Democracy or Sheer Silliness

I am a catholic. I attended a catholic secondary school in Ghana. Roughly eighty per cent of the students in the school were catholic. On Sundays, we would all attend church service in the school’s Assembly Hall, the catholic student population having outgrown our small purpose-built church. But we found other uses for the church on Sundays. Our protestant student population would gather there to pray, often inviting protestant preachers from town to worship with them.



But the Sunday church service was often, also an opportunity for the headmaster to speak to the whole school. So, you would often see the Protestants walking calmly across the school campus to join us for the last few minutes of our service. We used to make fun of them. For these students often formed the core of the “Christian Fellowship”, the good boys in school, who minded their own business and concentrated on their books. You could see from their demeanour as they undertook that solemn walk across the school campus that they had only God and books on their minds. We found that boring. But it was all childish humour with no harm intended.



Our best athlete at the time was called Ahmed Sumaila. Ahmed Sumaila and a few other Muslims were under no circumstance coerced to come and pray with us. They met somewhere to say their prayers, and again came to join us for the last few minutes for the headmaster’s speech. Once a while, I have forgotten how often, they would undertake a supervised trip on a Friday afternoon to attend the mosque in town. Thus were the principles of religious tolerance imbued in all of us. Our only concern was how fast Ahmed Sumaila was going to run at Interco, and not what God he worshipped.



I owe a debt of gratitude to my teachers, the priests and Bishops who taught me, long before Pope Francis’ attempt to promote a liberal, welcoming church, to judge a man not by the God he happens to worship, but by the content of his character. These were the same people who taught me respect for authority and for the rules that govern society. That is why I am so appalled that the Catholic Bishop’s Conference, shortly after the president’s State of the Nation address, in which he condemned religious intolerance and called on school head teachers to abide by the spirit of the constitution, came out blazingly, to encourage the head teachers to challenge the president’s authority.


How simple-minded can we be? And in fact, who told the bishops they have any authority to dictate what happens in “catholic” schools anymore? These schools, the last I checked, are financed by the government with the taxes of Catholics, Muslims and everyone else. Government pays the salaries of the teachers and provides the books, infrastructure and everything else. No one has the authority to impose an admission policy based on religion or to force students to engage in any religious activity they do not believe in. And you would think our bishops would know better. Following their cue, others have jumped on the bandwagon. A nurse has been sent away from work for wearing a Muslim headgear. Where is it going to end? Are catholic sisters who work in schools and hospitals going to be stopped from wearing their headgears?



There seems to be a growing trend in Ghana where people increasingly find it difficult to thread the thin line between democracy and freedom of speech on one hand and sheer indiscipline and frankly, silliness on the other. When the president speaks, we can all express contrary opinions, and even suggest better ways of dealing with the problem. What we cannot do is to give an order in direct contradiction to what he has said. That is indiscipline.



We are becoming a society where little school children left by parents in the care of teachers they trust, are let out unto the streets to join in demonstrations against the government and hurl insults at the president. This could never happen in the countries whose democratic structures we are trying to copy. That head teacher would be out of work, not by a presidential order, but by a School Board decision influenced by angry parents. But in Ghana everything goes, in the name of democracy



We are becoming used in our country to the silliness of journalists who think freedom of speech means an ability to insult authority. We are becoming used to the silliness of intemperate language on our airwaves by people paid by opposing political parties to attack each other. We have even observed the silliness of Ghanaians converging in front of foreign cameras to call their president a thief. But when our revered catholic bishops begin to join the rot, then its time to re-examine ourselves.


Papa Appiah

www.ghanansemsem.blogspot.com

African Woman (from Suicide Note Album)

Suicide Note (The Book) - Chapter One

Chapter One

Kofi Mensah loved Bibiani. And so did his father and his grandfather before him. They said Bibiani belonged to no one. Bibiani was nobody’s hometown. People had travelled from all over the country to Bibiani when gold had been discovered several years before. And Egya Amisah, Kofi’s grandfather, and at the time a young ambitious carpenter, and his wife Araba, had set off from Elmina along the coast of Ghana and travelled inland across rivers and over tortuous terrains to share in the new economic opportunities that had sprung up suddenly in Bibiani.

Egya Amisah had been born in Elmina to Opanyin Kwasi Nyarko, a renowned fisherman, and was the youngest of six sons and two daughters. They lived in a little house that overlooked the sea, whose angry rumbles, was often enough to keep one awake all night. Across the road from their home was the Elmina Castle, built by the Portuguese, and which still bore relics of the slave trade that was ever so efficiently organised there for centuries, and from where the cries of ancestral slaves still echoed, lending an eerie ambience to the environment.

All of Egya Amisah’s brothers had gone into the family business, fishing. At dawn one day, wailing and crying from her parents’ room had waked the then seven-year-old Egya. Thinking it was one of the occasional incidents of domestic violence he sometimes had the misfortune of witnessing, Egya had stole quietly being the curtains to his parents room to watch his mother being consoled by neighbours while Opanyin Nyarko sat in a corner, his head in his hands.

“Oh my children, oh my God, why do I deserve this? What have I done to deserve this?” Auntie Adomah was crying, tears streaming down her face.

“It’s all in the hands of the gods, Auntie” Paapa Antobam, the family head and also a retired fisherman, was saying. “I went to sea for well over four decades before I retired and never once experienced such storm as was said to have been encountered at sea last night.”

Auntie Adomah continues to sob uncontrollably

“Who are we, mere mortals, to challenge the works of the gods?” Paapa Antobam continued “And as heartbroken as we may be, we need not lose sight of the fact that the gods have been for us, more often than they have been against us.”

Opanyin Nyarko also starts to sob

“This is difficult, Nyarko, but, as our elders say, only a man’s chest is broad enough to bear the impact of a gunshot. So take heart, be brave, and remember, you will never stand alone in these difficult times.” Paapa Antobam concluded.

And that was how Egya Amisah got to know of the death of his two elder brothers who had been swept away when their fishing boat had capsized in a huge storm at sea. Their home was to be thrown into mourning for weeks on end, as people from all walks of life in Elmina came over to express their condolences.

Early the next morning, Paapa Antobam had arrived to fetch the whole family. He came along with a boy who carried a sheep and another who carried two bottles of Schnapps and a white chicken. They had walked through the town, intermittently being stopped by friends and relatives to express their condolences, as they made their way to the shrine of the fetish priest of the god Benya. After such an ordeal, it was important, that the rest of the family was spiritually fortified against the forces of evil that had briefly, but ever so disastrously, triumphed over them.

They trod with trepidation along the narrow path in the little forest that led to the shrine. The birds sang on the trees, a solemn comforting song of love that once again brought tears into the eyes of everybody. Soon, away in the distance, the sound of drumbeat became faintly audible and the little hut that was the shrine became visible. As they approached the shrine, they were met by a lady draped in white and held on either side by two bare-chested men who appeared to be struggling very hard to stop her breaking free and running off. In between her frantic attempts to break free, she appeared to be in a stupor and whispered inaudibly to herself. She made one last desperate and rather frightening attempt to run directly towards the intruders, and having been once again overcome by the now visibly sweating men, she seemed to withdraw quietly, back into the shrine.

“The god Benya welcomes you” One of the men casually invited them in.

As they bowed to enter the hut the chief priest, Attah, came to meet them. Egya Kwasi Attah was a tall bearded man who wore a skirt made of reed and wrist and ankle bands of seashells. There were white chalk rings all over his body. He carried a horse’s tail in one hand that he swung every now and again over his head to command the drummers. He took the items the entourage had brought along and by way of a hearty welcome, tore off the head of the chicken with his bare hands and let the blood drip on the god. The sound of drums filled the room again as the lady in white went into what looked like convulsive fits and whispered into the ear of the Egya Attah, who then interpreted to the rest of them.

“Your son Kojo Antobam…” he started. Kojo Antobam, incidentally named after Opanyin Antobam who had come with them today, was the elder of the two deceased brothers of Egya Amisah.

There was another drumbeat, a convulsive fit and little whispers into the ears of the chief priest, who continued with his interpretation.

“Your son Kojo Antobam wronged the gods.”

There were audible murmurs and looks of consternation all around.

There was an even louder drumbeat, another convulsive fit, and a whisper into the ear of Egya Attah.

“You looked on as your son had an affair with the wife of a priest of the shrine. Your family has been duly punished for the sins of your son”

Auntie Adomah was now sobbing uncontrollably as she held Egya Amisah and his brother Kwaku Ntsie tightly as if to make sure that these two remaining sons would not be taken from her. Egya Amisah shed tears as well, only in sympathy with his mum but really oblivious of what it was all about.

There was once again the whirl of the horse’s tail, the loud drumbeat, the convulsive fits, and the whisper into Egya Attah’s ear.

“This is not the end, your two sons will also be taken…”

Auntie Adomah collapsed in a heap on the earthen floor in front of Egya Attah, a broken woman pleading for the lives of her children.

“…Unless,” Egya Attah continued “you provide the following items for rituals to be performed”

There was another cycle of the rather overdramatic interludes.

“Twelve pairs of tiger nails, twelve fresh crocodile liver, and the blood of a virgin girl! The god has spoken”

Auntie Adomah cried even more loudly while Opanyin Adomah and Opanyin Nyarko walked up to the chief priest and engaged him in a tete a tete that went on for a few good minutes. Finally, Egya Attah announced, that a decision had been made to accept the equivalent of the needed items in gold dust, and the god was happy with that arrangement. He then picked up a sharp knife and quite expertly slashed the throat of the sheep as an assistant collected the blood in a bowl. Egya Attah let go of the carcass of the sheep, collected the bowl of blood, spat into it and mixed it with a black potion. He proceeded to wash the feet of the two boys with the concoction and having thus completed his rituals, assured all and sundry, that the curse had been banished from the family.

It had been a strange funeral. For the brothers had been swept away at sea and their bodies, never found. But the family did its best to honour the brothers as best they could. There was the usual array of “professional” criers who shouted at the top of their voice and uttered invocations and curses against the enemies of the family but never shared a tear. There were lots to eat and drink, and once drunk, lots of drumming and singing to dance to. But it was relief when it was all over and the family could finally be rid of the “sympathisers” whose true motives nobody was quite sure about. After all, it was now common knowledge, that the family had been punished for the misdeeds of a son.

“Good riddance” Opanyin Nyarko was saying to his wife “They are all gossips. They just come in to see what kind of meat you have in the soup so they can go and ridicule us. They are all witches and wizards.”

They sat in silence for a while.

“I wish people would simply mind their own business” Opanyin Nyarko continued. “Who really loves us and wishes us well? None of them”

“Well, what can they do?” Auntie Adomah said, “Damned if they do, and damned if they don’t. They are not responsible for our son’s misdemeanours.”

They sat in silence for a while.

“Come to think of it,” Auntie Adomah continued, “things could have been different”

Auntie Adomah continued to cry

“Things could have been different. You could have done much more about this issue...

“What do you mean by that?” Opanyin Nyarko blurted out, a tad impatiently.

“I did warn you…”

“There she goes again. Please don’t start!” Opanyin Nyarko barked. “Don’t start. I’m not in the mood for that. You warned me based on what? Rumours! What you heard at the market. I spoke to my boy and he denied it. What could I do? Follow him all around everyday? Please! This is hardly time for a blame game. I am a bit too old for that.”

Having said that, he walked away to his room and slept off his bitterness. But the frustration, anger and disappointment never left him. He had been at the point of retiring and his sons had taken over and were so brilliantly managing the business. Now he felt empty. He spent the rest of his days drowned in alcohol. Not long after the death of his sons, Opanyin Nyarko died peacefully in his sleep. The family was inconsolable but worse was to follow.

Cousin Joe Boy, Egya Amisah’s cousin and Opanyin Nyarko’s nephew, was by custom, entitled to all his uncle’s inheritance. He would then be responsible for looking after his uncle’s family. A day after the death of his uncle, Cousin Joe Boy had arrived in the house, not to express his condolence or to mourn with the family, but to boot them out of the house so he could come and live there with his family as, well, custom demanded. He had arrived very early in the morning with some hoodlums who helped pack all the belongings of the woman and her children while ensuring, that not as single item belonging to Opanyin Nyarko or purchased with his money was taken. Egya Amisah never forgot the fierce, bloodshot, angry and threatening eyes of his usually very jovial cousin.

And for the rest of his childhood, Egya Attah had to live in a single room lent to them in the big family house with his mother and three siblings. Auntie Adomah had used pieces of cloth as a partition to separate her bed from the rest of the room to give her some privacy, while the four children slept on mats spread around the rest of the room. And yet, they would walk daily past the house built through the sweat of their parents, inhabited by people who had simply won the lottery of death.

Stop Singing! There is A Bird in the Sky! - The "Suicide Note" Experience

On the 22nd of December, Papa Appiah’s Africoblues album, Suicide Note, was released in all major on-line download sites including CD Baby, Amazon and ITunes. Finally, Papa could sit down and rest after years of struggling to get this album out. In his desire not to take any short cuts, he employed the very best musicians Ghana could boast of and a few top class international musicians to play on this album. The list goes on forever; Grammy Award-winning trumpeter Terry Townson, Kwame Yeboah, Kari Bannerman, Nana Tsiboe, to mention but a few.

But it had not all been smooth sailing. Papa had had to battle against serious financial constraints to finally get this project completed. And when all the instrumental was done, he sought counsel from well-respected Ghanaian musical sources as to the way forward. You see, Papa had done all the recording in a plush little studio in Leicester called the Deadline Studio, whose owner, Adam Ellis, was a genius Sound Engineer. For the final vocals and mixing, however, he thought he had to go a notch up.



Following, rather blindly, the advise from the musical source, which he after all respected, he made the two and a half hour journey to London, to meet the gentleman who had been so strongly recommended to save the project. And he was a wonderful personality; very courteous and polite. But the first question Papa asked him was whether he had done any stuff for the musician who recommended him.



“No” he said, quite truthfully “but I’ve mixed for some people, and some have actually been released”



Oh Christ! The guy was honest, but Papa did not know whether to laugh or to cry. Worse was to follow, for they finally arrived at his “studio”. You see, he had met the gentleman in an area of the Canary Wharf near the river Thames, with a number of top class studios. Papa was soon to realize that the big studios had actually placed some “ship containers” in a spare plot of land, which they lent out to people to do some business by the side. And it was in one of these containers Papa was going to do his singing and mixing. He had been led from his posh little studio in Leicester to come and sing in a “ship container”. And still, he decided to give this individual a chance, based on the source of his recommendation.



It was going to get even more interesting. There was virtually no soundproofing at all. To counteract that, the gentleman had secured a microphone that blocked noise from the side.



First instruction: You have to keep your head still. No left and right movement. And keep your head the same distance from the mic at all times.



So basically, Papa had to stand like a statue all throughout his singing. Fair enough. He did his best to abide by the rules but tapped his right foot to the rhythm as he sang.



Second instruction: No no no Papa! Don’t tap your foot. The sound registers in the mic.



Unfortunately for the gentleman, the “studio” was in an air flight path. So every now and again, there would be another instruction.



Third instruction: I’ve got to stop you Papa. Let the plane pass first.



Fourth instruction: This bird. Goodness me. Sorry Papa, you’ve got to start from the top.



But what finally served as the straw that broke the camel’s back was when he edited a bum note with some monodyne software, something Adam regularly did without making a fuss, and seemed so pleased with himself, that he turned to a rather bemused Papa and gave him the high five.



‘This is no witchcraft, Papa” he said, laughing.



Papa had no choice but to boot out a rather pleasant gentleman and pack his bags back to Leicester and to Adam Ellis’ little studio. But the question he is grappling with is why anybody with any knowledge of music, would lead him to a guy like that.



Lesson number One: Papa, never trust anyone in the music business!



www.ghanansemsem.blogspot.com

PLEASE GET YOUR COPIES OF PAPA APPIAH'S SUICIDE NOTE (AN AFRICOBLUES ALBUM)FROM CDBABY

From Afrobeat to Africoblues - Fela Kuti to Papa Appiah (1)

There is only one true exponent of Afrobeat, and that is the maestro, and creator of the sound, Fela Kuti. Everyone else, including his own child Femi, may pretend to be playing afrobeat, but in truth, and they know it themselves, it's all a big joke. For afrobeat is not merely a musical style. It's borne out of the pain of a man, of the stripes on his back from senseless police brutality, and of his cry for justice. Even humour in afrobeat is laced with pain.

So afrobeat is as much a musical style as it was, a political stance against corruption and oppression. And the sum total of these diverse influences is what makes Fela unique. Not to mention the fact that, the man who pranced around his home and received visitors in only his panties, was a london-trained musician, who wrote every single note in his music himself; from the clappers, through the maracas to the baritone sax that characterised his sound.

And yet, despite his best efforts, not a lot has changed in Africa, and what little change we've had, like the acceptance of democracy and the rule of law, is as much, if not more, a product of western financial pressures as to Fela Kuti's singing. So what did Fela achieve from all the suffering? The publicity attracted the world's attention, not to the suffering of his people, but to the quality of his music and a multi-million musical empire has survived in his name that his descendants will forever benefit from. And that is all there is to it. Even Fela himself, in the latter stages of his life started questioning whether his songs had changed anything...

Wetin Fela go sing about again oh
Make I sing about corruption?
Na old old thing be that

Therin was an implicit admission, that while he had succeeded as a musician, he had failed miserably to effect societal change from lyrics in his music, and the torment he had to endure because of it.

So, Africa has moved on. We have democratic institutions which though are in their tottering infancy, will grow with time. With democracy has come a degree of press freedom. Not a single day passes by in Ghana for instance, when there is not a revelation of one corrupt deal or the other. The impression is that of a more corrupt society. I believe it is no worse than before, except that people have the confidence now to expose wrongdoing. So what we need in Africa is not more Fela Kutis to make us the laughing stock of the world, but to build strong institutions and allow them to work. Time will sort us out.

Any musical sound that calls itself afrobeat merely on account of the repeating chords, the percussion and visceral vocals and yet lacks the political sword and collective experience of a Fela sounds hollow. And come to think of it, is it not time that we started to sing about what is beautiful in Africa? And believe me, despite our numerous problems, there is a lot that is beautiful in Africa. How long can we continue to sing about poverty and hunger and disease and corruption. Not everything is right in Europe for instance. They have their own kinds of problems. Just recently Jimmy Saville has been locked in jail after a lifetime of horrific sexual abuse of children, most of whom were vulnerable sick children in hospitals. But I don't think any of their singers are going to try to announce that to the world in their songs

We need to sing about what is good in Africa - our lovely weather, our beautiful women, our smiling people, the walk down the riverside, the stolen kiss through the window, even of our heartaches and heartbreaks, for aren't we human after all?. And Papa Appiah attempts to do that in his new album - Suicide Note - an African Love Story. He refused to call his album afrobeat because he could not reconcile a romantic message with that genre. He calls his new sound "africoblues" It is a love story that ends with a letter that sounded suicidal. Thankfully, there was no suicide or he would not have lived to tell the story.

Papa Appiah's "Suicide Note (An Africoblues Album)"- An African Love Story

The Suicide Note album consists of eight songs that tell a love story. It opens with "Adobea", who would wake up early in the morning to go to the market to sell. The path to the market lay by my farm. And so as she often passed by my farm, I'd invite her to join me in singing a song of love.

But perhaps I'd taken her for granted, believing she was there for the taking from the way she seductively wriggled her bum and smiled as she passed by my farm. I was soon to realize, that she was merely being nice and not necessarily asking for it. So while I quickly fell in love with her, she needed more convincing, hence "African Woman", where I make her aware of my frustration and plead with her to tell me she loves me too.

Finally she gives an answer, but not nearly what I wanted to hear. For she told me we should continue to be "Just Friends," as she was struggling to actually get herself to love me and yet did not want to compromise the good friendship that had developed between us. I was livid, for I'd rather she hated me so I'd know she felt something stronger about me. All I really wanted was love.

She finally gives in and we have a humorous description of a bedroom encounter in "Oguaa Cedi". This song was based on a little joke that used to make the rounds amongst adults in Cape Coast when we were kids. A man gets up to go to the toilet after a bout of sex. The woman enquires whether he has finished.

"Why do you ask!!??" The man barked

"Oh I just wanted to know whether I could dress and go" the woman responded

"Oh bloody hell, lie down there, we're going to do it all night long. Oguaa Cedi is not a joke!!"


The relationship develops on the blind side of her very strict parents. Her father had been known to chase off potential suitors with a double-barreled gun. When I wanted to see Adobea, I would have to wait till her parents had gone to bed, then climb through her window. Soon I had had enough of this "Window Love". I implored Adobea, as she was no longer a little girl, to go with me to see her parents so we could marry.

But she was very reluctant to do that. And I soon realized that the problem was not just the double-barreled gun under her father's bed, but perhaps, that she did not love me enough or thought I had not the financial wherewithal to want to marry a girl like her. For soon she started to find excuses for avoiding me amidst rumours there were interests from some opulent sources. I was deeply hurt, and hence "you'll see me no more;"


If we but knew what lay in store tomorrow

On this earth there would be no more sorrow

We'd fold our arms and go afloat

Wherever the wind of fortune blowed......

Our relationship deteriorated even further, and the last time I saw her, she had been at the train station. I had not even known she was travelling. We had stood in silence for what seemed an eternity. She avoided my tear-filled eyes as we waited for her train. Finally, I helped her unto the train, but as the train slowly departed, she had not even look back to wave goodbye.


On my way home I met an oldie

Who the love of God had blessed

She said boy, you got to believe

And The Lord will do the rest........

So if she comes looking for me

I'll be in the church down the road,

With my troubles The Lord to see

That same "tradition of old"


Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. My letters went unanswered. Soon, overcome by my depth of depression. I wrote to Adobea thanking her for her love, and that, whatever would be would be. It did sound like a "Suicide Note", I must say.


Hence the song arrangement - Adobea, African Woman, Just Friends, Oguaa Cedi, Window Love, You'll See Me No More, Old Tradition, Suicide Note.

So don't be surprised that a title track is a last song. There is some design to the madness.

Papa Appiah

Www.ghanansemsem.blogspot.com

"SUICIDE NOTE" is almost ready

Paapa Nyarkoh, The Man Behind The "Benya" Album

A Grammy Award is an award given by the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences of the United States to recognise outstanding achievement in the music industry worldwide. An artiste does not have to win the Grammies. Simply being nominated is enough. For, nomination is a firm public declaration by the industry, that you have done something exceptional that year and deserve a pat on the back.

In the 55th edition held on February 10th 2013 at the Staples Center in Los Angeles, The Original Wailers, was nominated for Reggae Album of The Year, in recognition of the brilliant album "Miracle", released earlier on in the year. They did not win it eventually, the award going to good old Jimmy Cliff with his "Rebirth" album. And still, it was an occasion for the Original Wailers to lift their heads high and enjoy the adulation and respect that comes with a Grammy nomination. Paapa Nyarkoh was the drummer of

the group and it was said, that the group owed much of it's success to Paapa Nyarkoh's "one-drop drum style that brought a rousing energy to crowds at every show."

Back home in Ghana, however, the event went completely unnoticed. And yet, this is Ghana we are talking about. The Black Star of Africa. The land that produced Kofi Ghanaba, a guy who shocked America with a million-selling percussion album, "Africa Speaks, America Responds". This is Ghana, the land that produced Osibisa, the first African band ever to break international boundaries and reach out to the world. And yet, none of these guys ever had the honour of walking those red carpets of the Grammies. And so when I spoke to Paapa Nyarkoh, I wondered whether he was hurt that his achievement went largely unnoticed in his homeland.

"No" he quickly responded "I can imagine myself growing up in Ghana and being asked who the Grammy nominees were. I would have had no clue. We simply do not follow the Grammies in Ghana, but maybe it's time for that to change as more of us make inroads into World Music"

Indeed! Well said Paapa. And change, it will, someday.

Paapa Nyarkoh was born in Elmina, a short walking distance from the Benya Lagoon, to Adjoa Nketsiaba and Kwesi Nyarkoh. He lived close to the huge monstrous Elmina Castle where slaves were kept before their journey to lands unknown. He spent his youth watching the fishermen land ashore with their catch and singing praises to the gods of the land. He gives thanks to the Estrapa Methodist School in Elmina.

Inspired by the sounds of distant drums across the Benya in the early hours of the morning during the annual Edina Bakatue festivals, inspired by the Asafo Warriors singing and dancing in the street right in front of his home amidst the ferocious sounds of gunshots, inspired by the numerous gods of Elmina and our illustrious ancestors long gone, inspired by the stripes on the back of his ancestral slaves, whose spirits and agonising yells stilll hover and echo over the hills of Elmina, he taught himself to play the drum, and the rest, as they say, is history.

He started off in Ghana, a struggling musician trying to eke out a living on the road with several local bands including the Golden Nuggets and Mega Star. Soon, however, he had had enough and began to seek more musical adventure round the world. He migrated to the USA in 2002 where his unique original talent was soon recognised. He proceeded to work with Hugh Masekela, Junior Marvin, Glen Washington, Everton Blender and a host of other world stars, too many to mention here. But more importantly, he became the regular drummer of the Original Wailers, leading to his Grammy nomination for the album "Miracle". He has toured every corner of the world, where his immense talent has always been applauded, wherever he has been to.

The album "Benya" is his first solo album. And if you, like me, have had doubts about listening to a percussion and voice-only album, then doubt no more. For this album is bound to lift you over the horizons, into an almost trance-like commune with our ancestors.

"When I'm playing, my influences fall on me like rain" he said

I promise you, that in this album, everything fell on him. He was influenced by the sound of the drums across the Benya, the sounds of the fishermen as they landed ashore, the sound of the kelewele seller across the road, the sounds of the market women as they struggled to clear their wares, the sounds of the Asafo drummers along the street, the sounds of the fetish chants to the gods of Elmina and the sounds of hope for a better life ahead. And Paapa talks about his instrument and album with a passion that could only be admired.

"You see, the drum is the first instrument of sound and creation. It's powerful rhythms leave you breathless and hypnotised. It moves you to shake your body and you never get tired of listening because it's full of life"

For this album, Paapa used a full Fontonfrom ensemble, comprising two dowuro (bells), two atumpan drums, two Apenteng drums, one apetia drum and two big From drums. The Fontonfrom is traditionally a royal and war music. It is now often employed in royal funerals and for royal processions during festivities. In days long gone, these drums were also instruments of communication between villages.

"It requires a lot of timing, especially from the dowuro. The energetic rhythms these drums create can be extremely complex, but when they all come together, they sound so pleasing and rhythmic."

And listening to the album, one is immediately struck by the energy, rhythm, and hypnotic vibes. Just listen to the talking drums on "Akwaaba", the dance rhythms on "Benya" and the war victory celebration chants on "Yereko".

"Menayei (track 8) and Aketekete (track 9) are special tracks only played by my people during Edina bronya. Aketekete is warrior music and Menayei is played from door to door to wish our ancestors and the people of Edina a Happy New Year. It's back to our roots!

Indeed it is. I listened to thirteen Paapa Nyarkoh songs with just percussion and voice and was engaged and entertained all the way through. Each song had it's own story to tell and a vibrancy all it's own. That is the genius of the album.

"So how come you are so humble despite all your achievements?" I cheekily enquired.

He smiled modestly.

"I see my talent as a gift from God. My humility is my way of honouring Him."

Need I say more?

Get your copies on http://www.cdbaby.com/Artist/PaapaNyarkoh

Papa Appiah

www.Ghanansemsem.blogspot.com

AFRICOBlUES - Papa Appiah's "Suicide Note" -the album name changes again

Please don't blame me but the album name has changed once again. It was originally Songloba, but as a result of undue delays engineered by some self-centred individuals of which more later, the title track was dropped and a new set of songs were added to the list.

At the time, one of the new songs drafted unto the list "window love" seemed the perfect title song. Not only was the song catchy, I felt the title was also quite marketable. I continued to believe so till ia asked the designer of my album cover to change Songloba to Window Love.

Steve Lane, bless him, emailed asking for some enlightenment on the name "window love"

"Are you in love with windows or what?"

I was baffled. If that was the confusion the name was going to create, then it did not deserve to be a title of an album. An album title must not only be catchy, it's message must be clear to everybody. So I went back to the drawing table. There was an old track I'd records years back which I really had not released because I had not been satisfied with the final outcome.

With the help of my engineer Adam Ellis, we managed to load up this track again, and after the bass line had been changed, more backing vocals added and Terry Townson had given it the once over with his exquisite horn arrangement, it sounded like the best track on the album. So I changed the album name to "Old Tradition"

It remained "Old Tradition" till yet another track that was not going to make the album was resurrected and given the kiss of life. The track was called "Thank You". The track was cut from an over five minute song to three minute fifty five second song. The backing vocal was changed to reflect the mood of the song and the style of the lead singer. Once again, a once over by Terry Townson and his crew transformed the song.

But the title was so brand and did not really reflect the mood of the song;

When someday Im dead and gone,

Shed no tear for me

No mourning clothes nor song........

It sounded like a suicide note to a lover, thanking her for her love.

Well then, we changed the name to suicide note. And sounding now like the best song on the album, we changed the album name to "Suicide Note-An Africoblues Album." Check that!!

Check Out Paapa Nyarkoh's Amazing New Album "Benya"

https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/benya/id882448047

My review will follow soon. Classic stuff!!

AFRICOBLUES - Making Papa Appiah's "Suicide Note" - 2

It's been years of strife, of failure and disappointments, of joy and of sorrow, but I think I can finally confirm, that the long-awaited album by Papa Appiah, "Suicide Note", is coming out for sure this month. If anybody had told me when I started strumming my guitar along the beeches of Cape Coast several years ago that it would take nearly thirty years to get an album out, I would not have believed them. Fruitless years in medical school and a hopeless career delivering babies on labour wards in NHS hospitals are partly to blame. But the musical spirit that tormented my soul for years has finally triumphed.

I have been keenly aware of the fact that this could possibly be the only album I ever manage to release and so nothing has been left to chance. In recording this album, I employed the services of Ghana's most celebrated international

musical producer, Kwame Yeboah, with whom I have forged a musical partnership that hopefully, will last long beyond this album. And boy is the guy a genius. It takes literally two hours in the studio with Kwame to convert a failing song into a monster hit. He has a musical touch that is simply a gift from God. Kwame is a multi-instrumentalist who plays most of the instruments on the album except percussion, which is so efficiently done by Ghana's renowned percussionist, Nana Tsiboe.

But the album still needed something extra. So I googled for an online horns arranger and a name came up, Terry Townson. I had neither heard of him, nor heard anything he had done before. I was simply happy to have found somebody who was dedicated to arranging horns in songs. For after all, I could have brought horns men in to play for me but would not have had a clue what to direct them to play. So I sent Terry an email.

"Hi Terry, I have a challenge for you. I have a few African songs that need horns on them. I simply have no clue what they should sound like. Could you help?"

My email may have amused him but may also have triggered some intellectual and professional curiosity in him. He responded within 10 minutes.

"Send me one song first. I'll listen to some African songs with horns in them and we'll see what we can do"

And that was the beginning. After he had agreed to do the work, I decided to research on him further, only to nearly collapse in shock. Terry Townson is a Grammy Award winning horns arranger and largely regarded as one of the best trumpeters in the world. But what a guy. His humility and dedication to his work was an example to me. Again, he became a good friend of mine and hope to continue working with him well into the future.

This has turned out to be an album produced by top world class producers and mixed in top recording studios in Europe and the result is amazing. The ballard, "Just Friends", with its intricate horn arrangement, will be released as a single in Europe. Window Love, a song I wrote in the university about nocturnal nefarious activities that most teenagers in our time often engaged in, is bound to go down a storm in Ghana. The track "Old Tradition", an "africoblues" tune expressing heartbreak and torment, is better heard than explained.

There was a joke flying around when I was a little boy in Cape Coast. The adults used to enjoy sharing it but little knew, that we overheard it all. A young lady who had just had a round of sex with an older man turned to the man and asked

"Uncle, have you finished?"

"Why do you ask?" The man responded

"I just wanted to know if I could wear my panties and go" the girl answered

"Silly you, lie down!! Do you think Oguaa Cedi is a joke? I'm going to pee and come back for 4 more rounds!!"

Oguaa Cedi, the song, humorously expresses these sentiments in a solid africoblues rhythm that is sure to send fans dancing all night long. The album is designed for the World Music scene, but there is sure enough there to get the fans raving back home in Ghana. It's been 30 years, but believe me, it's been worth the wait.
Thanks for your support and prayers.

Papa Appiah

AFRICOBLUES - Making Papa Appiah's "Suicide Note" -1

I have been trying to make a musical album all my adult life. So when the end seemed near, I was overfilled with joy. I looked round for anybody and anything that would give the album that little extra polish. The album is largely sang in English but there are two songs on the album in twi. I thought, well, what an opportunity to get a certain renowned singer in Ghana to help me by doing backing vocals on those two songs for me.

"That should be no problem" she said

She asked me to simply email the songs to a certain studio and discuss terms with the owner and once that was done she would go and do the recording there. So far so good. I was impressed. Professionalism on show.

"But how much would it cost me to have your wonderful voice on my music?" I finally summoned the courage to ask.

"You said you were calling from the UK?"

I knew immediately there was going to be trouble. What had where I was calling from to do with anything.

"Its going to cost you 1000 pounds per song" she said

"You mean Ghana New Cedis" I helpfully suggested

"No! I said pounds"

She meant business. She was going to charge me a thousand, not Ghana cedis, not even dollars, pounds, for each song, just to do backing vocals. I felt like I had been poleaxed

"Well" she continued unashamedly "just google my name and see all the work I have been doing. Times have changed in Ghana."

After much pleading and haggling, I managed to get her, finally, to agree to accept 250 pounds for each song.

Then I called the studio owner, a renowned musician I had known in the UK.

"Will cost you two hundred" he said

I swear to God that that was what I heard. I was so relieved to finally speak to somebody sensible. Of course he had stayed in the Uk. He understood how we were all struggling here.

"Oh I really love your music" he added

The alarm bells started to ring in my head. Over the years I had developed a strong suspicion of professional musicians who were too quick to praise your music.

Soon after we had finished speaking, I received a text from him

"I hope you understood the bill. Its a thousand pounds per track. So two thousand pounds for the two songs."

Why had he found it necessary to text me. Perhaps he knew how ridiculous it all was and was surprised I had accepted it straightaway. He must have felt I probably had not heard it right or I definitely would have haggled. Or had he had a chat with someone else and been told what a fool he had been and decided to try to milk out some more from the cow. And he bargained hard. In the end he agreed to help the backing singer with the arrangement and charge me 400 pounds per song. I gave them the go-ahead to proceed. They wanted the money transferred via Western Union. So I withdrew the one thousand three hundred pounds over a couple of days and made my way to the transfer office.

On my way , however, something must have blown off my eyes. For I suddenly looked at that large bundle of cash in my hand and thought;

"Wow! All this money! For what? Backing vocals? On two songs! In Ghana!"

Suddenly, I started fuming in anger. I called the musicians and cancelled the job. I then decided, that I was not going to spend a penny of that sum. Out of anger, I was going to blow it all on my music and see how far it would take me.

I sent three hundred pounds to a Grammy Award winning horns arranger in Canada to rearrange all the horns on both song. And what a wonderful job he did. I paid five hundred pounds to book three full day studio sessions. Then I paid two very good Uk singers 200 pounds and 150 pounds each to do backing vocals on eight songs. I still had 150 pounds left. So I brought in a bassist to redo the bass on a

song for 50 pounds. I still had a hundred pounds left. So I brought in a saxophonist to come and blow away on one song. A thousand three hundred pounds well spent and not put in the pockets of con artists.

And the music is far richer for it.

Friday, 19 September 2014

Losing Respect for the Scottish

Yesterday the Scottish voted to remain hidden under the broad umbrella of England's United Kingdom and have their destiny as a people to continue to be determined by suited men in England

So I cast my mind back to Ghana's own struggle with colonialism. I spared a thought for the likes of Sergeant Adjetey who shed their blood for the course of independence.

I remembered Osagyefo Dr Kwame Nkrumah and other great warriors who endured personal trials and even imprisonment just for the right to make our own mistakes.

And we have made many. Years after independence we are still crawling as a nation. But what nobody can ever take away from us is our pride and dignity as a people. Sometimes it is better to die with honour than to merely survive in comfort

And so it was with disgust that I saw grown Scottish men crying for joy for having voted their country into subjugation; to remain perpetually hooked to the apron of Big Brother England.

That was the day I lost respect for Scotland

Thursday, 18 September 2014

Augusco and The Bishop's Candlesticks

Author’s Note – Though similar events happened in the St Augustine’s College, the story and characters in this book are all a product of the author’s imagination. Any offence is deeply regretted

The historical town of Cape Coast, founded by the Portuguese in the 15th century was the capital of Ghana before it was moved to Accra in 1877. The Cape Coast castle, a huge edifice of doom that sits with a royal elegance along the beech was where most slaves were held before their journey on the Middle Passage. Across the road from the castle was the Anglican Church. The road meandered between these two structures and dipped round mud huts inhabited by fishermen and dirt-littered beaches to the Victoria Park, complete with its bust of the famous queen. Along the beeches, the fishermen often sat smoking, mending their nets and singing the praises of the ninety-nine gods of Cape Coast.

The odd fisherman you saw approaching rather surreptitiously from the seaside had probably visited the natural water closet, for in many places, the beeches were sadly, nothing more than glorified toilets.

From the Victoria Park, the road led to the yellow Town Hall, a miniature version of similar administrative centres in the United Kingdom. From here the road crawled over the Fosu Lagoon, home of the god of similar name. Fishermen walked through this lagoon, trailed by baskets attached to their waist and holding nets which they hurled every now and again into the water to harvest the popular tilapia which, when matched with etsew, was a delicacy in Cape Coast . The road then sat quite frighteningly by the sea, separated from it by a narrow strip of sand with tall coconut trees till it reached the St Augustine’s College.

Established by Irish catholic missionaries in 1930, it is but

one of the several top secondary schools for which Cape Coast is famous. This all boy institution excelled in many things but had strong competition from bitter rivals and equally good schools like Mfantsipim and Adisadel College. And the girls, Holy Child School and Wesley Girls were not bad either. Because the St Augustine’s College and the Holy Child School were both catholic institutions, there seemed to be an unwritten agreement of friendship between them and indeed, the two schools co-operated in most things. A similar relationship existed between the two Methodist schools, Mfantsipim and Wesley Girls and so on. Every St. Augustine’s boy harboured a secret desire to have a girlfriend in Holy Child and vice versa.

Every Saturday, Augusco boys would troop in their numbers to Holy Child, all impeccably groomed. It did not matter if the shirt you wore or the nicely polished shoe was borrowed, you just had to be seen in Holy Child every now and again. Visit your sister; visit your aunt, your cousin or your niece. It did not matter. A visit was a visit, and you had to be seen.

They would go, and when they had run out of things to say, would relate events in Augusco over the past week – who had stolen what and who had been suspended. Everything that happened in Augusco was news in Holy Child. However, surprisingly very little news ever travelled beyond the walls of Holy Child. The girls basically kept quiet and turned the boys into laughing stock.

There was the occasional scandal generated from childish trivia and testosterone-fuelled stupidity. Five students from Augusco had decided one night to go to Holy Child and teach some girls a lesson. One of them had jilted his girlfriend and to get her own back, the girl had written to his friends to say he suffered from premature ejaculation. The boys had crawled up through the forest around the hilly Holy Child at around 8 pm when the girls had been at prep.

They had stolen quietly into the girls’ dormitory, lay on their beds and taken photos of themselves. They had then picked up souvenirs of panties and braziers and then, disguised in balaclavas, had headed for the classroom of the former girlfriend where they had forced the frightened screaming girls to stand on their tables and hold their ears. The nun on duty had heard the screams and run over but she had been overcome and forced to join the girls. After gesturing and posturing for a few minutes, they had bolted with their souvenirs. The girls had not been fooled. The authorities in Augusco had been alerted, an urgent roll call had been held and the five boys had gone back to school to find teachers waiting by their beds. Even long after they had been dismissed, they would sneak in every now and again to wild cheers and applause from admiring students. Thus were heroic status attained in Augusco in those days.

On your normal day, however, the relationship between the two schools was cordial and the Bishop’s Candlesticks, the school band of St Augustine’s, would often perform in Holy Child. This was an event everybody looked forward to. As the old St Augustine’s School bus bearing the famous musicians and their instruments laboured up the steep hills of Holy Child, leaving in its trail a thick fog of pungent smoke, the girls would run amidst wild feverish screams to meet them.

Ebo B!! B!! Ebo Ebo B!! Ebo B!!

This was Ebo Bentil’s day. The girls loved the shy, quietly spoken, tall handsome lead singer of the Candlesticks.

Ebo B!! B!!

The screams would continue as lesser men alighted and began unloading musical instruments.

Ebo B!! B!!

As the school prefect of Holy Child and a few senior girls would converge near the bus.

Ebo B!! B!!

As the great man would finally get down from the bus amidst deafening cheers, a broad but uneasy smile on his face, henchmen in tow. You had to be within the Ebo B circle of friends. I f you were a girl, you had to know somebody, who knew somebody who knew Ebo Bentil. He was monarch of all he surveyed.

Before the show began, the boys would go through the tiresome ritual of tuning their instruments. It would begin with the keyboards man playing one key after the other while the guitarist; neck craned and with a face contorted as if in pain would tune his guitar, stopping occasionally to gesture frantically to the over-enthusiastic drummer to quieten down. Sometimes the impatient girls would burst into song

“All we are saying don’t waste our time!”

To the melody of the John Lennon classic, Give Peace a Chance, to which the Augusco boys in the audience would respond;

Oooooooooh Saaaaas!!!!!!

Whatever that meant! B

ut it was all good-natured fun, inspired by the intense anticipation, with no harm intended.

Finally, silence!
The drummer would roll, and the keyboards man would begin the melody to the Bob Marley hit,

One love, one heart,
Let’s get together now
Feel alright

And finally the great man would appear, and we would struggle to hear his voice above the screams.

Ofinger Tiger, by virtue of his very close friendship with Ebo Bentil had become a sort of an honorary member of sorts of the Candlesticks. It had all started with him being the unofficial chief fan who had been content to be ever present at rehearsals and who helped to carry and arrange instruments. He had slowly gotten more and more influential in the group and soon he wanted to be on stage.

“I could do congas” he pleaded. “I know I am rubbish at it, but I wouldn’t play out aloud. Just pretend as if I was playing and put up a show. It would help.”

“That is nonsense really, Tiger, you might distort the sound.”

Sam Ampofo could not tolerate all this nonsense but eventually Tiger had influenced the other members to overrule him. So it was that on concert days, Tiger would stand by the conga, moving his hands as if he was playing but actually producing no sound at all. It was a skill he soon perfected, while his dancing and general showmanship would draw wild applause. So Tiger would stand astride the congas shaking his head to the rhythm and dripping with sweat till that special moment in all Candlesticks concerts that would go like this;

“Ladies and gentlemen, you have been listening tonight to the Bishop’s Candlesticks of the St Augustine’s College.” Ebo would begin

“We love you all and I know you love us too.

“We leave today with heavy hearts because you have been the best audience we have ever had anywhere, nationally and internationally.”

Wild applause

“I am now pleased to introduce to you the great talented young guys who form the core of our group. We have been playing together for 4 years, God wiling, there may be many more.”

Wild applause

“On bass tonight has been the man they call the guitar man. Ladies and Gentlemen, Johnny Guitar Cofie!!”

Johnny would strum a few lines on the bass amidst applause

“On keyboards. They call him the Ray Charles of Africa. Ladies and Gentlemen, Dicky Ray Samson!”

He would quickly introduce drummer Peter Davies and Sam Ampofo on lead guitar and then;

“May I have some silence in here please?”

Ebo would begin, and then turning to the band;

“Get it down guys, right down!” The sound would be lowered to almost inaudible levels and the audience would begin murmuring in anticipation.

“Finally, ladies and gentlemen, back from his recent tour of the Caribbean and Scandinavian countries, we are privileged to have in our midst, the world renowned percussionist, producer and arranger. Would you kindly put your sweet Holico hands together for Tommy Baby Tiger Garbah?”

This was the only time in the show Tiger would actually play, for this was his moment and it did not matter how he played. He would go into frenzy, pounding the poor congas into submission amidst wild hysterical cheers from the fans

“Baby Tiger! Baby Tiger!

“Someday, sometime, somewhere, we shall meet again. This has been yours truly Ebo Bentil on vocals. I love you all.” And the girls would rush on stage.

Saturday, 13 September 2014

Colonialism- The Scottish Experience

Next week, the Scottish people go to the polls to decide whether centuries of oppression from the English should finally be brought to an end. I am not Scottish by any stretch of the imagination, but I know how I would vote if I was. The English have survived all their history through the mental and physical domination of others. Many Africans are still in a struggle to extricate ourselves from the vestiges of colonial dominance.

And aren't the English brilliant at this. It takes sheer genius to be able to convince half of the Scottish people, for that is what the polls predict, that a land as culturally rich as Scotland, with vast oil resources at their disposal; the land that produced Adam Smith, Thomas Carlyle, David Hume and some of the great thinkers in the world, would simply be unable to survive without "big brother" England looking over their shoulders.

It is simply a case of the English not letting go of the goose that lays the golden eggs, however sophisticated the arguments they put forward and the Scottish better beware. Suddenly the English love the Scottish so much and do not want them to leave. They are using all means, fair and foul to ensure that Scotland remains locked perpetually in this "mutually beneficial" association.

Which reminds me of a story a Scottish taxi driver told me when I worked in Stirling a few years ago. He said,
When The Lord was creating the earth, Angel Gabriel sat on his right. So The Lord turned to Gabriel;

"Gabriel" He said

"Yes my Lord" Gabriel said

"Gabriel, I'm going to create this one beautiful country you would be proud of" The Lord said

"Let it be, my Lord" Gabriel said

"This little country will be called Scotland and will boast the best barley and make the best whiskey in the world" said The Lord

"Let it be, my Lord" Gabriel said

"Oh this country, Gabriel, I'm so excited, will produce some of the greatest minds in Economics, Science and Philosophy ever known to man"

"Let it be, my Lord" Gabriel said

"Vast natural resources they will have, this country, Gabriel, and....

"But Lord, don't you think you are giving this one small country too much?" Gabriel asked

"Come on Gabriel!!" The Lord rebuked "I haven't told you who their neighbours are going to be!!"

Papa Appiah
Www.ghanansemsem.blogspot.com

Friday, 17 January 2014

The KNUST Diaries - The Aluta Years (8) - The Arrest of Kakraba Cromwell

We were still at home when the announcement came on national radio and television;

“The student leader Kakraba Cromwell has been arrested. This was following collaboration between the Ghana Police and Interpol. Kakraba Cromwell, a final year Computer Science student at the Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology, has been involved in drug trafficking………”

Of course the allegation was not true. We were dealing with a determined government machinery, desperate to destroy this man forever. He had been a thorn in their flesh for far too long. No, he had not been charged with any crime. He was not brought before a judge. That would have been preferable. He would have had the opportunity to defend himself. Instead, he had been held in seclusion and subjected to long periods of sleep deprivation. Anytime he had tried to nod off an alarm bell would sound off in his cell.

Finally, when the poor man’s spirit had been crushed and his mental resolve shattered, when he was so confused he could not get a single line of grammar right, he was paraded before the cameras on national TV. The very thought of it still makes me wince. He was well dressed, but the man sitting there mumbling like an alcoholic or a drug addict was not the usually sharp and witty Kakraba Cromwell we knew. Not by any means. But that was the picture they wanted to paint for the rest of Ghana.

“We have evidence that you were involved in drug trafficking on your last visit to London.” The interviewer asked, rather threateningly

“Eh?”

“In fact Interpol has been pursuing you for a while now. Is that not right?”

”I’m not… mmm”

“And we know you have been on hard drugs yourself” the man asked

“No”

“Mr Cromwell, you have never used drugs? Answer me!”

“Just eh… marijuana”

“We have the names of all the people you smoke with. Could you tell me?”

“Chairman …….eh …Gorbachov”

“Is that his real name!?

“He is eehh…..”

I just walked away. I could not bear to watch this anymore. I later learnt, that in his earlier days in the university, he had dabbled in marijuana but had stopped completely when he had become involved in students politics. I had never seen him smoke anything or even drink alcohol. Chairman Gorbachov never forgave him for this, despite concerted attempts to explain to him KC had definitely not been himself and it was possible that the interview had not been live at all but had been recorded over a long period and the film edited to do the maximum damage to his reputation. And boy did they succeed. People began to wonder what the fuss had all been about.

“If such are the men chosen to lead our future leaders, then I weep for Ghana” One newspaper had commented

When we went back to school, he had still been in prison. There had been a somber mood on campus. There had been a few mumblings about holding demonstrations to protest against the treatment of Kakraba Cromwell, but really, people simply lacked the motivation to do anything more of significance. A couple of minor demonstrations were held and people quickly went back to the comfort of their books. And of course, the feeding grant had been withdrawn. Not long after that, KC was released. There had been no Interpol, no judge, no trial, no jury, no official charge, just irreparable damage to a man’s hard-earned reputation.

He had arrived in school one Sunday afternoon and in true Ghanaian traditional victory celebration style, a white cloth had been placed over his shoulder and white powder sprinkled over his head. Mr Simpson had offered libation to the gods at Always Around, invoking Aboagyewa’s curses on the people responsible for this.

‘May they suffer gonorrhea” he had said, amongst others

KC had then been followed by a handful of students all the way to the eighth floor, Gladys by his side. I saw the hallowed look on his face. I cast my mind back to the confident young man who had stood at the forecourt not long ago waving to all sides of Unity Hall. I knew something was lost and that Kakraba Cromwell would never be the same again.

The least we could do, his friends on the eight floor of the Unity Hall, was to try to lift his spirits. We went round and took contributions from everybody and organized a little party on the floor for him. I was asked to give a little speech on the night but before I could speak, Chairman Gorbachov had gotten up to speak uninvited.

“I am happy to welcome my partner in crime KC……” He didn’t look like he was joking. It left a bad taste in people’s mouth.

I gave an emotional speech relating my encounter with him on the first day. I talked about the way he cared about everyone on the floor. And it was true. He would get up in the morning literally going from one room to the other checking that people were alright or just having a chat. He was a great man but above all, he was a good man. “I promise you, nothing can bring down a man destined for greatness” I concluded to warm applause.

That was the last of students’ politics as we knew it at the time. There would be no major strikes ever again. Kakraba Cromwell, he quietly completed his examinations and found himself a job somewhere in Accra. The man we once thought was going to be president of Ghana, had been sunk into eternal oblivion.

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