken the capital of Sikaman as their hometown, many Anlos for instance do not know about Hogbetsotso, the northerners, bom and bred in Accra have never witnessed the Dambai festival; Oguaas forget the Fetu and the Ada’s, the Asafotufiam. Instead, every- one becomes well-acquainted with Homowo.
The very first time I joined the Gas to celebrate their Homowo festival was way back in 1973, I was a little kid. As I had many Ga friends, I was in high spirits. I took my time and consumed an unholy quantity of kpokpoi, the cherished traditional meal for the festival. In fact, I enjoyed it so much, but I was uninformed about the dosage.
It was getting close to midnight when I realised that kpokpoi was not only a very delicious festive dish, but also a rather powerful traditional purgative.
It took me some four hours to get through since it was a wake-keeping of commuting from my bedroom to the lavatory to cope with the frequency of my free bowels. The following year I was more cautious and took the right dosage.
Quite ironically, I have celebrated, or should I say, witnessed more Homowo festivals than the Yam Festival of my people. But that does not make me ignorant. We used to look forward to it every year and the most interesting aspect was the contests organised to select the most attractive, largest or weightiest “new” yam. It was a sort of beauty pageant where yams were the exuberant contestants.
Today, when my people are celebrating the Yam Festival back home, and I’m unable to go, I also celebrate mine quietly in the capital with my mother, brothers and sisters. We eat otor, yam slices, yam fufu and chicken soup, with yam-balls as dessert. We don’t have drumming and dancing, though.
Most festivals are celebrated following the harvest season in farming and fishing communities. The festivals are celebrated to praise and acknowledge the blessings of the gods for the bountiful harvests bestowed upon us mortals. With poor harvests therefore, the celebrations become lukewarm. Man must chop!
Traditional African societies have superstitious beliefs associated with folkways, norms and general manner of life. The celebration of festivals is therefore not entirely free from certain taboos and superstitions.
The reader would please, allow for a little digression. A child who grows in the capital of Sikaman knows nothing about the taboos associated with his origin. He, for instance, refuses to believe that some clans do not kill snakes just because it is their belief that a snake had something to do with the perpetration of their clan. Others do not eat corn because they believe one of their great chiefs was poisoned through a meal prepared from corn etc.
Other taboos are observed because the gods say they must be. There is a river god in Sikaman which forbids anyone going to the river at night with lantern.
A white man on tour who said he never believed that ‘superstitious nonsense’ since he was a devout Christian who had been fully baptised and receives communion regularly, defied the villagers and took a lantern to the riverside one night.
Of course, what he met at the place, I can’t quite describe. Fact is he himself could not even describe it because he had to do a fast sprint to escape the monster that pursued him. Since then, our Kwasi Broni friend has learnt to respect some of our dos and don’ts. I know he had quite a story to tell his countrymen when he went back, unless he wanted to stay here forever to do thorough research into African taboos.
It is a taboo to be seen eating newly harvested yam before the fetish priest performs the necessary rites that usher in the celebration of the Yam Festival at my area. This is to ensure that the gods taste of it before dwellers of the land take their turn.
I had occasion to talk to Togbi Teiku (V), Dufia of Matse Dzeve (not my hometown), known in private life as Mr Joshua Addo. The Yam Festival celebrated at his area, he says, are preceded by certain rites, which he cannot ignore irrespective of his Christian background and intellectual attainments.
He does not take alcohol, not even occasionally. But when it comes to performing the rites associated with the stool and the land during festivals, he must forget about his healthy conscious habits and let the palm wine descend his throat, enroute to the stomach.
Indeed, festivals have a meaning to our lives. However, receptive we might be to the impact of western culture, we must not forget that we have our own culture which we must enrich through the endeavour of going back from where we’ve run.
What would be the meaning of our lives as a clan, tribe or people when we cannot find time once every year to revel in festivity for the enjoyment of it, to meet old friends, and make more acquaintances, get used to our folklores and customs, and above all rejoice the blessings of good harvests and the like?
Festivals are also useful to non-resident citizens of every locality. It affords the city dweller the opportunity to ascertain the true condition prevailling in their rural communities so that when the Town Development Committee comes out to say that non-resident females must contribute GH¢1,000 and their male counterparts GH¢1,500 for development projects, they cannot grumble.
You certainly wouldn’t complain because after a heavy festive meal you will sooner or later need the services of a KVIP since you cannot carry the stuff in your stomach back to a city water-closet.
And when you realise that there is no KVIP around, except for a dangerous-looking pit-laterine that had been constructed half a century ago, you’ll understand that if you do not contribute the specified amount you may not be able to retire to the village to spend your pension days, when it is due.
This article was first published
on Saturday August 25, 1990
Features
Old folks and human suffering
The aged
Grey hair is an honour from God, says my uncle, Kofi Jogolo, whose moustache the world admires. Unfortunately, his moustache is not grey. However, my dear, uncle who is a petty bourgeoisie is greying at the temples, which according to him is a sign of wisdom, reverence and honour. To me, it is also an indication that he is gradually nearing ‘home’ to render a comprehensive account of his life to his Creator.
Indeed, the principles of accountability and probity transcend grey hairs and moustache, and wind up in St Peter’s Heaven.
Anyone who is getting close to the age of 60 can rightly claim the grey hair status. But in Sikaman for instance, to be a living member of the grey hair fraternity is a privilege and not a right. This is because the average life span of humans today is 49 years, and the average in Third World countries is much lower. Poverty alone can kill you at 27.
It is also of interest to note that journalists have the lowest average lifespan vis- a-vis other professional groups, according to a proven research.
In any case, the human species are better off than insects and animals. A mosquito lives for only six days and decides to call it quits. Most birds live for five years; and when a dog lives up to 10 years, it automatically becomes a liberal democrat. Why? Because it becomes so weak that it can no longer be a leftist watchdog of its master’s home. The poor dog becomes rather liberal to thieves and burglars.
So is it with human beings who clock 65 and above, especially when they have not eaten good for over six decades. According to the Bible, the human limit which has been divinely decreed is three score and 10, that is, 70. This appears discriminatory when we consider that Methuselah for instance lived for 969 years before agreeing to die.
CURSE
Back to Sikaman, anyone who flies past the age of 65 is considered an old- man (woman) whether he is well- nourished or takes ‘quarter’ on a regular basis.
To many, however, to be called an old person is rather a curse than a blessing. And of course nobody wants to be a pensioner for obvious reasons. So you see workers who are clearly over 70 years claiming to be 50 just to avoid retirement and its associated money palaver. But somehow, they are justified.
Fact is that, these days, nobody cares for the aged, and so they have to care for themselves. It was the quest to avoid this unfortunate situation that the HelpAge Ghana was formed last year as a voluntary organisation aimed at promoting the well-being of the aged and ageing in Sikaman.
When the second HelpAge Week was launched last weekend, I felt so sad to see on television, old men and women, some of whom could hardly work their rickety heels to help themselves about. Some really had to be assisted to walk.
HelpAge has come so timely, at a time when no one respects or cares for the aged. In times’ past, old folks were regarded as useful members of the society, imparting knowledge and wisdom to the younger generation, telling Ananse stories to enliven the evenings of little children.
But today, old people are regarded as nuisance. They are accused of being talkatives, always complaining of kooko, waist-pains, constipation, diarrhea, chronic catarrh and lack of good diet.
Their physical and mental infirmities associated with senescence, coupled with the high cost of fending for them, makes them unwanted in a rat-race society where man must live by sweet.
Some people really want their aged relatives to die quickly to relieve them of the burden of caring for them. They can’t afford to be feeding them every day like that! So unfortunate.
PROBLEMS
In the developed countries, however, because of problems that go with caring for the elderly in society, homes for the elderly are established in many communities, where the aged can live comfortably to enjoy their last days on earth. They are cared for, nourished and entertained.
In fact, there is a branch of medicine called GERONTOLOGY which is concerned with the processes of growing old, and there is what we call (GERIATRICS) which is the medical care of old people. Scholars are specialise in these fields because their society cares for the welfare of the aged.
HelpAge Ghana is a laudable idea and Sikaman natives must be awakened to their responsibility to the elderly. Those who also handle their pension claims must avoid the unnecessary delays. I remember, my old man had to go up and down for months before he was put on his rightful scale.
Now, instead of wishing our aged mothers, fathers and grand-parents to die so that we can get enough money to drink beer, let us contribute to HelpAge Ghana to get it firmly instituted.
That way when we are lucky to reach the three score and ten mark, we could also benefit from it. No one knows what the future has in store.
Sometime last year, I was privileged to attend a get-together of pensioners of UAC and management staff at the Ambassador Hotel. I am not a pensioner though. It was quite an interesting scene to see old men and women all over chatting animatedly, and reminiscing their good old days.
I was also quite impressed with how some of them attended to the gin, brandy and beer at the reception.
In contrast to this, it is so pathetic to see many old people in the capital of Sikaman begging for money to buy kenkey. They look dirty and unkempt carrying aloft their grey hairs. Let us find a means of helping out these elderly folks so that when our turn comes the good old Lord will have mercy upon us.
This article was first written was on Saturday October 6, 1990
Features
The anxiety of parents
I had a call from my daughter and addressing me in her rather unusual but affectionate way, by my official name as usual, she greeted me and asked about how I was doing and I responded and we exchanged the usual pleasantries.
Then her next statement caused my heart to start pounding. She said “Daddy, I am going out on a date.” This is one of the moments every parent becomes filled with anxiety. It is just like when your adult child comes to tell you that “I have met someone I would like to marry”.
I then started asking about when she met him, how long she had known him etc. Then she said “Daddy, I am just pulling a prank on you” and I heaved a sigh of relief. Every parent will tell you that one of their fears is who their children will marry in future.
Fear of the unknown, is the issue that brings the anxiety. Will this man be a good husband to my daughter? Is there a terrible hereditary disease in his family? What are his parents like and would they be caring in-laws to my daughter etc. etc.
Most parents do not worry too much when their child is a man as opposed to a female child. Furthermore, boys do not bring pregnancy home so if they go out and come home late, parents do not worry too much compared to when Maggie or Agatha or Lucy goes out and comes home late.
Our culture makes it easier for men to opt out of relationships so parents do not worry too much when a male children come to introduce their would-be spouses to them and there is no need to add that spouse here refers to a female, since our culture does not tolerate the insane antisocial behaviour affecting some societies including African ones.
Marriage must be between a male and a female, a man and a woman, as God who instituted and ordained it. The girls fall in love easily compared to the boys who mostly walk into love. I have not conducted a survey but I strongly believe that females suffer from heartbreaks more than males because of their emotional nature.
Another dimension to this anxiety of parents is the issue of mental problems which in some instances can lead to suicidal tendencies. Mental cases resulting from mental breakdowns abound in our communities and the victims are mostly female.
A woman I met while walking with a friend was a victim of a mental breakdown. The friend I was walking with, exchanged pleasantries with the said lady and it was apparent that they knew each other very well.
My friend, after we had parted company with the woman, narrated how her husband was engaged in womanising which compelled the woman to take a revenge on him.
She decided that the best way to also hurt her husband’s feelings was to have an affair with the husband’s driver. The affair became known to the husband and she was divorced. The dress she was wearing and her general appearance when we met her on the street showed clearly that all was not well mentally with her.
It was so sad and as a parent I started praying into the future of my children that they would get the right partners, God-fearing people to marry.
Another anxiety of parents is the character of their children’s life partners. Would they be kind people? Will they be people with bad tempers? Will they be wife beaters?
Domestic abuse is common in our society and you will be surprised at the calibre of the perpetrators. Some are well educated people, nicely dressed, when you meet them in public places you will never suspect that they are wife beaters.
Some are even pastors and yet they ignore the teachings of the Bible and maltreat their spouses. It is not only men who abuse their spouses but some women are abusers as well.
May God grant us and our children the gift of spirit of discernment so our children will make the right choices for us to also endorse.
By Laud Kissi-Mensah
