Review: Shanty Town, overhyped!

So, I watched Shanty Town yesterday and I was like what? I didn't expect it to be that bad following the social media cacophony of its premiere on Netflix. 

Don't get me wrong. Shanty Town started so well. But all of its promising start ended with episode 1. I had to overcome an incredible amount of inertia to continue watching from episode 3 onwards. 

The six-part series ended with numerous plot holes with little character development. A 40-minute per episode of 6 parts series should be able to tell all of its story in toto. The Big Bang Theory, See, Blood and Water et al were able to use their last episodes to patch up plot holes and finalise their stories. Shanty Town ended like a miscarriage of a woman who has waited forever to conceive. A painfully missed opportunity. 

The only character that has been properly developed is Scar (Chidi Mokeme). Unarguably, he aced his role like a pro. But a missed opportunity is Shalewa (Nancy Isime). Shalewa is beautiful and instantly likeable character. Practically, everyone who watched Shanty Town may find it difficult to recall any character but Shalewa. She played the bad bitch role so well. The best cast hands down! 

The instant likeability of Shalewa should've been exploited to develop her character at the least opportunity. For instance, more light should've been thrown on the circumstances that made Shalewa's father to use her in service of his debt to Scar. Her one-night stand culminating into love relationship with Femi should've been romeoly expanded. 

The rivalry between Chief Fernandez and his political rival for Lagos State gubernatorial race should've been eviscerated. At least a flashback. Nothing is shown about Scar's mother and how he is biologically Fernandez's.

The plot holes keep widening till the end! 

Ini Edo didn't help the story. Her hard girl from Zanga role was forced. Mercy F*cking Johnson would've been my go-to. Mercy is so good. So good. She would've brought practical and natural emotionality, pretence and toughness the role badly needed. 

Again, why did Ini Edo "refuse" to wear a bikini at the slut bidding? The rest were in bikini. This can't happen in Holywood. If she was too reserved for the role, someone else should've been cast for it. This is show business! A movie is good as its costume. The scene, if you're a true screen maniac, really f'd up the harmony of the costuming. I couldn't just fathom it. Put on the bikini or good riddance! 

Shanty Town downfall is not the cast anyways. As a matter of fact, it is a star-studded series with the like of Nse Ikpe-Etim of "Mr and Mrs" fame, the handsome Peter of P-Square, the ubiqutuous Ali Nuhu of Nollywood etc. But all of its stars could not save it. By the way, Peter, Mr P of P-Square is my favourite (not Paul Rudebouy) but I want to admonish him to stick to music. His acting debut was terrible. 

Shanty Town has all it needed to succeed but a story or creativity or both. The story fairly lack originality. The theme is cliché-ish and most of the scenes appeared familiarly forgettable. The ending is a complete miscarriage. I wish it has least ended poorly like Ramsey's Blood Sisters, or Idris Elba's Beast (not Beast of No Nation, even though it also a terrible movie). 

Verdict: There are so many things that the average movie person will find enjoyable about Shanty Town. If you have enough time to waste, see it. But missing out on it is same as seeing it. Do not try this as a date movie unless your date is outdated (or is from Kumbungu village).

The only saving grace of Shanty Town is the unblurred breast of Shalewa. And its inspection! That scene is gold. It's electrifying. 

 

I don't want to be overly harsh. But I will rate Shanty Town 3.5/10.

I Hate...My Mom!

Sometimes, I don't feel so excited celebrating Mother's Day. My mom didn't help me that much when I was little. Nearly almost ninety percent of the beatings I got from my father were as a result of my mom's inability to restrain her mouth. My mom behaved like a student of literature. Exaggeration was her forte. For instance, I could commit a crime that a magistrate court could adjudicate but my mom will express it as if the Supreme Court may not even have the jurisdiction to hear the case.

My mom's penchant to report me to my father for draconian punitive actions was simply needless. Many a time, I concluded that I was an adopted child. I had always anticipated to someone calling me a "bastard" for me to say "my thinking was right" but none ever came.

With my type of head, I had expected that my mom fondly remembers the trouble she went through labour and not report me to my father when I commit forgivable crimes like stealing meat from the soup pot or refusal to sell her wares; onions, pepper, salt, groundnut paste, dry okro among other ingredients required for soup making.

My mom was Hajia Fati in her own right – she could slap me and streaks of lights will criss-cross my face like firecrackers thrown into the skies on Christmas eve. Nonetheless, her slaps were a million times better than my father's. As mom's slap came with only lightening, my father's came alongside with thunder. Even if the slap lacked the thunder because it was poorly given by virtue of my position, he will add the sound with his mouth.

One day, mom sent me to buy fish for her. She gave me a 20 cedis note. The note that had Yaa Asantewaa's portrait. On my way, I got distracted by my colleagues who were playing "small poles", a football game of four players with four pair of goal posts. I joined, played to my satisfaction and left to buy the fish. I got there and realised that the money was nowhere to be found. The first thing that came to my mind was the prophetic and cautionary words my mom said before handing over the money to me: "Please, hold it well, focus on the road. This is all I have."

Lord have mercy on my skin! My mom reported this small matter to my father and he subjected me to the kind of beatings the angels of hell will subject hell-goers to hereafter. My father caned me saa'a and finally dropped the cane and engaged me in Super Heavyweight boxing contest. I was shocked at my father's aggression just because I lost a common 20 cedis note. Perhaps, my father didn’t know that a punishment must commensurate with the crime committed according to the theories in child psychology. So, he practically abused me. Nonetheless, I blamed my mom because we could have sorted out this issue amicably without my father’s involvement.

I remembered, on this fateful day, my mom sent me to the market to buy a gallon of kerosene. I used to sell kerosene every evening to complement the family's budget. I went to buy the kerosene at Ajip Gas. Ajip Gas was then the centre of Tamale where many hustle and tussle of rumbunctuous mid-90s city life was rekindle. Where Filla FM is located today was in the precincts of the Ajip Gas cosmos and a few meters away stationed a gambling centre.

Among the games played at the gambling centre was a ludo die game. How was this game played? There was a number board marked 1 to 6. A player puts his or her money on any of the numbers on the board. The die is then cast or played. If the cast die showed a number same as the number you placed your money on, then you've won. If you place a 10 pesewa coin and win, you will receive 20 pesewas.  I have seen in the past people played the game and lost and cried but I was ready to play it. It was Christmas time and I so badly wanted to buy a water gun. I have previously owned a water gun by kind courtesy of my mom's missing coins. The immense pleasure that came with owning a water gun those days defies childhood description.

I began playing the game with the kerosene money. I was winning and losing and losing until half of the money went into the game. I couldn't risk again. I stopped and went back to the filling station and bought half gallon of keresone.

On my way home, I created and experimented with a gamut of creative lies and ideas. But the dots were simply not connecting convincingly. Alas! The best idea came from heaven. I filled the remaining half of the gallon with water. So, I had a gallon full of water and kerosene, waterosene. I prayed to arrive home to meet the absence of my mom. My prayers didn't work. I got home and my mom was just about to set fire for supper. As soon as I stepped into the house, my mom requested for the gallon of kerosene apparently to pour out a small amount to set the fire.

My lips started hitting each other. I was reciting Surat-ul Fathia as if that chapter of the Holy Quran was released as an abracadabra to souls transitioning into the realm of distress. My mom poured out a small amount of the waterosene and sprinkled it onto finely broken pieces of sticks on top of charcoal in a coalpot. She struck a match and sent it near the pieces of sticks and she was dumbfounded by the lack of chemistry between the match fire and ought-to-be imflammable sticks.

My mom became suspicious and subjected the gallon content to local laboratory test. She found out that there was much water in the kerosene to supply the whole village of Kumbungu for a week. She was furious even after I explained to her that I bought the kerosene "like that". But her ominous last show "Jack gazing to boss" looks prompted me that she would yandɛ report this forgivable misdemeanour to the flesh tormentor, my father.

Indeed, she reported it to my father. My father took me through the path of a "Showdown in Little Tokyo". It was later in the evening, I returned home to eat supper. I walked in majestically, picked my bowl of food and made myself comfortable under a neem tree on the compound. I was on my food when my father pounced on me. For the sake of the sacred relationship I was having with the food, I least expected him to pounce on me. A morsel of tuo zaafi that was descending into my throat stopped and forcefully sprang back to my mouth. He held me tightly by the hand in a manner that no bulldozer could wrangle me out of his clenched fist. I wailed continously and loudly for a good Samaritan to come to my rescue. Help never came. He dragged me into the room and experimented with my poor soul a sequel of Arnold Swarzeneggar's Terminator 2. Three sub-branches of the neem tree were finished on my body.

Finally, it was just a dull day and I wanted to make it exciting with my friends. I went to two friends in the next house. They were supposed to be my evil collaborators in making an evil hole. Right on the path in front of my house, I chose a portion for the evil hole.

This is how the evil hole was made. A deep hole about two feet diameter is dug. Broken bottles, a live lizard or frog follow to the bottom of the hole. Tiny broom sticks are then used to brace the mouth of the hole from one end to another. A polythene is then used to cover the mouth of the hole followed by minimal amount of dry sand to veil the polythene and veil other giveaways of impending danger.

So unlucky for koko lana, the porridge seller in the community, she fell into the evil hole trap on her way to the grinding mill. A basin of soaked maize she was carrying fell flat onto the ground. She also got a twisted ankle.

From afar with my friends, we laughed our lungs out.

I cried my eyes out the following morning when I was awaken by strokes of kinky electric wires from my father. I was so puzzled. What crime have I committed to deserve such a lugubrious good morning present. I couldn't cry out loud but the magnifying pain each stroke delivered to my nerves was chilling. I couldn't run out the room because the door was locked. I tried blocking some of the strokes with my hands but it was simply not a wise idea as the strokes leave visible bumped rugged wounds and blisters on my lower limbs.

He whipped me with the wire until such a time that he was satisfied. I came out of the room with mood and anger that could literally boil an egg. I removed my shirt and I was completely disfigured --- every millimeter on my body was hurt with a wound, or a bruise, or a blister, or a bump.

As I assess my wounds, my silent sobs yielded to audible cry of pain and pain. My mom came out of her room and was filled with utter disgust. She came closer to me and felt a couple of wounds on my body with her finger. As she assess my wounds, tears began gushing out of her eyes and she began murmuring, crying and then eventually exploded. She registered her displeasure in plain grammar to my father for the way and manner he caned me.

My mom rants became so confrontational to an extent that my father decided to respond to her: "Are you not the one who reported the case of an evil hole he masterminded with his friends when I returned from work yesterday?" "Yes", my mom replied my father, "I reported him but is that how to correct a child?" My father knew very well that he over caned me so he was bit tolerant of my mom's shakara. My father himself observably was truly sorry and apprehensive but the "kavini" in him made him kept a stern face to veil his unintended wickedness to a poor innocent child. My father was just so darned lucky that Multimedia's Joy FM was not birthed at that time.

My mom was a Reporter General but I knew she regretted reporting this small and forgivable crime to my father. She regretted it truly.

Well, I can't tell the many instigated stories of my mom that led to my beatings. But those unrestrained reporting of every crime I committed went a long way to making me who am I today.

So, this brings us to the elliptical heading of a conclusion, "I Hate (The Way I Love) My Mom.

© Hanan-Confidence Abdul

The Jollof Wahala!

When I was a complete bachelor. Life wasn't that rosy. How to eat three square meals was always wahala. At that time, I'd just completed Tamale NTC and earned as little as GHc50 as student's allowance. I couldn't possibly risk buying fried rice with chicken with my meagre allowance else it will finish in just a week. I occasionally patronised roadside waakye mainly for its satiety value but not taste.

There was so much pressure on my chicken change allowance at that time because mum and dad had relocated to a new place far from town - outskirts. So, the morning porridge and the nightly constant of TZ prepared by my mum was out of my immediate reach. Hence, the trickle down effect on my money.

To mitigate the food wahala, I bought a rice cooker. I wanted to maximise my GHc50 at least for a month's stretch all times. I was always running an austere budget in order to avoid overruns. My mind was like a subtraction-programmed calculator; it was doing subtraction all the time to assess my increasing incompetence to spend.

The only thing I could do with my rice cooker was to boil rice. I couldn't prepare stew for rice. My sister had prepared rice stew for me in a saucepan. My only duty was to heat the stew everyday to prevent it from going stale. I realised my bachelorhood had become chronic when I could wake up as early as 4 am to boil rice for breakfast. I could eat rice 24/7 without getting fed up or may be I got fed up but there was no option.

One day, I saw a book seller with a recipe book. I bought it. I wanted to hone my culinary skills and diversify my meals. I wanted to be a good cook on my own self pursuits and practices. The first thing that caught my eyes on the recipe book was how to cook jollof rice. I was momentarily swept from the feet with desire to prepare my first jollof all by myself.

As directed by the book, I quickly organised my ingredients needed for the jollof takeover. Even before I started preparing it, I began to smack my lips of its tastiness.

I turned on my rice cooker until its saucepan was hot. I poured my 1 cedi groundnut oil in it, followed by chopped onions, keta school boys, mashed tomatoes and powdered pepper. It was "chimming" in my ears and I could see the aroma running out of the door as if to announce that Chef Confidence is cooking jollof rice. I added water to increase the volume of the frying ingredients. Next, was to add salt. I've had troubles with adding salt to food. I always over-added salt in all my cooking exploits. This was jollof I was committing so much resources to prepare and for that matter won't take chances with salt. I recalled that my mum put a handful of salt whenever she's cooking soup. The soup's saucepan was three times my rice cooker's saucepan. Therefore, I will need approximately one-third of salt for my jollof using "if less more divide" rule of ratio and proportion in maths. It took me barely quarter hour to calculate the amount of salt to put in it.

I then soaked and washed three cupful of rice twice before pouring it in the simmering broth. I covered the saucepan with the lid and opened it every minute to look at the face of the jollof. I kept on adding more water to it until the face of the rice looked like a waterlogged area.

The aroma of the jollof rice was good and I began salivating. I fetched a laddle of it into my bowl to wash down my saliva. To my outmost disappointment, the jollof rice was not delicious - it wasn't tasteless - but it didn't taste as much as the efforts and ingredients I committed into it. I couldn't finish eating just a laddle of it. I felt I didn't do enough to give it a great taste.

I quickly rushed to the nearest provision store and bought a tin of tomato paste, a tin of African Queen Mackerel and two tins of Sardine. I didn't want the money I committed in preparing the jollof rice to go waste because of bad taste. So, I was ready to spend more to give it an intercontinental taste.

I mixed the tomato paste in a small bowl of water and poured it into the jollof rice. With the African Queen Mackerel, I hand-blended it before pouring it into the jollof. The rationale for hand-blending it was to make sure that every atom of the tasty mackerel reaches every nook and cranny of the jollof rice. Then, I decorated the face of the jollof with the two tins of Sardine of six fishes. I waited for fifteen minutes for the deliciousness of the second batch of competent additives to takeover every grain of the rice.

When I opened the lid of the saucepan, the aroma of the jollof rice defied scientific principle of osmosis as it penetrates through the walls of my room. The aroma alone made me half satisfied. I fetched five laddles of the jollof to placate my taste buds but I was shocked to the bone marrow. The taste didn't improve at all. It was still like that or perhaps deteriorated.

I felt quite bad about the resources, money and time wasted into preparing a jollof of undefinable taste. But then, I was hungry and couldn't go to bed on empty stomach. My only hope was the jollof that particular evening. I'd to close my eyes tight and gobble down the bland-to-tasteless jollof down my throat.

After eating, I whispered to myself that I should've bought kenkey and enjoy it with my African Queen Mackerel and Sardines. However I was of the belief that the taste will improve by the next day. But I couldn't even taste it the next morning; it was untastable. I took the saucepan with heavy heart of the huge financial loss and poured everything in it into the dustbin.

From that day, I realised that knowing something in a book is never knowing how to do it practically. I also realised that I can never cook anything apart from boiling yam and egg. As a matter of fact, I hate cooking and I don't want to even learn how to cook. I'm just lucky that I haven't developed food aversion for jollof rice after that bad encounter.

If it so happen that my future wife wouldn't be able to cook one day, I will suggest that we go out and buy food.

Anas Aremeyaw Anas​: The Truth Hunter

A star celebrated across the globe rose in Bimbilla
His name is sang enviably with vuvuzela
And it goes as far as Venezuela
He's not a sakawa bloke known for mere Toyota Corolla
He rides in Tundra in search of eaters of bad kola
All out for the truth even if it's scintilla
For he sees corrupt society as ugly as gorilla
He injects treatment into society through his undercover canulla
To cure the ills that plague us like a chamber pot of "faeces in duula"

The Pride of
Bimbilla
North and
Ghana

He goes after evil doers not just for blame
But in his own claim
"To name
And shame"
And that put their reputation and anus in the citizenry's flame
Leaving irate others gnashing their teeth to maim
He has one clear aim
To purge society of any form of fleecing game
Game that make the weak weaker and lame
And no shenanigans can defeat the feat that bequeathed him fame

The Pride of
Bimbilla
North and
Ghana

His undercover expeditions are very kamikaze
His life really is a maze
Solvers of the maze always go amaze
For he never seize to set Ghana ablaze
His face mask is even now everyone’s craze
His face is no place to gaze
He's no fog but haze

The Pride of
Bimbilla
North and
Ghana

His recent exposé is a grudge
With many a Ghanaian judge
But he seems not to budge
Because he wields the Truth Badge
Against the gods' sacrilege
The gods reasoned a "merge"
Running helter-skelter in their pantaloons beige
With owl glasses in court is sue upon sue without gauge
Grandma Sana is pounding yam for goat soup at her age
Little did she know that some people are sweating inside Uncle Anas' fridge

© Hanan-Confidence Abdul
28th September, 2015

A eulogy to Ghana and world's most revered investigative journalist of our time. May he never die. May God immune Tiger Eye PI from all the machinations of corruption juggernauts. I think he  deserves the highest national award, The Order of Volta. Thanks to Abdul Malik Kweku Baako​ for giving us a more powerful replica of himself, Anas.

45 Key Points of Life

1. Life isn't fair, but it's still good.

2. When in doubt, just take the next small step.

3. Life is too short – enjoy it.

4. Your job won't take care of you when you are sick. Your friends and family will.

5. Pay off your credit cards every month.

6. You don't have to win every argument. Stay true to yourself.

7. Cry with someone. It's more healing than crying alone.

8. It's OK to get angry with God. He can take it.

9. Save for retirement starting with your first paycheck.

10. When it comes to chocolate, resistance is futile.

11. Make peace with your past so it won't screw up the present.

12. It's OK to let your children see you cry.

13. Don't compare your life to others. You have no idea what their journey is all about.

14. If a relationship has to be a secret, you shouldn't be in it.

15. Everything can change in the blink of an eye, but don't worry, God never blinks.

16. Take a deep breath. It calms the mind.

17. Get rid of anything that isn't useful. Clutter weighs you down in many ways.

18. Whatever doesn't kill you really does make you stronger.

19. It's never too late to be happy. But it’s all up to you and no one else.

20. When it comes to going after what you love in life, don't take no for an answer.

21. Burn the candles, use the nice sheets, wear the fancy clothes. Don't save it for a special occasion. Today is special.

22. Over prepare, then go with the flow.

23. Be eccentric now. Don't wait for old age to wear purple.

24. The most important sex organ is the brain.

25. No one is in charge of your happiness but you.

26. Frame every so-called disaster with these words 'In five years, will this matter?'

27. Always choose life.

28. Forgive

29. What other people think of you is none of your business.

30. Time heals almost everything. Give time time.

31. However good or bad a situation is, it will change.

32. Don't take yourself so seriously. No one else does.

33. Believe in miracles.

34. God loves you because of who God is, not because of anything you did or didn't do.

35. Don't audit life. Show up and make the most of it now.

36. Growing old beats the alternative of dying young.

37. Your children get only one childhood.

38. All that truly matters in the end is that you loved.

39. Get outside every day. Miracles are waiting everywhere.

40. If we all threw our problems in a pile and saw everyone else's, we'd grab ours back.

41. Envy is a waste of time. Accept what you already have, not what you need

42. The best is yet to come.

43. No matter how you feel, get up, dress up and show up.

44. Yield.

45. Life isn't tied with a bow, but it's still a gift."