The KNUST Diaries - The Aluta Years (4) - Repu Waakye

“Who is there?” Modibo shouted, half asleep.

There had been a knock on our door very early in the morning on a Saturday.

“Open that door, kwasia!” a voice said

I was soon to learn, that in the Unity Hall, insults were much a part of everyday language. Kwasia meant, an idiot. We actually insulted each other as a way of showing affection. So a friend you had not seen for a while might say hello to you with “Kwasia like that!” when you would also respond “kwasia like that!” With our manly status thus firmly established, we could then quite comfortably engage in the female stuff like hugging and so on.

“Kakra C” Modibo murmured, rubbing his sleepy eyes and opening the door

He was dressed in a pair of track bottoms and a t-shirt with the sleeves torn off to expose his quite impressive deltoids. He looked quite sweaty and had either been on a jog or had been exercising in his room. In his hand was a bottle of water.

“You guys go pump?”

“Charley, not today” Modibo said, drawing his cover cloth firmly over his shoulders. He was also into a bit of body building but he would pick and choose when and how to exercise.

“Wait for me” I said enthusiastically

“Just come up to the ninth floor” he said, pointing upwards

I quickly dressed in my shorts and t-shirt and ran up the one flight of stairs to the ninth floor. It was a large open area with water tanks at opposite ends of it. It was so airy. People came there to study, or just to relax and enjoy the views of the university from a higher point. Some people used the place to pray, polluting the eight floor with loud inconsiderate tongues to the chagrin of the students. But the ninth floor had room for everybody and people simply minded their own business. At one end, near the water tank, were a few crude body building equipment and a bench. There were other guys there as well; including a gentleman nicknamed General Golbachov who was, like Kakra C, a final year Computer Science student. The two of them were also very good friends. They were all very welcoming.

“ You pump before?” General Golbachov asked.

I was soon getting tired of this question. My body deceived everybody and they wouldn’t believe me when I denied, till I got on the bench and shocked them with what little weights I could press.

“You don’t need bodybuilding. You are macho already” he said

“Ajimoto!” the guy doing the bench presses at the time would utter intermittently between his teeth, sweat pouring down the sides of his face

“No pain no gain!” the others would respond in support

I liked the company of these guys. I also really felt honoured, being in first year, and with everything I had heard, to be in the company of a guy like KC.

“Charley, we for go chop waakye” KC said

It was the Saturday ritual for the bodybuilding guys. We would descend down from our tower after a good workout and stroll across the road to an area behind the Republic Hall where a lady sold waakye in the morning. This was proper good tasty northern waakye, rice cooked in boiled red beans, with the stork from the beans lending the rice a reddish hue. Sometimes, they reinforced the colour with a sprinkle of some dried local herbs. The waakye was served with goat meat stew and a specially prepared shito black pepper sauce. You could purchase some add-ons, like a bit of pasta or spiced gari to sprinkle on the rice and if you really wanted to go “rich”, buy a boiled egg to sit on

top of it all.

.

Soon, KC would not go anywhere without me. I would occasionally go with him to visit his girlfriend in the African Hall. They were very close, Gladys and KC. In fact, they were almost like a married couple. Anytime we visited, three or four other girls would come into the room. Martha would come as well. Martha, the slim black beauty with a smile that radiated joy and happiness, caught my eyes. They would often come along with bottles of some soft drink or other and biscuits. Then they would stay to chat. And they would chat till we finished our meal and got up to go. It must have been a bit annoying to Gladys but she never showed it. Could they not have some time when they would be together, just the two of them, enjoying a meal? But then again, there was a price to pay for having a popular boyfriend.

People naturally started to presume, that I was spoilt for choice of girlfriends. They could not be more wrong. Despite the facade of a confident macho man,I was very inexperienced and diffident. I really fancied Martha, for instance. But I was scared. I still harbored that childhood fear of getting it all wrong and having the girls point at me as the guy who fancied so and so.

So I sat in my room and poured out my frustrations on paper.

Martha,

Had I but a few sugar-coated words

I would sing as loudly as do the birds

To pierce your heart and make you see

The love that burns deep within me

Had my heart been but a little book

I’d have opened it out for you to look

And see the love written out in gold

More convincing than any story ever told

If you would but look once into mine eye

Then you would know, I tell no lie

For you would see the flames of the inferno

That burns day after day, my poor soul

I folded the poem, put it in an envelope and kept it in my pocket the next time we went to Africa Hall. I kept my right hand in my pocket, holding on to the envelope and looking for that one opportunity when I would discretely slip it to Martha without making a fuss. It stayed in that pocket, burning my skin like fire, wanting to pop out. The opportunity came. There had been chants of Oooooh ooooh! Yes, the girls did pond each other, but it was always such a spectacle, everybody had gone out to the corridor to watch except, you guessed right, Martha and myself.

She pretended to be reading the magazine in front of her, but would intermittently raise her head to look into my eyes. I sat there; hand in one pocket, beads of sweat gathering on my forehead.

“Martha!” I managed to squeal out, a bit too loudly

“What?” She wasn’t being rude. She had a sense of humour.

“Nothing” I said, losing my rather fragile confidence instantly

She looked at me again.

“Are you alright?” she asked, not expecting an answer. “It’s a bit too hot in this room.”

She put on the fan for me and left to join the others to watch the ponding. I sheepishly followed shortly thereafter, my hand on the poem in my pocket.

The KNUST Diaries - The Aluta Years (3) - Aboagyewa

Bang! Bang! Bang!

There were loud bangs on my door and as I stood up, rather startled, and before I could take a step, the door had flung open and a burly young man had walked in, followed by some boys carrying his luggage. He seemed to be in a hurry.

“Modibo” he said, extending a hand “your room mate”

We exchanged pleasantries. He dumped his luggage unto his bed, then seeing the brand new t-shirt I had left on my bed, he had exclaimed, rather dramatically;

“London, London, London!”

He had pumped his two fists vigorously as he said that. Then, just as quickly as he had come in, he had left. He lived in Kumasi and there was no point coming in on a Saturday. He had brought his luggage and registered, but he was going to go back home and would be back Sunday evening to prepare for lectures.

It was dark now and the courtyard was well-lit with little electrical bulbs in the grass. They were beautiful. The ritual of people arriving continued throughout the evening. I had had enough by now. I had been sitting on the balcony all day. I went to lie on my bed to rest. Then just as I was beginning to nod off, I heard the sound of drumming from the “Always Around” and then shortly, the singing had started. It was the famous Aboagyewaa Choir. You see, there was a little naked female statue in the courtyard. It was said, by the students, to be the goddess of Unity Hall. The students had named her Aboagyewaa and subsequently formed the choir to sing her praises. And they sang beautifully, except that the words of all the songs they sang had been replaced with the most vulgar lyrics one could imagine. It was all light-hearted stuff but the people in the choir, took their job rather seriously.

“And in that hole” the leader was singing

“And in that hole” an enthusiastic response from the choir

“There was a prick” the choir leader

“There was a prick” the choir

“It was a very huge prick” the leader

“It was a very huge prick” the choir

“That you ever did see” the leader

“That you ever did see” the choir

And then everybody,

“The prick in the hole,

“The hole in the ass,

“And the black hair’s all around

“The black hair’s all around.

The singing continued. Every now and again a lone voice in the choir would shout

“praise the Lord”

And the choir would respond

“alleluia”

There was no way I was going to lie in bed with such beautiful singing in the distance. I quickly descended to the ground floor and to the "Always Around" to take part in the singing. It was fun listening, but it was even more fun singing along. I began to notice the main characters in the group and in particular, an elderly bearded gentleman in a blue suit who sat quietly but would every now and again interject with shouts of “praise the lord”. His name, I was later to find out, was Mr Samson. He was a mature student, having come to the university after several years of teaching in secondary schools. His dry sense of humour, had won him many friends. He took the Aboagyewaa choir so seriously; he always wore a blue suit, just to sing.

The story was told of when the Aboagyewa choir was travelling to Cape Coast in a bus and had stopped at a service station for a break. When they had all settled to continue their journey, three women had approached the driver. Their car had broken down and they wanted a lift to Cape Coast. The students had encouraged the driver to allow them in. The women had hopped in and sat by the elderly man in a blue suit, perhaps for some crumbs of comfort in what appeared to be a bus full of rowdy young people. As soon as the bus had moved, the singing had begun in earnest. The women had been horrified by what they were hearing. One of them had turned to the silent elderly bearded man in a blue suit on her right, to express her anxiety:

“Sir, are we ok? Who are these people and where are they going?”

“Oh never mind Madam” Mr Samson had reassured her “we are all students from the KNUST. We are just going to Cape Coast to find some women to fuck.”

Early next morning, I had been woken from my slumber by loud banging on the rails on the staircase and shouting on the corridor.

“Ooooh, ooooh oooooh!!

As soon as I opened my door to find out what was happening, I was grabbed. To my left and to my right I could see other guys with long faces being held. I presumed they were all first years as well. We were all marched to the pond in the courtyard, Kwame Nkrumah’s pond, the one with the red fish. It was “ponding” time. We stood in a queue as one after the other, we were dropped in the pond and our heads quite dangerously submerged till we were almost out of breath before being released. The guy in front of me was shaking uncontrollably. He called out to one of the seniors;

“Charley, I don’t think I can cope with this. I have an allergy”

“Hey!” The senior had shouted “Guys, listen to this guy, oretutu brofo. What was it? Alleeee…. what? Take him away and give him the treatment for that!”

He received the worse ponding of all. But the initiation was over, and we knew, that as long as we did not step on any toes, we would be free from ponding for the rest of the year. But then, Modibo had arrived that evening and quite casually expressed dissatisfaction at having missed his room mate’s initiation.

“Ooooh! Oooooh!” he had started

There were seniors popping up from every corner in response to the chant. The worse one could do in a circumstance like that was to give any resistance. You were far better off taking it in your stride and praying that it would be over soon.

The KNUST Diaries – The Aluta Years (2) – Kakraba Cromwell

I was met at the reception of the Unity Hall by a porter who told me I was going to be in Room 428. I took my bags and turned right to go to my room in Block B of the Unity Hall. I passed by a notice board on the right, descended a couple of steps, admired yet more exotic plants and paintings on the walls and turned left. Room 428 was in the inner row of rooms on the eighth floor. But the elevator was broken. In fact it never worked in all the time I was in the Unity Hall. It is often said that the greatest evidence of the paucity of our practical knowledge as compared to our theoretical knowledge was the fact that an institution like the UST, renowned for training the country’s electrical engineers, could never get their own lifts to work.

So I had to carry my bags, one after the other up to the long flight of steps unto the eighth floor and into room 428. These rooms had clearly been designed by Nkrumah to be occupied by one student. I put my bags down and had a look round. The toilets and showers were very neat but there were not many students around. There was a large room that had been designed for washing and drying but which would later be converted to rooms while I was in the university. On the ninth floor was an open area, with equipment for body building and everything else.

Over the week, I had visited every corner of the university. I had been to the swimming pool. I could not swim, but it was nice to just sit there sipping a glass of cold beer and enjoying the atmosphere. I visited the School of Medical Sciences. It was the newer of the two medical schools in the whole of Ghana at the time and a few of the departments were still under construction. I walked by the Great Hall of the University and into the huge University library. I strolled along the roads to all the halls of residence, comparing them to the Unity Hall. It simply felt so good to be here. I eagerly awaited the arrival of everyone else over the weekend.

On the day I had woken up early, had a shower and a quick breakfast and then gone to sit on the balcony of my room on the eighth floor with the day’s newspapers and a story book, looking down at the entrance as one taxi after another arrived. There had been shouting and hugging and even more shouting and hugging as friends reunited after three months away from each other. I felt the quiet serene environment change, bit by bit, as more students arrived, into a noisy rowdy heap. I noticed that once people got their bags into their rooms, they would go straight unto the balconies to do just what I had been doing all day, watching as their friends arrived. I watched as the balconies slowly filled up. I listened as weary steps laboured up the stairs to the eighth floor and doors opening to my left and to my right. Occasionally there would be loud shouting as some very popular bloke arrived.

“Kakra C!”

People shouted from their balconies as he stood at the forecourt, arms aloft, looking up with majestic elegance at one block and then the other, while the poor taxi driver patiently waited to be paid. I watched as he finally turned to pay the taxi driver, got a couple of boys to carry his luggage, entered the “Always Around” and disappeared from sight into the reception area. Still, there was the odd faint shout of “Kakra C” away in the distance. My room happened to be next to the staircase. I listened as the intermittent shouts of “Kakra C” got louder as he made his way up the stairs. I began to hear this deep confident voice responding to the adulation.

“Charley, how be?” he would say to people as he came up

My curiosity got the better of me. I came out of my room to stand by the rails on the staircase to see if I could catch a closer glimpse of him. He landed on the sixth floor;

“Kakra C!”

He proceeded unto the seventh floor

“Kakra C!”

Then he turned unto the stairs coming up to the eighth floor, and I was suddenly face to face with the great man. He was a tall, dark muscular guy who seemed to have spent a fair while in the gym.

“Charley how be?” he extended a hand to me as people popped out of their rooms to say hello. I didn’t realize so many occupants of the eighth floor had arrived.

“You de pump metal?”

“No” I said

“Are you sure?” he asked. He obviously did not believe me, having confused my fatty biceps for muscle.

He moved on to say hello to others before making the slow progress down the long corridor to his room at the very end, stopping many times along the way, to check who had arrived and who had not. People simply do not become popular by chance. In fact, they worked hard to maintain their popularity. Perhaps, for these people, like Kakra C, all this extra work it took to remain popular came naturally to them. That is what made them different. Within a minute, Kakra C had succeeded in making me feel as if he had been an old school mate. It took special skill.

‘Kakraba Cromwell!” the guy next to me said, a mixture of adulation and respect etched on his face.

“Akoholu” he said, as we shook hands

I chatted to him on the corridor for a while. He proceeded to tell me everything he knew about Kakraba Cromwell. He was one of the leaders of the National Union of Ghana Students who had been a thorn in the flesh of the military dictatorship of JJ Rawlings for a few years, organizing numerous student demonstrations. He was particularly known for his eloquence and oratory and students loved listening to him.

“Charley, couple of years ago, wow, people start to get angry say things slow down with the NUGS” Akoholu said “Them organize this massive congress at the Great Hall. Everybody was there. Legon guys, Cape Coast everybody. Then KC get up, he start speak. Then the people wey make angry, Charley, them start cheer!”

He gave me a short version of what had become known in folklore as the KC speech, the KNUST equivalent of Martin Luther King’s “I have a Dream.” There had been no proper records and what he was purported to have said actually varies, depending on who was telling the story. Over the years people had taken the poetic license to add and subtract as they deemed fit, perpetuating the myth of the great man.

“Sometimes, sometimes, the reason our friends of the four-legged bearded variety stop in the middle of a fight and retreat briefly, is not because they are running away, but it’s so they can come back with even more vigour, smashing the enemy, destroying them forever.

“Sometimes, in life, it is better to learn when to fear, how to fear and how much to fear, lest we should squander, all we have fought together for.

“Sometime in the future, you may come across a wall gecko. It may be sitting its somewhere, thinking its own thought and nodding its head. Remember, it will merely be reminding you, that whatever I have said here today is true, its true and its true” he had concluded, nodding his head in time.

Kakra C! I watched as the great man finally disappeared into his room

The KNUST Diaries - The AlutaYears 1 - Kumasi Here I Come

      I had not been impressed by Kumasi. I still remembered Kumasi, somewhere in the little crevices of my mind from my transit through the city as a five year old. Then it had been a garden city. The Kumasi I saw when I went to the University was nothing but a dust bowl. It was a town where all buildings had developed a brownish hue from the dust in the atmosphere. You dared not wear white clothes to town. You just might not be able to wear them ever again. And even when you wore dark clothes, your hair would just about give you away as having been into the dust bowl. The dust irritated your eyes, your nose and everywhere else. They irritated your food. When one bought kenkey and fish from the roadside, one could just about taste dust in the background. I am serious. You knew you were eating Kenkey ala dust, Kumasi style.

      People held handkerchiefs to their nose in the centre of town. Others made knots in the four corners of their handkerchiefs, turning them into berets to protect their hair from the dust. In Kumasi, just like everywhere else in Ghana, one travelled by hired taxi when one could afford it. If you were a poor student, you travelled by tro tro. The tro tro in Kumasi was different though. These were huge wooden trucks with tree rows of benches at the back for passengers. It took special skill to get unto these trucks, even for young people, never mind the old ladies. Still, life got on somehow.

      And the reason for all the dust was the roads, once beautifully tarred, but now deteriorated to the point, where they were nothing more than laterite passages, lined by “red” people and “red” everything else. I was still in Kumasi when JJ Rawlings government had suddenly seen sense and commenced the process to restore Kumasi to its renowned status as the second city of Ghana and the garden city of Africa. There had been a sudden transformation when every single main road in Kumasi had been asphalted. The dust had disappeared almost overnight, paving the way for the new Kumasi with double lane roads and flyovers. I was in Kumasi when those hideous articulated trucks were banned from conveying humans in the town centre.

      I still cannot remember clearly why I decided to go to the University one week before it re-opened officially. Perhaps, I had been too eager to get back into school after all the years wasted at home.  But that was what I did. My mum had happily helped me park my things. Every now and again she would remember something else that I might need. This was actually the very first time I was going completely away from home, for, while I had spent some time in boarding at St Augustine’s, my home had been up the hill from the school. We had heard stories of occasional water problems in the University so my mum had bought me an embarrassingly large plastic jelly can to fetch water if there was a crisis. Thankfully, I didn’t have to use it much all the time I was in the University, but it found other uses. People used to borrow it to buy pito.

      I arrived in Kumasi at about four o’clock in the evening. I got down from the Government Transport by the main road at the UST junction. I parked my bags into a taxi that drove along a circular road and under the gate designed in the shape of a traditional Asante stool, into the UST. There was a sudden change in atmosphere once one drove under the stool gate. There was not a single speck of dust in the atmosphere. One was met by the international swimming pool on the left and exotic African plants and flowers everywhere. Statues celebrating the lives of illustrious ancestors and alumni were scattered all around inspiring a certain academic zeal just as one entered that environment. You see, when Kwame Nkrumah had built this university, it had been his idea to create an African version of Harvard or the MIT. Years of neglect had ensured that many facilities had deteriorated and yet, one could still see the vestiges of that great plan in the sheer sizes of the buildings, the artificial forests and the beauty of the environment. I fell in love with the UST.

      It had been only a short drive to the Unity Hall, two mighty eight storey buildings, linked by a dinning hall with a basement kitchen at the far end. At the entrance was a small enclosure with benches on either side so one had often to walk between these to arrive at the reception, a rather daunting task for females, who would always have to contend with indecent comments from guys. With time, the girls would start to fight back. On one occasion a girl who was wearing a red dress was entering the hall and one guy on the bench had shouted “Fabulous” because the local football club Fabulous Kumasi Asante Kotoko, played in red. The girl had looked straight in the guy’s eyes and responded “your balls!!” There had been cheers and laughter. We liked that. Guys were just as happy to take as to give.

      They called that small area “Always Around” for, it did not matter what time of day or night it was, there would always be somebody sitting there. It also served as a quick meeting point prior to embarking on demonstrations. It was said, though with a hint of exaggeration, that this was the place where governmental overthrows were engineered. One turned left at the reception for Block A and right to Block B. There was a courtyard enclosed by the two blocks, the dinning area at the back and the reception at the front. This was beautifully adorned with trees and decorative ponds with little red fishes. It is true, that the man, who had built the mighty Akosombo dam for Ghana, never did things in halves.

       Each block consisted of two rows of rooms on each floor with a corridor in the middle. If one got an outer room, their balconies overlooked large trees. But they enjoyed more privacy. If one got an inner room, one could stand on ones own balcony and enjoy the community feel of the place and all the funny little activities that went on almost nonstop in the courtyard and the parking area in front. There was less privacy though. The people in the inner rooms in the two blocks could communicate with each other at the top of their voices. If one was not careful with ones curtains, people at the right level could easily be privy to ones nefarious nocturnal secrets, and call every one else to share in them.

      While the basic infrastructure and the surroundings were still impressive, most other things were a far cry from what they had been in the days of Nkrumah. The dinning hall for instance had been privatized and the food sold there was so expensive, that few students could afford to go there regularly. There was thus a rapid turnover of businesses which often went burst. For long periods, there would be no food sold there at all. Instead, most of the students kept stoves on their balconies and cooked their own meals, exposing themselves to fire hazards. When they could not cook, they would go for lunch at Auntie Georgina’s little hut at the back of Block A.

      Auntie Georgina sold fried plantains and beans half of the year and when yams became cheaper, would sell boiled yams and spinach stew with the rotten smelly boiled tilapia “kobi” that was a delicacy, reserved for those who could afford it as an extra. The smell within the kobi head was especially attractive to houseflies and eating then became a battle between driving away flies and putting food in ones mouth. In the evenings, students could choose from a variety of food in the parking area. The cheapest was “kokonte,” prepared from dried cassava powder, and light groundnut soup. To make it even cheaper, the soup was prepared with pig skin only. Kwame Nkrumah must be turning in his grave. This was hardly the Harvard he had anticipated, with students eating kobi heads and driving off flies. Then, they had three free meals for the day in the plush environment of the dinning hall, with Horlicks and biscuits room services in between meals. But there you go.

Augusco Adores Baby Tiger

piece contains strong language that some people may find offensive

I had been busy unpacking my books into my desk one morning when I was approached by this smallish third year student with a stammer.

“Hey, bo ho!” He had stammered, gesturing to me to kneel down

Of course, I had heard all the stories about bullying. Of how senior boys let first years kneel down in grains of gari and of how they pulled your nose between their index and middle fingers till your nose bled. On this occasion, however, I had looked round and realized I was alone with this little boy who clamed he was in third year. I was bigger than him and was not going to allow him to bully me.

“Go away!” I said

“What did you say?” He sounded shocked

“Go away before I break your jaw” I said angrily, clenching my fist

“Hey take it easy ok” He had stammered, smiling. “This is all just fun. Don’t take it too seriously”

He was gone. I stood laughing, pleased that I had stood up for myself and not allowed this little boy to bully me.

Classes had progressed as usual and we were all relieved when the bell was tolled for a break in lessons. But just as I was getting ready to go out of the classroom, he came, that little third year bastard, this time followed by four big boys who stood with their arms folded in the kind of posture I had seen gangsters in films adopt before fights.

“Hey, I say bo ho” He stammered.

I knew better than to argue this time. I got down on my knees.

“Ha ha!” he laughed sarcastically “raise your bloody arms!”

All around, my classmates eagerly looked on, whispering to each other. Apparently, they had all heard of the reputation of this little terror and they deemed it some form of honour to have gotten the opportunity to see him at work. His name was Tommy Garbah but everybody called him Baby Tiger, and he was feared by all. Tiger issued some orders to his “henchmen” who then took turns to pull my nose so hard between their index and middle fingers I thought my nose was going to fall off. Much to my utter disgust, some of my classmates were actually cheering, as Baby Tiger and his gang walked away.

But my ordeal with him was not yet over. For I had decided to be a member of the Cadet Corps. That afternoon, I joined a queue of Form One boys waiting to be registered at the school’s armoury after siesta. We filled out a form and were each handed one army uniform, one army khaki shorts, one woolen army top, one cap, one beret and one black boots all nicely packed in a haversack. Once you got your bag you were directed to join a group being organized by, guess who, Tommy Garbah.

This first day had been for us to merely register and collect our uniforms, but Tommy Garbah was not one to miss a good opportunity. Once the registration was over, he had lined all of us up, our haversacks on our backs, taught us a few easy skills in drill and then marched us all the way to the quadrangle in the centre of the school.

“Left right!” He shouted out in time to our marching, his voice almost hoarse.

It did not matter how we marched. That would be sorted out later. This was just Baby Tigers opportunity to show off a bit and no one was going to take that away from him

“Left right!”

“Check it, move it, dig your heals, left right!!”

Baby Tiger continued, an officers cap on his head, a piece of stick serving as an officer’s baton under his left arm pit, his head looking up in the skies and bobbing left and right in time with his commands. His enthusiasm was so infectious, I could not help but smile as I marched.

“Hey, shut that fucking mouth before I break your teeth” he shouted across to me

“Baby Tiger!” People gathered in balconies to shout his name.

And there were stories. Stories about what Baby Tiger had done or failed to do, most of them exaggerated, a few concocted but all combining to perpetuate the myth that was Baby Tiger. During the Christmas holiday in his fourth year, Tommy had attended a birthday party organized by his best friend Ebo Bentil, the lead singer of the Bishop’s Candlesticks in the St Augustine’s College. Ebo was in form five, a year ahead of Tiger and yet Tiger seemed to be his only true friend.

This was the kind of party that no one missed for Ebo Bentil was loved by all and hated by none. All the girls in Holy Child were keen to be associated with him. But he was shy and retiring and never seemed to have any lasting female relationships either, much to the disappointment of the Holico girls. The joke around the schools was, that “Ebo Bentil did the singing, but Tommy Garbah did the shagging.”

As usual, on an occasion such as this, it was Tiger and not Ebo who got a girlfriend, a tall beautiful girl who looked a bit shy and seemed to stay back as her friends tried to badger Ebo Bentil to give them a song.

“Ebo, this is your birthday, you have to sing” Vivian Osei said

“Oh I have a sore throat” Ebo managed to say, sweat building on his forehead. He was never comfortable in the presence of girls except when he was on stage when he would be a different person altogether.

Vivian held his hand and started singing, soon joined by the other girls;

“All we are saying, sing us a song” to the melody of the John Lennon song, “Give peace a chance”

With attention being drawn to them, Ebo became more uncomfortable and playfully pulled himself away pursued by the girls. It was all fun.

“Hey, if you want Ebo to sing, you need to speak to his manager” Tiger said

The girls laughed. Everybody knew Baby Tiger

“Yes ladies. How can I help you?”

Vivian explained they were keen for their friend Vanessa Talbot, the quiet girl to hear him sing

. “You mean she hasn’t heard the Bishop Candlesticks, on which planet have you been?” Tiger now addressed Vanessa directly

“I am new to Cape Coast. I was at Achimota.”

Vanessa explained she had been in Sixth form in Holy Child for a term having done her Ordinary Levels at Achimota. As the other girls soon found something else to get amused by, Tiger chatted to Vanessa and managed to get a date. They had planned to go out thirty first night. Vanessa lived with his dad and a step mother who had no control whatsoever on her. She would have no problem meeting Tiger.

Baby Tiger’s father, however, was as strict as any father could be. He was a businessman who travelled worldwide but who, whenever he was at home, tried to make his presence felt. Tiger was the third of three boys and Mr Alex Garbah somehow felt he had to instill military style discipline to keep them under control. The boys nicknamed him General! In the evening of the thirty first December, General sat together with the boys watching television. He sipped brandy whiles the boys contended with coca cola. Mrs Emma Garbah had gone to church. An important member of the women’s society, Emma hardly ever missed church services. And none came more important than the all night church service on the thirty first to usher in the New Year. She wouldn’t be back till the early hours of the morning. General never went to church.

“Ok boys!” General said, clapping his hands “Time to go to bed! Happy new year boys!”

“Happy new year dad” the boys replied

The boys had retired to their bedrooms, changed into their pyjamas and gone back to take some water from the kitchen, shuffling around the sitting room for a while for General to see them in their pyjamas and apparently getting ready to go to bed. Once they put off their lights, however, they had changed again and slipped out of the house. General had an old car he hardly ever used in their second garage. Tiger had earlier obtained the keys from General with the excuse of getting it washed and had deliberately “forgotten” to return it. General must have forgotten about it as well. They had pushed the car from the garage and once they were about a 100m from the house, had jumped into it and sped off.

They had picked up Vanessa who looked sexy in her short skirt and a low-cut blouse. They had picked up John Garbah’s girlfriend Emelia. Sam Garbah had no girlfriend. They had gone to the famous Shangri La disco and danced through the night. Tommy was in for a pleasant surprise. For once Vanessa had had a few drinks, she had begun to lose control, trying desperately to slip her fingers into Tiger’s trousers right inside the disco. Tommy had taken her hands and staggered into a toilet with her. Vanessa could not wait to undress. She had bent over and held the toilet bowl, while Tommy had entered from behind.

“Push a finger into my anus please, Tommy” Vanessa had demanded.

Tommy had obliged, and it had been one enjoyable shag. On the way from the toilet, they had stopped at the bar to buy a drink.

“A bottle of beer for me, rum and coke for her,” said the confident Tiger.

The man next to him had turned to look at him and their eyes had met;

“Hey boy, are you having fun? Come on, have a drink. Where are Sam and John? Happy New Year!”

It was General!

This man standing there, a pretty little girl not much older than Vanessa on his lap; this man standing there wishing him, Tommy Garbah, a happy New Year was his dad! Tommy quickly slipped away.

“That’s my dad Vanessa”

“Oh he’s such a nice man” Vanessa said

“Mmm” was all Tommy could say

He quickly informed the others and with the panic buttons struck, they shuffled out of the bar and were soon in the car on the way home.

“What did General say?” Sam asked

“Have a drink Tommy, have a drink” Tommy mimicked General’s voice amidst laughter

“What else Tommy?” John managed to ask amidst bursts of laughter “Fuck the girls Tommy, fuck them well!”

“He didn’t say that!” Vanessa said.

Next day, Mr Garbah had been silent. Whenever any of the boys had gone into the sitting room where he was relaxing with Emma, he had mischievously winked at them. The kind of wink that said;

“This is between me and you. Better not let your mother hear anything”

The General had been conquered.

Tommy received Vanessa’s letter in the first week back at school and read it quietly to himself while lying in his bed during siesta. The dormitory was quite as students slept off their lunch.

Dear Tommy, …………….I still remember the good time we had in Shangri La, the business in the toilet and the finger up my backside. Could we meet in the Big Apple for a repeat coming Saturday…….

Tommy had started laughing, softly at first but increasingly loudly. His laugh reverberated round the dormitory disturbing sixth form students who needed their siesta so they could burn the midnight oil.

“This girl” Tommy said, still laughing “This girl, I fuck am well well.”

“Who is that? Come here! Bad boy!” Two or three sixth formers had jumped on Tiger.

“Bring that letter!!” They snatched the letter from him “Take off your clothes. Let’s see if you have a dick that can fuck a woman!”

Tiger had been forced to undress and walk stack naked up and down the dormitory while one sixth former read his letter out aloud.

“the finger up my backside…”

“Vanessa Tabot?”

The mention of Vanessa Tabot had brought roars of laughter from a couple of guys who claimed to know her.

“Vanessa Tabot? Your girlfriend? Well good luck! Ha Ha Ha!”

Soon, Tommy knew all there was to know about Vanessa, the fact that she had been one of the best students in her class in Achimota and yet seemed to put very little effort in her academic work. She was always in one trouble or the other which was blamed on poor parental control. Her Lebanese father was hardly in the country and they lived in a big house with a step mother who had no control at all on Vanessa. Vanessa would shag anybody. Even a few of the laboratory assistants in the science labs in Achimota had had a go.

“Baby Vanessa Tiger” somebody suggested

“Tommy Tabot Tiger” another suggested

Many different combinations were tried and rejected. They settled on “Ofinger Tiger” in reference to the finger in the anus.

When his ordeal was over, and in a vain attempt to re-assert his authority, Tiger had stood up and in a loud voice commanded

“All form one and two boys, kneel down!”

That was Tommy. He did have a sense of humour. He had no pride in his bone. He could give as well as take. People liked that and it made him popular but unfortunately, it concealed a more sinister side to his character.

That weekend, he and four friends had escaped to town and to the Big Apple Disco where Tommy had met Vanessa. After a few drinks, they had escaped to a lotto kiosk behind the disco.

“Oh I love you” Vanessa said

Unknown to her, four friends of Tommy laid in wait. It had all been planned. Tommy wanted to prove he was still a tough guy despite pushing a finger up Vanessa Tabot’s anus. When he had finished and before Vanessa could get up, another guy was on top of her. When he finished, the third guy rushed in. Apparently, he had jumped the queue. There was a minor scuffle.

“Don’t fight” Vanessa had said “I’ll service you all”

Interco 2 - Sometimes, Augusco Has Got to Fight

I arrived back in school to find there had been a power cut and the school was in darkness. All over the compound people stood in small groups discussing Zaitoto and the false starts, the threats of Izzo and what the strategy had to be for the next day. But above all, they talked about Moga. There were discussions about success stories and failures with girls, Sandy Mathew’s antics and everything else. The atmosphere was festive because, after Moga’s unexpected heroics, St Augustine’s was still in with a chance.

I listened to one group and then to another, contributing little myself. In one group, Kwame Bossman, one of the sixth formers was relating an experience he had had. He had been dating a Wesley Girls High school girl called Abiba for a couple of years and, of course they had planned to meet during Interco. Abiba was blessed with such beauty, people wondered why she had chosen Kwame. But as Kwame was always quick to point out, it was not how handsome you were or the size of your wallet that mattered, but the size of your dick. Today, however, when he had gone to see her, he had found her with Raymond.

“Bloody Raymond!” groans from the listeners

For everybody knew Raymond. He was the mixed race son of a rich businessman who owned a factory in Cape Coast. He had been dismissed from Adisadel College in year 5 after having had an affair with the wife of a teacher who had travelled for a course in Europe. He had not continued his education but had joined his dad in business. Still, he continued to enjoy student life to the full and was present at all events. Today he had attended Interco in a BMW, which he had parked on the road on the other side of the pitch in the full glare of all those in the stands in Kwabotwe.

“Charley, they were standing by the car oh, proper BMW. Abiba introduced me as a friend and went back to chatting to Raymond. Them relegate me to the background completely. This bastard who couldn’t finish school. So naturally I was upset.” Kwame Bossman said

He had wondered what to say to let this guy know, that he could not go round taking other people’s girlfriends just because he had money and that, there was much more to life than being rich. So it was, that he had looked Raymond straight in the eye and said;

“Knowledge is power!”

To which the witty Raymond had retorted

“Oh absolutely, but money rules all.”

Humiliated and embarrassed, he had watched as Abiba had jumped in the car and they had disappeared through the milling crowd on the road.

We all laughed

Every now and again a couple of form one boys would run past as their friends cheered

“Moooga”

The second day was a furious affair. Everything seemed to be happening at the same time. While Izzo once again swept all the sprints, Mfantsipim’s Alhassani was hurling the javelin miles into the sky to the sound of Alas! Alas! Alas! He did the shot put as well but thankfully, Oshoo had taken care of that. A pattern was emerging. Adisadel were brilliant in the sprints but horrible in the field events and long distances. Mfantsipim were the best in field events and long distances but were weak in the sprints. Augusco, however, were coming second and third in most of the events. After a day of intense competition, and with just the 4x100m to go, the score board read as follows;

St Augustine’s – 102

Adisadel College – 98

Mfantsipim – 60

This meant that Augusco only needed to be second in the final race to win. The tension had been palpable. Izzo and the Adisadel quartet went through some well-rehearsed choreographed dances in front of their wildly cheering fans. The Augusco quartet – Marcos, Adamu, Baba and Zaitoto stood with their heads bowed before the fans as we sang the Latin song, Adoramus to inspire them to battle. This was an opportunity for Zaitoto to make amends for the previous day’s error. The drama and noise had reached fever pitch. Then silence, as the athletes went on their marks.

“Set!” the singular voice of the starter reverberated around the stadium

The blast of the gun saw Marcos getting the best start of the lot. He had been in lane five but by the time he handed the baton over to Adamu, he had almost caught up with the Adisco guy in lane six. It was neck to neck between Augusco and Adisco in the second leg. Baba got the baton and lept into the lead in the 200m curve. Then disaster! Zaitoto had moved a shade too early. He had realized this and tried to slow down but Baba had bumped into him and the baton had fallen down. Izzo was gone.

The nature of the defeat and the gloating of the Adisco boys had been too much for us to bear. We had laid ambush on the road leading from Kwabotwe and attacked Adisco with missiles as they danced to brass band music on their way to school. There had been several injuries as the Adisco boys had charged towards us and engaged us in a free for all fight. We had all been brought up to accept defeat, to congratulate the winner and to pray for better luck next time but sometimes, sometimes, you just have got to fight when you are a man.

Interco 1 - Augusco Goes Gay with Moga

This story has put together interco experiences from several years of witnessing the event in Cape Coast. it is not one specific year

Nobody missed Interco. It was one of the most fiercely contested athletics championships in the whole country, thanks mainly to the bitter rivalry that existed between the three boys’ schools in Cape Coast. The schools spared no effort in their fervent desire to win. Scholarships were awarded promising athletes all over the country and before the competition, spies would be sent to opposing schools to assess the strength of the opposition. Adisadel College had won the previous year’s competition and looked very much like repeating the victory that year, if only their star athlete Izzo, would have recovered from the hamstring injury he had sustained in a trial competition before Interco. Rumours abound that he would not be competing and the rest of us were ecstatic.

The week leading up to Interco was always strange. There would be a relaxed atmosphere on campus with students unwilling to learn and teachers not too keen to teach either. Teachers like Mr Otwe who had been old students would come to class but spend the time telling stories of great Augusco athletes in times long gone. The likes of George Daniels, who had gone on to break national records, would get a mention. But more often than not, we stood on corridors discussing our team and their preparation. This week would be for the likes of Zaitoto, our star sprinter, who would have been the best in Cape Coast had it not been for the devil Izzo. Thank God Izzo was injured this year.

In the afternoons, the whole school would gather on the school pitch just to watch the boys being taken through their paces by Mr Bentum. They would practice baton-changing ad-nauseum because the 4x100 was a race Augusco had to win by right. In the evenings, we would attend singing sessions to practice the songs for the day. This was compulsory only for the juniors but many seniors voluntarily attended. Then on Friday, the first day of the games, the headmaster would speak to the whole school in the morning.

At first, there would be the usual cautioning about dressing appropriately and putting up behaviour befitting of students of St Augustine's College. And then he would begin;

“Today is the day” there would be little giggles of anticipation from the students. They loved the headmaster’s speeches, when he was in the right mood.

“Today is the day when men shall be separated from boys. When the flame of Augusco will once again burn brightest and show the rest, that along the West Coast of Africa and perhaps far beyond, no school even comes close.

“And our boys have trained hard for today. We have all seen them as they run along the beeches and over the hills of Augusco. They tell me they are ready!

“Zaitoto says he is ready!” wild cheers from the students

“Agbota Tetteh is ready” wild cheers. His nickname was Mogadishu, affectionately shortened to Moga. He was our 1500m runner. He was new to St Augustine’s, having come to sixth form from another school

“Amuakwa is ready” to which the students would respond “Oshoo! Oshoo! Oshoo!” for that was the nickname of our burly shot putter. He would often be somewhere at the back flexing his muscles for effect amidst laughter all around. Such was the spirit of the times.

“They have promised to run as hard as they can, jump as high as they can, throw as far as they can, and with God on our side and “Omnia Vincit Labor” our motto, victory will be ours.”

There would be wild cheers as the students burst into the school anthem, whipping up spirits over the horizons.

The competition that year was to be held at the Mfantsipim School. Whatever classes we managed to have would end at 11.30 am to enable us all get to Mfantsipim in time for the 2.00pm start. When one entered Mfantsipim School, one was instantly met by a huge edifice that was the Balmer-Acquah House. The road coursed underneath the Balmer- Acquah House and rose up the Kwabotwe Hill. The administrative building, assembly hall and huge classroom blocks sat atop the hill. Beyond the hill and if one took the footpath to the left, one walked under a canopy of huge trees in an artificial forest for about 100 yards and then out of the blue, one found oneself at the edge of a long cliff, with the Kwabotwe pitch sprawled in the valley below. The spectator stands extended from your feet, to the right and down all the way to the edge of the pitch. On Interco days, it was a sight to behold; a sunlit colourful bowl of thousands of students cheering for their schools.

“Choooooobuei!” Augusco would begin.

“Yeei!!” The response in unison of a thousand or so students

“Cho, cho, cho, cho, cho, chooooooooooobuei!!”

“Yeeeei!”

“Azigizagazigizaga”

“Zim zim zim!”

“Azigizagazigizaga”

“Zim zim zim!”

“Zigizagazigizagazigizaga!”

“Zim zim zim!”

Mainly meaningless sounds supposed to instill awe in the opponent

“Augustine’s College We are the happy people When it comes to athletics……”

The singing would commence in earnest as tension reached fever pitch in anticipation of the first race of the day, the boys’ hundred meters.

“Izzo is out” I heard one senior say

“Sent to hospital this morning” another said

Our anxiety was understandable. Izzo did the 100m, 200m, 400m and both relays and the damage this caused the other schools could often not be repaired. If Izzo was unwell, then there was hope for us.

“Competitors for the boys 100m heats, please report at the registration desks” the announcement finally came.

Each school was represented by two athletes in each race. We could see Zaitoto and Adamu limbering up. We craned our necks to see who was representing Adisadel. There was only one boy there in the stripped black and white of Adisadel. Would he wouldn’t he? Was he in the stadium at all? No one had seen him. Then suddenly, there was a loud cheer from the Adisco boys as the great man appeared from one corner of the field and jogged enthusiastically towards his fans with no hint of an injury. Bloody Santa Clausians, it had all been a hoax.

“Everybody loves Izzo

“Everybody loves Izzo

“Izzo” – clap, clap clap

“Izzo” – clap clap clap

“Everybody loves Izzo”

The Adisadel boys sang as Izzo danced in front of them, one finger raised, a broad confident smile on his face. Even his opponents admitted he was a graceful performer. Of course he won his heat and so did Zaitoto. The final was much later on on the same day.

“On your marks, Get set Go!!!” The gun fired.

False start! The culprit, Zaitoto, in the green and white of St Augustine’s.

“Zai toto toto toto toto Zai…..”

The St Augustine’s boys sang in unison. There was a smile and a wave of acknowledgement from Zaitoto. He must have been nervous. If Izzo had one weakness, it was his start in the 100m and everybody had hammered that home to Zaitoto.

“Get a good start Zai and you have a chance. He is not unbeatable”

Izzo was not going to be outdone. He got up from the marks, jogged a few meters down the track, lifted his trademark finger, a smile on his face;

“Everybody loves Izzo clap, clap clap!”

“Get set! Go! False start! The guilty man, Zaitoto. Off you go! Zaitoto, disqualified! No way! We lounged forward unto the tracks. Our prefects and Mr Bentum the sports master struggled briefly to restore calm. Soon peace was restored. It had not been that difficult to be fair. Zaitoto had clearly made two false starts, but it was important in such situations to put the fear of God into the officials. Nobody took Augusco for granted.

Izzo of course won the 100m eventually. Later, he had won the 200m as well. St Augustine’s were floundering. The singing had subsided. People sat in the sun, hands on their chins, admiring Adisadel College. The 1500m had been announced but nobody really had high hopes for Moga. He came with a good reputation but had so far not done a single good time in Augusco. He talked a good race but always seemed to have one excuse or another. But on this day, he looked fit and ready for battle and then he proceeded to do something that touched everybody and forever established his legendary status. In difficult times, inspiration often comes from unexpected sources. For, just before the race started, Moga had run over angrily to the perimeter of the field, looked up at the St Augustine’s boys and shouted;

“My people, why are you so quiet? Why are you so quiet?! 1,2,3!!”

And Augusco found its voice again “Moooooga!

“4,5,6!” he yelled, sweat dripping off his face “Moooooga. Moooooga, Moooooga!!

The cheers and singing continued as he made his way to the starting line. It had been a good show by Moga that had briefly lifted the spirits of the fans but in truth, no one believed he had any chance against those chaps from Mfantsipim and nothing Moga did in the first few rounds gave anybody reason to believe otherwise. He was at the back of the pack. There you go. Augusco had seen it all before-people who could talk more than they could run. But as the race went on he made his way gradually forward placing himself strategically in the middle of the pack. There was the odd burst of “Moga” as he occasionally dashed forward, but reality would set in as the favourites increased the gap. The game of cat and mouse went on till two rounds to go when to everyone’s surprise Moga had positioned himself strategically behind the two chaps from Mfantsipim.

Augusco found our voice again “1,2,3, Mooooga! “4,5,6 Moooooga!

He was going to be third or fourth which would have been pretty good for us with Adisadel struggling. Nobody had dared anticipate what was going to happen next. For with 300m to go, out of the blue, Moga had stepped forward, running like mad, determination etched on his face, a trail of dust behind him. Had he gone too quickly? Would he be caught? The others were coming back with a vengeance! 150m to go. They were catching up. 80m and 50m and 30m. We doubted till he finally crossed the finishing line arms held aloft, with the Mfantsipim boy right behind him. And then followed a near frenzy as he kept running on straight to the Augusco fans, completely out of breath and gesturing;

“What did I tell you?! What did I tell you?! 1,2,3!

And a grateful school responded;

“Mooooooooooooooooga!”

Oflow!! - A First Day in Augusco

“What is Geography?” That was the voice of the teacher in my first ever lesson in St Augustine’s. Mr Riverson was a young ambitious teacher who was soon to leave us for a more lucrative job in a company in Tema.

“Geography is the Science that deals with the Earth as home of man” he said I still remember that definition, though sadly, I struggle even now, to know what it actually means.

Then there was “What is history? What is Science?” and so on as our new teachers came one after the other and introduced us, in as dramatic a way as they could, to secondary school education. There was Mathematics and then French. The next lesson was to be English and while waiting for the teacher who had been a bit late, we had stood in little groups chatting and still getting to know each other-which famous schools we had attended and what score we had obtained in the Common Entrance Examination. The class prefect also used the opportunity to continue the distribution of the Mathematics textbooks he had collected from the bookshop earlier.

“Class stand!”

With all the mayhem, Mr Hooper, the English teacher, had walked in without anybody noticing. He was a tall elderly man. When he spoke, sprays of saliva would often emit from the corner of his mouth which he intermittently wiped off with his handkerchief. We all lept up, frightened by the sudden aggressive command.

“Sit!” We sat down

“Stand!” We stood up

“Sit!” We sat down

“What subject do you have?”

“English Sir” Quartey Pappafio, our class prefect answered

“So why are you distributing Mathematics books? Why are you not reading something in English while waiting for the teacher?”

“We were…….” Pappafio attempted an explanation

“You have not come to this school to learn to be rubble rousers.” Mr Hooper continued, as we all looked around, eager to know if there were some clever Johnnies among us who actually understood what he was saying. Thankfully there didn’t appear to be any.

“You have come here, I believe, because you aspire to be the undeserving beneficiaries of the best secondary education anywhere along the west coast of Africa.” He continued, as I noticed this strange mixture of fear, excitement and anticipation among my mates. “But if it is trouble you want, I have plenty in my pocket to dish out free of charge!”

He uttered the free- of- charge with such emphasis, that a generous spray of saliva gushed out which he wiped off yet again with the tip of his handkerchief.

“Here in St Augustine’s,” he continued “our aim is to give you a strong foundation. For when the foundation is weak, the building cannot stand.”

Good old Mr Hooper. We later found out his nickname was “Oflow” because when students struggled to speak English fluently in class, he enthusiastically urged them on; “Let it flow, let it flow!”

And as we spoke to the seniors, we realized this was a yearly ritual, a kind of initiation for the first years, much like Richard Gere’s experience in the Air Force camp on his first day in the film, The Officer and a Gentleman. We loved Mr Hooper. In the third term in form one however, he had walked into the class one day and had an announcement to make.

“I am sorry to have to leave you wonderful students midstream.”

We were all shocked.

“I have just gained admission to the University of Cape Coast to pursue a degree Course in English.”

We looked with surprise at each other. Oflow? Going to the University? Who could be better than our famous teacher?

“It is a four year programme, so you will be preparing for your General Certificate of Education O’level exam by the time I return. I would be glad to be of some assistance then. I wish you all the best in your studies.”

There had been a few tears. Over the months, our initial fear had gradually turned into warm affection for the man from whose lips English flowed like the river. As he went out of the class room at the end of the lesson, we had all followed him;

“Oflow! Oflow! Oflow!” we continued as he made his way unto the quadrangle and into the staff room, a broad smile on his face.

The Day The Music Stopped in Augusco-May Their Souls Rest in Peace

I was in the sixth form. St Augustine’s College was fifty years old. The celebration was going to be the biggest ever in the history of the school. And the preparation had been feverish. Every single building in the school had been newly painted in the green and white colours of the school. Even the coconut trees by the roadside had not been spared the painter’s brush. On top of the Administration Block at the entrance of the school just by the sea, the red, gold, green and the Black Star blew in all its majesty, alongside the green and white of Augusco.

Every afternoon, bus loads of girls from the Holy Child School would come in to practice with us in the choir, in the various cultural dance groups, in the orchestra and in the school play. All afternoon, there would be a festive mood as the singers sang and the sounds of drums hung heavily in the warm Augusco air.

Away in the distance, members of the school Cadet Corp would be heard and often seen practicing their drills: “Guard of honour, preseeeeent Arms!!” The sergeant-major’s voice could be heard for miles Everybody shouted just that little bit louder, moved just a tad faster, and danced that wee bit more vigorously, when the girls were around. Finally, Augusco was ready.

And it had all started so well. The headmaster was interviewed on national television. Our school choir and orchestra performed brilliantly on television as well. At the time, we were about the only school in Ghana with a full orchestra. The final week was going to be the climax of almost a year long celebration. To set it off, there was going to be a candle light possession through the principal streets of Cape Coast with brass band accompaniment. We all looked forward to this.

On the night of the procession, every single student wore the Augusco Golden Jubilee t-shirt on a pair of khaki trousers. Candles were distributed to us and we started the procession. We marched past a tall collection of wood on the school field that was to be used for a bonfire after the procession. We were in high spirits. There were different generations of old students marching as well, from university students to pensioners. They were all there. There were doctors, engineers, diplomats, politicians and musicians, who all came, eager to contribute their bit to the school that had made them who they were.

Awichway was there. Awichway was a well-built good-looking guy in year five. He was one of those guys who just happened to be popular. People just loved Awichway. And Ankamah was there. Ankamah was a thin lanky lower sixth former who was new to St Augustine’s having done his O’Level elsewhere. From all accounts, he was a brilliant student having done exceptionally well in the O’Level Exam. He was amiable too and full of humour and had already made a great impression on those who knew him in the short while he had been in Augusco. I had seen him at the beginning of the march. He was dancing. He had turned to me and seemed disappointed that I was not dancing;

“I’ve been in this school for barely two months but I seem to be having more fun than you. Come on, dance!” he had said playfully. Little did I know, that it was the last time I would see him alive. The procession went exceedingly well. The people of Cape Coast are nothing if not fun-loving and nothing gets their women waist and bum-shaking more than good brass band music. They joined us and danced with us. Awichway engaged a lady in a brief erotic dance to wild cheers from all of us. The guy was having more fan than anyone else. We marched through Bakano and over the Fosu Lagoon on our way back to school.

As we marched, cars that approached us slowed right down. Boys will always be boys and some of them took to drumming on top of the cars as they went by. But it was all boyish fun with no harm intended. Indeed most of the drivers honked their horns in time to the brass band music, just their little contribution; congratulating us on our school’s anniversary. But out of the blue, it happened. It happened right in front of the Central Hospital which shared borders with St Augustine’s. And I saw it all clearly.

A car that had been driving slowly as we parted to make way suddenly accelerated and rammed through the marching students. I was right there where it occurred. For, I happened to be, that very moment, on the side of the road. I heard the acceleration of the car, right beside me. I heard the most awful sounds of the impact between machine and men. I saw with my own eyes, boys flying in the air either from the impact of the car or in desperate acts of self preservation. I saw the car as it sped away, leaving in its trail, visibly shaken students, with a number of them lying in pools of blood on the ground. And the music, had stopped.

Then the doctors in our midst got to work, giving first aid and helping to get the boys into the hospital. They had all stayed to help the on-call doctors as they struggled frantically to save young lives. Awichway was the first to go, soon to be followed by Ankamah, but there were five other students critically injured and many others with minor injuries. An old student, a senior officer in the Ghana Air Force, had quickly made some phone calls and a military helicopter had soon arrived to take the critically injured students to the Korle Bu Teaching Hospital in Accra.

As the rest of us walked back to school, we stood for a while by the bonfire which had been set alight in anticipation of our arrival from town. It had burnt vigorously while we had all been in the hospital. We watched silently as the last embers extinguished and with them, gone, the lives of good young people and that joy that should have been but never really was. And that song, it came to me again, in my sleep and everywhere else;

“Go with the Lord The same good old Lord He that walks with you And forever keeps you safe.”

Augusco Mourns Mr Mark Forjoe

On the 27th of April when Mr Mark Forjoe is put to rest, I wish I could be in Ghana, to sing with my guitar by his grave. A melodious song, not of sorrow but of joy, a song sang in celebration of a life well led. For there-in would be the remains of a man loved by all, hated by none and whose very simplicity was an example for all.

Mr Mark Forjoe was my Art master in the St. Augustine’s College in Cape Coast. For years, he was as much a part of Augusco as his old fender guitar. He would often be seen solemnly strolling down the hills from the staff bungalows, his guitar on his back, down into the valley with the little bridge lined on either side by palm date trees and up to the base of the St Stephens –St Patricks building. As he popped out between the school tower and the Biology Laboratory in front of the building, there would be the odd shout of “Mac Tonto!”, because he played the guitar and shared a first name with that member of the Osibisa band. He took it all in good spirit.

Mr Forjoe was a brilliant artist, guitarist and composer who not only took up the responsibility of organising the school choir, but also in teaching anybody who cared to walk into his house, how to play the guitar. Many of us did. One could walk into Mr Forjoe’s house anytime, any day and he would bring you a guitar to start practicing. I still wonder how they coped with the traffic of students going through the house each day.

Mr Forjoe was always the same, always even-tempered and soft-spoken. The only time he expressed reservation about how often I went to play the guitar was during a period when I was struggling with my A-levels and he quietly sought to ascertain from me whether I was getting my priorities right or something to that effect. That is how much he cared. He was a teacher, a mentor and a dad to me, and I believe to a host of other boys who went through St. Augustine’s.

And God was kind to him, blessing him with a wonderful wife, two extremely gifted and intelligent boys, Francis and Mark and two lovely daughters, Theresa and Margaret, who are all doing very well in their various spheres of life. He lived in peaceful retirement in his hometown in the Western region of Ghana where he will be laid to rest on the 27th of April.

It was during one long vacation when Mr Forjoe, perhaps bored by the lack of activity, decided to organise all the kids living on the St. Augustine’s campus into a choir. Within a couple of months, he had built a pretty good choir from a bunch of kids, many of whom had never sung seriously before in their lives. The Campus Choir had the honour of singing in the first church service when school re-opened.

I still can remember the look of surprise on people’s faces as they craned their necks to see who this choir was as we belted out popular tunes like Amazing Grace, Peace Perfect Peace and Let your light Shine! We will continue to try to let our lights shine in everything we do, even if only for the memory of a good man. “Oh let it shine, shine shine, Come on and let your light shine........” Papa Appiah