The mystery of sneezing- Alhaji Akanayo

By Solomon Mensah

Sneezing

 

 

The Founder of Black Herbal Clinic, Alhaji Akanayo, has again taken time of his busy schedules to throw light on the rational behind sneezing.

Speaking on the Nsem Pii Show, Happy FM, the Herbalist also known as the ‘Dabodabo Man’ said that the current generation of Ghana has taken things for granted that they do not consider the rational behind the happenings around them.

He noted that sneezing signifies the existence of ‘life’ in a person. “Our fore fathers were so wise that in the olden days when one sneezed, the other person close

to him or her would say ‘long life’.” He argued that it was not just for saying sake but rather a way of confirming and affirming life onto the person who sneezed.

Alhaji Akanayo also said that in the time past, a person brought to a herbalist for healing would be given a medicine to test as to whether the person will sneeze or not. Sneezing, he added, that the person would be healed and not sneezing suggested the sick person would die. “As a matter of fact, no person at the edge of death sneezes,” he said.

He encouraged Ghanaians to embrace herbal medicine since it is of good value to their health. However, he cautioned the general public to be circumspect in buying herbal medicine since there are fake herbalists in town.

Their gods, our wives

Wig on display. Photo Credit: Alibaba

“When we gather together in the moonlit village ground it is not because of the moon. Every man can see it in his compound. We come together because it is good for kinsmen to do so.”

That is what the legendary wizard of literature, Chinua Achebe, tells us in his renowned novel Things Fall Apart. At the end of the year 2013, my childhood friend travelled from America – where he has sought academic asylum – to be with his family and friends. It was certainly not the case that he could not have seen the moon’s light in his base at Virginia. Rather, it was for the sake of get-together.

Whenever we meet, we do not merely talk of the fact that we are growing old but of the responsibilities that come with ageing as well. We are nearing our 30s and marriage – like the suffering that knocks at one’s door when you tell it there is no seat for her, tells you not to worry because it brought its stool – stares at our faces. If you had ever seen a sanitary inspector fixedly looking at the bottom of a barrel filled with water, you would understand what I mean here. Family and friends are asking: “When are you marrying?”

But aside from the azonto-weddings that today’s Ghanaian woman is eager to embroil around her neck, a number of factors push young men like me and my friend to coil into our shells. The young Ghanaian woman (some) longing to be a White African – bleaching, shaving of the eyebrow, elongating their nails, lips painting and devastating enough, the wearing of wigs! Was it not in the news recently that a very dark woman, we all know, had turned into a white woman after claiming she used I hear common “cocoa buttercream”?

Unlike cunning Kwaku Ananse who would carry all the world’s wisdom on his protruding belly, I would like to zoom in on only one of the aforementioned factors by carrying it at my back for discussion. Ladies, kindly relax and read; I have no intention of “al-Shabaab” you with verbal bullets.

Tell me, why do you wear wigs? How do you feel about it? Do you have any idea what you look like when in it? Well, some look nice on some heads. But as to whether it fits your head or not, wigs have some serious spiritual backgrounds that I think if you had known, you would have discarded it to the dustbin.

This is what the “020/0244 pastors” won’t tell you. They are in for your money and not your salvation. Why not put aside the “I am highly favoured” mentality and follow the subsequent lines in sober reflections.

Come on.

Looking through the historical window, records have it that by 1580, syphilis – a sexually transmitted disease – had become one of the worst epidemics to strike Europe. William Clowes, an English surgeon, described the number of syphilis patients who clogged London’s hospitals as an “infinite multitude.” It is recorded that without antibiotics by then, victims of the disease suffered; nasty rashes, blindness, open sores, and hair loss.

Long hair was a trendy status symbol in society. With those who had the ‘Lord to be their barber,’ battling baldness was as painful as though been told to squeeze water out of a rock. The syphilis epidemic, partly, fueled the surge in wig making. Historians referred to wigs made for the bald as a shameful necessity. You see, the craze to have hair on one’s head did not start with Manchester United’s Wayne Rooney.

Away from the syphilis canker, at age 17, Louis XIV (1638 – 1715), the King of France sprung on his feet with the agility of a leopard and commanded 48 wig makers to save his image. What image? The desire to maintain his hair on his head. Five years later, the King of England, Charles II, is also reported to have emulated Louis’ hair restoration. Does that sound interesting?

The history of wigs continues unabated. In this 21^st century, I am yet to spot a descendant of Eve who is growing bald. I think finding a naturally bald woman would be as scarce as meeting a lady in her prime in our modern Ghana. Perhaps, such a lady might be suffering from such hair loss related sicknesses. So, again, women, why do you wear wigs?

My colleague, Mavis Boamah – a level 200 student at the Ghana Institute of Journalism – will attempt to find answers as to why our women are lovers of wigs these days.

Hello there, I’m Mavis and I am taking a stroll through one of the principal streets of Accra. Here, at one shoulder of the street, pedestrian malls stand like bullfrogs in a swamp. Solomon, feet are stepping on feet and heads knocking heads as passersby struggle their way through this chocked lane.

On my immediate left is a metallic store, a little bigger than the size of a lotto kiosk, filled to the brim with cosmetics. In the store are mannequins head-geared in wigs and weaves. Women, old and young, either troop in and out of the store or steal a glance at the mannequins on tenterhooks.

Felicity is a 25-year-old woman. I ask her why the craze for wigs. “Well for me, it adds up to my beauty. Strange enough, whether it’s the bride or the corpse in a wig, the product electrifies their beauty.”

For Bernice and her friend Abigail, both nurses, “wearing of wigs does not only save one’s hair from breaking off but it cuts down the cost of going to the salon every week.” From what I have gathered so far, Solomon, wigs are but just another twist of fashion.

Wigs come in different forms with various names. The human hair such as the Brazilian hair and other many synthetic ones; the wig caps and the hair braids. But from where do we get these wigs? Sources such as Obediah Amankwah – on YouTube, affirm how human hairs are sacrificed to gods at Hindu temples, in India. These hairs are later packaged to countries such as ours for sale to our women whom we take for wives. The most dangerous thing about the sale of these hairs is that most of the worshippers who donated their hairs to their gods do not know that their religious leaders later sell them out.

India is not the only country noted for either sacrificing human hair to gods or selling such hairs. In many other countries including Peru, one’s hair could be sold in other to afford a meal.

Owing to this, whenever I see a lady in a wig; whether human hair or synthetic, I jerk my head sharply like an animal that has sniffed death in the air. As a lady, I know that what gets most men attracted to us is seeing our buttocks wriggle – like worms – in our skirts or trousers. Whereas our hair is of great value to us, most men these days prefer our natural hairs to wigs.

As it stands, the average Ghanaian men – like my friend Solomon and his friend– marrying the wig-wearing ladies will only amount to marrying “Indian gods”.

 Solomon Mensah is a freelance journalist and Mavis Boamah is a student-journalist at the Ghana Institute of Journalism.

Writers’ emails: nehusthan4@yahoo.com & boamahmavis@ymail.com

 

Accra’s Night Markets on the Pavements

By Solomon Mensah

Traders selling on pavements in Accra

When night falls and the “Abayees”are snoring heavily like Okonkwo does in his sleep, brisk businesses are born on pavements of Accra. The items sold range from consumable to non-consumable goods. Brassieres, foot wears, jewels, and “kye-bom” with bread are but a few wares that compete with pedestrians on the pavements and spill over onto the streets of Mayor Okoe Vanderpuije’s Millennium City.

Clinking of bells, soothing voices calling on passersby to buy, sign languages and many more constitute traders’ advertisement. As someone born and bred in the woodlands of the Brong Ahafo Region, I get curious when I walk in the streets of the capital. In my part of the world, the sun does not set on traders.

Back at Dodosuo (my holy village), one has to knock on Maame Kwaayie’s door when it is 6pm for condiments. And if it becomes your habit to be knocking on traders’ doors after sunset, you can easily be (mis)taken for a witch. But that seems to sharply contradict the marketing trend in big cities. “Their market knows no night,” I murmured to myself.

It is 8:10pm and I am walking down the lane leading from the V.I.P Bus Terminal at Kwame Nkrumah Circle towards the Ghana Commercial Bank tower. Men, women and children are seen busily buying and selling. I am so trapped in the crowd that I have to walk sideways like a man who has lost his bearing to alcohol. A young woman in her late twenties has the neck buried in the clothing she sells. Her right leg is mounted on a small post and one hand dipped into the pocket in an attempt to ‘balance’ a customer. Next to her is another fairly old woman selling a pile of second-hand clothes.

Asare Emmanuel sells ladies’ bags. He tells me this lane is the Circle Odawna Market. On a blue polythene rubber spread on the pavement, his stuffed bags sit like bull frogs in a swamp. “Oh the night market here is good. I make good sales each night”, Asare explains why he sells at night.

But aside this flourishing venture at night, the question as to whether it is good selling on pavements is what must be the concern of authorities of the city, if not the sellers and buyers.

Asare’s friend, Kwabena says the Abayees (AMA city guards) do not allow them to sell on pavements. He corrects my impression of the Abayees sleeping heartily at night. For him, the Abayees only sleep with an eye closed.

“They come here sometimes around 11:30pm after us,” he screams into my voice recorder and makes a passionate appeal. “Please, tell them we beg them.”

Business seems to be thriving in the night markets, especially as Christmas approaches. But this act of indiscipline must not be allowed to continue for long. Pavements are meant for pedestrians’ passage but not for market. Simple! The night markets on the pavements have also become safe havens for pick-pockets. They mingle with the crowd and take advantage of the human traffic to terrorise unsuspecting passersby.

The most annoying attitude of traders on the pavement is the fact that they see it as their right to do what they do. In one of my rush hours to catch Burma Camp bus at Tema station for lectures, I got humiliated by a trader. My crime was my unknowingly kicking a pair of shoe he displayed on a pavement.

The least attempt to rid our cities and towns of such acts of lawlessness is often met with the accusation of rendering people jobless. But the fact that there are no jobs does not mean that we should compound the situation with behaviours that have the tendency of making life uncomfortable for people in our towns and cities. We must all help the Accra Metropolitan Assembly (AMA) to make our city clean and safe.

The writer is a student-journalist at the Ghana Institute of Journalism. 

Email: nehusthan4@yahoo.com

Kwaku Sakyi-Addo’s khebab and the breast release

By Solomon Mensah

Kwaku Sakyi-Addo

It was a sunny Thursday afternoon (I think Judas might have been on duty) when the man who once got married to the microphone stepped on the campus of the Ghana Institute of Journalism.

Kwaku Sakyi-Addo had announced his presence earlier on to the school as his posters flooded the campus. One of such posters pasted somewhere at the entrance gave students assurance that Kwaku’s talk, as usual, will not be as boring as a civil servant’s memo.  

So when the day was due, I

was torn between the anvil and the hammer contemplating as to whether I revise my notes for the mid-semester examination or join my colleagues at the seminar room to listen to the ace broadcaster.

At last, the man I listened to on News File (Joy Fm) from the two loud speakers of Alavanyo Spot in Sunyani was in front of me. I could not believe my eyes but really it was Kwaku Sakyi-Addo. As old as (I guess) he would be, Kwaku’s well built muscles popped in his white long sleeve cotton shirt gave him a youthful look.

Unlike some of our leaders who bury their heads in written speeches like the ostrich does in the sand, the onetime BBC’s correspondent exhibited a sense of intellectualism. For his close to an hour interaction with the students of the Ghana Institute of Journalism, he poured statistics pertaining to the Ghanaian Telecommunications on the writing board without looking on any paper. Impressive! As pleasing as he sounded to the ear, at a point in time, I thought he was reciting one of the best African poems we learnt at secondary school.

All too soon, the lecture was over but Kwaku Sakyi-Addo could not have resumed his seat without passing a word of advice.

As benevolent as Kwaku is, he had provided us kebabs and some crates of Coca Cola. This was a funny way of a guest “welcoming” a host. But without towing the Ghanaian way of hesitating over a gift that he would ultimately accept, we said ‘thank you’ to him for his benevolence.

He “prayed” that the kebabs and crates of Coca Cola, which he sponsored, become the “last supper” of the would-be journalists. Kwaku’s concern was the shame some journalist cause the inky fraternity at gatherings when they fight over kebabs, Coca Cola, “soli” and the like. So his benevolence should tell us that if we work hard, we can afford to buy more than a stick of kebab.

Shunning the sweat that trekked in-between his left eye and the nose, he rose again on his toes. This time, the seminar room was calmer than the cemetery as he lamented over the attitudes of the bad nuts. Looking at the contours on the face of my secret admirer, one needed not a psychologist to tell that the man with a patented throat-clearing stints signature was disturbed.

With his agility with words, crafting and weaving them as though he was weaving a basket, he advised the gathering.  “As you go out into the field of journalism, do not go and join the black sheep in the media landscape. Value yourself. Mind you, you are more valuable than a kebab or perhaps a bottle of Coca Cola. I find no sense when trained journalists chase such eateries at the expense of their duty,” he said.

Kwaku’s words goose fleshed our skins sheltering us like the brood of ducklings lain in-between the bent leg of one of the horses in Animal Farm. Indeed, the accomplished broadcaster and now the CEO of The Ghana Chamber of Telecommunications (GCT) wish we (would-be journalists) rise above his achievements. He would therefore not leave us to wander aimlessly in our chosen profession.

I think it will be prudent clearing the air that Kwaku Sakyi-Addo had no beef with kebab sellers neither the Coca Cola Company nor a section of any media practitioners. Rather, a share of sentiments that has the potential of crippling the Ghanaian media.

So, was it wrong when Kwaku Sakyi-Addo posed behind the podium as a father in advising his ‘children’? I guess your response is a gargantuan NO! The time has come for a rigorous cleansing of the journalistic profession.  

“Profession” according to the Oxford dictionary online is “a paid occupation, especially one that involves prolonged training and a formal qualification.” Moreover, the Cambridge dictionary also defines it as “any type of work which needs special training or a particular skill, often one which is respected because it involves a high level of education.” Pardon me for bothering you with definitions but it is a way of helping understand what we might take for granted, “profession.”

From the two well carved definitions above, one must do all things gentlemanly to further uplift the image of his or her profession. So satirically, we hear lawyers, especially the student-lawyers, say that all professionals are educated but only lawyers are learned. This irrespective of its impact on academia, it is a way to make the “I put it to you” profession look lucrative and special. Therefore, if one spends two to four years in school to be taught and trained as a journalist, then it behoves upon such a person to hold the journalistic profession also in high esteem. Whereas a doctor who gobbles over food at a gathering would be chastised by the Medical Association, the journalist who does not only gobble but packs food shamefully must also be chastised by the journalistic body.

As if by design, while Kwaku Sakyi-Addo was saddled with some journalists’ bad attitude towards “item 13,” a chunk number of the lecturers at the Ghana Institute of Journalism buried their chins in the palm over indecent dressing. Bursting out (but soberly) like over pumped football, one of these lecturers pleaded to the First and Third Year students (females) of the Institute to put a stop to their “breast release.”

When this Lecturer (who I will like to remain anonymous) first mentioned her coined term, breast release, the ‘editors’ among us (the students) gathered for orientation towards internship thought she meant “press release.” She said she had observed an indecent dressing among some section of the female students whereby their breasts pop up like the mucus in a crying child’s nose.

I almost said amen when she said, “declare today that you will put a stop to this kind of indecent dressing as you are leaving for internship.” Don’t mind me for I was so touched. “Be mindful that not only will you disgrace womanhood with this indecent exposure but tarnishing the image of journalism as well,” she added.

Personally, I find it hard to comprehend why a woman would like to expose her breast publicly. To my surprise, I have never come across a dead woman laid-in-state with part of her breast released. Tell me if you have found one yourself.   

This lecturer in question said she has for many occasions called on such breast releasers to teach them how to dress and advised them to stop broadcasting what they release to their viewers. I am therefore tempted to ask that if the dead’s breast will not be shown, why the would-be journalist?

It is said that when rain falls, it does not fall on only one roof. So another worried Lecturer could not let the first Lecturer’s “rain” fall on only the female students. The blindly copy of Otto Pfister’s (a coach who once managed Ghana’s football team) trousers below his buttocks was frowned upon.

This second Lecturer was also worried as to why one will intentionally pull his trousers below his buttocks. He called on the few students who adore this style of dressing to emulate their colleagues’ proper way of dressing.

As if that was not enough, a word of caution was sent across instructing that one keep a well shaped hair. “The vagabond way of hair style does not befit any profession especially journalism,” the second concerned Lecturer said. Well said, one can just tag another to a group of people by a mere look of his or her haircut. Owing to this, nurses (both student-nurses and practising nurses) cannot just put up any hair style. Can you imagine a nurse with a six feet high wig like Papa Ajasco’s wife’s headgear attending to you as a patient? Such frightful scene of hair style is now being worn by men as well with some having inscriptions written on their heads. This, common sense tells us that it will not be welcomed in the media landscape.

It will not be out of place to applaud Kwaku Sakyi-Addo and the Lecturers at the Ghana Institute of Journalism in helping ensure that “sanity” prevails in the media profession.

This piece built upon the words of the two parties above does not seek to restrict anyone in the media of any kind of reception offered him or her, but, rather, to advise that one must put self value first before the stomach. The breast release (a new term you can adopt) is just a reminder to the practising journalists and would-be journalists to continue to be decent and modest in terms of clothing.

How I wish someone tell Kwaku Sakyi-Addo that “I want more” of his kebab as said in the Pure Milk’s advertisement on television. Hey, I do not mean to make noise over it like the “stubborn” child in the ad. I have learnt my lessons.

The writer is a student-journalist at the Ghana Institute of Journalism

Email: nehusthan4@yahoo.com