Mowabites Worldwide

Why did she call? I contemplate while hurrying home, checking the time on my phone every now and then.

Would be odd to have her arrive there ahead of me. Those roommates of mine, we are at loggerheads so they won’t bother to let me know someone came looking for me.

In my direction is a motor rider with his customer at the back. Motor taxi. Okada, the borrowed name from Nigeria for them.

They arrive at a speed bump, just before where I am. The bumping is severe despite the fact that the rider slowed down. The customer is almost thrown off his seat. I see a smile on the rider’s face and wonder what’s funny.

They bypass and fade behind me.

I am preoccupied with something I cannot remember now. But suddenly I see a leg. Of an animal. Jutting from… Oh! A truck!

“Ah! “ I suddenly remembered.

It’s Eid-ul-Adha tomorrow.

I turn to look around. And notice more Muslims than usual.  An unusually busy day for them.

I bypass Mr. Wu restaurant, move pass the space two Nigerians sold ladies’ shoes beside the pavement and then I cross the road.

Traffic.

I’m forced to push through and cross the road again. Sometimes if you wait for a driver to signal you to cross, you might as well take your supper by the road and think of a space to make your bed right there.

Across the road, I almost enter the wrong bus. It pays to listen carefully to the bus conductors. These mini-vans of ours used here for transport do not have labels.

I hurry to the next bus stop where I have a better chance of getting a bus home.

I see a man and his daughter. She is obviously in high school. Her uniform. They are holding hands. I see the resemblance.

A sexy looking lady is going in the opposite direction of the man and his daughter. The man turns to look. Looks quite longer.

As I get close to them, I notice the lips of the man. A drunkard, it seems. Wouldn’t surprise me if he is a womanizer too.

I find a bus and I am offered a front seat. Initially seemed an honor. In our part of the world, a front seat is big deal.

I hesitate. A rickety bus. Its front seat looked like a hot seat for a quick death. I take it anyway. And off the bus goes.

Many things moving past us. A delivery man on a motor. A tipper truck. Another bus transporting passengers like ours.

A pretty lady is trying to cross the road. Stops our bus. Driver halts to take her in. I thought the bus was full. Seems there is always space for a pretty girl.

We journey on.

I see a bunch of youth, quite a thick crowd, glued to a giant screen which appears crucified to a tree. Football. Of course. What else could it be?

The driver and his conductor start conversing in their mother tongue. I am Ghanaian but I am unable to tell which part of the nation that language is spoken.

Probably in the north. But it really sounded funny. Like they were making it all up. Like it didn’t mean a thing to them. And yet they appear to understand each other.

I, an African, found them and their language very funny. Imagine a European or some other nationality.

But those two funny-looking beings know a thing or two about music. For from the beginning of our journey till now some cool collections of African hits were steaming and sizzling in that old stereo of theirs.

I glance at the passengers through the rearview mirror.

Some looked tired, others dejected. Some  faces had no emotions. Some were glued to their phones. Others constantly checking through the window if they’ve arrived or are near their destinations.  One thing that jelled them together in the rickety bus was the music.

In this city of Accra, a city of hard life and hard living, soft for a few that were reluctant to share what makes it soft for them, music is what keeps one going.

Some preach against secular artists, others criticize their music. Some even give them bad names in hopes of seeing them drowned some day… And yet no one can deny that their music keeps the hustlers on the streets going when the going is not go-able.

Reminds me of one Sunday evening I was trapped in town.

On Sundays Accra is usually quiet. People are either gone to church or some place of relaxation. And so the streets are usually empty.

At a market square, the street hawkers and porters do not work on Sundays, especially in the evenings. So they had a party of no food and just enough music for themselves, dancing away their sorrows and hardships.

The joys of simple living.

These are the streets that birth tough fighters. It’s called the streets of Accra.

I reach home and wait. The caller never showed up. I go to sit on some benches meant for lovers. I shall be my own lover tonight, it seemed.

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