Poet

Last week I found an old poem that an ex-student had written. It was about an angry, educated kid, whose head was caught between street and smart. I must have said I liked to write, so this guy, James, bought some of his writing to show me.It was all this rhyming, effortless, angry poetry from this young guy. It was so good.

          I showed the poem to my sixteen year old son. "Mm,mm, that's not bad, still," he said nodding, as it did sound current, even over ten years later- (which is a shame really, as it means young people are still faced with the same issues and problems.)
We spoke about those days for a while, my son and I. The days when he was four and five and I used to drive him to his nice, private school before I went on to work. Those were the days when I had money- the days before I wanted to write full time!

10 Ways To...

Can I quickly say before this gets read- I know I have not posted for a while, most of my stuff has stayed in 'draft' mode, but I swear- it is not because I have been practising these techniques!!)

Ten Ways to Create a Delinquent
1. Be sure not to show your son or daughter any affection.This will leave them unable to do so in later life.

2. Remind them on a regular basis just how usless they are.

3. Pit siblings against each other. Always take the side of your 'other', your 'favourite' child. If there are no siblings available, cousins and other youngsters will suffice.

4  Isolate the other parent and when your child asks for him or her say in as mean a voice as possible,  "S/he is not interested in you." Then walk off.

I can't get no sleep

Sleep evades me like an errant child. And not one that goes quietly either. She would slam the door behind her, stamp her feet and shout; "I never want to see you again!" and run off at 4 and 5 in the morning. I would be left with the sound of a small congregation singing "Ha....lle....uayah...." in the church just across the way, and a preacher preaching through a microphone as though it were indeed mid afternoon and his congregation was a crowd of one hundred and not a sprinkle of fifteen..
Sleep would tease me all afternoon. Hit me hard and then skip off.  "You can't catch me, you can't catch me!" Or stand at the foot of my bed at 7am whilst the carpenter banged yet another nail into a downstairs wall.

I spent weeks trying to catch this child. On some days I forgot I needed her until late. Those proved to be better days. There were the nights when I got all dressed up and went and danced with her anyway, watching her with squinted eyes.Or went walking or driving around, only to be shouted at from the church microphone just a few hours after I put my head down. Ear plugs, tissue and cotton wool all failing to keep her noise at bay. She was wicked. Wicked.

All I wanted was to hold her- for at least eight hours. Rub her back like I used to and say- "It's OK, you can stay. I really really love and need you". But here- she didn't care at all. Tongue sticking out and hair sticking up- "Nah na na na na. Come get me then!". I got to dragging the hem of her skirt on a few occasions. Forced her down on several others- but in Ghana, she never loved me, not really. My inner child ended up writing a few lines of stern complaint. You can read them under my eyes.

House Boy

Day two and I've yet to erase the memory of the horrible flight and horrendous Death Ride from my mind. This morning, however, I have a distraction. We have been introduced but this is the first time I get to have a proper conversation with him. Jacob, our house boy.  House boys and girls are the norm here. Someone who fetches and carries, cleans up and looks after you and mends or reports faults around the house. Well, that's what Jacob does.  At home my house boy is my son, but he does nothing. Nothing I tell you.  This boy is a sheer delight.  "Jacob, can you get me some credit please?" I am just testing the waters. "Of course". He smiles and goes off with what seems like pleasure to purchase 5 cidis worth of credit for my new local number.  On his return I get a chance to speak to him. "So Jacob", I say. "When you are not doing such a wonderful job looking after us, what do you do?"
       His skin is the same brown as my oldest son, despite this heat. He has a straight smile and a mini afro. He wears track suit bottoms and sandals and an over-sized basketball vest. In England the haircut would have to be sharp. The creps(trainers) would be Nike or Adidas or some other known label,  and the vest would have to at least match the tracksuit bottoms! Luckily for him he is not bound by the constaints of image and swagger and the his freedom is a refreshing reminder that there are alternative ways of being."You must be on vacation now, right?"

Babies in thirties and forties?

People do it all the time- Observations of Ghana .2

We call it the Death Ride
The first drive in this country was from the airport to where we are staying in a place called Koforidua. We travel in what the locals call a 'tro tro'. We pile in with our bags and suitcases; four volunteer teachers, a doctor, the project organiser, the driver and his two nephews. The driver takes us on a journey up long winding roads. There's hardly any traffic as it's now about 2am. He speeds up this mountain, as this can't be just a hill. It's black on either side. Eventually we can see the city of Accra laid almost beneath us. It resembles a black blanket with fire flies resting all over it. It's wonderful, daunting, but it's below and I'm worried that if this f*** ing driver doesn't slow down we are all doing to roll down there in this tro tro.

People do it all the time- Observations of Ghana

I spy with my Little Eye
Am sat in an Internet cafe in Koforidua, Ghana and all I can do is thank my lucky stars. This is the second African country I have visited, and- for the second time- I feel right at home. I walked about fifteen minutes from the where I'm staying to get here. Sand and dust fill my sandals and my fellow travellers Akuoswa, Eve and I have had to step over a few open sewages, but for me, I just love it and I know they do too. Right now they are on the Internet doing their thing and I am sat here beside an open door to my right. A large fan on the ceiling above me spins the aroma of 5pm and heat, but the open door lets in a breeze that sends shivers down my spine.  Just outside a bike is propped up against a black and red column. I can only see the front wheel and the front of a well worn silver frame with a black wire basket sitting near the front handlebars. Old cars are honking through the road. Golfs, Nissans; old models that back in England would be considered outdated. They whizz or crawl past this spot tooting every couple of seconds to warn pedestrians, and bikers who, in my mind, are just brave. They toot to warns the animals- dogs and goats  who all seem to understand the nuances of this busy road. It's alive. Not quite heaving, but vibrant.