Mystical Commodities - A Short Story by Atsu Dogbey

Tsanga fought the urge to wipe his dirty boots clean again for the umpteenth time that morning. He was headed for no place in particular and pondered over his life in this Big City. He has been here for a month but had already been offered a wife at a Samaritan’s price;

It happened on his usual job-seeking jaunt – like he was doing today. He chanced upon a merchant who had been robbed, severely beaten and dumped in a gutter by his assailants. Passersby noticed the dying merchant but offered no help. Clearly, a dead man did not need much help after all. No one dared report the incident to the police for fear that they would be invited as witnesses in court. Something people in the Big City dreaded. It was understandable as the court was adjacent to the prison. A false turn and one lands himself in jail forever.

The stench from the gutter struck Tsanga to a halt. He took a step closer. He, like the others assumed the merchant was dead. He decided to cover the face of the dead man with leaves as it was customary. Where he came from, it was considered wrong to bypass a dead man without performing the leaves ritual.

Tsanga's first week in the Big City was not devoid of strange-happenings – he had paid for a room only to be told what he actually deserved was a kiosk, he recently had received a slap from a man walking on the street for no wrong done and now this. He located a bush nearby and went over to pluck some leaves. He desired no ghostly torment in addition to his countless misfortunes. He hurried back to the gutter, recited strange incantations and was about placing the leaves on the face of the dying merchant when he was grabbed firmly by the fist.

“I am not dead, please save me”. The merchant whispered, tightening his grip at each passing second. Startled onlookers fled the scene. Tsanga himself was engrossed in fear but could not break free.
“Please save me”, the words echoed around the dying merchant. Noticing he had no way to escape the dying man’s grip, Tsanga carried the merchant on his feeble shoulders to a hospital about 2 kilometers away.

The merchant’s recovery was speedy. Most of the inflicted wounds were only skin-deep. In appreciation, he offered his youngest daughter to Tsanga for a wife. It was his third week in the Big City; Tsanga had little money for food, no job and resided in a rented kiosk with a beautiful but dissatisfied wife. His possessions were few but his responsibilities, many.

The dirt gathering on his boots interrupted his reflections. Tsanga wiped the dirt judiciously off his boots as he could not afford another just yet. He sought for job opportunities in every corner but even menial jobs were taken. On one occasion, he had opted to mow the growing lawn of his neighbor at no cost but was refused on the suspicion of foul play. People in the Big City hardly opted to do any work free of remuneration. However, all Tsanga needed was to find work for his idle hands. Tsanga did not expect life in the Big City to be this tough.  Nonetheless, he discarded all thoughts of returning to his village. At night, he had his nagging wife to contend with, turning sleep into a hard-earned luxury. His wife continually threatened divorce but for an unknown reason never carried it out - perhaps they were empty threats after all.

One fateful night, Tsanga had a vision. In this vision, his late father handed him a talisman he had given him when he turned 18. His late father assured him that the talisman was his beacon of hope and the true means to his prosperity.

How could he possibly acquire riches by wearing a mere talisman in the Big City? He wondered.  Out of sheer curiosity, Tsanga searched for the talisman and donned it. He mocked himself; desperate situations  indeed demanded desperate measures. Perhaps it might bring him some luck. What if…? He contemplated.

Tsanga narrated the vision to a friendly mechanic across the street. Strangely, the mechanic was intrigued by it and unlike Tsanga, seemed to possess a strong belief in visions. The mechanic had no shred of doubt.

The mechanic’s subsequent request stunned Tsanga. He asked Tsanga to consult the spirit world and attempt a conversation with his late mother, letting her know that he had found a job in the Big City as a mechanic. He wanted to know if his late mother was proud of him. The mechanic offered to pay Tsanga a handsome amount of money if he was successful in carrying out his assignment. Noticing the seriousness of the mechanic’s request, Tsanga opted to carry out the requested task. He promised to return with answers after 7 days as he needed to carry out extensive ancestral consultations.

At home, he assured his wife that things were going to change for the better. He showed her the greasy notes the mechanic had given him as part payment for the service he was yet to render. Tsanga narrated the mechanic’s outrageous request to his wife who thought of it as absurd but urged him on to complete the task. She was in dire need of money and did not seem to care much about the means. Tsanga obviously had no idea what it meant to communicate with the dead. He was just fortunate to experience a vision once, which he thought was ordinary. Possibly the mechanic never had a dream in his entire life.

Tsanga retired to bed that evening with the mechanic’s request burdening his mind. Sleep was certain because the money had kept his wife's nagging into snoring. He imagined communicating with the late mother of the mechanic when he realized that he had no clue what she even looked like. His mind wandered away gradually into dreamland where he feasted satisfactorily on a large pot of yam foofoo with goat soup. For the successive six days, Tsanga’s dreams were a mere playback of his fantasy – to become rich by all means necessary.

The seventh day came and Tsanga reluctantly headed for the mechanic’s garage. He carried in his pocket a part of the money the mechanic had given him should a pay back be necessitated since he did not succeed in carrying out the task. He dreaded his walking to the garage but dreaded most the stout and oil-stained body of the mechanic, particularly the goatee he wore on his face making him appear somewhat stupid. Tsanga gathered what was left of his courage and called out to the mechanic who laid beneath a wagon he had been fixing ever since Tsanga knew him. However, what followed afterwards was unexpected. The mechanic rose to his feet at the sight of Tsanga and gave him a good-news embrace.

“Thank you! Thank you! It worked!” The mechanic yelled enthusiastically.

“What worked?” Tsanga asked, confused.

“I’ll make it brief. So last night my Mama appeared to me in a vision and she told me how proud she was of me. She also added that I double the money I promised to pay you. She even insisted that I give you a third of my monthly earnings going forward”

“You are clearly out of your mind” Tsanga said under his breath amidst smiles to conceal his malice. He looked down at the rather elated mechanic with sympathy; all this mechanic desired was his mother’s approval. Tsanga genuinely felt sorry for him but noticing the mechanic’s hunger for mysticism treated him with mystic-food.

Tsanga shook his shoulders rapidly, throwing his legs about in all directions.

“My son,” Tsanga called out in a pretense female tone.
“Yes Mama, I’m here Mama! Talk to your son.” The mechanic responded.

Tsanga wished he could refer to the mechanic by his actual name to spice his act up but he had referred to the mechanic by the name ‘mechanic’ and had never bothered to ask of his name. He discarded the discouraging thought and continued;

“Do everything Tsanga tells you lest I disown you.”
“No Mama! I will do everything he asks of me!” the mechanic responded breathlessly.

Tsanga, already tired of his display shook as though recovering from a trance. He pretended to be unaware of his current disposition; “Where is this place? Where am I?” He asked.

The mechanic narrated the happenings to Tsanga, reiterating the demands of his late mother. He assured Tsanga of his promise to take good care of him.

“Ijoka! Bring Tsanga something to eat. Don’t forget to carry along the gourd of palm wine I have kept under the shed.” The mechanic instructed his daughter.

The mechanic's wife refused to come along with them to the Big City because he never overcame his mother’s demise. She could not bear sharing her man with his dead mother so she gave him away. It has been five years since he left for the Big City but she never bothered to pay them a visit.

“Here it is Papa!” Ijoka returned with a pot of soup in one hand and the gourd in another.

Tsanga was served a big pot of yam foofoo with goat soup. The meal was tastier than it was in his dream. Tsanga satisfied his yearning soul. He topped it up with a huge calabash of palm wine and left for home.

Tsanga's wife was pleased with his achievements. They rented a spacious apartment with his newly found continuous source of income.

Word had gone round that a man named Tsanga possessed a rare ability to communicate with the dead. The mechanic was good at marketing. Tsanga’ clients increased from a mechanic to 500 clients in the same year.

Tsanga developed a policy for his clients; Obviously, his clients knew their dead relatives better than he did so his only role, he explained, was to instruct the dead relative to appear to them in their own vision, like it was with the mechanic. A client would have to pay extra sums of money to get him to have the communication on their behalf, which was mostly the case.

Tsanga’s favorite client was a politician who desired to consult a dead politician. The politician believed that by consulting the dead, he would be taught the tips on how to remain longer in office. This politician opted to share his monthly earnings equally with Tsanga to experience what he might never experience. Tsanga humored himself at the extents his clients were willing to go and how foolish they were. Tsanga named his 5-storey building shrine ‘ETERNAL COMMUNICATIONS NETWORK’

Some days, his conscience begrudged him. He decided to explain to his clients that it was only normal that one tends to dream of what was thought about mostly in the day. However, anytime he tried, he was tagged as an unbeliever. Business was boomed and he had nothing to lose.

Tsanga marked one of the rooms with the words ‘SACRED’, painted boldly in red. In that room, he exploited naive female clients. He would as usual pretend to be in a trance and call out her name.

“I must go inside you to establish a stronger connection with your dead relative” He would say while unzipping his shorts.

Tsanga’s business continued for 20 years and his wealth increased enormously. His shrine had an Accounting Department, a Customer Service Wing and an Internal Audit Department where his first wife assumed the position of Chief Auditor. He owned numerous businesses and married 4 additional women with his first wife bearing the title ‘First Lady’.

The mechanic eventually lost his job and took to drinking. He came by Tsanga's shrine often but the macho security guards did not allow him entry as no one visited Tsanga empty handed. The frustrated mechanic took to the streets, announcing that Tsanga was a con artist he had created but who would take seriously the words of a drunk? The mechanic died in his frustration.

Ijoka returned from the University to bury her father. She  seized the opportunity to rally the townsfolk and raised a demonstration against Tsanga and his business. She accused Tsanga of being a con man who had taken undue advantage of their ignorance and the women in the Big City.

Sensing danger, Tsanga emptied his bank accounts, sold his company assets and fled the Big City with his many wives who bore him seven beautiful daughters. He was gone and was never to be seen again.

Rumor had it that Tsanga had diversified into church business. He neither repented from his ways nor understood fully the concept of Christianity. All he was good at is to leverage on the ignorance people and sell to them mystical commodities that he himself would not buy.

Prophet Tsanga donned the talisman which now had a crucifix attached to it. It was time to address his congregation;

“Praaaaaaaaaaaaaaise the Lord!”
“Hallelujah!” The congregation of ETERNAL COMMUNICATIONS CHURCH responded.
“Hallelujah!” Tsanga screamed.
“Amen!” They chorused.
“Last night I had a vision…” Tsanga begun his pitch.
“Preach on Prophet!” An overly enthused congregant encouraged.

This unsuspecting congregant was Ijoka.

The End.

A Short Story by:

Atsu Dogbey
(Member of TDL)
www.letsallwrite.com
www.thedogbeyleague.blogspot.com 

FOCUS

An old fable tells a story of a cobbler who bumped into a barber while they were both going about their daily duties. The duo were angered at what had ensued so much so that they resorted verbal exchanges at each other. The cobbler accused the barber of looking upward while walking; the reason he did not see the cobbler approach. The barber also accused the cobbler of looking downward while he walked preventing him from seeing him approach.

The duo rattled on and on until an elderly man came by to salvage the situation. He inquired from the barber what he would have wished the cobbler did differently. The barber recommended that the cobbler looks upwards like he does when walking to enable the cobbler notice an approaching head. However, the cobbler cut in furiously, insisting that he would lose his customers if he were forced to look skywards for by his focusing his gaze downwards, he tends to notice shoes that need mending. The only way he could identify his customers and to make a living was to look downwards.

The elderly man then asked the cobbler what he would have wished the barber also did differently. The cobbler insisted that the barber looks downward like he does when walking to enable the barber notice approaching shoes to prevent bumping into others. However, like the cobbler, the barber was not happy about the proposal and asserted that looking downwards will amount to his losing of his customers for he will miss their unkempt heads and an opportunity to render a service to secure his survival in the city. Bottom line is, the only way he could identify his customers and to make a living was to look upwards.

The elderly man advised both artisans to remain focused on their individual differing paths of life. He also added that they would occasionally bump into each other, which was inevitable, however, they should resist the urge to be coerced into following the path of another which is obviously unsuitable with respect to their chosen purpose in life. The only solution the elderly man proposed to them was to ask for forgiveness whenever they find themselves bumping again into each other but to remain resilient and continue to focus on their individually chosen paths.

The moral of this story is clear. We all are well aware of the fact that we individually seek differing goals in life; while some want to become employees, others want to be the employers, others choose to become craftsmen whereas others want to serve in political capacities not forgetting spiritual leadership and social entrepreneurs. We are all clearly on different paths and should be mindful of the people from which we seek mentorship and advise. There is an important need to pay attention to whose rebuke we succumb to. For instance; a gifted follower who is convinced by a leader to become one because he excels at being a follower may eventually run himself into a ditch as he may be bad at leadership.

Always remember that to stay true to your chosen path regardless of the occasional bumps and discouragements requires discipline and pays off for in staying true to a cause, you do not only realise your purpose but you also discover your true self in the process.

#StayTrue

Regards!
Atsu Dogbey

Atomic Musings

Our Oppressors!
How long shall we end up as casualties of your greedy wars?
Why have you plagued us with this much pain?
When are we ever going to merit justice?
What do we tell our neighbors when our own relatives oppress us?
For you intimidate us with embezzled riches
We, your blood have become your slaves and you, our oppressor
Poverty, like a crack of a whip, cuts deep into our guiltless flesh
As we flee the danger of your exploits
And seek shelter beneath your plush roof
You dare mock and call us forgetful beings!
While you discover creative ways to endanger our miserable lives!


The Oppressed!
We, the oppressed, delight in our ignorance
Revering it like a dark art practiced overtly
We cherish the way darkness blinds us
And loathe the thought of light
It is virtuous to be poor! – we profess
Rob us and display it as your hard earned fancy - we plead
As the old brainwash the young to keep silent on the truth
Hail wrongdoings, for it costs us nothing to stay mute
Our heads are buried deep in darkness
For we shield ourselves from the looming light
We share in dark dreams and proclaim darker visions
To liberate us - is to temper with a forbidden tradition!
But to oppress us - is to uphold our sacred religion!

Concerned Citizens!
Not all of us may forgetful be
Nor forgiving enough to let things be
For our silence speaks unspoken words
And our tears carry pain that may never mend
The bloodshed you instigate is entrenched on our skin
The lingering ghost of vengeance instructs our being
We desire justice lest expect a pay-back!
Morals, lest we rob your peace!
Equity, lest you provoke our wrath!
Respect, lest you lose your undeserving prominence!

A Final Prayer!
Dear Lord, as the shadow of darkness,
Casts itself upon us,
And folly invariably plagues us,
Remind us to remain resolute in wisdom
And to be our brother's keeper.

My deepest condolences to the families of the lives lost during the gas explosion at Atomic Junction on Saturday, 7th October, 2017 and to the injured, get well soon. 

Warm regards,

Atsu Dogbey

Gone In The Wild

Depths go deeper, heights go further

Feet grows numb and visions, blurrier

Spirit departs from the soul that defied the flesh

Hands yield to an unplanned rest

Families, friends and foe feign sympathy

Agents, auctioneers and the affluent aid artificially

The mischievous sprite places the highest bid 

With stacks of cash the receiver will someday rid

As the lights go dim and unending sleep hovers

Alone lay you, stiff beneath pressed covers

Buried in thoughts, lost in mind and ambiance

A life well lived! - a cloaked stranger cries

Your stuffed weight burdens masculine shoulders 

And soon the darkness dins without repentance

Earth, air and bugs well sated

A crude warning to the newly created

As you aversely accept your decreed fate 

To be gone in the wild until due date 

Fix That Living Thing Back!

So I went on a trip down memory lane in search of peace, a strategic attempt to appease my frustrated self with memories of happiness enjoyed during my childhood days. I recollected an incident that did not only forge a smile on my face but urged me on beyond my predicament. It prevented me from resolving to a decision that could have permanently created a dent in my life. I would like to share with you this cherished memory of my childhood and the lesson it thought me on hindsight.

Five friends found themselves on their way back from Preparatory School as it was always the case. Washington resided close to our school but walked on past his residence to join in on our valued after-closing-walk-and-talk sessions. He was reserved and hardly troubled anyone but was always around to share in the laughter, a possible aftermath of our troubles. Japheth, was our protector and with him, although lanky at the time, was fearless and constantly kept us in trouble but provided his usual solution with his ever-ready fists. He was a man of war. Sampson, like the Biblical Sampson was the strongest among us but had a serious disgust for fights so much so that he never engaged in a rescue mission which demanded that he threw his fists at anyone. He was purely a man of peace. My twin brother, Kennedy eagerly awaited an opportunity to tease anyone he desired to and finally me. I shared the same attribute as my twin only I also enjoyed scouting for female classmates to engage in conversations with. Perhaps she might come in handy during a dance session on ‘Our Day’, you never know. We were a happy and naïve lot.

On that fateful day, Sampson discovered his Delilah hanging loosely on a fragile branch of a tree. She was not as ripe as the others above her but she was the only one within his reach. She swung her green body pleasantly on the supporting branch, feeding Sampson with overwhelming temptation. Unknown to us, Sampson had been mentally absent from our conversation. He had been enthusiastically eyeing his lover from a distance. We approached the mechanic shop where his lover was in full glare of his thirsty eyes. Like the Biblical Sampson, our friend made no attempt to resist this dicey enticement. He stretched forth his hand and disengaged the innocent fruit from its branch with a confident pull. He stood close by, admiring its curves from all sides. She was a beautiful little thing. He grinned from ear to ear.

Then we heard the frightening voice of the Mechanic who like the Philistines had been baiting our friend Sampson. His voice interrupted our discourse. It was full of authority; “Fix that living thing back!” Sampson who had instantaneously recovered from his fantasy could not fathom this impossible request. The aspect of giving up his lover was not what made the request incredible. It was scientifically impossible to undo what he had just done. We gathered around the pair, trying ceaselessly to come up with a suitable approach. As we glanced through our blank thoughts, we refrained from the urge of laying a finger on the unripe mango Sampson held cautiously in his palm. He dared not distant the mango from its branch. He held on to it, positioning it right beneath the branch he had plucked the forbidden fruit.

His philistine of a Mechanic looked on with fiery eyes, holding a work tool clenched in one hand. Japheth was the first to speak. It came as no surprise to us for he was the confident one amongst us. “This mango-blue and you are flexing with it like that, Sampson throw it away and let’s go home”. His fists were clenched as he spoke. We knew clearly what his intentions were. Washington who although sensed danger was humoured and allowed himself a passive smile to begin. My twin and I giggled and kept our distance. This fight was clearly beyond our protector. As for our friend Sampson, he had turned into an effigy with his lover in one hand and the other behind his back as a sign of respect. Despite his fears, he also smirked.

You might have guessed how things ended; Sampson couldn’t do the impossible and was advised accordingly by the furious mechanic. Japheth was not granted a fist fight so he left unfulfilled but chose to tease Sampson for a while before departing. Washington retreated home with a mouthful of laughter. My twin and I walked side by side with Sampson between us. We giggled and hid our contemptuous identical faces from him. Sampson continuously repeated the infamous phrase that carried the impossible request under his breath. He joined in the laughter subsequently.

As I neared the end of this exciting memory, a lesson surfaced on my mind; certain decisions, mistakes and/or choices that we make in life are impossible to fix when carried out, so the need to tread cautiously. Never make permanent decisions on temporary feelings. Do not mistreat anyone, for the once beautiful relationship may never be able to fix once broken. Above all, do not take your own life or that of another, no matter the circumstances for you cannot undo it once it is done.

Take life a day at a time and like the Ghanaian Rapper Manifest suggests; Nowhere Cool! You are definitely not the only person in a dreadful situation. Remember to keep fighting and to never give up! Hope but don’t grow lazy! Hurt but do not break! Follow your heart the mind’s way! And finally love yourself and everyone else unconditionally regardless of differences in faith, tribe or nationality.

We are all the same and would equally be impossible to fix, once broken from the branch of humanity.

God be our Guide!

Regards!

Atsu Dogbey

Set Sail On My Mind, A Journey To A New Africa

I have awakened for the second time in my thoughts
A place I have resided these past few years
A strange deity causes me to panic at night
I grudgingly forsake sleep and sit tight
Permitting my mind to wander off
To a place where I assume two personalities
A second self, seeking to drown a false me
A true me - in search of truth
A false me - masked with myth
My mind opposes my being
For I choose rather to stay true within
Allowing my self a sail to begin;

On that voyage I came across a new Africa
Not a land of filth manned by paupers,
But an elite race with a knack for excellence,
A fury for hard work, a desire to achieve
Visionary leaders and tribesmen - not sellouts
True Africans, born and bred in the continent.
Who'd drank from their mother’s succulent breast
And still adhered to their father’s persistent quest,
Of becoming stronger men of character
Upholding the sovereign name of Africa.
Principled men yet humane,
Ambitious women, no skin-pain
A land where leaders wrote their own testaments
Devoid of fables drafted by paid secretaries
I saw an Africa that glowed like the sun
And ignorance, like a pile of rubbish, was left to rot,
For their minds were salvaged as relics.
Not cars, wealth or mundane political gimmicks!
That is the Africa I saw on my travel
On the waters of my mind and it costs me no cedi
Tis my desire to take you on my next jaunt
To see for yourself the Africa I saw up yonder
Standing tall beyond the seas of hope.
It is to this dignifying Africa I owe a cause;
The cause of my fathers, the desire of my mothers.
And I promise to contribute my quota,
In realizing this new Africa.

Mosaic Walls, Drunken Thoughts

Mosaic walls
Finds me roaming in a trance
Witnessing panoramic visions
I hear a gunshot twice
The shooter approaches me
I try to wash his image off my eyes
A frantic attempt to return to reality

Tinted glasses
Through my lens I see a lady approach me
Her smile steals my stare
Her beauty lends me hope
In her hand though, is a shiny tool
I bend my neck willingly to donate my head
Watch out you drunk!

Coloured windows
Is that Grandpa?
Why is he cross and seated all by himself?
Let me get closer to be sure
It's been ages since I chanced upon him
He notices me and looks away
Wait a minute! Is Grandpa still alive?
His image begins to fade in my gaze
What the heck is going on with me?!

Blurred lights
I see another me in the garden
He seems to mock my appearance
He yells at me; Are you drunk again mate?!
Can`t fathom if it’s a question or rebuke
For all I feel now, is my light head spin

Sinking sands
I set off once again on the wrong foot
I hardly could find my feet on levelled ground
Wait! Did the earth just turn towards the east?
North seems farther away from west but closer to south
For the doorknob on the left now feels righter than thou
Permit me to join you on the floor brother!
I say to the only friend who doesn't judge me - my shadow

Cascading doors
The reason I write this poem sober
For the drink is making me feel older
In each passing glass, I find a friend like no other
I'm done! I'll quit sipping and rather,
Wait until sobriety finds me suited shelter

OBAA COMMANDO

“Hi listeners, it is an honor to be the host of your favorite midnight show, BIZARRE SOLUTIONS TO LOVE PROBLEMS! and as some of you already know, you can call me O-B-A-A C-O-M-M-A-N-D-O. I am here to help you sort out your relationship problems as always. But before we do anything else, let us get started with our theme song, Love is Wicked by Brick and Lace.”

Stacy’s piercing voice could be heard on the radio. She goes by her showbiz name; Obaa Commando, award winning host of the Most Entertaining and Hilarious Midnight Show of the year at the just ended Radio and Television Personality Awards.

The producer of the show bumps into the studio signaling her to speak louder because the output he was receiving at his end was not audible enough.  Stacy ignored him. Her producer always made her feel her voice was not perfect but even so, her listeners seemed to admire it.

She steals a glance at the wretched wooden wall clock in the studio room. The wall clock, she assumes, moves faster during the day only to be seen crawling at night. It had been 15 minutes since she began her late night show or so the bias wall clock made her believe. It was 11:45pm now and her show was up until 2:00 in the morning.

Her late night show “BIZARRE SOLUTIONS TO LOVE PROBLEMS” kept ardent listeners awake at night. She was occasionally lucky to have a caller or two call in to contribute to her show. Is Stacy a counselor? Definitely not! She only provided a platform for people with rather serious love issues seek pleasure in the inhumane solutions they could have hoped for in their wildest dreams. Her solutions were not to be taken seriously as it was only for the sake of humor. Her hope, was to make another depressed lover cheerful by proposing solutions no sane person would execute. It was all for the fun of it.

Stacy enjoyed her show. Her listeners were up all night not only to listen to the bizarre solutions she proposed to people’s problems but also to share in her unmatchable sense of humor. Her listeners adored her. She always had a way of making life’s many burdens lighter.

“Hello Obaa Commando” Her first caller finally. It was a minute to the top of the hour, 12:00am.
“Hello, Hello” The caller called in excitedly.
“Hello, who do I have on the line at this hour of the night?” Stacy inquired from her caller.
“Errm Obaa Commando, I caught my husband with the housemaid in our matrimonial bed last night. Can you imagine? And...”
“Please your name and where you are calling from” Stacy cut in.
“O’ sorry, this is Yaaya calling from Madina, Lotto Kiosk Junction” the caller replied
“Okay Yaaya, talk to Obaa Commando”
“Ehe Obaa Commando, like I was saying, after catching him red-handed, my husband now claims he was taking her through an assignment from school.”
“Hello Yaaya, Obaa Commando has listened to you and this is the solution she proposes. Do you have a tank for storing water?"
“Yes Obaa Commando”
“Did you fill the tank up today?”
“Yes Commando! In fact, I just finished that particular chore because of the perennial water crisis.”
“Okay Yaaya, Obaa Commando instructs you to find a cane or a branch of any tree, soak it in the water tank for at least fifteen minutes, go into the bedroom and stroke your husband several times on his bare buttocks. It will serve as a reminder to him anytime he approaches your housemaid”

Laughter filled the air as presenter and caller shared in a good and hearty laugh. Amidst laughter, the caller replies “thank you Obaa Comando. Have a good night. Bye.”
“Don’t forget to call me tomorrow with a feedback and as usual make a recording of the beating you subject him to. This will serve as a deterrent to promiscuous husbands all over the country. Thank you for calling and have a good night too. Bye” Stacy admonished.

“0299-453-223 or 0899-453-223” Stacy recited the call-in contacts repeatedly into the microphone.  She noticed the green light on the speaker blink. There was another caller on the line.

“Hello, who do we have on the line please?” Stacy asked impatiently, eager to speak to her next caller.
“Hello. Hello. Can you hear me please?” The caller asked calmly. “Hello!”
The line disconnects after several failed communication attempts between caller and host.

Stacy increases the volume of the theme song and dries out the tears in her eye with a handkerchief. Her day had been hectic and she deserved a good laugh. “Laughter is good medicine” she recalls her mother tell her. Or was it her aunt, Sandra? She thought out loud while sipping in some water to clear her throat. She again noticed the red light on her console blinking, indicating a call was coming through. She would have to wait for her producer to pick up the call in his cubicle before transferring the caller into the studio on speaker. A green light prompted Stacy that she could begin a conversation with the caller. She decreases the volume of her theme song and reiterates the call-in contacts while awaiting her producer to give her the green light to speak to the caller.

“0299-453-223 or 0899-45…"
“Hello” the caller interrupted her. It was a male caller which was very unusual. Stacy felt lucky though. She rarely had male callers call-in to contribute to her show.
"Hi there!” Stacy replied, noticing his voice. It was that of the caller whose line had dropped a few minutes prior.
“Hello Obaa Commando” the caller repeated in a rather soft tone. The sound of frogs croaking could be heard. It was as though they were having a late night orchestra with the continuous and uniform KROOO-kroo-KROOO-kroo going on in the background.

Then again, there was something particularly odd about this caller maybe that was what her instincts told her. Her instincts could be wrong after all, she thought. The other time she listened to her instincts, she jilted her high school lover and had remained single ever since. "Not again fellow!" Stacy rebuked her instincts, she wasn't going to allow it to dictate to her any longer. The caller sounded hurt and could be heard panting heavily but unsteadily through the phone. Even so, he sounded unusually calm.

“Hello Obaa Commando, my name is Righteous, calling from Pantang Mental Hospital… area” The caller added.
“Okay Righteous, ei, Pantang Mental Hospital area paaa, are you sure you are not a madman?” Stacy joked. “ha ha, Pardon me. I’m  just being mischievous. Righteous, tell Obaa Commando how she can be of help to you this cold night.” Stacy managed to engage the caller in a conversation.
“Obaa Commando, I have just arrived at my lover’s bungalow to surprise her but I can hear another man’s voice emanating from her room. Tell me what to do Obaa Commando.” he asked calmly.

“Hello Righteous, if you can hear me, I have a few questions to ask you.” Stacy was honored to be called upon to give an advice on an ongoing crisis. It was her first. Her instincts prompted her to tread cautiously but the excitement she felt within dismissed the warning. She carried on with her recommendations;

“Go ahead please” The caller consented.
“Is this happening as we speak?” Stacy asked curiously.
“Yes please” He answered calmly. His heart seemed to beat steadily at this point.
“Which part of the room are you Righteous?”
“Please I’m at the door of her bungalow”
“Okay Righteous, how did you get there? Did you drive there? Do you own a car?”
“No please. But there is a car packed out here and if I am not mistaken, it may belong to the gentleman whose voice I heard in her room” The caller elaborated.
“Okay Righteous, Obaa Commando wants you to pour out some amount of fuel from the car parked outside, break into your lover’s room, dispose the fuel on them both and burn the whole place down!” Stacy instructed.

As expected, Stacy blew up into uncontrollable laughter. She laughed heartily. Tears of joy took turns on her face. She was really enjoying tonight’s show. Then she noticed her caller was not at all humored. He instead uttered two carefully chosen words; “Hold on” The caller said calmly.

The strange caller could be heard moving towards the parked car, collecting all that was instructed him. Stacy, sensing foul play suddenly became anxious. She could feel her legs tremble beneath her. The headphone came off her curious ears and her tiny palms grew wet. Stacy looked out of the studio only to catch her producer asleep in his chair. The studio however could only be unlocked from behind. She clearly had no way to put an end to this mysterious call. The telephone receiver was on her producer’s desk in his cubicle.

She had to act now and fast as the whole world could now hear what was ongoing at the other end of the phone call. She mustered courage and uttered a few words.
“He…. ll... o Mr. Righteous” she managed.
“Please Sir” she continued, “I did not mean for you to carry out what I instructed. This is a “just for laughs” show and not one to be taken seriously.”
There was no response.
“Hello Mr. Righteous, please can you hear me?!” Stacy asked anxiously as all she could hear were frantic footsteps and heavy panting.

A loud bang on the door at the other end of the line shook the entire studio and instantaneously woke her sleeping producer up. He rushed into the studio. He could not believe how his satirical show had turned horrific while he napped. It was then that it dawned on him that he, like Stacy has been trapped in the studio away from the telephone. Clearly, there was no possible way for both host and producer to put an end to this rather unpleasant call. The once commended auto-lock studio door had done them a great disservice. The wall clock only stared, carrying out its mandated task; tick-tock, tick-tock.

The producer took over from the now terrified Stacy and spoke quite confidently into the microphone;
“Hello Sir, you are live on Radio Global 92.4FM and the entire citizenry including the police are listening to whatever is going on and are well aware of your current location. Calm down and do not attempt endangering the life of the couple”
Once again, there was no response.

They could see a barrage of calls coming in through the transparent glass wall of the studio as the red light on the telephone indicated. There was not much Stacy and her petrified producer could do. They were trapped! Stacy searched her pockets for her cellphone only to realize that she had not been permitted to carry it into the studio. Her producer claimed that it was to avoid the signals from her cellphone from interfering with the radio signals. Telephones could be heard ringing in other deserted offices nearby as well as their cellphones vibrating persistently on the producer’s desk.

A loud scream at the other end of the line sent a chill down both spines. It was that of a woman. They could hear the voice of another. It was that of a gentleman begging for his life. Then a firm voice which belonged to Righteous spoke out; “Greetings from Obaa Commando!”. The caller’s voice was bold and unapologetic.
“Please don’t do it!” Stacy spoke nervously into the microphone in the studio. “Please Mr. Righteous!” Tears lingered in her voice. She could not control her tears. Stacy sobbed wildly.

“Whatever it is Mr. Righteous, there is always a way out. Exactly which part of Pantang did you say you were calling from Sir. We can send immediate help to you from here Sir.” The producer cut in. He exhaled loudly and asked a rather dumb question. “Mr, Righteous, are you me-n-t-a-a-a-lly ill?” The producer stammered through what he just realized was an inappropriate question but he could not help it. Fear had gripped him.

After what seemed like days but in reality a few seconds, a loud explosion was heard amidst the screams at the other end of the phone call.

The studio shook. The entire country was awake and listening in on the unfolding event. Sirens of racing police cars and ambulances could be heard distantly. Television reporters could be heard transmitting live from the compound of Radio Global whereas a faction of journalists joined the race to transmit live from the location of the cruel caller.

The now satisfied caller finally broke the silence and spoke into the microphone;
“Thank you for the advice Obaa Commando. I will do well to call in again should I face further issues. I love your show and keep up the good works!”
Righteous heaved a sigh of relief and added; “I will locate you and hand over the recorded video as requested.”

The line disconnects.

OBAA COMMANDO ADVISES MENTALLY ILL PATIENT TO SET NURSE AND HUSBAND ABLAZE IN NURSE’S BUNGALOW; the headline of News Daily had it boldly captured on its front page.

The End.

What happens to Stacy and her producer? Is Righteous mentally ill or actually a brokenhearted lover?... You will definitely find out in the successive episodes of OBAA COMMANDO.

A fictional story created by:
Atsu Dogbey
(Member of TDL)

Dots In My Dress

Silk, cotton, colored

Ink, broken, tattered

Elegance exudes,

Amidst mental abuse

I am remembered for one thing - my faults

Many times my rights are discounted at odds
In abundance I’m known for what I lack

Like I've donned a white apparel with a tiny spot of black

In speeches I’m infamous for my blunders

Multiple sons, so I'm nicknamed 'Mother of no-daughters'

Tis for this reason I took countless vows,

To never prove my worth

To a phony dole of doves,

With attention focused on my dirt

For dots in my dress they shall always find,

But with pride I parade and will never mind!

Atsu Dogbey

(Member of TDL)

Ink Ideas!

Let’s Discuss!

So the cliché that cemeteries are the richest of all places with respect to ideas got me thinking. Not necessarily about the whys but about the possibilities that inspires such unworthy investments. Ideas, I can strongly say are like noses, as is said of opinions, and everyone has one. Implementing ideas however is like wealth and definitely not everyone has or will get one. The reasons include, lack of capital, unpreparedness, and not-so-feasible ideas among other obvious reasons or excuses if you like. Amongst all these and many others is one reason lurking beneath the sheets like the devil, whose greatest trick is to convince the world of his non-existence but before you know it, he is gone and the damage, already caused. This unforgiving devil is phrased simply as “Let’s Discuss”. Sounds familiar? I’ll explain.

So you wake up from your bed with this amazingly awe-inspiring idea to create a software platform that connects friends via chatting and photo-sharing. As it is typical of anyone including myself, the first instinct is to run this not-so-great idea by persons we consider knowledgeable. One by one, we arrange for a let’s discuss session with family and friends. Mum goes like; “Oh! The witches in my family have altered the thoughts of my child!” Dad firmly reiterates; “So after all the school fees I paid! Don’t let me disown you!” Spouse however encourages you as it is mandatory (for better for worse remember?!) but eventually jilts you for a more serious substitute; a day-worker. Friends would accept your invitation to discuss your idea and end up belittling it. At best, they talk about how you could make money the conventional way or at worst, whine and whine till the day is done. Should you ever meet Mark Zuckerberg in your lifetime, do ask him what others said when he attempted to discuss his idea of Facebook.

Ideas do not possess the quality of sounding meaningful when told to others or discussed. So you do not have to run your ideas by people before you deem it worth executing. The only requirement is your ability to sustain that excitement or the burning desire you feel inside of you about your idea. Look at it this way; discussing your idea is analogous to continuously pouring water on a blazing fire, with time the once blazing fire eventually dies out completely.

It is noteworthy that; nothing extraordinary appeals to the ordinary. In other words, running extraordinary ideas by ordinary people will only make you seem insane. Remember, wisdom is foolishness to a fool.

So whatever you have as an idea, no matter how insane it sounds (which is always the case), just do it! Don’t discuss it! You will regret it! Do not create trustees out of people but yourself and if you die trying, guess what, you died trying. Which in my view is much more befitting than living a life of merely discussing ideas and not carrying out any.

Make enough room for mistakes and remember that the world does not reward perfectionists but doers neither does it celebrate thought ideas but made ideas.

Regrettably, you will live to see another get tagged genius for executing only 20 percent of what was once the idea you discarded after series of needless consultations and fruitless discussions.

So buckle up, start work on that idea, nurse the fire you fill within and begin the most important journey of your life. A journey whose outcome if successful or failed, is equally rewarding.

Don’t discuss! Just do it!

Best Regards!

Atsu Dogbey
(Member of TDL)
Ink Ideas!

Do away with past victories!

During the semester, every student was expected to come out with an innovative idea or artifact. Little Bob showed keen interest in this curriculum and spent majority of his time working on his idea. Little Bob would spend his lunch and rest hours chiseling the edges of his artifact. He was that perfectionist who left nothing to chance. During the nights when his colleagues sought refuge in the bewitching arms of sleep, Little Bob would wake up periodically to implement changes he seemed to have seen in his sleep.

The night prior to the day of exhibition, Little Bob literally spent the entire night polishing and perfecting his artifact until it began to glow in the dark. His artifact was well crafted into what looked like the Titanic, only this time cast and rendered in iron. Although much smaller, it was equally awe-inspiring. The resultant artifact was indeed a justification of the means. It was exquisite!

After what seemed to be a long night for Bob but a rather short one for his colleagues, morning finally gave the night away. His colleagues who were present for the exhibition felt demoralized when they perceived the masterpiece Little Bob held in his tender hands. It was mandatory of the school to grant its students the opportunity to display their works before invited guests, parents and school authorities. Little Bob did and Bob’s Titanic as it was eventually labelled, emerged winner.

Happy Little Bob raced to his Professor’s office to show his work to the man who inspired and urged him on.  He desired to share the good news with his professor and life coach. The professor, who was equally intrigued at what he saw took Bob’s Titanic in his firm hands and worshiped it. It was indeed stunning. A mirrored reflection of the original Titanic. 

The professor after admiring the masterpiece, placed it carefully on his study table, opened up his drawer, reached out for what appeared to be a hammer and in the presence of Little Bob, sunk the devilish tool into the glowing deck of Bob’s Titanic. Little Bob instantly felt his soul depart from his body. His fingers and legs grew numb and saliva drooled out of his open mouth. He was in a state of shock! His titanic, like the original has just been shattered with a single blow.

Little Bob regained his consciousness after several minutes and managed a “why professor?” in the most innocent and vulnerable of tones. The professor who felt no remorse but wore an unexpected smile on his face pattered Little Bob on the shoulder and said to him; “Go out there Little Bob and build more and more of this masterpiece. Should I have allowed you to keep it, you might spend your entire life admiring this success so much so that you might never learn to build another. With this piece gone son, channel the unsatisfied feeling you are experiencing into making a better and a much more pleasant piece. Learn also to treat your future artifacts like I have done to this. Do not literally smash it like I did! Do so mentally! Never cling to any or settle on any one of the pieces as your masterpiece. Always see the next piece as the masterpiece.” 

With his innocent face covered in tears, little Bob nodded slowly in agreement.

The only constant thing in this world is change and anyone who continually clings to past victories or failures defies the normal order of nature. Learn to look past your failures and even more, learn harder to look past your successes! Be your own competition striving to make the next product or idea better than the previous. Do not settle!

Always remember this; Even a fool can overcome an instance of defeat in his past but it takes a wise and mature mind to let go of past instances of triumph. 

Never settle!
Best Regards

Atsu Dogbey

(A Member of TDL)

Ink Ideas!