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“I-DON’T CARE-ISM” IS WHAT WILL DESTROY DEAR GHANA! By CAMERON DUODU
“I don’t-care-ism”?
I bet you’ve probably never hear d the word before in your life?
Well, when I was attending a Presbyterian Primary School in the 1940s, we were constantly warned against what the teachers called “I-don’t-care-ism!”
If you went to school in the morning without combing your hair, you had done so because you had cultivated the habit of “I-don’t-care-ism”!
If you left your homework undone, you were showing “I-don’t-carism”!
If you continually came to school late; if you left your reading books or exercise books behind; if you chatted while the teacher was outside the classroom [and a prefect wrote your name down as a “talkative!”]; if your uniform looked as if it had been slept in – “I-don’t-care-ism” was to blame!
At the time, I thought the teachers were too strict and I resented their inability to appreciate that one might have committed an offence not because one was addicted to “I-don’t-care-ism” but because of particular circumstances over which one might not have had any control. But as they say in Twi, “wobenyinabƐto!” [you will grow up to come and meet it!”]
In other words, it will happen to you, too. And then you will understand why it was condemned when YOU were committing it.
At maturity, you will discern that it was because of his or her indifference to your feelings that the person who had agreed to come and see you at 9 a.m., arrived at 10.30. Had he/she considered that you probably had woken up earlier than normal in order to get ready for the meeting? Had it been considered that you might have arranged another appointment to follow that one and that by turning up late, he?she would inevitably cause you to be late for the next one? To you, all that would indicate an “I-don’t-care-ish” attitude, wouldn’t it? And while trying not to be impolite, you’d be boiling inside, wouldn’t you?
You ask: why this psychological treatise on a quiet Tuesday morning, MR D?
Hmmm! Yes – a columnist must learn not to sound like a preacher but what is a man to do when a subject matter has been occupying his mind day and night?
The subject matter that is occupying my mind is –not hard to guess – COVID-19.
Now it may not be occupying as much space in your mind as mine, and I say good luck to you! For me, that a disease can suddenly descend on humankind and within four months or so, produce the following figures, is mind-blowing; beyond comprehension.
QUOTE :
WHO Coronavirus Disease (COVID-19) Dashboard
Data last updated: 2020/5/18, 9:33am CEST
4,589,526Confirmed Cases
310,391Deaths
(Source: World Health Organization) UNQUOTE
Reader, had this disease occurred in Ghana in, say, the year of our independence (1957), when our population totalled 6,068,997, roughly two out of every three Ghanaians would have caught it! Just imagine that! And we aren’t finished yet with COVID-19 !
Shouldn’t a disease with a power of infection of this magnitude monopolise our thinking processes until by God’s grace, it vanishes from Planet Earth?
We in Ghana have been very fortunate so far, in that the disease appears mostly to have been brought
in aeroplanes to a single airport, Kotoka International. This means we were able to intercept the passengers carrying it, quarantine them and offer them treatment. Meanwhile, crack teams of contact tracers went to work, trying to find the people whom the passengers might have been in contact with, and testing them to see which of them had caught the disease, and who THEIR contacts were.
Meanwhile, we also took the precaution of “locking down” the country by asking workers to stay at home and banning social gatherings. All well and good, and when it looked as if our efforts were containing the rate of infections, we naturally relaxed things “a bit.”
But we then took our eyes off the ball. The figures of the infected became more and more indicative of the fact that the community at large had now begun to catch the disease. With our ability to test effectively challenged by a lack of adequate testing centres and our capacity to carry out “enhanced contact tracing” also limited by inadequate quantities of PPEs (personal protection equipment), we began to realise that we were sparring with a partner way above our weight.
And, of course, the bad news then hit us like a bomb. Our President, no less, told us in a national broadcast, that one person had infected 533 others at a “fish processing factory” at Tema.
What? One person infected 533? How could that happen?
We expected the Government to announce the immediate closure of the factory.
We expected the Government to name and shame the factory, pour encourager les autres (to teach others a lesson) as the French put it.)
But none of that happened. In Public Health practice, the most effective way of tackling a pandemic is to be absolutely open about it and use EVERY MEANS POSSIBLE to educate the community to follow best practice. Because it is the community that receives and imparts it. Simple.
However, the message conveyed by the failure of the health authorities to inform the populace of what had happened at Tema, was that, after all, they were not as serious about teaching us to avoid the disease as we had thought.
What’s the point of telling us to wash our hands, wear face masks and gloves and observe “social distancing”, if you allow a factory to spread the disease without imposing the severest penalties on it? And if you imply that you want to protect the factory by inexplicably withholding its name from the public?
Sadly, it wasn’t only the health authorities who failed us. Our media passed over the President’s explosive revelation about the Tema factory as if he’d just announced that Accra Hearts of Oak had drawn with Kumasi Kotoko again!Oh, another draw? Yawn! Yawn!
In every other country with a free press, the news would have been on the front pages of newspapers with banner headlines. But not in Ghana.
Fiery newspaper editorials? I am yet to see one.
Media panel discussions? Ho, why should this story that should remove Obinim from the story list?
I was so frustrated by how this story had been handled by the authorities and the media that, I issued a “press statement” urging the Government to set up a public enquiry to find out the facts about the issue.
No reaction from the Government!
Meanwhile, the Gold Mine at Obuasi is reported to have suffered a somewhat similar plight as the Tema factory.
Duh!??
I-dont’t-carism rules the day, right?
Features
Just in time part 3
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
Features
The wahala of Sikaman MPs (1)
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
