THE LENNY BRISCOE II REPORT

SPECIAL DELIVERY II

2017-06-17T12:17:00.000-07:00

The poor delivery man looks from one man to the other, contemplating his next move. To his relief, one of the strangers volunteers to sign for the items. And why not? He probably placed the order. The driver gets in his humongous van and speeds off leaving the contraband goods behind. His work is done and he has targets to meet.

Kojo K’s eyes do not stray off the electronics for a second through it all.
What am I to do in this extraordinary meeting?

“Hey guys, I am here to witness you being gangstered after you gangstered someone’s credit card”?

“Hey guys, can I ask why you do this”?

“Hey guys, how much do make a year off of this?”

“Kojo, why didn’t you refuse delivery?”

My thoughts are interrupted by a loud but empty threat issued by the brother who signed for the items.

“If you don’t give us our parcels, we will call for reinforcement.”

I look at Kojo K before we simultaneously roar with laughter. Are these guys for real?

BLUFFING
The other one, evidently disappointed by his mate’s rush approach, tries something more drastic. “I’ll place a voodoo hex on anyone who uses or sells on these products. I can invoke spirits. I dabble in juju.”

“Go on. I’ll wait” is Kojo’s reply.
It hadn't worked. It was their turn to look at each other.

BARGAINING
“OK, OK brothers. Listen now. The white man has robbed us for centuries. They have stolen gold, diamonds, lands and oil and every other resource and even our ancestors for 400 years. What’s a credit card? This is not fraud, this is reparation.”

“You are wasting your time. Even worse, you are wasting mine” Kojo replies.

“How about you take one you give us one, eih? Take the TV give us the PS4 or vice versa. Good deal innit?”
No response.

BEGGING
He switched mode again. “Alright oga, I beg you now... I don’t usually do this... I’m begging you. It’s an emergency and I need the money. I have no use for a PS4... Think about my little boy who needs new shoes and other stuff. My father is not in a great shape either... I’m his pension. I take care of him. I’m all they have. Have mercy please...” etc

I am as fascinated as I am amused. This guy is one helluva actor. A true pro. You need that ability in his chosen profession (scamming). I am almost certain that he’s pulled off more complicated schemes in the past.

Yet, there comes a juncture when you have to admit you haven’t won. This lot were at that point. The bolder of the two asked “out of curiosity, what are you going to do with this?”

Well, what was Kojo K supposed to do with this?

“I’ll donate it to charity” was his response.

The internet killers laugh for the first time. They turn to stroll away. They are a bit nonchalant for people who have been gangstered out of their electronics. They had been apoplectic initially but they just seemed to resign themselves to their fate. They had tried but failed but hey life goes on. And they knew there will be more where that had come from on another day. “Eih Oga charity!” one hollered while waving at Kojo K with mock enthusiasm.

This is where the story ends. It’s up to you, my friend, to imagine which charity the electronics ended up at...

SPECIAL DELIVERY

2017-05-29T02:15:00.002-07:00

My phone rings.

It’s Kojo Kilo on the other line but it’s too early for a Kojo Kilo call.

Then again, I know Kojo K ain’t the type to ring to discuss a Coronation

Street or Take Me Out episode from the previous day. We have no interest.

I answer and the message is as curt as can be; “Son, there are two people strolling back and forth around my area.” That’s even worse than calling to talk about Coronation Street or Take Me Out or even Total Wipeout.

“So you called this early in the morning to break the exciting news about two people strolling back and forth around your area? OK.”

“Yo, wake up.”

I will wake up. I feel I am already up in spirit. I just need my body to

replicate. Five more minutes in this duvet and my body is sure to

follow... The Grandfather’s clock across the room is tick-tocking louder

than usual, I seem to observe. Then it fades into the distance like it

was in another dimension... It is in another dimension because I can see

my grandfather about to re-set it... But wait how is that possible?

My phone rings.

It’s Kojo Kilo on the other line but it’s too early for a Kojo...oh no!

It’s been 45 minutes since I last heard this same voice. 45 minutes never

flew by so quick.

“Yo, wake up.”

At this point, I’m unsure if I am in a dream, if I had had a dream or if

I’m dreaming that I’m dreaming...

“Son, there are two people strolling back and forth around my area.” Somehow, I knew he would say that before he said it. I’m fully up now.

I’m not as streetwise as Kojo K but even I knew that there was something

wrong with the scenario. 2 strangers loitering around for 45 minutes

(plus whatever time they started loitering around) is not inconspicuous by any stretch of the imagination.

At best, they may be stalking some poor soul and at worst, they may be

plotting a (broad) daylight robbery. But what do I know?

And according to Kojo K, the overnight body language specialist, they

were acting suspicious. Acting suspicious how?

Anyway why would I be interested?

“Why did you call me?” Usually, I’m sensible (I think anyway) but intrigue gets the better of me. Did I say “why would I be interested?”

It is a bit of a journey but 15 minutes later I’m around the corner from where Kojo lives. Lo and behold, standing in front of 65 is a wifebeater-clad Kojo K, the two strangers and a hefty heavily-tattooed delivery man. In their midst is a massive boxed flat-screen TV and what looks like a fresh PS4. It all makes sense now.

The casually dressed double act had ordered items over the internet or suchlike and used Kojo K’s address randomly. They had been pacing back and forth to intercept the delivery man but Kojo K had been too alert. Too sharp. And I knew him well enough to know he wasn’t having any of it…
TO BE CONTINUED...

THE FLY EP

2017-03-19T03:57:00.001-07:00

THE FLY EP

In an era where so-called beef is being flung about like a food fight in an abattoir, The Fly EP is a (desperately needed) breath of fresh air.

Producer Likwid Ice collaborates with Kwadjo Spiri, the MC, for this groundbreaking 5-track opus.

If you are a supporter of incoherent “mumble-rap” or rappers shooting off their mouths all the time about popping off imaginary guns or popping non-existent tags or ghost champagne bottles then I suggest you stop reading HERE.

I have nothing against them, I just couldn’t resist a dig, you dig? Obviously, there’s a healthy bit of braggadocio on this EP because…well, because it’s a part of hip-hop culture. On the whole though, Spiri delivers intelligent bars in Twi, Pidgin English and Queen’s English over reverb sample heavy Likwid Ice beats about history, wack rappers, haters, the God subject, love and spirituality.

Medofo Pa (My Love)

On Track 1, Kwadjo Spiri ushers listeners into the EP gently by sombrely professing his love (hence the title,duh) and promising Heaven/“higher frequencies” to the apple of his eye, Obaa Nikita. He does it effortlessly over a sample of his legendary namesake Kwadwo Antwi’s classic reworked by the peerless Likwid Ice.

Spiri paints pictures with words so vividly you would think you had already met Nikita within 4 minutes and 18 seconds.

I mean, how often do you come across a spiritual, respectful, brown-skinned Gemini damsel who can cook a good soup, walks a mean walk, with a body of a “whore and personality like God”?

So convincing is Spiri’s game to the mysterious Nikita, that he playfully croons the words of Proverbs 18:22 – He who finds a wife, finds a good thing – although he remains spouseless.

Ogya (Fire)

Pure fire. There’s no attempt to channel Kwadwo Antwi on Ogya. Kwadjo Spiri hits the ground running with bar after untouchable bar over another (obviously) dope Likwid Ice production.

The latter samples the colossal Osibisa band’s tune by the same name and even throws in a dash of One Time (Nas) and turns out a solid, aggie hip hop track that Spiri comfortably laces with sick lyrics in Twi and English.

From the drum rolled start to the end, Spiri’s fiery delivery matches the brilliance of the beat which he co-produces. He kicks a beast of a freestyle over a broad range of subjects from spirituality and haters. The track is so well crafted that the only minor is that it could have been longer. Spiri’s ability is apparent. After a few listens, “if you are not seeing a god, you need binoculars”.

We Go Fly

Spiri bemoans the rubbish on radio on Track 3 and refutes the underground rapper tag insisting all that is needed is to “fly”. It guest features FliPPA, a writer who describes himself as a cross between John Grisham and Chinua Achebe. Not many will disagree as he comes armed to the teeth with his A game. He also refers to himself as “God’s own publicist; no sacrilege” and possesses a timely delivery which complements Spiri’s flow as they trade bars. The latter obviously, not in the mood to be overawed by his co-star comes prepared. In one line crediting the altitude of his flow to his mountainous home region and subsequently claiming his flow is taller than your President. That line is solely responsible for the rather interesting yet brilliant outro on the track (go figure).

I am (Affirmations)

Likwid Ice the producer recommends a swirl of this track every morning like mouthwash. There are too many quotable quotes on “I am” and the reload value of this track is in the hundreds. Spiri looks in the mirror and reminds himself “of some medicine for the soul”. He is a “free spirit walking the earth, intelligence wrapped in a Black body, he is magnificence” on the mic. Kwadjo Spiri’s incorporation of Emile Coue’s famous phrase into a tune already bursting at the seams with memorable lines is an attestation of the broad subject spectrum of this MC.

Shot Him Down

Kwadjo Spiri takes the listener on a historical journey chronicling the lives of late great men who were torn down by their own people, regrettably. He talks of the demise of Kwame Nkrumah, Patrice Lumumba, Col. Muamar Guardafui and Yeshua Ben Yosef.

The storytelling is one that the aforementioned would have been proud of. Paradoxically Kwadjo Spiri’s Achilles' heel, if I can call it that, lies on the surface of this profound track. His wordy flow is not his greatest over a typically challenging but solid Likwid Ice production. Perhaps it was the subject, but Spiri does not spray as easily as we have become accustomed to. Yet, the track still remains a firm favourite of a host of critics blessed enough to have heard this EP.

Bear in mind, Spiri records, mixes and masters all the tracks and you know that we are not dealing with a regular MC if that is not blatant enough yet. Over 5 tracks, Likwid Ice and Kwadjo Spiri combine to make an impressive debut collaboration EP that would make Obaa Nikita proud. She might even pop the question.

Check out the dopeness from here;

https://soundcloud.com/kwadjospiri/sets/the-fly-ep

https://api.soundcloud.com/playlists/302909530

SAVING A LIFE III

2017-03-17T03:33:00.001-07:00

THE SQUAD

Minutes after Sally's chilling statement, the little melee is almost forgotten when we hear a loud business-like screech of car tyres outside. My first thought is “it is the police”. That is when I realise that Farouq had sneaked outside perhaps to have a cigarette or escape due attention. Too late, he’s gone, I think.

I rush outside and it’s anything but a squad car that had made that grand appearance. It is a battered banger of a vehicle with blacked out windows that had ground to a halt in front of the joint.

Out step a few individuals clad in black hoods and track bottoms. The youngest one of the lot remains behind the wheels and rolls his window down casually. The leader of the out-steppers who looks about 40ish walks purposefully towards Farouq’s group of friends. That is when I notice Farouq the spitter himself. He tries to make an escape by taking to his heels – which I suppose gives the game away – because he is given a chase and rugby tackled. 2 more men join the first pursuer who is now perched comfortably on the torso of Farouq. And, as you may have guessed my sweet reader, the blows start raining down. Right fist, left fist. At some point I swear I saw one throw both fists at the same time even.

Farouq worryingly throws none back. All this while his friends stand and do nothing. Actually they do something – they take their phones out and record. Whether for snitching purposes or to taunt Farouq later, we will never know.

The occupants of the unidentified car throw Farouq into the bush and I breathe a sigh of relief. That is the end of his ordeal, I hope. But no, out comes the boots. Their massive boots disappear into the bush and a bit more of Farouq’s blood splatters out. Some ladies around try to intervene but all the high-pitched imploring falls on deaf ears. Time for the great hero; ME.(No need for the drum-roll).

“What are you doing fam?” I say with as much confidence as I could muster. I don’t think I pull it off but I say it again trying to sound as un-scared as possible.

“This rasclart idiot spat at my cousin. He spat at my cousin.”(Oh so that was what the call was about).

“Yes, but that’s enough. Are you trying to catch a murder case fam? Leave the man alone please. I am sure he won’t ever try spitting at your cousin ever again.”

“I am sure he won’t even spit in his own bloodclot bath sink again, blood.”

WATER

They casually stroll to their car. I turn quickly and attend to Farouq. He lays motionless. His face looks too bloodied for a CPR. And I have never called emergency services so I am unsure what the right number is, so I plead the assistance of a young lady nearby. She rings the ambulance. I Usain bolt to ASDA to get a bottle of water. But not before I roll Farouq into a comfortable position so he does not choke on his own blood. I come back and splash him and revive him (all facts!).

That’s when I see his attackers peel off. So they had stayed to be certain that he was not in a coma or something. Not nice.

Farouq comes round and initially he looks like he is still finding his bearings. Then he gives a sudden jerk as if it has just dawned on him that he has not been in a dream. He checks his phone, wallet and keys and miraculously, they are all intact in his Stone Island jacket. He collects his two front teeth from the ground next to him.

He says "I'm ringing the police". Farouq is calling the police. Wonders.

“Welcome back Farouq, I saved your life.”

SAVING A LIFE II

2016-11-20T01:32:00.004-08:00

Now there were a bunch of Turkish lads who frequented the joint – more for the fact that they are semi-pro punters and the bookies was right next door – as opposed to just having a mere healthy love of the beautiful game. So full of life, they are.

Yet to say that this group were temperamental will be a grand understatement. Matchday with them was synonymous with drama. For instance, the typical missed sitter by say a Gabriel Agbonlahor or a Jozy Altidore (and thank goodness these "strikers" no longer steal a living in the Premier League) and my Turkish cousins will cuss out the TV shaking their balled fist in fury. You did not have to be a language expert to tell that they were swearing but what was being said, only Lord knows. And from their conduct, I wouldn't be overly shocked if they didn't know what they were saying themselves.

Occasionally, a team that they had bet against will score a nice little goal and an innocent glass or bottle had to have it ala Arsene Wenger. A bottle will be smashed to the ground so dramatically that its contents will respond by splashing out in cinematic slow motion. I was cool with them. C'mon, I'm cool with everyone. Yet, as much as they provided entertainment sort of, you could sense unease amongst staff every time the Turk squad swaggered in. Especially when Farouq* was about. You know within every clique, there’s the dim one who always takes things a tad too far? You know the one who looks in the mirror and sees Joe Pesci? Yes, that was Farouq.

MATCHDAY

So Farouq saunters in and orders something he can barely pronounce. Two sips or so later – and within minutes of entering – he slams both fists on his table in apparent anger over something only he knows. But we are familiar with him and we pay him no mind.

But Sally* (staff) is not in the mood for buffoonery and approaches him. Few words are exchanged and he is politely asked to leave. Farouq is beside himself with rage and at this point, it is difficult to tell if it’s being told to his face to leave that is peeing him off or the fact that it’s Sally telling him. He bangs his fists a few times more and then we hear an unmistakable sound – the sound of someone spitting.

No prize, my dear friends, for guessing the culprit and the poor victim. Of all people, only one person, can be solely culpable of such an act. And it is him – Farouq. He had spat on Sally. A thick, phlegm-laden, semi-solid Turkish spit. Not even Joe Pesci himself will go that far. If she is shocked, Sally does not show it. There is something subtly disturbing about her calm she is.

There is a roar of disapproval from everyone present but after a few moments all eyes revert to the TV screens. Back to football. Unbelievable. Am I the only person appalled?

No because within minutes, Antoine* a regular, confronts Farouq quite angrily. I don’t want this to turn into a mini war so I play peace-maker (as you’d expect from your favourite uncle) and persuade Farouq to apologise to Sally. But the coward is happy to apologise to Antoine and I but not Sally. How does that even work?

Then amidst all the hullabaloo, Sally looks Farouq dead in the eyes and says calmly; “do not go anywhere please. You are a big man yes? You think you're bad? Just wait right here…”

TO BE CONT…

SAVING A LIFE

2016-08-25T23:49:00.000-07:00

I like to watch football where I watch football in Longsight, Manchester although I live in a different area.

Maybe it's because there are some ever-presents with genuine tactical nous who drop analysis that could give Andy Gray a run for his money. Hell, sometimes they give a whole me a run for my money like I had any.

Maybe it's because of the few partisan noise-makers who run free but unsolicited commentary, waffling on and on about contentious refereeing decisions and other stuff only they can see or think they can see anyway. And perhaps I frequent this football spot because of the comedic value they bring.

There is another issue that makes this venue stand out head and shoulders as far as TV football venues are concerned; i.e. this joint serves up more drama than ITV 2 daytime. Take for instance the tail end of last season. There were 3 major incidents in just a month;
1. One time a lady walked in searching for Carlos - an elderly former Pastor turned consultant for the punters next door. He made predictions, won them money and they revered him. Carlos has this special gift that makes him a walking, talking version of Paul the Octopus (RIP). Anyway, this lady was threatening - no, promising - to take the life or at least maim poor old Carlos. The cause of her rather baffling behaviour? We will never know. Fortunately for Carlos, he was nowhere to be seen that night. According to staff that work at the football venue, it was the first time in about two years that Carlos had not been there at that particular time of the evening. I have since seen Carlos but I never set my eyes on the lady again.

2. On another occasion, a "gentleman" walked in stark naked - not even a pair of socks or a condom on. He acted so normal that on-lookers doubted their own sanity. It took about 10 minutes for staff to approach him. Even then he expressed himself in a totally calm, intelligible and composed manner. It was only when the police arrived that the beast came out of him. Within seconds, he was hollering and howling like a rabid dog as if he had been waiting for them to bring out that performance. He bounced back and forth and taser-happy police interpreted that as cue. They zapped him a few times and he got right back up on his feet on each occasion apart from the fourth. He had had enough by then. As he lay shivering at the back of the police van, struggling to catch his breath, people put their mobile phones away and turned the TV volume back up. It was business as usual.

3. Then at the end of last season, a major incident occurred; a young man was seen dancing outside the spot to some Afrobeats tracks. He was a known ex-con that lived locally. In his right hand was a gun that he was waving around to the beat. The manager picked up the phone and she had barely hang up when police arrived. And boy, did they turn up in dramatic fashion. Armed cops pulled up in unmarked vans and normal squad cars too with dogs the size of men. He was cuffed as they lay him face down on the pavement. It was a mere two hours later that police made the Einstein-esque conclusion that the gun was a toy gun after all that melee.

Yet not one of the above events comes remotely close to what happened last week...

To be continued...

UNUSUAL BIRTHDAY STORY PART II

2016-04-18T10:32:00.001-07:00

"Allow me to help you please" I said like a true gentleman (which I am). I scanned her items adroitly before she could utter a word of protest.

It was only when I attempted to pay that she spoke for the first time. She refused my offer but I had earned her trust. She thanked me and mentioned her name to me. I told her mine.

"Today is my birthday", she said completely out of the blue. I was taken aback.

"Today is my birthday too", I said. But she wasn't even slightly taken aback. So I was taken aback again that she wasn't taken aback.

But she is an elderly person and elderly people seem to know everything.

I half-expected her to say "and I know you called in sick at work because they won't give you the day off and there are a truckload of men in your house consuming all your chicken and Pepsi". But of course she didn't say that.

"How are you celebrating?"

"Not doing much really? I'm having a calm one as usual?" Why I was speaking sentences in question form only Lord knew. But for some reason the words came out infinitely polite. I consciously stopped myself from asking how she was spending hers as that would have been the natural thing to do. I knew she was lonely.

But she had read my thoughts like print. "My closest family is in far away Portsmouth". That went straight to my heart. I fought an urge to go back in there to get her a cake, me being such a nice and lovely young man.

Just then at the entrance area, something caught my eye and I had one eureka moment. I knew at once what she would appreciate. They had lovely stuff still on display at the store entrance strategically placed to have you reaching for your wallet. I got some gorgeous bouquet of flowers, paid and presented them to her like the queen she was.

"Happy birthday Mrs Knight" I said.

I thought to myself "this is the best thing I've done since...well since the last best thing I ever did". All of a sudden, without warning, Mrs Knight started bawling her eyes out as we approached the car park. I didn't quite get that initially. Then it made sense, she was overwhelmed with emotion, me being perhaps the first man to buy her flowers since the end of World War I. Right, right, right. I could see the appreciation in her lovely little eyes.

But then several people stopped to ask her "you alright?" which sort of baffled me a bit. A few minutes earlier, in the shop when she needed help, not a single person had paid her any mind. She was struggling then not now. So it took them a bit of wailing for them to pay attention? A few people had approached her. But then reality hit me. Like Mr Brown's fist on Rihanna's nose, it finally hit me. They probably think I'm low-key robbing her!

I saw what they saw in their eyes; a black man in a hoodie and matching bottoms standing next to a small, whimpering white old lady right in a quite dark area. If this was America, I probably would've been shot four times by police already. I've got to get out of here and fast, I thought.

People were trying to talk to her. As she opened her mouth to explain that she was just touched by my gentlemanly gesture, the only thing that came out was just louder boo hoo hoo.

I mumbled my excuses and left swiftly. I half-flew into Marl’s car. I must have been panting because he asked me what was happening. He had suppressed his patience long enough but curiosity had gotten the better of him. “I will explain later”.

But I didn’t have to. Because I realised that I had left my bag with Mrs Knight along with her grocery. I asked Marl to get it. I couldn’t be bothered, one. And two, if police were there they’ll take him instead.

Marley came back with my shopping splitting his sides with laughter.

“What’s up?” I asked.

He said he went back to where the lovely lady was and a bunch of elderly people had gathered around Mrs Knight. Soon as they saw him they started telling him what a great gentleman he was. And how he is different he is from the youths of today. There were lots of “blessings be upon you” and “you are amazing, those are lovely flowers” etc etc.

How anyone will mistake Marl for me, I will never know. He looked like a bear in a hoodie. I suppose all black people look the same to some. Like Jacob, Marl had robbed me off my blessings. Great great, great. Typical.

AN UNUSUAL BIRTHDAY STORY

2016-03-01T02:46:00.002-08:00

If you thought this is about celebrating birthdays by popping champs in the VIP area, acting a fool to so-called Trap music or whipping and naenae-ing in the club and waking up in the morning next to a blonde-haired stranger with a fat ass, then you can stop reading here.

Real OGs don’t do those things.

This is about a trip to ASDA. (Real OGs do these things). And the seldom trip to ASDA is usually routine: a quick chat with the conscious security man, CJ. You know the usual topics like life, love, lust, ladies…oh and the merits (and demerits) of being young, sexy Black fathers etc etc bloody etc. Then it’s off to the magazine aisle. This is where I cop a FourFourTwo magazine. But not before I check through the fitness mags with their impossible and unattainable banners like:

How to get Wladimir Klitschko arms in a week.
How to get lats like Manny Pacquiao in 3 days.
5 minute abs.

I may be exaggerating a bit but there are a thousand more absurd topics like that which do not make any sense. Which begs the question; why do I still spend precious time skimming through them? Occasionally, I glance over the women’s mags as well (don’t judge me) which will, more often than not, have even sillier titles. For instance the last one I saw had “How to have a massive bum like Cheryl’s” – or was it Charlotte’s – with a girl with absolutely no ass at all on the cover under the caption! She had the flattest bum I’d ever seen in my ass-checking life. Buttocks so small, they had to indicate what they meant with an arrow. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry initially. But I found myself chuckling quite loudly straight after.

After that, I purchase whatever it is I came to purchase, which is usually patties, and then I’m out of the door like a thief in the night.

On the last trip though, while debating in my own mind whether to cop a FourFourTwo or World Soccer or both, I caught in my peripheral vision, an elderly lady pushing her Zimmer frame while balancing her shopping basket or at least attempting to. She must’ve been 100 or 200 years old.

The sight went straight to my heart. Who allows their great grandmother to come out shopping all by herself? Coming from where I come from, I have the utmost respect and perhaps even a referential fear for the elderly and I felt a compelling urge to help her. If my grandma was still here, I will treat her like a queen. No – scratch that – I’ll treat her like the Queen. This woman could be grandma.

But I was put off by the possibility of spending my whole night going through the aisles with her as she was moving super-slow. There were a few Champions League games pending as well. I can’t miss that for this sweet dear old lady, no chance. So I guiltily went ahead perusing the GQ issue I had in my hands or at least pretended to. After what I thought was enough time not to notice her, I picked a few patties and the guava drink off the shelf and made my way to the self-service check out.

As I was scanning away, I looked to my right for no apparent reason and guess who was smiling at me with her lovely false teeth? Grandma Pat! I could not help it this time, I had to help her…

To be cont…

THE NEW BOY II

2016-02-16T04:42:00.000-08:00

So what was I to do?

The aim has always been to be more Hitchcock than Hitch but there I was being subtly asked to play Cupid. Poor old Jamal who had been single for so long, he had forgotten how long for.

“They’re both single” I told him. His spirits lifted. Jamal understood there was no way of either of us knowing who was more likely to be game – Keisha or Ashley? It was a textbook case of trial and error. What was wiser? To zone in and put all eggs in one basket or to spread his tentacles and hope for the best? That was entirely and clean up to him.

He went to work. And thus, ladies and gentlemen, commenced email festivals and textual (yes, you read ‘textual’) activity all over the place.

Don’t get me wrong though; there was lots of actual work being done as well – you know, dignity of labour, work and happiness, hard work builds a nation and all that crap. KPIs were shooting through the roof.

How was Jamal doing? He was getting a variant mix of vaguely encouraging and encouragingly vague massages from both ladies. As you may well know, my sweet readers, when girls are being pains in the asses and won’t let you know whether you’re going or coming with them. In time, something significant happened: Keisha literally stumbled across hard evidence to suggest that she was not the only recipient of Jamal’s obsequious messages.

[Now, it’s a fine line between being your Favourite Ghetto Storyteller – which I’ll always be – and blog-snitching. To reveal how Keisha read the game like Jose Mourinho will be borderline dry snitching. Please text me privately for the juicy details. Standard charges and network fees may apply.]

Keisha, seeing that, went from responding to emails within 5 seconds to like 5 hours inbetween. Jamal, a sharp man took that as cue to pursue and close in on Ashley.

JAMAL & ASHLEY

One time, Ashley’s best friend Megan*, herself another stunner, was unable to turn up at work for one reason or the other. Suddenly it was D Day, literally. Ashley laid out a red-carpeted VIP invitation for my brother Jamal’s Black ass to occupy Megan’s seat right next to her. Nice.

So on either side of Ashley was your favourite Ghetto Storyteller (me, me, me) and young Jamal. It was an historic moment because that was the first time in about 100 years of this illustrious company’s existence that they’d seen an Oreo-type seating arrangement like we had that day. I smiled across at him like a proud coach seeing his protégé break into the first team.

The stage was set for J and by all rules of fiction and romance; things were shaping up nicely – the blonde princess about to be swept off her feet by the dark knight from the ends, so everything was looking froggy. But this is no fiction though, my sweet readers, so some work was required of Jamal.

He was well aware that Ashley was well aware of the myth that the grass was greener on the Black side, at least as far as the sizes of our camel tails were concerned. I thought that gave him competitive advantage over potential rivals like say a freckle-faced Craig from accounts department.

But by lunch time, Jamal had said nothing really. Conversation was stop and start, not flowing. He was wasting the day! Evidently, Ashley’s patience was about to run its course.

So while shooting pools like pros at lunch, I gave J this gem;

“She didn’t ask you to sit on Megan’s seat because you look like Megan. You’re not there because she wants the record of being the first white girl in the company to be sandwiched (seat-wise I mean) by two ebony brothers either. You are the one who emails her. You are supposed to be chatting her up. That’s why you are there.”

“I don’t want to seem too keen.” he said while sitting deep in thought.

I looked at him thinking “dear oh dear”. (And I don’t usually think “dear oh dear”).

“You are not being keen. She did her bit by asking you to come over. Now that you’ve gone all quiet, the situation is awkward – she might regret it.”

“So what am I to do though?”

Dear oh dear. “Jamal, you know I’m against fornication and other such things. And no one is asking you to go slurp slurping on her lips or consummate the deal or anything. But you started this here, now you’re slacking. Just a simple, gentle kiss on her lips in that I-belong-to-you-and-you-belong-to-me manner will do. That will stop Dimitri from Russia coming through and stealing her heart.” (Because Ashley was hitherto inexplicably drawn to Russians, who to me, speak like they had their jaws wired shut at birth.)

But Jamal only guffawed. I had the feeling that he was about to pull the old bottling trick.

Was I looking at the confident boy who swaggered into the office like he owned it or the poster boy of the new generation? The prize specimen of the Tinder, Happn and Bumble generation – ready to wax lyrical behind the keyboard only to turn paralytic with fear when it was time to transform words into deeds. Keyboard gangsters, the lot of them.

I refused to believe the latter. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he had assumed that it was a marathon and not a sprint. He’d forgotten that Ashley too was from the instant generation – instant coffee, instant internet, instant Uber, instant camel tails, instant everything…

The next day Megan returned to work and J was relegated back to his old seat in a far corner. And guess who started going hard on the keyboard once again? Yes, your guess is as good (or as bad) as mine.

But this time Ashley’s responses were slower than slow. Because he had been slow. Ashley preferred confident guys who stepped up and took what could be theirs without waiting around for permission. So she Keisha’ed him with 5 or more hours inbetween replies. Just as quickly as the fire had sparked, the embers died. The interest was gone like a thief in the night overnight.

Just like that? Just like that.

Moral of the story? Your guess is as good (or as bad) as mine.

THE END

(Until something happens…)

THE NEW BOY

2016-01-30T06:45:00.000-08:00

I was relieved when the new boy sauntered into the office. He had good looks. For a long time, I had felt like Atlas, bearing the heavy burden of being the sexiest Black guy in the office on my not-too-broad shoulders. That, believe it or not, can be a tad wearisome. The new boy had brought some much needed competition. No, I’m lying. I’m only joking. The real story starts in the next paragraph.

Truth is, for a long time, I was the only Black on Black guy in that office. There was a mixed-race guy in there as well, in another team. But they are called “mixed-race” for a reason, hello? Then much later, a few men of melanin were thankfully drafted in. Thus, between myself and the aforementioned new boy starting, there had been two other “brothers”. But the new guy – let’s call him by his real name Jamal* – had some confidence about him that made me pay attention. He reminded me of a younger me and that’s a massive compliment to him (no, really).

Anyway, while the ladies debated whether he was “hot or not”, I sacrificed part of my very precious time to know young Jamal. I obviously didn’t go chasing after son, no. He had (naturally) approached me. Luckily for him, we shared a few interests.

“You will be fully trained obviously, but you can always shout me whenever you need assistance with anything”, I told him.

“Cheers brother, safe.”

He had barely completed his first week of training, when he mentioned to me that he needed help. The sense of urgency about it almost had me panicking. I thought he had inadvertently downloaded a virus that would take down all systems and collapse the company in the next 24 hours or something like that.

It turned out my offer of “assistance with anything” had been translated as assistance with anything, quite literally. Because although the issue he required “help” with had everything to do with the workplace, it had nothing to do with actual work. He wanted information on a few lovely daughters of Eve whose looks had reached out and touched him on the eyeballs. Damn, this guy really reminded me of a younger version of me. They are three. And below are the three lucky ladies;

The Almost-Cougar; She is not a cougar per se but he, Jamal, would’ve appeared a toy-boy. She looks, to me, not a day older than 24, although word had it she is a decade older than that. Nice looks, beaming smile, cheerful face and a great pair of killer buttocks to boot. But there was a block; she is married. That is a no-go. A no-no. I told Jamal, he would have to cross her name out of his jot pad. She is perhaps married to a gentle Mr Pickering from Northampton who has never troubled anybody. It is not a nice deed to wreck homes. No amount of reckless white home-wrecking could atone for the transatlantic slave trade, so why bother? Besides, that was a grave sin.

The Ebony Sister; she is exactly that – an ebony sister. She really is like a sister to me. I handed her platinum advice for free. I counsel her on life, the importance of investing in the future rather than the now, family, boys etc. Being this wise, can be draining for me sometimes. And with this great mind, comes great responsibility. (Ignore the last two sentences). Anyway, Ebony Sister Keisha* is a tall, beautiful, occasionally well-behaved, Afro-haired Nubian queen who loves reading among other things. She is intelligent, has a great body and a pair of lovely long legs that reach way up into her armpit. Nice.

The Vanilla White – AKA White Chocolate. Ashley* – yes, that is also a white girl name – is savvy, a little sassy, and an all-round great personality. She is more focused than 3/4 of people her age worldwide. True that. She has a trusted method of squeezing secrets out of the mute. Something to do with the smile perhaps? That aside, she is beautiful, dresses Hollywood-level fabulous, has a set of snow white teeth and fronts a great pair of indestructible twin towers. Nice.

Jamal wanted either of the last two. What sort of “information” was your favourite Ghetto Narrator (me, that’s who) to give? I liked Jamal but I liked Keisha and Ashley too. Would he do the Billie-Jean if he had one of them? Would he treat them nice? But boys will always be boys and Jamal was a sound guy.

And Keisha and Ashley were both technically single…

To be continued

NO REPLY 2

2016-01-14T09:04:00.002-08:00

...From being drowsy with sleep only minutes earlier, I surprised myself with how quickly I became acutely aware of my surroundings in a flash. And it had everything to do with Ata Kak's twin standing over me with his triumphant (yet super-infuriating) smile.

He looked remorseless. After all, he had woken me up without physically waking me up. He had achieved his aim. I knew he was not entertaining thoughts of robbing a brother. I did not think that robbing innocent people with a smile on the perpetrator's face was the in-thing. Also, there were about a million cameras on the train and we were not remotely close to our destination.

So, what did this stranger want? I hoped he wasn't after a piece of my ass long d*** style, because if he was, then he was about to get his ass kicked, skinny fist style. Obviously, I have nothing against homosexuals but I am straight-er than the Prime Meridian. And rape is wrong.

He sat down but respectfully kept an empty seat between us. So obviously that eliminated certain thoughts. So what does this guy want from me? Is he lonely? Why doesn't he call his partner? Or his ex? Or his mother or grandmother? That is what a mobile phone is for, no?

I had so much to ask him and to say to him but when I opened my chapped lips to speak all that came out was;

"Ummmm?"

And he laughed. He had the effrontery to laugh. Then he mumbled his name - which I heard - but rapidly forgot even before unclasping my hands from his pretty firm grip. He started by saying he was Brazilian working for a consortium which had subcontracted his boss for a major project. They had been flown from Rio. Hmmm, impressive.

He was the most African-looking Brazilian I had ever seen. Even more so than Ramires Santos do Nascimento. But I was not too surprised because Brazil has the biggest population of Black people in the world, Nigeria aside (I bet you did not know that, did you?). [You see what the Slave Bastards oops I meant the Slave "Masters" did to the Motherland?]

He went deep into conversation - more with himself than with me - and I listened and gave curt but polite responses when he asked questions. If I was trying to discourage him, I was failing at it because he kept going on and on like the late Notorious BIG. After a small pause, he made a bold but vague statement. Although it was only his opinion, I took it upon myself to explain to him why his statement was unjustifiable. Three minutes into my lecture, I realized I had been speaking for three minutes. So I stopped mid-sentence and looked him dead in the eyes. The triumphant smile had returned. He had succeeded in opening me up like a melon. He did not, for one minute, believe that Leicester City will win the Premier League. He had spotted me reading the old newspaper form the sports pages first and backwards and assumed I was a sports fan. He just said that to get me to react. Back in the day, when I was a young womanizer, I will criticize a woman's driving or say something completely baseless that a girl was interested in to get the target to chatter/argue away. So he had tricked me. Smart, smart, smart.

"What do you want from me, man?" I said without warning. It was his turn to be surprised. I cracked my first genuine smile of the night.

"£25." Just like that?

My Brazilian specialist wanted £25 from an ordinary survivor like me. Why £25? Why not £20 or £30? Strange guy.

"You know this will not be re-payable, so it will be hard for me to give away £25 just like that. I barely know you, brother." (I added "brother" so I did not seem like a mean bastard).

"But it's a small world and you may need me some day too."

"That is true but I didn't budget this particular expenditure, if you get me." Then we went into talk about ways to penny-pinch in the present blistering UK economy.

"It was, for instance, sensible to park and get on the train to London. It would've cost you more. But then it would've cost you less to get a Megabus ticket rather than a Virgin train" I said.

"But you did the same thing."

Well, I'm not asking you for £25, am I? Obviously, I did not put it that bluntly to him but I did say it in a way that wasn't as brash but it still hit home. Before, either of us knew it we were home.

We swapped numbers and I immediately put up a picture of my entire family up as my WhatsApp Display Picture to deter him from asking me for any further soft loans in future. Of course that did not work and he doubled up and asked me for £50 just the next morning.

How I always meet these nutters, I will never know. But very peculiar people seem to gravitate towards me for reasons yet unknown. And as you may have guessed, I did not give him 50p (the equivalent of a single pee fee) let alone £50. I have since sent Ata Kak twin a happy new year message which he's yet to reply. He must be sulking - obviously nurturing a hump because I'm not as generous as I may have looked on the train.

Well, I usually delete contacts, after reasonable time, if and when a reply-able message I sent is aired. (And yes, I know it's childish!) But c'mon I gave him enough time as I was feeling kind in the new year but I am deleting his number after this post.

*Delete Ata Kak's Brazilian brother's number*...

NO REPLY

2016-01-11T06:02:00.002-08:00

I sat in the corner listening to the clean version of To Pimp a Butterfly on the Virgin train, returning to base from a draining but ultimately rewarding London trip.

[By the way the London trip was really brief. In case you live in London and are wondering why your favourite narrator – me, that’s who – did not ring you (or your ex-girlfriend for that matter)]. The trip hurt my wallet as well. No, really. What with shop after exclusive shop within inches of each other and the rather annoying 50p charge to urinate. A 50p pee fee to have a little leak was a piss-take, quite literally. In all, I must have spent a little fortune just squeezing water out of my 3^rd leg and my annoyance was further compounded by the fact that half of Londoners have no clue what a urinal is. I thought these were predominantly English people? No? I remembered to ask about a “loo” just in time on one occasion or I would’ve wet myself. I swear it was a 20p charge back when I lived there. Oh wait, that must be a while ago.

Anyway, only one other person was in the same cabin as me on the train and he looked like the long-lost brother of the long-lost enigmatic African musician Ata Kak. (It’s Google or YouTube time for you if you don’t know who the great Ata Kak is). I glanced at him, not absent-mindedly, but with the same dispassionate attention with which I observe most things and then fixed my gaze on the old newspaper on my lap. He seemed fidgety and I could tell, through my peripheral vision that he was looking at me rather hesitantly. Perhaps, I reminded him of someone as well. I assumed he was harmless but he was making me nervous nonetheless.

I was fatigued. My eyes were yielding to the power of sleep and I resisted half-heartedly. I increased the volume on the headphones and flipped the newspaper pages even more with renewed vigour to battle the sleepiness. Talk about an exercise in futility. Eventually, I found myself in that state of semi-consciousness. In the distance, I could hear the announcement on the train which had morphed with the lyrics of “Momma” the song that was playing in my headphones at the time. Then there was a cacophony of other unidentifiable sounds all playing somewhere on my mind. I could see trains moving in slow motion.

Next thing I knew, D had picked me up from the station. That was when I felt a slight chill which was followed almost immediately by immense warmth. I pulled what I assumed was my duvet tighter around me. It felt like a weekend – the only days of the week when my alarm is not set for 06:20AM. But suddenly, I felt a shadow over me. A shadow belonging to someone who was willing me to reach out – just like my daughter does on weekends. Ah my daughter! I missed her. I consciously moved my hand towards this person but something within me inexplicably caused me to open my eyes. I woke up startled. Why? Because lo and behold, standing right in front of me, in the bloody Virgin train, with a diabolic, self-satisfied smile on his face, was Ata Kak’s brother or cousin or whoever the hell he was…

End of part 1

To be continued

NEW YEAR RESOLUTIONS - THE GYM CATEGORY

2016-01-02T07:49:00.002-08:00

It's that time again...

The new year resolution population are at it again. It's near impossible to scroll down my timeline on Facebook without seeing someone from somewhere vowing to either stop or start something or both.

A few lazy part-time writers (ahem) claim they intend to pen more dense material in 2016. Amen. A couple of friends intend to get closer to their Maker. No, not in terms of getting closer to their respective deaths or anything like that but in terms of drawing closer via spirituality and embracing their faiths more. Amen.

A number of people have resolved, for whatever reason, to stop eating meat of any kind this year - well, until convenient amnesia kicks in on a binge-drinking night out and they end up wolfing down a monster-size bucket of kebab. Of course,there will be the feigned remorse in the morning and of course there will be the standard excuse of it being a "hangover cure", whatever that may be.

There is also the category who are waxing lyrical about having a more positive outlook on life in 2016 and developing the zest for existence. I'm not, under any circumstances, being a Prophet of Doom when I say (write) this but come February 1st, these same people will have Facebook statuses that read something like this;

"Why do I never meet the right guys? When will I get anything right?" or

"Somebody shoot me, I've had enough."

Like shut up already! Nobody cares. Social Media is not the most ideal place to be when you're "having issues". It's called FACEBOOK for a reason. Put on a brave face and pretend life's just sweet. That's it. It's almost as if people forget their resolutions two minutes into the new year. What happened to the relentless and warrior new you?

Anyway, the largest category and possibly the most irritating of the new year resolution champions is - The New Year Gym Goers (whom I will, from henceforth, refer to as NYGG as I can't keep writing New Year Gym Goers throughout this post. It will drive me round the bend, you get me?) These are the lot that I want to address and I crave your indulgence for a minute or 30.

NYGG

The NYGG, against all laws of nature and common sense, aim to burn off 3 stone worth of flab created presumably from Christmas turkey and chocolate by January 15th. Why January 15th? Because by the 3rd week of January, you'll never spot them at the gym. And I'm all for a healthy lifestyle but these lot can be a tad too over-enthusiastic and it can be borderline annoying.

You know the type that will stroll up to you, crack a fake smile and ask you "how many sets have you got left on the bench, ma'e?". Which really is nothing but a polite way of saying "hurry up and get the f*** off the bench, I am new and I need it". I am thinking "you saw me slide the plates on the barbell just seconds ago. At the time you were over there doing nothing!" But being such a nice person - as you already know - I usually crack a faker Kanye smile and retort "I only just started using this bench but you can join me if you want. It's up to you." At this point, I hold my breath hoping they say the weight is too much for them - because it is! But no, they always join. Always! These NYGG.

Now, this is the bit I can't stand - when you are done with your 10 reps or whatever, they take off all the plates that you meticulously placed on the bar and then load their 1.25kg or top-end 5kg plates. (Mind you, when they're done, they expect you to put your 80kg weights back on the bar all by yourself. Such unwanted extra workout.) Then they lift their 10kg total with rude and unnecessarily loud moans.

This exact scenario played out New Year's Day 2016. No lie.

This man joined me on the bench and went next level with the lift groaning. I must have kissed my teeth or something because he asked me if he was making too much noise. That surprised me - not because he was asking me that but because the answer was so obvious. Of course you are making too much bloody noise, you silly man! Being ever so nice - as you already know - and also as sarcastic as they come, I said "of course not. Don't watch anybody. Make as much noise as you want.

The louder the groans, the more people tend to push". Believe me or not, this man actually turned it up. It shocked me no end when this slightly overweight man (you're not allowed to say "fat" anymore) actually increased the decibel levels to almost pornographic heights. It was at this point that I could bear it no longer. I did not want to cop a ban from the gym or catch a case for deliberately dropping a 1.25kg plate on someone's toes. I left the place quietly. Thus prematurely ending my new year's day workout but saving my hearing in the process.

I know gyms make their monies over this period. Fair enough, but existing members tend to suffer financially and sometimes psychologically. OK, I may be exaggerating but you'll be forgiven for thinking the gym was Mecca yesterday. Obviously, one of the major differences being the way the ladies show up. What, you thought we will talk about the NYGG without mentioning the ladies?

The new ladies troop in with their phones (and chargers too) and are Instagram ready even before doing their first squat rep. And when they successfully finish their first set, it's a two hour wait before the second set starts. All while taking countless selfies in-between. As if the awkward poses and Instagram filter will tone your grandma arms for you.

Two things that I hope both existing and NYGG females will fix this year is the tendency to come to the gym in tights 3 sizes too small. Massive and unsightly camel-toes never burned anyone a single calorie. Also, it's OK to have a quick glance at sweaty guys working out. Guys do the same every now and again. Ladies spying through their peripheral vision/ the corners of their eyes/ through the mirrors is annoying and creepy.

With that said, and on a serious one, I wish everybody a healthy and prosperous New Year. See you in a gym...just don't stroll up to me asking how many sets I have left...

SELFIE WITH MESSI

2015-05-15T04:46:00.002-07:00

Football season is almost over. The highlight for me will be the Manchester City vs FC Barcelona Champions League 2nd round game at the Etihad stadium...and a selfie with Lionel Messi. Not in the usual way though...

I was in a queue at the Tesco close to the Etihad stadium impatiently waiting to be served by the staff. I noticed two youths, in their late teens, clad in black at the front bit of the queue, glaring at me or so it seemed.

I thought they were trying to knock my confidence initially, so I put my game face on and stared back at them. Then belatedly, I realized that they seemed to be looking through me. I may well have been invisible to them.

I turned around and noticed for the first time, the midget behind me. But there was something about this man. I gawked at him for a few seconds further and that’s when the realization hit me. Lo and behold standing behind me was arguably the greatest footballer to ever grace God’s Earth. Under his arm, he clutched his groceries like a Jamaican grandma at Kilburn on a Saturday morning. No, it can’t be.

“Lionel Messi?”

“Si.”

Now, my knowledge of Spanish is very limited. No, my Spanish is non-existent. I had no clue what to say next. First thing that popped up in mind was “selfie” selfishly. Surely “selfie” is “selfie” in Spanish, no? It couldn’t be “selfisto” or “que selficado” or something like that, could it?

“Selfie?” I half-pleaded hopefully. He smiled. I took that as a yes. Surely, there must be enough hangers-on in the FC Barcelona dressing room who would’ve more than happily run this errand for Lionel Messi. He could’ve sent Thomas Vermaelen, since most people wouldn’t have recognized him anyway (I was around the Etihad not the Emirates). Why did he come out all by his bloody self?

Anyway, without further ado, I whipped out my cracked-screen iPhone which had less than 20% power left in the battery and went to work on the selfies. I will try and take as many as possible and select two afterwards – one to be framed for my living room wall and the other purposefully to get my Social Media pages lit up the next day.

I had had a few pictures in the past with so-called big names and I always made it a point NOT to smile. I made it a point NOT to appear star-struck (what did that even mean?). After all, they breathed the same air as me. But Lionel Messi is from another planet. This was no average superstar. This was a superstar’s superstar. So I could be forgiven for cheesing in the images. I was baring all 32s grinning from ear to ear like a buffoon.

That was the entire cue, the two hooded young’uns needed. They came over and got a couple of selfies of their own before running out excitedly out of the shop. They didn’t even take the items they had paid for.

Then seemingly out of thin air came scores and scores of girls. Maybe the guys had told them. There were tall ones, short ones, slim ones, thick ones of all races and creed – white girls, violet, Japanese girls, pinky green girls, Eskimo girls and Blacks.

Not a single one asked for an autograph. It was selfie and pouting galore. Then the strange thing happened – they asked me to be in their shots. They must’ve thought I was Leo Messi’s black cousin or maybe they thought I was Dani Alves or something. I felt honoured, I complied. But if this was a day in the life of Lionel Messi I wondered how he’d managed to stay on the safer side of sanity all these years.

Just then a Black girl leaned forward and instead of pouting for a selfie, she started kissing me on my neck. She went further and licked my neck. What the hell is going on? Then she purred and shrieked…

What?

That was when I woke up.IT WAS ALL A DREAM(Notorious voice)! All that had been nothing but a funky dream.

And the black pussy – not what you’re thinking – was my big black pussy cat Stanley Aborrah licking my neck. Yuck! Yikes! I didn’t even like cats like that; I was use to them because my partner adored them. I pushed him away.I had no idea for how long he had been licking the melanin off my neck. It was the closest I'd come to hitting a cat but of course I didn't. I won't hurt a fly.

I wasn’t at Tesco with screaming girls around me, I was in my sofa at home curled up with pussies (cats) looking at me making loud cat noises like sirens because I had not fed them before I left earlier that evening. Damn. There was no Lionel Messi just an over-dressed analyst on TV saying his name. Damn.

A FEW HOURS EARLIER

I had been at the Manchester City vs FC Barcelona Champions League game earlier (and that was no dream). I had seen Arab money at work at the Etihad in other games previously. Yet this was an extraordinary spectacle; a star-studded array of 22 men chasing after a leather ball. The combined worth of the players on the pitch and the substitutes' bench could easily pay a small country’s debt off.

I took it all in.

The match itself was pretty predictable. I had mentioned on my Facebook status that it was highly likely that FC Barcelona will finish the game with a man (or three) advantage(fact check this). English opposition seeing a red card against the Catalunyans was as certain as a green pitch. [Over the years, players have been sent off for as much as breathing on Barca players – Celestine Babayaro, Didier Drogba, John Terry, Asier del Horno for FC Chelsea. Jens Lehmann, Gillies Grimandi and Robin Van Persie for Arsenal FC. So I was not surprised when Gael Clichy joined Pablo Zabaleta and Martin Demichiles as City players to have seen red against the Catalans on that night].

At certain points, especially after the red card, it felt like a rondo session with the Blaugrana bossing it. Just like at the World Cup, the indefatigable Luis Suarez gave Joe Hart a torrid time.

Most memorable incident, to me, was the FC Barca penalty in injury time. I saw a few people in the crowd twisting like the DNA strands of contortionists trying to take selfies to coincide with Messi’s penalty and trying to see the kick live in their peripheral vision all at the same time.

Joe Hart saved the penalty and Lionel Messi’s attempt to hit the net with the rebound was a fail as his header from less than 12 yards missed the target. (Eden Hazard scored in a similar incident against Crystal Palace in the Premier League much later in the season). The crowd inside the stadium had witnessed something historic, cue bedlam: everybody was on their feet and Joe Hart was celebrating like he had just won England’s first World Cup since 1966. Who could blame him?

I had come back home and instead of going to sleep like most normal human beings, I put on the TV to catch the highlights of the game, I had only just watched live. Like they say, you can’t cheat nature and your storyteller (me, that's who) fell asleep watching the TV, before the Messi penalty.

It could have been the commentary in the background as I slept, combined with the double cheeseburger and 1L Pepsi that I had had earlier and the killer kenkey and UK-made choffee that I had later when I came home. But whatever it was, I was so saddened that the selfie with the Great Messi had been just a dream.

I was so disappointed I was a bit worried about how disappointed I was. I smiled at the cats, cuddled Stanley Aborrah and took a selfie with him instead.

THE MAN WITH THE BIG TURBAN

2015-04-15T05:52:00.002-07:00

I heard my name.

Only my sweet old mother and perhaps a few of my earliest teachers called me that and in that are-you-OK-little-child tone.

I turned around slowly as if white cops were behind me and came face-to-face with the man with the big turban. I chose not to speak in case I gave too much away. I was perplexed but I was trying my hardest not to show it. I wasn’t going to ask him how he knew my name for I was certain his reply would freak me out even further.

“You are a very very lucky man. Many many women think about you". I was not too sure whether to laugh or cry. I maintained eye contact half-hoping that the eclectic gentleman will guffaw at his own joke. He didn’t.

I looked around half-expecting some of my friends to come out of the woodwork laughing their brainless heads off at this very late April Fool’s joke. They didn’t. I still composed myself, there could yet be Candid Camera somewhere.

“Sorry sir, I don’t mean any disrespect but I think you’ve got the wrong man.”

“YOU KNOW I’ve got the right man” he said, almost in a shout-whisper.

Besides the fact that I was very taken, it had been arguably the worst week of my relationship with my partner. It was a time when it was beyond impossible for us to agree on any issue apart from, well, maybe what day of the week it was. So I wasn’t feeling exactly “very very lucky”. That aside, I am not exactly Bond, James Bond so I doubted that “many many women” thought about me.

Off tops, I could think of my mother on I-hope-my-son-is-fine level and female employees at the tax offices. Even then, I was just another name amongst thousands to them. Those are the only women who would be actively thinking about me.

Flashback a few months earlier, a man had said something similar if not the exact same words to me at Chinatown. I quite remember it was a pretty dark period in my personal life as well.

So obviously, these spiritual men knew the right lines to pitch for the average man to swallow hook, line and sinker but they definitely had to work on their timing. I am not an average man though and like a spitter, I wasn’t swallowing anything.

“You see mister, I am a Christian and I do not believe in mysticism, ouija boards, palm-reading, fortune-telling etc so you will have to miss me with that. I respect your (witch)craft though.”

He was genuinely taken aback. The seer obviously had not seen that one coming (See what I did there?) I have always insisted that if fortune tellers could fortune-tell, there will be no need for fortune-telling. They will basically talk themselves out of a job. I did not give him chance to recover, I shuffled away as quickly as possible.

“You get busy, you get lucky…” “Keep moving my son…” “The harder you work, the luckier you will get…” He was saying other such inspirational lines and it sounded above everything else, an attempt to convince himself more than anyone else within earshot. This man may have missed his calling. He could’ve been a motivational speaker.

That night, I could not keep my mind on anything other than that Mahatma Gandhi/Buddha hybrid (imagine that) and his immense turban. I nodded off to sleep. In my dream I saw a turban chasing after a Black man over a hill in a manner not dissimilar to how Tom the cat will chase Jerry. One minute the turban will be running on feet like a leprechaun’s – as if I know what a leprechaun’s feet look like – and the next minute flying after him like a kite.

The man Usain Bolted across the bumpy hills as I subconsciously cheered for him. But he faced the other direction so I could not figure out his countenance. Then suddenly, he changed directions and guess who was being chased? He was me, me, me. You can imagine my fright (and flight) O ladies and gentlemen.

I snapped out of the nightmare deliberately with all the effort I could physically muster. Damn. "What the..." Just then I had a Eureka moment. The proverbial light bulb switched on and I thought I could test this turban man...

TO BE CONT

FIVE TOP REASONS TO GROW A BEARD EVERY NOW AND AGAIN

2015-02-22T03:30:00.001-08:00

YOU ARE GREAT. King Solomon, King David, King Mansa Musa, Methuselah, John the Baptist, Abraham, Abraham Lincoln, Muamar Guardafui, Moses, Afro Moses, Elijah, Elijah Mohammed, Martin Luther, Martin Luther King Jr, Malcolm X etc, etc all had massive beards in their time. These were great men. (It is purported that Osama Bin Laden’s beard was false so he cannot, under any circumstances, be added on to this illustrious list.)

Others like Idi Amin Dada, Uncle Adolf Hitler and Robert Mugabe (who is still a great hero in the eyes of many) tried to grow beards but failed so they went for weird moustaches instead. If this is not a great reason to grow a beard, then what is?

BEARDS WILL NEVER LEAVE YOU OR FORSAKE YOU. How many people have had fortunes and gone from grace to grass one way or the other? Put your hand up if you know someone who has been jilted by a loved one. How many people did you know from back in the day with Afros only to see them with heads like baby bums only a few years later at a reunion? Where I’m from, there is something called “erosion”. That is the process whereby a person’s hairline recedes so much there seems to be an on-going beef between the hairline and the forehead. For some, the bald patch starts at the back of the head and keeps spreading like the effect of an atomic explosion until all the hairs have been conquered.

The good news is that when your skull hair decides to spite you by falling out, you can always get one back on it by growing your beard. Your beard will never recede. Have you ever seen someone with a bald beard? Beards are faithful. Beards are loving and will always be there for you.

WOMEN CANNOT GROW BEARDS. You see the latest phenomena where every woman is a feminist? The most annoying feminist is not the real feminist but the Social Media Feminist. The type that tweets “what a man can do, a woman can do better” but relies on her man for her fake nails, false eye lashes, faux fur, bra-fillers and buttocks boosters. Now they say there is no “man of the house” or “head of the household” anymore. Now there are women scaffold workers, women miners, women grave-diggers etc etc. Well, let’s see women grow a full beard then.

BEARDS KEEP YOU WARM. Do you spend loads of money on scarves in the cold weather only to lose them on your way back from your draining job because you slept like a bear on the trains or the back of the bus and had to rush out or miss your stop? Do you spend all your time looking at cheap flights in the cold weather because you want to go to sunnier climates but cannot afford tickets like Papa Sammo because all your money goes towards buying Asiedu Nketiah-like jackets? Grow a beard. That way a greater portion of your face and beard covered…naturally. You save money and you stay warm.

NEW LOOK. Now, you have had the same boring face since High School – only a bit more wrinkly. Decades of consistent shaving has created a tender, darker portion of skin around your mouth and chin and that area feels like half-chewed soft weley. Growing a beard will allow the skin achieve some well-needed revitalisation and respite from constant scraping by clippers, shavers, razors and one dollar shaving sticks. The pleasure of flipping your looks because of a heavy beard game is immeasurable and the ensuing enjoyment from contrasting your superior facial hair to your hairless-chinned contemporaries will be priceless. And for the dodgy lot, a good beard will prevent the law from identifying you forever and ever. Amen.

SWEET FATHERHOOD S**T 101 (36 HOURS)

2014-11-17T22:10:00.000-08:00

So a supposedly “straightforward routine” turned out to be a “major surgery” and an overnight stay in a hospital for my partner and 36 hours of an inadvertent bonding session with my 9 month old daughter.

I had almost forgotten how the insides of a hospital looked like and smelled like (thank God) and as we went to see the specialist, I was grateful that we were in for a “straightforward routine”.

There was the usual bit of delay – no, in fact there was a very lengthy delay. When my partner’s name was eventually called out by the immaculately dressed nurse, my sigh of relief must have been audible from 50 yards away, I checked my watch, knowing I’d be able to get out and get in the day job soon. In the mean time, there was the small issue of taking care of, entertaining and engaging a surprisingly energetic 9 month old until my partner was done.

Another 45 minutes later, the nurse returned…without my partner. I thought nothing of it until I realized that she was avoiding my gaze. I knew there and then that something was amiss. She confirmed my suspicions with the customary “can you come with me Sir?” in a manner not dissimilar to how a police officer will drag your ass to the station.

I entered the room and the look on my partner’s face told a story. She shook her head. I looked from her to the nurse and then back to her again. She said she wasn’t allowed to come back home with us. She was in critical condition.

“Critical condition”? Just hours earlier, she had given me a lecture on childcare, demanded I took time off work, gave me some ear-bashing about one thing or the other and nagged about a thing or three. Plus, she had gone on and on about the best colour Christmas tree to get to fit in her living room. She seemed perfectly alright to me. That’s her in top physical condition.

She broke into tears. She did not want to stay in the hospital. I did not want her to stay in the hospital. The nurse elucidated the issues at hand to me and during that period not less than 5 doctors swaggered into the room; each one with a word or thousand of encouragement and reassurance.

I was not entirely sure what I was most worried about at this point – the “critical condition” my partner was apparently in, her being left overnight in the capable hands of nervous-sounding and fidgety health professionals or looking after the rapidly developing mini-me who had never been away from her mother for more than two hours in her life. She’d usually bawl her eyes out when her mother goes missing for longer than necessary. “Longer than necessary” being 60 seconds.

“Can I keep my baby here with me?” asked my partner.

The answer was a curt “NO”.

It was like a new dam had broken at the back of my partner’s eyes. The flood of tears was on a torrential scale. Instantly, my God-given paternal instincts kicked in and in one quick motion kissed my partner on the cheek and scooped our baby up before the former could question my abilities as a temporary single father…

End of part 1

SADLY EVER AFTER...

2014-07-19T02:35:00.001-07:00

If they had won their sixth World Cup title, then the whole nation needless to say, would’ve been engulfed and enveloped in a euphoric “feel-good” aura…at least for some time. Perhaps for a long time, even.

The struggles and protests may well have been forgotten. But as images of fans burning not just expensive-ass Nike branded replica Selecao shirts but their national flag as well flooded TV screens and the worldwide web after that semi-final loss against Germany, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was all worth it for the ordinary Brazilian.

Ordem e Progresso indeed.

This was meant to be “football coming home”. Its REAL home, that is. The one nation that is synonymous with football was getting the much-deserved chance to host the World Cup again and to show the whole world how the game is played. And show how to throw a party carnaval-style to boot. They had even recruited the manager of their last World Cup triumph: “Big Phil” Scolari. This was supposed to be an easy win like the Confederations Cup so that Brazilians could live happily ever after…

But as it sometimes is in life outside football, things did not go according to script. The Germans had simply not read the memo. Either that or the football gods, perhaps conspiring with the giant Christ the Redeemer statue, had had some few surprises up their collective sleeves for the O Selecao. They had dealt the Pentacampeones a cruel twist on the wheel of fate. Think along the lines of the plot of the movie Lucky Number Sleven. And seven it was. Unlucky seven.

The Germans were not exactly outer-worldly per se but they were clinical finishers on the night and that’s all that matters. Even more praise-worthy is that they quite refused to sit back after going a goal up against the home nation with only eleven minutes played.

Seven goals against Brazil - mighty BRAZIL - with or without Neymar da Silva Jr and Thiago Silva is no mean accomplishment. Four goals in an unbelievable 6 first half minutes set the tone for the host nation’s worst drubbing since records began and by the time the ball entered Julio Caesar’s goal for the 7^th time, the crowd were on their feet applauding.

The ovation was for the conquerors. Fans watching on TV could barely believe their eyes. Then when German possession was cheered by shouts of ole, ole by the super-partisan spectators in Belo Horizonte, people could barely believe their ears.

Perhaps even more striking than a smiling, unperturbed Bastian Schweisteinger before kick-off, was Manuel Neuer angrily berating his defenders after Oscar’s consolation goal in injury time. He expressed more disappointment at conceding 1 than (the admittedly cool) Julio Cesar did swallowing 7. That summed it all up.

All of a sudden, fans who had until then hidden behind Neymar cut-out masks, reached for their dusty placards.

All of a sudden Paulo Ito’s artwork of a young starving Brazilian boy having no food on his plate but a football, became even more relevant.

All of a sudden, optimistic Brazilians were coming to terms with the fact that this sporting disaster had cost them $11B. Even worst, lives had been lost putting the show together.

To be fair though, all rumours of incomplete infrastructure turned out to be largely unfounded. (Just like talk of robberies, snake and scorpion invasions at 2010 World Cup in South Africa turned out to be pure dead dog doo doo).

Only Big Phil Scolari’s “7 Steps to Heaven” was uncompleted. It was 7 goals to hell in the end.

All hopes of a consolation was lost when The Netherlands beat the Brazilians in the 3^rd/4^th place play-off. They had shipped 10 goals in just 2 games. Their worst defensive record ever; one of only 3 nations to concede more than 12 goals in a single World Cup with a defensive unit that had names like Dani Alves, Maicon, David Luiz,Thiago Silva, Dante,Marcelo, Maxwell and Julio Cesar.

Ultimately, it was arguably the best World Cup ever. At least in the eyes of the majority. The amazing spectacle was thoroughly enjoyed everywhere in the world…except Brazil. The world did not want the games to end, Brazil wish the games had not started in the first bloody place. Perhaps, Marcelo’s own goal opening the tournament should have sounded alarm bells or maybe not.

Like Pele said Brazil will have another crack at in 2018. But sadly, that’s another chapter…

FOUR MONTHS FOR A MUNCH

2014-06-28T09:31:00.000-07:00

Luis Suarez sinks his immense buck-tooth into the flesh of an opposing player. We’ve heard that before; it’s nothing new.

Luis Suarez cops a 4-month ban, a 9-game international football ban, a 4-month stadium ban (apparently applicable anywhere in the world). We have sort of heard that before too.

For the third time in his career, the super-talented Uruguayan striker, top goalscorer of the Premier League in the 2013/2014 season, multiple Barclays Premier League Player of the month and Barclays Premier League Player of the Year award winner cops a lengthy ban.

For a second season in a row, he will miss crucial matches for Liverpool FC - who have qualified for the Champions League for the first time in Lord-knows-how-long years and need all their key men now more than ever. He hasn’t done himself or his agent any favours as far as a transfer to either FC Barcelona or Real Madrid is concerned as well. So why always him? (Apologies to Mario Balotelli)

OK fair enough, Zinedine Zidane suffered a long ban when he rammed his shiny dome into Marco Materazzi’s chest in the 2006 World Cup final…but the world and every breathing football fan in it knew Zizou was retiring after that game, so what was the point?

On top of that, FIFA handed him (Zinedine Zidane) the Golden Ball, as Diego Maradona correctly pointed out recently. I have not seen many players with cannibalistic tendencies, but I remember Jermaine Defoe biting Javier Mascherano’s shoulders as if sweaty Argentine flesh tasted as good as a Big Mac. He got away with only a slap on the wrist.

So the polemics remain; is FIFA being uncharacteristically severe because the culprit is the notorious Luis Suarez? Or were the independent disciplinary committee of the governing body jolted into action by Giorgio Chiellini’s scathing criticism?

In the same World Cup (Brazil 2014), France have gotten away with more murder than an Ecuadorian drug cartel. As examples, consider Olivier Giroud and Mamadou Sakho’s murderous Jon Jones type elbows on Ecuadorian defenders whose only crimes were to defend corners. Mamadou Sakho’s in particular would’ve had someone like Sergio Busquets rolling around for days or at least from one side of the pitch to the other… and FIFA would’ve acted.

Against Honduras, Paul Pogba retaliated brutally when Wilson Palacios fouled him (The same offence against Diego Simeone got David Beckham a red card…and fame). Of course Paul Pogba got away with it. In a cruel twist in the wheel of fate, Wilson Palacios seemingly fouled an overreacting Paul Pogba in his own box. He was sent off and France scored the ensuing penalty.

So it won’t be too far from the truth to assume that Luis Suarez is being targeted, right? Right. He brings it on himself, right? I mean this is the same Luis Suarez who promised to everything but God to be of good behaviour after munching a chunk of Branislav Ivanovic’s arm, right? This is the same Luis Suarez who thought a hug after a game was enough to win empathy after doing the Dracula on Otman Bakkal, right? This is the same Luis Suarez who prevented Ghana’s Dominic Adiyiah from making history by clawing away a goal-bound header by the striker, right?

THE ONE MAN WHO PREVENTED GHANA from an historical semi-final appearance in the World Cup 2010? Ah,well, I guess he deserves his ban then…

WRITER'S BLOG

2014-06-07T03:35:00.001-07:00

It was not a self-imposed hiatus or voluntary exile, it was just Google.

Try signing in from a secret location with a different laptop or freshly-bought Sunday Market secondhand phone and you'll have hell to pay.

I was told that I could not log into my account so many times in the past few months I almost gave in. To be allowed access into my account, I had to remember one of those useless, irrelevant, silly-ass questions I was asked while signing up.

1.Where did you first meet your ex girlfriend's uncle son?

2.What is the name of the person who sold your dog to the dog-catchers?

3.What is your first ever phone number?

Usually, I (and probably millions of other people)make up answers to these questions. I mean how am I meant to remember my first phone number?Anyway, I had answered that question correctly.Lucky me.

So after digging through the vaults, searching through almost two-decade-old chop-boxes and raiding grand mum's house, I found my 1999 diary.I found my first number in there.I knew it was in there(along with the numbers of a few of my friends)!So here I am.Just in time for Brazil 2014.

Thank you Lord.

2014-03-30T11:36:00.002-07:00

JOHNNY’S STORY by LBII, BWA

2013-12-01T06:41:00.005-08:00

“These things happen. I do not know whether they are accidents or preordained but these things happen. I brought this on myself so it’s hard to say and I can’t complain”, says Johnny as he smiles…with his eyes.

Sitting two yards from Johnny, I never would have been able to tell that he had spent two years of his young life in six different HMPs. It might be because I don’t know how youngsters who have spent two years in six different HMPs are supposed to look like archetypically. Or perhaps because Johnny O is not upset or even mildly bitter about life as I had half expected him to be.

He cracks jokes easily and has a good word or three for everyone who passes by.

A usual Friday night out – no, what started as a usual Friday night out, two and a half years earlier, kicked off a series of events that eventually culminated in the banging up of an only son, Johnny, abroad.

Johnny, decked out in his freshest garms and a pair of Nike creps, stepped out to have some fun at a nearest nightclub, leaving his trusting and loyal girlfriend at home two-plus years earlier.

At the end of the night and only four drinks later, the handsome young man emerged from the nightclub with two of the sexiest daughters of Eve of the night. One on each arm – true player style. Their extra extra short dresses struggled to stay on their smooth, bare skins and Johnny’s eyes struggled to stay in their respective sockets.

They walked into the cold autumn night and the three adventure-seekers began earnestly hunting a bench or somewhere convenient within a nearby park.

Mist or fog or whatever it was swirled smoky vortexes around the trees and bushes forming a transparent haze. And it sort of partitioned the thrill-seekers from the rest of the world.

Claire (real character but fake name 1) and Chloe (real character but fake name 2) were freezing and Johnny was expected to provide heat… and he could not wait. But as is always the case, someone developed cold feet. That person was Johnny’s target Claire’s partner-in-crime Chloe.

Perhaps she had all of a sudden remembered her Sunday School lessons.

Perhaps she had not drunk enough.

Perhaps she had experienced a proverbial moment of clarity.

Whatever it was, Chloe told Claire that she was not getting “a good vibe about the whole thing and wanted to go home”. At the time, Claire’s libido level had gone through the ozone layer and wasn’t coming down any time soon. Try as she may, Chloe could not convince Claire to get off the path that she was treading.

Claire, partly due to alcohol - mind you she wasn’t too drunk to not know what she was doing. She knew exactly what she was doing – and partly due to the wonderful charms of Johnny and partly due to Johnny’s six-packed torso, was so far gone that she was not answering her boyfriend’s calls. She didn’t want him killing the vibe. He had called at least SEVEN times.

Claire and Johnny were so busy smooching the life out of each other that they did not even notice that Chloe had left. Eventually they found a fairly lit spot near a lamp post.

Now or never.

They got down to action. Action being Claire getting down on her knees and Johnny giving her lips the old in-out-in-out treatment. Johnny’s pelvis oscillated with his Carhatt Khakis fly open and eyes tightly shut as he savoured every bit of pleasure that Claire’s warm, soft and moist mouth provided. The single-digit temperature atmosphere only added to his intense gratification.

They were both lost in moans and groans and everything in between and then some.

To this day, he doesn't know what made him - maybe it was an instant of disquietude or intervention by universal forces – but he opened his eyes suddenly and what he saw almost made him pass out.

An enormous man about the size of a house was standing not further than twelve feet away. Even in the dim light, Johnny saw that the man had balled his hands into fists. The look on his face was that of pain, disbelief, anger and a tinge of disappointment. He looked ready to pounce like a tiger. He was the epitome of a man unsure whether he was capable of doing what he was about to do and hence the hesitation.

Johnny did not know for how long man-house had been standing there for. He had never met him before but he knew instinctively that he was Claire’s boyfriend …

To be continued…

Paaaaaart one and Twoooooooo. Part 2 of this real life story coming soon.

Special thanks to John Oluwatumbo Onukafor.

Lenny Briscoe II and Poison Pen Incorporated/Machine Gun Gum

SOCCER SUPERSTAR STARSTRUCK SYNDROME PART 2

2013-10-08T07:59:00.001-07:00

....We saw the Tahitian national team members holding the hands of their Spanish counterparts a few seconds longer than necessary in the handshakes before kick-off at the Confederations Cup. You knew the Tahitians were going to get a stuffing and they did.

Zambia played against Ghana and the Chipolopolos thought Michael Essien was a walking TV. They watched and watched and watched him. You knew they were going to lose. They lost.

So the point is that too many times, too many players bask in the moment of sharing the same pitch with their “heroes” instead of trying to win the bloody game!

Now, these Pharaohs – Ghana’s opponents - are not playing in a domestic league. Political upheaval within the great nation of Egypt has affected domestic football but paradoxically not the national team. They cruised through the first bit of the qualifiers barely breaking a sweat. They made mince meat of Zimbabwe, Guinea and Mozambique (I think) home and away.

A few of my Ghanaian friends won’t admit it but they see a few skirmishes here and there within the Cairo stadium as the only way the Black Stars can come away with three boardroom points from Egypt.

Scratch that, for me I am half-hoping that the lack of local football will translate into hours of football-watching in the camp of the Egyptians. And I am half-hoping (again) that the Egyptians see the devastating form of some of the Black Stars on TV. I mean, hell, I wish the mere mention of names like KEVIN PRINCE BOATENG, KWADWO ASAMOAH, ASAMOAH GYAN, SULLEY ALI MUNTARI, ANDRE AYEW, EMMANUEL AGYEMAN BADU etc have them crapping their long-ass robes.

With a bit of luck, the Pharaohs will spend their time star-gazing the Black Stars as Ghana bangs in the goals. After all, Bob Bradley does everything but win against Ghana.

Disclaimer: In the opening game of the Italia ’90 World Cup, Argentina turned up with the most frightening line-up in the history of frightening line-ups against a nameless Cameroonian side.

As if that was enough, Diego Maradona before kick-off, juggled the match ball on his left shoulder about 1,000 times in a packed stadium easy as only a genius could. You’d have thought he was in his own backyard. Psychologically, the world’s mind had been bent but Cameroon had other ideas. Nobody, including the bookies, gave Cameroon a dog’s chance. Yet Cameroon won the game, breaking a few Argentinean legs for good measure. Sometimes names don’t mean a thing! (Insert evil laugh here)

SOCCER SUPERSTAR STARSTRUCK SYNDROME

2013-10-03T06:33:00.000-07:00

RUBBISH REASON WHY GHANA CAN BEAT EGYPT

Growing up in Tema, Ghana, we saw lots of footballers come and go. Mostly, good ones.

Oh, you didn’t know? Tema has produced generation after generation of world-class footballers for Ghana. Think Joe Addo, Simon Addo, Ishmael Addo, Daniel Addo, Sebastian Barnes, Shamo Quaye(I bet you didn’t know he was Tema-based, did you?), Paa Joe Kuma, Attakora Amaniampong, Abdul Razak Ismail, Joe Fameyeh, Matthew “Klinsmann” Amoah etc etc.

Even the bronze-winning Ghana U-20 side that played in the recent World Youth Tournament in Turkey (2013) had no less than SEVEN Tema-based “youngsters”. Fact.

Now, when we growing up, there was an already grown-up neighbourhood champion footballer who had a call-up into the senior national team. I am not going to confirm if his name is amongst the ones aforementioned.

This footballer was at least a decade older but he was after a girl in our circles. On paper, he was the same age as us but we all knew better. (If you do not understand the preceding statement, ask a Ghanaian football fan, what the definition of “football age” is.)

When footballer X was invited to play in the national team, we were all genuinely happy for him. Not as much for his career as for the outrageous spending that players treated their mates to after national team call ups. We had bagged our own gravy train! If his target-girl, our mate, could just get a quarter of his winning bonus, and we got a quarter of that quarter, we would be filthy rich!

Anyway, when footballer X came back from national duties - where he played zero minutes – he was elated, naturally. But the basis for his delight was not even the half-a-winning bonus that they paid him - the other half went back to the “big men”- he was just thrilled to have had the chance to take 6x4 inch

Polaroid pictures with “foreign-based players”. Not only that, he had shots with popular members of his opponents too.

That was the first time I saw a so-called professional footballer star-struck at meeting fellow professional footballers.

What has that got to with anything?

Well, I was coming to that. You see, it’s not just local, Sakasaka-based midfield maestros who get star-truck at seeing big names.

A year after footballer X’s call-up, USA hosted the World Cup for the first time. Unfortunately, Ghana and footballer X, who turned out to be the thriftiest person ever, did not qualify but Nigeria did. In their match against Argentina, the Nigerian team went from a group of well-paid, Europe-based superstars to a bunch of hillbillies in a matter of minutes when Diego Maradona emerged from the tunnel. They stared catatonically. It was as if they had seen an alien in a football kit. I knew Nigeria will lose the game.

During the game itself, the Super Eagles paid more attention to Diego Maradona than the referee. True story. When the Eagles conceded a free-kick around their 18, they went back a further yard, when the great Diego Maradona asked them to. The ten yards was not enough for the legend, I suppose. With Nigerian eyes firmly fixed on the legend, Maradona picked out his team-mate Claudio Cannigia with a pass. The latter scored easily.

Fast forward, a decade and a few years to 2006, Ghana’s Black Stars had a World Cup second round date with Brazil. Ghanaian players stared hypnotically at the Selecao when they filed out onto the pitch in their iconic canary yellow shirts. I knew Ghana will lose the game. Ghana swallowed 3 unanswered goals. (Ronaldo breaking the all-time goalscoring record by beating the ageless Richard Kingson with a sumptuous step-over.)

More recently, members of an Olympique de Marseille team that visited Old Trafford for a Champions League game were so chuffed to be on the same pitch as the Manchester United superstars that they would have swapped shirts before the game kicked off, if they could. I knew they will lose that game. They did. The manager of Marseilles said after the game, that he wished his players had just concentrated on the game.

To be continued…..

NO GREATER LOVE VOL 1 by THE CHRIST EXPERIENCE

2013-08-19T06:29:00.003-07:00

“WELL, I wanted all the credit to go the team and all glory to be unto God”, says DJ Priv with an expressionless gaze as he toys with a soda bottle cap at The Elixir. You get the feeling that Priv does not say anything at all until he is good and ready. We were in for a long day!

We had asked him his reasons for releasing NO GREATER LOVE VOL 1 under The Christ Experience Project brand instead of just claiming all the recognition - as he had done 90% or more of the work involved.

When we got the CD itself earlier, we were all amazed at the sheer originality of the aloe-green packaging. Its complexity lied in its simplicity. Simple as. NO GREATER LOVE VOL 1 is a 10-track epic Gospel Jazz piece that has renditions of old classics as well as new music executive produced and performed by DJ Priv and The Christ Experience Project.

To review the album without a modicum of bias we randomly threw in all the original tracks (i.e. except Amazing Grace…, Old Rugged Cross…and I Know It Was The Blood) from NO GREATER LOVE VOL 1 into a digital playlist that contained unfamiliar works from global jazz icons.

We put the player on and refused to watch the screen as it played. The idea was that if the production on any of the tracks on NO GREATER LOVE VOL 1 was sub-par, it will be evident juxtaposed to jazz tracks from renowned artistes. But after all the tracks had been played, the songs on NO GREATER LOVE VOL 1 were just as organized, soulful, smooth and avant-garde as the best of them.

The live CD-listening session was just as phenomenal. We were amazed at the attention to detail; including birds (yes, birds!) chirping at the tail end of Amazing Grace – Nothing Like This, albeit digital. Now I Know(I Believe) is unbelievably soothing and could put even the Tazmanian Devil himself to sleep. Believe that.

The astounding thing about Jazz is that it leaves room for the listener to their own thoughts or dreams into the music. And on John 3:16 The Christ Experience Project perform another stunning track that allows a listener to fit in the message of the scripture as he/she listens – if they so wish.

His Love Reigns, undoubtedly one of the standout tracks of the album could easily give the Michael Thomases and Antonio Allens of this world a run for their big monies.

The Lamb’s Cross and Heaven Is Where We Belong are fantastic pieces. The strings and keys especially on the latter have to be heard to be appreciated.

The downside of the NO GREATER LOVE VOL 1 appears to be the length of the album. It is so good that the 50 minutes album time flies too quick.

Even the monotonous and repetitive sound of “Only He Is Worthy”, which reminds one of a standard skit rather than a near three-minute track is a tune worth checking out in its own unique way.

In all, NO GREATER LOVE VOL 1 is a solid first-of-a-kind effort. A remarkable Gospel Jazz debut by Priv and The Christ Experience Project.

“I feel like God Himself is directing me when I start working on a piece. I’m only His tool. The inspiration is spiritual. I’m being sincere”, Priv says, this time with the slight hint of a smile on his face…

Research Poison Pen Ink Inc

Words by Lenny Briscoe II