Dear Iddrisu Abdul Rashid,
Greetings from the biggest concrete Jungle in “Nkrumahland”
Of late, I have been looking for a baobab tree from every nook and cranny of our modern jungle. Alas! All the trees, including the nim trees have been replaced with concrete and steel in the name of modernity and accommodation. Oh, How I miss life in the jungle, where every space under the baobab tree belonged to everybody, but nobody in particular.
By the way, have I told you that to get a place to lay one’s head in a small concrete hut in this modern jungle, one needs not less than 100 of the cowries from our cousin’s land at the turn of every new moon? No. I don’t mean our cousin Issifu, the Koko seller’s son. I am referring to our cousin from Kenyanta’s kingdom, who by dint of hardwork and a huge dose of luck, is now ruler of the land where our great- great-grandfather Wunpini was taken to as a slave. (I hear, the underground rail network has a river flowing below it. – that river, I am told, has the blood and sweat of great-great-grandfather Wunpini flowing in it)
Anyhow, please don’t tell mma Hawa that here in the concrete jungle, her children hardly see each other lest she collapses with disappointment. Yes, we don’t see each other at all. Brother Alhassan Suhuyini is too busy being the chief talkative for one of the numerous gongong beating institutions. The only time he gets for himself is when the external visitors he introduces to his body through his mouth seek permission to leave through the rear gate. Inusa, Fred Amese, and “cominini” have all been at large. Our rich brother Daniel Mumuni was in town. You know he now lives and works in “albinoland”? (A bird just whispered in my ear that those people are called white people). Tell Yahaya, our albino brother, that I now know his country of origin. Anyway, I must also tell you that Daniel has been flying in a metal bird in and out of “Nkrumahland” like the way you trot between Daboya and Damongo.
How is my old bicycle doing? Please, tell mba Saani the bicycle repairer, that the last time I came home I noticed some of the spokes were loose. He should fix them before I come home again. Oh, how I miss that bicycle! All I need to propel it into motion is my own “man power” derived from a generous amount of Tuo Zaafi with dry okro soup and mushroom. Here in the concrete jungle, a metal horse has been forced on me. This horse does not eat grass. It does not eat hay. It drinks!! NO! not water. It drinks a substance called petrol. That one too, coin cowries cannot buy. Have you seen the new cowries made of paper? To buy a gallon of this substance, one needs one green paper cowry and one blue paper cowry. Our friends who went to the white man’s school say in concrete jungle terminology, that’s about GHC 15. The sad thing is that when I buy 12 gallons of the substance for my metal horse, it drinks up all the substance before the next market day.
Our neighbor from Bole, who now sits on the national skin says there is hope. Last week he sent his chief elder in charge of our cowry affairs to tell us so. As usual the elders who sat in to listen to him on our behalf ended up singing the same chorus we have been used to since 1992. I hear the song is entitled “politicization”.
The ink from the container from which I am dipping the tip of the feather to write has just run out. I will send Ayishetu to fetch me some more. In the meantime, please keep the baobab tree intact.
Our brother Kasise Ricky Peprah celebrates another step towards the grave today. Here in the concrete jungle, they call it birthday. They actually organise parties to have fun. Funny isn's it? Tell him to ponder and pray and not party.
