I saw a Facebook post days ago that has me giggling till date. It was quoting some Nigerian who said something like “I find that statement; ‘there’s light at the end of the tunnel’ so disrespectful. I mean where I come from there is no light in my home, how much more anywhere near a tunnel? I mean if you want to symbolize hope in a phrase, tell me something like ‘there’s jollof at the end of the speech’ then eheeh, I can understand what you mean.’

I identify with that myself, but the conversation about things at the end of things is very interesting to me…just as interesting is the story about the man David feared and what was at the end of his tunnel.

Now David needs no introduction, I mean even before he got giant warriors Rolling On The Floor (not from laughter), he’d disciplined wild beasts. My favorite David feat though is how in exchange for Saul’s daughter’s hand in marriage he managed to return with the foreskins of 200 philistine soldiers. Pause. Can you imagine the amount of work that goes into getting that many foreskins from unwilling warriors? I don’t think any wanzam has achieved a fraction of that yet. Read More The Man David Feared Gidigidi!

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There was one praise song I never sang when I was little. It was a fast-tempo Twi song that combined feet stomps, emphatic claps and loud voices to launch the ultimate praise attack. I didn’t want any of that. In English, it meant, “I step on the devil, I stomp on the devil. I jump up high, up high, up uuppp high and I stomp on the devil…” That was the repeated over and over again. I disliked it because I felt it was an unprovoked attack on a being that would stay clear of me if I stayed clear of it.

I believed strongly in letting sleeping dogs lie. I didn’t want to look for anyone’s trouble. I just wanted to praise Jesus and get it over with. What did any of that have to do with the devil’s body parts? So in the thick of the praises, I’d just be humming “Bread of heaaavvveen, bread of heaavveen, fill me nooooowwww and eeevverrr mooreeee-oh…” I didn’t want any trouble. I praised prayer warriors and respected them from afar. You, there are choristers, ushers, protocol ministers and all that, you say you don’t like, you want to go and be a prayer warrior, go eh. Only you know how to fight. In my mind, the spiritual life expectancy of anyone too keen on stomping was short. I didn’t want to live on the edge.

In time I realized that God probably allowed me to think that way so we’d have a joke to roll on the floor laughing about later. There is nothing as misinformed as a Christian who thinks he can be ‘peace-loving’ and ‘spiritually co-habit’ with evil. Don’t toch me and I wont toch you.

 

The fact of the matter.

See, you don’t get on evil’s radar because you sung radical praise songs, you do because of what you carry. Even if you were blind, dumb and mute and you carried a great destiny, there’d still be a plot to probably cripple you too. The hard truth is, we were all born with great great destinies embedded in our DNAs. The bigger your destiny and the closer you are to realizing it, the stronger the ‘annoying’ signal you’re emitting. Nobody is going to waste time destroying a porn star, she’s already on self-destruct mode. It is your dream to be great and affect lives that’s causing itches and ringworms on evil’s skin.

So I got to the point where I had to decide, Read More The 1 Praise Song I Never Sang!

Blog Inspiration

I was born into a big family house in Osu Nyaniba Estate. I was part of the fourth generation to live in that house. My squad missed the first gen guys (my great grand parents) by a couple of months, but their legends lived on in a ghostly way.

There is this funny story I must tell you! I’m told my great grand mum was a rich, tough, and very shrewd woman, so shrewd she outlived great granddad. She was so moved by his passing on that for weeks after, she continued to send dinner to his room; perchance his wandering spirit may be hungry, and her delicious food may bring him back.

My uncles were sly twenty-somethings by this time and always discontent with the measly food they got served. They’d wait till dark when the house was all quiet and feast on great grand dads dinner. Great grandma would come the following morning and say in an ‘amused wife’ tone “Eii Sammy these days 33 l33 oyeonmaa ei!” which was complementing his huge after-death appetite. She eventually found out and all-but disowned them.

I used to be scared of passing by that room, and of the plantain’s shadows from behind the bedroom curtains at night. We were also told not to throw brooms, because if you did, it’d come and throw you as you slept at night. Sometimes I’d forget and throw the broom, then spend the rest of the day apologizing to it and dreading the night. Throughout the many years that followed, I was always afraid of something…until I met Kwansima, the most wicked house fowl to ever live! Read More The Story of My Bravery.

Blog Inspiration

susuWhen I was little, I kept a piggy bank. I lie, piggy banks actually looked piggish, mine was the creative masterpiece of an unaccomplished area carpenter. It was still good though. It was a small box with a slit on the top of it. Susu box, that’s what we called it; the Ghanaian child’s first encounter with the concept of saving.

Originally, those things were meant for keeping pocket change. If you kept dropping spare money in it long enough, you’d eventually get a significant sum. Well not in my side of Osu; there was no spare money or change anywhere. You had to rely on generous visiting uncles and faded coins dropped and forgotten in sandy, sun-scorched corners. Forget Jack Sparrow, those were the real treasure hunts. Sometimes the most coins were in Nyaniba Estate gutters. We’d ‘fish’ them out, wash them and ‘launder’ them in our susu boxes. Because of the sparse flow of spare change, it took quite a while to get any meaningful amount in your box. The most heartbreaking days were the ones that you’d return from school to find your box smashed and your big brother or cousins gone. Untraceable!

Those were the risks of ultra-small scale micro financing back in the day. It wasn’t always like that. There were good times when after months of dropping coins and folding paper, you’d pry your box open and find enough money to become your own Santa. You became the area star when you walked onto that bald, sandy pitch with your-own-sweat ‘case 5’ football in your armpit. Even though the whole world knew you were crap at football, Read More Susu Boxes & Useless Prayers.

Blog Inspiration