My last post, ‘Awengaa’ contained two paragraphs showing the firm bond between Mother and Baby, the agency being Mother’s breastmilk. Then was my reference to a past encounter in a Ghanaian village where there was an odd substitute for mother’s breastmilk. While the feedback to ‘Awengaa’ was virtually an avalanche, I refer particularly to one which ruined my day. My words: “Our mothers were experts, diagnosing every restless cry or baby’s whimper. It could be hunger, fatigue, stress; it could also be pain from a bad touch. Yaa Nyarkoa our Mother knew it all. In several cases though, mother’s breast milk was the prescription. It was nature’s syrup and lullaby, lulling baby to sleep, sometimes with mother’s breast still in the firm grip of a sleeping baby. Though asleep, baby bounces back crying should mother stealthily draw back her nipples; baby would cry protesting the violation of toddler rights until nipple returns. The mother-baby prank continues until baby finally drifts away in sound sleep, and excess milk rolls off nature’s fountain, untapped.” “But sleeping babies could mean something else. In the late 1990s, I travelled to the Western region for a funeral, and learned more of this world. A baby was fast asleep when we arrived at the village. For how long had it slept; some three hours or more, we were told. Why that long? The horrifying truth rolled off the mother’s lips. This was a site well known for Indian hemp cultivation; and weeping babies interfering with household chores, were routinely doped to sleep. It was a widespread practice, we were told; a marijuana syrup was their lullaby. My colleague and I were dumbfounded hearing this. Tracking the social progress of such babies would be interesting. Baby drug addiction could start by default and, like child marriage, be considered normal in parts of Ghana.” Soon after my post came this unnerving response: “Hi Prof `Kwesi, I am surprised you still recall the incident of my grandson who was often drugged in childhood in place of being fed by my aunt. Unfortunately, he has grown up as a drug addicted adult, now living on the street as a mental person. How sad that he was initially able to cultivate big acres of cocoa farm and even put up a bachelor-type house for himself. Sadly, he now lives on the street, his whereabouts difficult to track.” kwyankah@yahoo.com
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Excerpts of the Keynote Speech by the President of the GJA on the launch of Kwesi Yankah Writes Digital Library.
We were careful those days in Duakwa not to be shamed and mocked as ‘Awengaa.’ A thirty-year old man who had ‘slept’ with an under-aged girl; he was Awengaa. A forty-year old having his way with a class four girl; he was tagged, ‘Awengaa.’ He had grey hair, and the girl was only eight: Awengaa. So therefore young girls took to their heels seeing him from afar: ‘if you cross his line, he will not spare you,’ little girls would giggle, and scamper off. In some cases, the victim was really a baby, and the idiom carried a literal meaning: Awengaa: ‘a predator of crying babies.’ It was a virtual taboo, a serious cultural breach. The offender if caught would be paraded in the streets, gong gong, songs of shame and booing trailing him: ‘Waware ne ba, Akwasi,’ was the song stigmatizing the bad man: ‘he has slept with a girl young enough to be his daughter.’ The publicity was to caution the innocent one who might make an awengaa’s home, a temporary day care: ‘Look after my girl-child until I return from the farm.’ But it could also be an underage groundnut seller, retailing from house to house; an awengaa could be a regular customer. Unfortunately, the awengaa of this world may not be strange looking. It could be efienipa, who doubles as a prowler. Society expresses rage by depicting any such victim as a ‘baby:’ whose tender cry or babble tells you it’s underage, and could not possibly have given consent. She was reeling in pain crying, and you still had your way with her; you pedophile, you beast of prey! But our mothers were experts, diagnosing every restless cry or baby’s whimper. It could be hunger, fatigue, stress; it could also be pain from a bad touch. Yaa Nyakoa our Mother knew it all. In several cases though, mother’s breast milk was the prescription. It was nature’s syrup and lullaby, lulling baby to sleep, sometimes with mother’s breast still in the firm grip of a sleeping baby. Though asleep, baby bounces back crying should mother stealthily drag away her nipples; baby would cry protesting the violation of toddler rights until nipple returns. The mother-baby prank continues until baby finally drifts away in sound sleep, and excess milk rolls off nature’s fountain, untapped. But sleeping babies could mean something else. In the late 1990s I travelled to the Western region for a funeral, and learned more of this world. A baby was fast asleep when we arrived at the village. For how long had it slept; some three hours or more, we were told. Why that long? The horrifying truth rolled off the mother’s lips. This was a site well known for Indian hemp plantation; and weeping babies interfering with household chores, were routinely doped to sleep. It was a widespread practice, we were told; a marijuana syrup was their lullaby. Dr Bonnah Koomson and I were dumbfounded hearing this. Tracking the social progress of such babies would be interesting. Baby drug addiction could start by default and, like child marriage, be considered normal in parts of Ghana. April 1, when news broke of a 12 year-old girl in marital engagement with a virtual ‘grandfather,’ the nation dramatized its shock in the spirit of April 1st. We pretended this was news, but it was not. It was national hypocrisy at work; yet child welfare foundations and think tanks stampeded to put their protests on record, hoping to make the six o’clock news. ‘Tofiakwa!’ ‘How the hell!’ ‘This is an abomination!’. ‘Silly customary rites!’ All that was April theatre. But we gave the game away when choreographers forgot to fix the girl’s age before the public drama started. They could at least have advised her age not to dance back and forth. We should have consulted the Black Satellites of old, on how to memorize your soccer age without tongue slips. As things stood, the age of our customary bride kept changing by the day, and could by this Christmas hit the age of her spiritual spouse. Yet the April ceremony that went viral, was generally understood by all conversant with marriage rites. Commentaries by spokespersons and intruding voices of well-wishers during the ceremony were instructive and a great learning experience. The ‘tear rubber’ repeatedly chanted at the ceremony, had only one meaning on earth: a new bride, a brand new car with rubber seat-covers. Note however the pieces of advice given the bride at inventory taking of gifts. Traditional cloth underwear, ankle beads, and sturdy waist beads. The counseling spokesperson, however, subsequently did not mince words: ‘The big beads are for the old man’s pleasure; the old man should play romance today,’ was the ritual injunction. The cat was out of the bag, but scary considering the girl’s age! The entire ceremony was probably a betrothal, and should give no cause for alarm. But do spirits only play romance and walk away? Eventually, an intrusive voice put the matter to rest, using a vulgar directive I cannot print here. But, Ghanaians, we are hypocrites! We point accusing fingers in the single example gone viral; but ingredients in the famous April ceremony are on display daily in our great nation. But our lips are sealed. Check the records. Child marriage is rampant and happens next door daily. It is the lowest reported crime in Ghana. According to national statistics, nearly 80,000 girls in Ghana today are in forced marriage below 18 and living together with a man. Out of the number, 25,000 are of JHS age, 12 to 14 years. Most are given away out of poverty. Some are above 18 at the SHS level, but the circumstances are pathetic. The Community E Block Day school has not helped the vulnerable. Girls who are stranded without nearby boarding facilities fall prey to pedophiles; they are sometimes compelled to live-in with neighborhood landlords several times above their age. This has led to premature pregnancies and fatherless babies particularly in rural community day schools. But lips are sealed. These schools should be turned into boarding facilities to protect our girls. But we have all connived as a nation. Listen to parts of a popular song we have enjoyed without complaining. It was put out by a celebrity who was once MUSIGA President. The title, Aboa konkontimaa (the tadpole). This one is underaged, I know she is But she is my choice She has stripped before me But it’s hard to look Aboa konkontima, the tadpole, will grow up And turn into a frog. We hailed this song, and could have made it song of the year. Let’s bow our heads in shame, heal our collective conscience, and cast not the first stone at Nungua. kwyankah@yahoo.com
In the past three weeks, fear and panic have gripped parts of Ghana. A legend of vanishing male genitals has been circulating, with a number of arrests made by the police of suspects. The dreaded spots so far are Kasoa, Awutu Senya, and parts of Eastern region. In all cases, though, no missing genitals have been proven, and suspected robbers or magicians have been set free. To older Ghanaians this should be a familiar story. Its closest precedent was July-August 1997, when the spooky tale spread across the nation leading to mob attacks and lynching in crowded places. While this lasted, cultural norms involving bodily touch were frozen. Even the bravest among men would not take chances; hands were cupped around flaps, and protocol handshakes were sacrificed for fear of genital loss. The possible causes? There had been an influx of immigrants from the subregion, and the fear mongering was perhaps an ‘aliens compliance order,’ cleverly crafted to free immigrant jobs for Ghanaians. But it could also be real black magic at work. At the time this happened, my pen was alive. Listen to my right hand in July 1997. “Not the first time human body parts have been felt missing. Dentists are the first offenders after they have applied local anesthesia to your gum, and asked you to wait at the reception for your turn, which never comes. The tooth extraction over, not only is your tooth gone. Anesthesia makes you feel your lips were extracted together with your tooth, and a momentary search for your lips may begin. For those not quite used to wintry weather, a five minutes exposure in winter often ‘disappears’ your ears, and an occasional check with a mirror or hand touch could even be advised by the weather man. Who knows if disobedience may lead to ear loss. But it is not only body parts. The Kattah family I knew in the early seventies were probably glad to be associated with a kinsman, Brigadier Kattah, who kept eluding the Acheampong government after an alleged overthrow plot. The story was simple. Brigadier Kattah would vanish anytime he was pursued by the security. It was simply a matter of touching the wall, and he would find himself at the Aflao border probably with Kofi Awoonor. I met the legendary Brigadier Kattah not too long ago at a friend’s get together in New Achimota. A very simple, smallish man he was, and he only chuckled when I inquired about his mystical powers. If a mere touch of the wall led to body displacement, Brigadier Kattah could very easily have caused a scare shaking hands at funerals in Anloga, or asking for directions at Makola. Looking at the faces of chief mourners last weekend at a colleague’s funeral, you could see panic written across faces. In a moment, they would have wished they had the option to avoid serial handshakes with the long queue of sympathizers: each greeting followed by a handshake. What an ominous custom, where sympathy cannot be expressed without the risk of losing your male genital. And what of the customary expression of gratitude after you have given your nsawa or donation at a funeral. A group of women has been specifically tasked to proceed in one dogodogo line, and shake hands with the kind donor, thereby causing his manhood to disappear or shrink, as an expression of the lineage’s gratitude. But since anybody could be a victim or culprit, a good safeguard is possibly not putting yourself in a position where you will thank or be thanked, sympathize or be sympathized with; touch or be touched. Whether in Bawjiase or Madina, walking the streets these days can be scary; you can be lynched by a mob, or maimed by a simple cry of ‘Give it back to me.’ If the alarm blower has held his flap, you are in trouble. So are you jeopardized if you respond to a stranger’s quest for directions, or time check. For being a good Samaritan this may cause you the loss of genitals, and you may find yourself placing a lost and found adverts on radio. Finder may be amply rewarded. I am surprised the business acumen of the Ghanaian has not been roused. Let one insurance company start the business of insuring male genitals against ‘depreciation,’ and you will notice how long the registration queue. That is why the Sollatek stabilizer appears to have made it overnight. Sollatek insulates your electronic equipment against power surges, fluctuations and the like. And do you remember the picture that comes with the bill board advert? A lineup of four or five defenders in a soccer game facing a free kick just outside the penalty box; their hands firmly cupped over genitalia. The written advert simply says, “Protect your valuable property.” No wonder taxi drivers and trotro ‘mates’ no longer take moneys directly from the passenger. Passenger fare may be left in a till provided somewhere near the driver. ‘Don’t touch me’ has been revisited. But wouldn’t the mystery have been over if what was alleged to be missing, were a visible body part? Could victims, for instance have complained to the police about ‘my missing nose,’ ‘my missing chin,’ or ‘my missing jaw bone.’ Why is it never a missing something apart from the something? That would certainly have made police investigations easier. It would simply have been a matter of pointing to your missing chin, or nose, without having to strip in front of the police or doctor, to display how little you are in spite of your big size, or how big you are in spite of your miniature size. Just imagine the extent one police station went, according to newspaper reports, inviting a lady to massage a ‘victim’s’ shrunk genitals into rising or awakening. Ghanaian business acumen would one day lead to the upsurge of women genital entrepreneurs, whose mystical powers would lie in restoring missing organs for a fee. And here the restoration therapy would simply involve massaging the empty slot, whereupon the victim after a few minutes of ticklish sensation would exclaim, “In the name of Jesus; I have found it.” kwyankah@yahoo.com
