Nails In The Fence

There once was a little boy who had a bad temper. His father gave him a bag of nails and told him that every time he lost his temper, he must hammer a nail into the back of the fence.

The first day the boy had driven 37 nails into the fence. Over the next few weeks, as he learned to control his anger, the number of nails hammered daily gradually dwindled down. He discovered it was easier to hold his temper than to drive those nails into the fence.

Finally the day came when the boy didn't lose his temper at all. He told his father about it and the father suggested that the boy now pull out one nail for each day that he was able to hold his temper. The days passed and the young boy was finally able to tell his father that all the nails were gone.

The father took his son by the hand and led him to the fence. He said, "You have done well, my son, but look at the holes in the fence. The fence will never be the same. When you say things in anger, they leave a scar just like this one. You can put a knife in a man and draw it out. It won't matter how many times you say I'm sorry, the wound is still there."

The little boy then understood how powerful his words were. He looked up at his father and said "I hope you can forgive me father for the holes I put in you."

"Of course I can," said the father.

Grammar Point: dining vrs dinning

For an institution of education, this inscription, on one of your structures is very unacceptable. For an institution that trains teachers to guide unsuspecting kids on how to read and spell, this mistake deserves immediate correction.

This is how Bagabaga Training College spelt "Dining" on their "Dinning" Hall. (See picture). It nearly pluck out my eyes upon a glimpse of it this morning.

A place where we dine is not spelt as DINNING HALL but DINING HALL. This is a common mistake of most except the pedantic.

Grammar Point:
Words, mainly verbs, that end with vowels don't double their consonants in the continuous form (-ing form).
Example:
Dine - Dining
Site - Siting (note it well)
Fume - Fuming
Tame - Taming
Stare - Staring (note it well)

Note: These words end with a vowel. You can also observe that the vowels are preceded by a consonant. The vowels are dropped.

Words, mainly verbs, that end with a consonant however, double their consonants in the continuous form (-ing form).
Examples:
Dig - Digging
Cut - Cutting
Sit - Sitting (note it well)
Slap - Slapping
Star - Starring (note it well)

Note: These words end with a consonant. You can also observe that the consonants are preceded by a vowel. The end consonants double.

Words that end with a consonant but preceeded by a double vowel are exempted from this rule. For instance, meet - meeting, read - reading, paint - painting, scoop - scooping and so on.

Importance of this rubric will be done by juxtaposition of the cited examples tagged "note it well". 

Site - Siting and Sit - Sitting are worlds apart and can't be used interchangeably. However, the abuse abounds in many academic circles.

Stare - staring, to fix one's eyes on something.
Star - starring, to feature as a character in a movie or film. The abuse of the -ing form of these words is heartaching even on highly placed jurisdictions. At the end of most movies, particularly the African, the propensity of abuse of these two words is a tick away from a second.

DINING and DINNING are two distinctive words that are not even eligible to be described as siblings and can't be used interchangeably. One is not a variant spelling of the other as in "judgement" and "judgment" and "lunch" and "luncheon".

The last time I used "luncheon", some "daddabies" little girls thought I was speaking "Freglish". (Perhaps the pronunciation). They were startled!

Someone may want to question the rationale of my megalomania. Well, this is just an innocuous academic exercise for lovers of orthography. If I see this inscription on the structure of a waakye seller, I probably won't budge but not a whole College of Education Institution. Trust me, if one is to give a Dictation Test to teacher trainees of this institution, a good number will miss the spelling of DINING. What the brain grabs through the eye over a long period is very difficult to be overwritten!

A teacher is a powerful tool of change. That's why kids believe their teachers more than anyone else. They believe the teacher is a repository of knowledge. Literally, they are. Without any empirical bases, a solid foundation on the language provides one the springboard to gel in other areas of academic pursuits.

I am a nurse but I have great interest in language, notably grammar rubrics though I'm not immune to its hiccups because I'm not a grandson of Granny Lizzy but perhaps of Mrs Grundy.

The End Is Here!

The end is near, they say
But we heard not the sound of trumpets 
Could it be the thunder clap of last night's storm
That swallowed it? 

We are created in his image
Yet they mock our colour
For we are the black sheep of the herd
We are ignorants
But isn't it of the treasures of our head
They feed their souls?

God created all
But the Scriptures are a mere translation of the divine voice
Does death not knock equally on our doors?
For it knows not the favoured?

We all came from a womb
And walked the same dusty earth
Alas, at the crossroad we part ways
Listen not the godly words they spit
For it is but a mask for their cowardly stench
Their eyes unveil the colour of their hearts
They mock us for they fathom not what we imagine

Yes, let them cower into their lavish castles
But God watches over the tailless cow
From earth we came
And to earth we shall return
For termites know not the favoured corpse.

Author: Saint

A Ratty Experience of Ramadan

It was really a bad experience I never ever want to reminisce. It was first day of Ramadan fasting. I was for night duty at Surgical 2 - a ward where freshly operated patients are nursed. A ward death shows contempt to humankind every blessed day. 

Until now, a ward of rats that feasted on the feet and fingers of dead bodies who failed to die in time to meet the morgue man closing time.  

I had packaged my fasting food nicely in a black polythene bag. When I got to work, I went straight to the nurses’ restroom and put it on a table.  It was Jollof rice with two red meats. 

I returned to the main ward to attend to patients till 3:30 am - a time I could eat for fasting. 

I reached out for my food at the restroom. It was intact to the best of my knowledge. I untied it and began eating slowly until I got to the bottom. My two red meats was nowhere to be found. 

My goodness! This is mysterious! I raised the polythene bag and my guess was right - the rats have nicodemusly burrowed into my food and bolted with my meat. The hole looked ratty! 

My good God! My problem was not the stolen meat but the filthy dirt I have consumed. These rats have been running round the urinals and washrooms playing with all kind of faeces and whatchamacallit of all sickly origins. And may be these rats on the run with my meat might have entertained the several dead bodies that were recorded on that fateful night! 

In no time, my mind was inundated with imageries of all the possible unsavoury rats’ activities in the ward. I knew I had consumed all the dirt in the whole wide world. 

My mouth begins to well with ginormous saliva, my intestines took a reverse peristaltic movement, and my mind began directing me in some funny and uncanny way. Before I could get to the sink – it was like pooochaa! I vomited the tinniest particulate of the food in my clean-forsaken tummy! I vomited like seriously! The vomitus had come in stages from semi-solid to gelatinous liquid. It seemed like I had purged my bowls with tetraoxosulphate (VI) acid enema. 

If I was to vomit for the eleventh time, I am sure it would have been my intestines or something rather horrifying. Momentarily, I felt deep pain in throwing out but the nausea reflexes were violent to suppress. I could possibly pop out my eyes in an attempt to restrain it. 

Nonetheless, I mustered courage to continue with the fasting. But before noon, I found myself in the “Ant Bully” or “Epic” world of Lilliputian and Giantism imageries. Every tiny insect that crossed my eyes appeared bigger than my eyeballs. The first day of fasting was like the last day of fasting to me. 

Is Zero Nothing?

I overheard the teacher telling the kids to repeat after her. "Zero means nothing." As I pass by, I thought of saying loudly that, "Zero means something." I had a lot of things in my mind and didn't want my okro mouth to invite another wahala into any space in my head. 

I walked pass the school, a thought came into my head. Thought: "Zero is nothing, what if a smart kid writes 10 = 1 because why keep nothing with the 1. I remembered mathematical statements we used to answer with < > or =. If there is a mathematical statement like 25.......2500, will the child be wrong to use an equal sign (=) to make the statement true? Zero can't be nothing." 

In sets: if set A={ } and set B={0}, will you say the sets are the same? According to the teacher in question, they will be the same. Set A has nothing in it and Set B has zero in it. And zero means nothing. These sets aren't the same, not at all and never will it be. Set A is called Null/Empty set and Set B is termed as Unit set. And as a matter of fact, the zero (0) in B is terribly important. 

I made a U-turn to go and correct the teacher and save the kids. I paused and thought: "the greatest harm can come from the best intentions." This is a female teacher and she might think I am a braggart. She can create a scene. Women are very unpredictable. I could risk with a male teacher. Another U-turn, off I go. 

But then, I couldn't help the soliloquy. How can zero be nothing? Zero is not nothing, it is a value, it is something. Zero is a value of high repute. Zero might be nothing in 2+0 but it is certainly something at 2×0. 

In the night, I related the event to life. In life, so many people are regarded as zero but it takes people with foresight to understand that these people have value and useful to life. Never mind if society perception about you is like the zero. Your time will surely come to show how important you are. 

Lest I forget, I know nothing in maths but I can still remember something in my e-maths.

Vaginal Odour

Normal vagina has an odour and there is absolutely no problem. Normal vaginal odour is common during your period, after sex or after the use of birth control pills. However, if your vagina smells 'fishy', or perhaps 'ratty', there must be a problem. 

Offensive vaginal odour is described as 'foul' but 'penalty' will not be misplaced in some landmark cases. It is quite embarrassing and sometimes inconveniencing. It needs to be fixed asap! 

The vagina should be pink, all things being equal. I mean pink as in pink-sheet except the jurisdiction beyond the small and the big vaginal lips to Mount Venus. 

The vagina should be moist and reasonably warm but sloppy wet or dry hot vagina is a cause for alarm! And this is an enough sign to make you feel jittered and panicky!  

Keeping a neatly odourless vagina is a primary responsibility of all women because it helps them to be more productive. It gives one’s confidence and uplifts one’s image to go with daily work. A stench vagina can strain or ruin your sexual relationship. 

To prevent vaginal odour and its related irregularities... 

• Wear clean underwear. This is important. Please use only cotton panties.  As a matter of fact, two cotton panties are better than ten polyester panties. 100% cotton provides optimum comfort and air-conditioning. 

• Avoid douches and highly scented soaps. By the way, douche is when you mix omo, so klin, dettol, parazone, alata, lemon juice and sometimes sea sand and in extreme cases petrol, to wash the vagina for the purposes of keeping the vagina smell-free and may be youthful.  (Confidence, 2013).

Regular douche turns the friendly bacteria in your vagina to rather aggressive foot soldiers - they then go on rampage seizing what do not belong to them and might go beyond their limits. 

Mantain Law and Order in your vagina by keeping faith with the Döderleins to provide you with the right lethal pH of 4.5 approx.  Use only CLEAN WATER to douche. 

• Wipe your perineum from front to back once with single pad. I mean wipe from the vagina to the anus. Wiping from the anus to the vagina might potentially migrate boko haram militias for insurgence of the vagina. One pad, one wipe! One pad, one wipe! The perineum is the area between the vagina and anus. Do not touch this area 'by heart' with your bare hands. Your hands are potential colony of disease-causing animalcules.   

• Avoid tight fitting underwear and jeans. These garments prevent the area from being aerated, and sweating occurs, causing odour. You have to consider modifying your wardrobe if you care about your vagina. 

• Do not wear panties for too long. For instance, do not wear one pant for one week. A pant daily will do. Note: Do not wear a dirty pant after bathing before changing into a clean pant. Just wear a clean pant after bathing. Towel yourself well to avoid wetting of the pant. Everyone wants where it is cool including bacteria.  

• Change pads, panty liners, tampons regularly. Do not try to manage your pads for the next month. Use them as required! Buy more as required. If it is taking a toll on your budget, please hunt for a responsible man to help you with that. 

The good news however is that, the government will soon be providing sanitary pads to schoolgirls for free. This might help save a good number of ladies from this niggling wahala. 

• Avoid spicy or alcoholic or caffeinated foods. Alcohol will not only trouble you with bad vaginal odour but will considerably reduce your sexual virility and performance. Sex is a serious gymnastic bout and needs a hell of energy to expend. So, would you not rather shun energy sappers like alcohol and other sexually debilitating food?  

• Eat yoghurt to supply your vagina with better and further particulars – good bacteria that will keep it in good condition. FanYogo is just 80 pesewas - tell him to buy you one every day! (Ajeligba, not with this economy)! 

• Avoid prolong use of antibiotics. Antibiotic treatment spanning beyond three months may lead to massive vaginal rigging and irregularities – it may lose it pinkness when contrasted with a pink sheet. This usually deplete free, fair and friendly vaginal flora and fauna – thereby replacing them with the stubborn petitioner, candida albican and his bunch of ill-fated co-petitioners. The vagina defence counsel may try to put up a good fight – but the ingenuous petitioners will bloat their numbers and have their way through. The petitioners win the verdict. 

After the petitioners get into the system, they practise the tradition of their late grandparents – incompetently and wilfully causing financial loss to the body. Massive corruption of state (bodily) organs and remorselessly seizing what legitimately belongs to the citizenry of the body. 

• Avoid oral sex: the vagina is holier than the mouth. Avoid desecrating it with unclean and malodorous mouth! Again, do not ambush it with unholy and dirty articles. 

• Dry your pants in the open aerated sunny area. Most ladies feel shy to dry their panties in the open because their pants are not classy or it has become brownish white or whatever!  Half dry and damp panties provide optimum condition for pathogens to germinate. This may lead to #OccupyTheVagina demo. 

• See a doctor if these measures fail 

• Share with your friends and save someone from vaginal odour. 

Gaza Massacre: War Against Humanity

Assuming without admitting that the parents of these 'slaughtered' kids were terrorists or aggressors, would there be any justification for ending their lives in such undignified manner? This is not a war of religions. It's a war against humanity by misanthropes. This is act of sheer barbarism and annihilation of a variety of the human race. A depletion of a niche  of the homo sapien ecosystem. 

This is nothing short of the zany obliteration and decimation of innocent souls by Boko Haram, Al-Shabab, Al-Qaeeda and their demonic ilk. Yet, the world leaders who verbally abhor these groups without hesitation have lost their voices deeply in the mundane of moral turpitude. And the silence of comity of nations organisations is deafening. 

The gory scenes are horrendous: beheaded kids lie dreams dead under mercy of the scorching sun, dismembered bodies of pregnant women litter all streets, and half-burnt charred bodies of several innocent people heap like a deserted catch in rot. 

If the progeny of the Nazi's holocaust against their forebears  is oblivious of the ramifications of their satanic deeds, then the world must speak. Obama, Hollande and their compatriot narcissists bereft of moral decorum are not the world. They are infinitesimal atom of the world. You are the world. Your voice, no matter how shrill, matters! 

You are not a 'human' if you support the tsunami of human blood gushing out of our screens. The sins of fathers should not be visited on their children. 

Arise for Humanity!

To rise Gazans

This is an ARMAGEDDON! 

US Embassy Tweet Brouhaha!

I am in principle against the US tweet in response to the president's tweet of making sacrifices for the citizenry. 

First, USA is noted for her notoriety in meddling in the affairs of sovereign nations. She's supported and backed groups of people to rise against their own government. Gaddafi's Libya is a case to note. Today, Libya is in tatters. 

This needless tweet-response might provide a springboard for a group of ill-intent Ghanaians to take arms against a constitutional government in order to create a lapse for loot. 

It can also motivate exuberant youth of Ghana to cause mayhem under the false belief (or maybe genuine belief) that the USA of military might is on their side. I am not shunning people rising against their government - but I am against any uprising motivated by a third party - it will not be genuine! 

Let's consider this supposition, what would have been the reaction of the US government if Ghana was the offender? I am afraid it would have made international news for weeks and strain diplomatic ties. How will the overly patriotic America-first citizens react to the gaffe? 

As a fan of Ambrose Bierce, I have reservations about diplomacy but this one was an egregious blunder in the remit of diplomacy under no uncertain terms. 

I am not one of those who share in the lukewarm posture on IMANI. I consider them benign and they make sense many a time. But I am scandalised by their individualistic views on the infamous tweet - pro US Embassy. 

Manasseh Azure Awuni is one of my ardent following and I agree with most of his views on "Ghana must work again" as a passionate son of Ghana. Unfortunately, he is rooting for the US Embassy's tweet. I want to remind my good friend a proverb he loves saying: "The lion and the antelope are implacable enemies, but neither of them wants the forest which shelters them set ablaze". 

Admittedly, these are hard times with very little sacrifices and actions on the part of the government. I am particularly not pleased with the status quo of things but I am afraid we do not need the nosy USA and her associates to tell us whatever or undermine our sovereignty. Servitude in sovereignty is better than freedom in captivity. So, the US should leave Ghanaians to ask the tough questions - and truly we are asking them. 

This is a matter of NATIONAL SECURITY. Trust me, I am not making a mountain out of an anthill. US cannot be trusted. Even flies do not trust them. 

Last but not least, we know the USA like the back of our palms. THEY DON'T HAVE A PERMANENT FRIEND BUT PERMANENT INTEREST.

Birthday Message: Rhyme for the Bongo Boy Manasseh Azure Awuni

As boy from Bongo

Your best christen should have been Adongo 

Bongo and Adongo would have been in tango

Manasseh is that of a gringo 

Is apple superior to mango?

Wish you were a Virgo

For they are immune to vertigo 

Like the Japanese man in Mind Your Lingo

I am just doing my own thing'o

You are Ghana's conscientious jingo 

To your name is more Bingo 

You may see Afi Daavi to change to Atanga

Atibere Abotimasum Ayinisungma or Ananga

Or any of the some-tanga

To proudly rep Bolgatanga 

Nonetheless I adore the name Azure 

For it's gaining prominence like Italy's Azure 

A reality staring everyone like the Heaven's azure 

Awuni goes to the 

Alpha 

Omega 

Daren't go far 

To gaga 

Suhukpeeni 

Manasseh Azure Awuni

Happy Birthday

Birthday Message: Eulogy to Abdul Malik Kweku Baako

Provoked by his birthday, I deem it necessary to show my veneration to the last man standing in the realm of envious possession of archival manuscripts. I honestly wish we could deify or immortalise him for he's a repertoire of Ghana's sociopolitical scriptures. He's a custodian of top secrets documents of both pre-and-post colonial era. He's a hybrid of all profession though a media personality but his appreciation of the profession of Latin jargons is intriguing. This has earn him the accolade of rarity, the pro pocket lawyer. Surely, you will prefer him represent you in court if he thrills you with his technical competencies about the nuances of the law. 

He's an orator par excellence and his soundbites always rocks the airwaves unabated. "Go and say it to the marines", "baloney", "to be charitable", "a propaganda spin for political capital", "if I am provoked", "premature ejaculation", et al are his patented expressions enjoying abusive use in Ghana's political discussions. 

"Book no lie" is his watchword. Speaking on air is not enough. He always have the document to support his claim. You dare him documentwise at your own risk. His network is more sophisticated than the American CIA. The word impossible is not in his dictionary - he believes every document, no matter the content, is interceptible. What makes him unique is his knack for originality. He doesn't believe in transmitting and regeneration of documents to other forms. Don't get him wrong - he's not a technophobe. He's only preserving the epistles of truth. 

Who is this man? He's a man that presumably fall in the clutches of "when society drifts away from the truth, the more they will hate those who speak it" This man carry all dates of events of Ghana's historical agitations in just one brain cell - call him Ghana's early protestant and pioneer of demorioting. I just love him. I am not a gay! 

Badly, we need his prototype before he nicodemusly bolts to our home of origin. I will try and see if I can fit into his oversized shoes and gargantuan hat. But truth be untold, he's unparalleled when it comes to discretion - a forte many shall pursue till the kingdom come and at best achieve a semblance of it akin to the dollar and cedi relationship. 

The man you will hate to love and love to hate for speaking the unspeakable speakables is  Abdul Malik Kweku Baako. Don't die now or else we won't bury you! 

This post is not a fallacy of dubious validity.

Laa'illah-a-illalaah! 

Happy Birthday!

Errors on the president's social media pages

"The president's Facebook page is littered with basic grammatical mistakes and riddled with eye-plucking spelling errors. I thought we have learnt our lessons from Ben Malor's debut press release debacle. Just a week ago a press release on the asylum seekers in Brazil had "religious" spelt as "relgious". I thought our siblings on the other divide would have spotted it and make a gain, but I didn't chance any remark to that effect.

Every now and then, there is a snapshot of "silly" mistakes on presidential press releases and social media handles. It is becoming one too many for acceptability.

I am allergic to spelling errors and typos. Sometimes I pick a document and the first thing my eye will spot will be a typo/error, obviously not out of conscious effort to identify a problem in it. My private work sometime ago thought I was out of malice keen in spotting mistakes in documents until they understood me. My colleagues and I were able to manage the problem and keep it at bay. For Heaven's sake, this is the highest office of the land. The gaffes are utterly embarrassing. No excuses!

I consider spelling errors as more grievous and unacceptable than grammatical mistakes - you may be able to defend the latter but you dare not the former. As a matter of fact, if I am reading anything, and identify a few spelling errors or typos, I won't continue. The wrong spelling of a word has the propensity of overwriting the correct one in your head.

The admin(s) of the president's Facebook and Twitter pages must sit up. Managers of presidential circulars must 'up' their game. And perchance, spare us all the shame of being a Ghanaian on a social media. Pedantic is the word.

The presidency should note: circulars are created with Microsoft Office Word and by default autocorrect, grammar and spelling check preclude words typed in UPPER CASE. Get an expert to configure your word processor application to check for spelling or grammar in all cases (lower case, upper case, title case, sentence case etc). Or better still type everything in lower case first and change titles and subtitles to upper case. The shortcut key for toggling between cases is Shift + F3 after highlighting the text. Does this require a robotic scientist?

Lest I forget, I am not immune to grammar flaws and don't assess me because I am me and myself. I don't represent anyone on Facebook or any social media."

Brazil 2014 World Cup Statistics

WORLD CUP 2014 STATISTICS

Scoring:
Overall total number of goals scored: 171

Average goals per match: 2.67

Total number of braces : 14 - Karim Benzema, Toni Kroos, Mario
Mandžukić, Jackson Martínez, Lionel Messi ,
Ahmed Musa, Neymar (2), Robin van Persie,
Arjen Robben, James Rodríguez, André
Schürrle, Luis Suárez, Enner Valencia

Total number of hat-tricks: 2 - Thomas Müller, Xherdan Shaqiri

Total number of penalty kicks awarded: 13

Total number of penalty kicks scored: 12 - Xabi Alonso, Karim Benzema, Edinson Cavani, Juan Cuadrado, Sofiane Feghouli, Klaas-Jan
Huntelaar, Mile Jedinak, Thomas Müller,
Neymar, Robin van Persie, James Rodríguez, Georgios Samaras

Total number of penalty kicks missed: 1 - Karim Benzema

Penalty kick success rate: 92.31%

Own goals scored: 5 - John Boye, Sead Kolašinac, Marcelo, Noel
Valladares, Joseph Yobo

Timing:
First goal of the tournament: Marcelo (own goal) for Croatia against Brazil

First brace of the tournament: Neymar for
Brazil against Croatia

First hat-trick of the tournament: Thomas
Müller for Germany against Portugal

Fastest goal in a match from kickoff: 1 minute (0:30) - Clint Dempsey for United States against
Ghana

Fastest goal in a match after coming on as a substitute: 2 minutes -
Marco Ureña for Costa Rica against Uruguay
(introduced in the 83rd minute), Admir Mehmedi for Switzerland against Ecuador (introduced in the 46th minute), Miroslav Klose for Germany against Ghana (introduced in the 69th minute), Leroy Fer for
Netherlands against Chile (introduced in the
75th minute), Julian Green for United States
against Belgium (introduced in the 105+2nd minute)

Latest goal in a match without extra time: 90+5 minutes - Silvestre Varela for Portugal against United States

Latest goal in a match with extra time: 120+1 minutes - Abdelmoumene Djabou for Algeria against Germany

Latest winning goal in a match without extra time: 90+4 minutes - Klaas-Jan Huntelaar for Netherlands against
Mexico

Latest winning goal in a match with extra
time: 118 minutes - Ángel di María for Argentina against
Switzerland

Least time difference between two goals
scored by the same team in a match: 2 minutes (1:06) - Olivier Giroud and Blaise Matuidi for France
against Switzerland

Teams:
Most goals scored by a team: 18 - Germany
Fewest goals scored by a team: 1 - Cameroon, Honduras, Iran

Most goals conceded by a team: 14 - Brazil

Fewest goals conceded by a team: 2 - Costa Rica

Best goal difference: +14
- Germany

Worst goal difference: -8 - Cameroon

Most goals scored in a match by both
teams: 8 - Brazil 1–7 Germany

Most goals scored in a match by one team:
7 - Germany against Brazil

Most goals scored in a match by the losing
team: 2 - Australia against Netherlands, Switzerland against France, South Korea against Algeria, Nigeria against Argentina

Biggest margin of victory: 6 goals - Brazil 1–7 Germany

Most clean sheets achieved by a team: 4 - Argentina, Germany, Netherlands

Fewest clean sheets achieved by a team: 0 - Algeria, Australia, Bosnia and Herzegovina,
Cameroon, Ghana, Honduras, Italy, Ivory Coast, Portugal, Russia, South Korea, United States

Most clean sheets given by an opposing team: 2 - Argentina, Brazil, Cameroon, Costa Rica,
France, Greece, Honduras, Iran, Italy,
Netherlands, Nigeria

Fewest clean sheets given by an opposing
team: 0 - Algeria, Colombia, Croatia, Germany, Ghana, Ivory Coast

Most consecutive clean sheets achieved by
a team: 3 - Argentina, Netherlands

Most consecutive clean sheets given by an
opposing team: 2 - Argentina, Cameroon, Greece, Iran, Italy,
Netherlands

Individual:
Most goals scored by an individual: 6 - James Rodríguez

Most assists given by an individual: 4 - Juan Guillermo Cuadrado, Toni Kroos

Most goals and assists produced by an individual: 8 - James Rodríguez (6 goals, 2 assists), Thomas Müller (5 goals, 3 assists)

Most clean sheets achieved by a goalkeeper : 4 - Jasper Cillessen, Manuel Neuer, Sergio Romero

Least clean sheets achieved by a
goalkeeper : 0 - Igor Akinfeev, Boubacar Barry, Asmir Begović,
Beto, Gianluigi Buffon, Iker Casillas, Fatau
Dauda, Panagiotis Glykos, Joe Hart, Tim
Howard, Charles Itandje, Jung Sung-Ryong, Adam Kwarasey, Raïs M'Bolhi, Rui Patrício,
Mathew Ryan, Salvatore Sirigu, Noel Valladares

Most consecutive clean sheets achieved by
a goalkeeper : 3 - Jasper Cillessen, Sergio Romero

Least consecutive clean sheets achieved by
a goalkeeper : 0 - Igor Akinfeev, Boubacar Barry, Asmir Begović,
Beto, Gianluigi Buffon, Iker Casillas, Fatau
Dauda, Panagiotis Glykos, Joe Hart, Tim
Howard, Charles Itandje, Jung Sung-Ryong, Adam Kwarasey, Raïs M'Bolhi, Rui Patrício,
Mathew Ryan, Salvatore Sirigu, Noel Valladares

Most goals scored by one player in a match: 3
Thomas Müller for Germany against Portugal, Xherdan Shaqiri for Switzerland against Honduras
Oldest goal scorer: 37 years, 1 month and 12 days - Noel Valladares (own goal) for France against Honduras

Youngest goal scorer: 19 years and 25 days
Julian Green for United States against Belgium

Wins and losses:
Most wins: 6 – Germany
Fewest wins: 0 – Australia, Cameroon,
England, Ghana, Honduras, Iran, Japan,
Russia, South Korea

Most losses: 3 – Australia, Cameroon,
Honduras

Fewest losses: 0 – Costa Rica, Germany,
Netherlands

Most draws: 3 – Costa Rica

Fewest draws: 0 – Australia, Belgium,
Bosnia and Herzegovina, Cameroon, Colombia, Croatia, Honduras, Italy, Ivory Coast, Spain, Switzerland, Uruguay

Most points in the group stage: 9 – Argentina, Belgium, Colombia, Netherlands

Fewest points in the group stage: 0 –
Australia, Cameroon, Honduras

I Am A Northerner

I am a northerner. And that is a shame, but please don’t blame me, blame God. He made me a northerner and didn’t practice democracy when he did so.

Perhaps there was a conference in heaven (or wherever babies come from) in which parents choose their children. Blame my parents and not me, I don’t recall being part of it, I don’t recall choosing mine - but hear me out, I am proud of mine.

But, maybe, given an option, I might have made a better choice, but I came as a northerner. This is the accidental badge of shame I carry, like all men, but mine is worse - I am a northerner.

Long before my parents made their choice, colonial thieves drew the map, it had nothing to do with me - they made me a northerner. No plebiscite, no Gallup Poll. With a stroke of the pen, they made their choice and made me - a northerner. My choice was never a part of it; they followed the stars and hit the mark - to make me a northerner.

My land of birth is great and vast, full of life and changing scenes. Sometimes arid, sometimes green. Most times dry and sometimes wet - it is the northern land. I don’t blame others, if they don’t know, but I make them angry for just being me.

My land is dry and breeds “no things”- but lush tomatoes, scented onions, hot peppers, and loads of grain, ginger and garlic. My land produces maize and beans; sugarcane, kola, sorghum, moringa and millet.  My pastureland is best for cattle, goats and sheep, best for donkeys, horses, and fowls of all kinds. These are part of the northern nothing.

The earth yields sheanut, melon and seeds. Once upon an ancient time, my land made groundnuts that built pyramids like Egypt land. The best of yams and potatoes breed; the best of beans and protein needs; yes, they’re nothing compared with oil - parlous insignificance to today’s gold. Whatever the north produced is nothing here.

I rile not those who produce cocoa, nor quarrel with those that grow their coffee. I bug not those whose rainforests produce the best of trees, timber and rubber and palm produce. Its nuts and fruits and lush red oil.

All I ask is live and let’s live and hold aloft our red, gold, green and black star. I don’t begrudge the vast rivers - that give more fish than the TONO DAM. I crave the taste of crabs and shrimps; I love the oil that powers boats, cars and moving machines. I love the tar that colours the road and lubricants that oil the wheels and burnish flesh.

Yet all I ask is live and let’s live, but nay they say we want you out. I am a northerner, to be seen never to whine, complain or hold my point of view.

I am a northerner, and everything I touch brings me shame. I love the land and fought for it. I love its make from my vantage point- the confluence of the Volta river, watching the evening sun throw the final arms of its glow, like rainbow shoots across the rest of motherland and even that they’ll take from me. For I am a northerner, who must see nothing, hear nothing and pretend to know nothing.

I am a northerner. Others are allowed to make their heroes, keep their heroines and turn their villains into saints but I am accused of political greed. I am the “grand daughter” of NAVRO-PIO KWARA KADATUA, but today, I am the butt of modern jokes.

I am a northerner, cousin of Hilla Liman. My uncles shed the blood that glued this nation. Yes, perhaps, not make professors per square metre but I made mine in quantum too. In NDEWURA JAKPA and NAA GBEWAAH I share my blood. I am a northerner, branded loafer, code-named parasite and forbidden to fight the label. I am never judged on the strength of my character, nor on my personal skill, for I am not supposed to have a brain, skill or character - I am a northerner.

If I drink, I’m called a drunk, and if I don’t, am called a “villager”. If I eat they laugh at me, if I don’t they say, let her starve to death if she will.

I am the “daughter” of CHIEF S.D DOMBO, of unsung heroes and heroines, of brave hearts and royal Kings, of many tribes and many tongues. But when one Political leader errs, they say we are all incompetent; when one man allegedly fights another, they say we are all violent; when one man becomes the slave of a master, they say we are all inferior; when one woman chooses farmwork over education, they say we are all unlettered; when one woman is subjected to abuse, they say we are all timid and when one man takes a child and makes her his wife, we are all called paedophiles - because we are northerners.

The writer is the project officer for the Access to Justice Programme at the Commonwealth Human Rights Initiative. Her email address is: ruthlaic@yahoo.co.uk

Childhood Mischiefs: The Evil Hole

In growing up in my vicinity, I was an architect of all evil acts and a Machiavellian of ugly events. It was like a portion of my brains were dedicated to a research in unravelling new ideas of childhood criminological tactics. My mind was a fertile ground for breeding amazing atrocities against humanity and inflicting uneasiness in the lives of completely innocent people. I was always the ring leader.

However, there were times ring fellas proved to me that the cub could be braver than its father. Other showed me that bad thoughts were not in the head of an individual. Our membership increased at all times because our baits were irresistible and the fringe benefits tremendous. Collectively, we brewed vile and indecent ideas yet all profits and losses of all executed ideas were mine.

One Friday morning, we decided to put to test one of our noble inventions. I had assigned everyone to go and look for the accoutrements required to carry out the task. We needed a live frog or lizard, pieces of broken bottles, faeces, breakable tiny sticks, broad black polythene bag et al.  We needed a live frog or lizard because we couldn’t possible catch a live snake – but snake was the best alternative.

On the main path just in front of my house we dug a very big hole. Every responsible adult went to observe the Friday Jummah Prayers. So, the number of people who ply that path within that Jummah period had reduced drastically. We took our time to make the hole deep enough to scare. The diameter of the hole was just little more than a standard foot. We made a human chain around the diggers as if we were playing. We employed all the possible disguise tactics to divert the attention of few passers-by.

I sank my leg into the hole to measure the depth. It covered almost my whole leg. I removed my leg and started to dress the hole beautifully. We firmly stuck the broken bottles in the hole with rugged ends pointing upwards. We dotted the hole with smelly faeces and released a live lizard we had imprisoned in a milo tin for hours into it. The lizard looked restless and inactive. The lid of the milo tin was tightly closed. We were very unknowledgeable about oxygen. We didn’t know why a lizard with ebullient energy at catch point became dull afterwards. But the lizard at least was still alive to meet the requirement.

We arranged the tiny sticks across the mouth of the hole and spread the black polythene bag over the sticks. Then, we sprinkled sand all over the polythene until every part of it got completely covered. The heap of sand dug out from the hole was collected and thrown away from the dangerous hole. We replaced all wet sand around the evil hole with dry sand. We didn’t want to leave marks for our victims to be careful when approaching the trap.

We had very good reasons for our actions – God doesn’t like bad people and will always make them to fall into traps like ours. Let’s wait and see the bad person. We were lurking around the trap waiting anxiously for a catch. Known and unknown faces walked pass the trap but didn’t get trapped.

From afar, we saw a woman coming with two big basins on the head. The first basin was full to the brim with soaked corn. The second basin sits highly on the apex of the soaked corn. Typical of an African woman, she carried the neck-breaking load walking effortlessly with the arms dangling by the sides.

“It is kokolana, the porridge seller”, a ring member screamed. “Shut up, do you want people to know that we are in this lotto kiosk!”, I ordered with sshhh. “She will fall into the trap. Yesterday, I bought koko (porridge) from her and the quantity was too small”, the screamed ring member prophesied.

“Wa yooo”, kokolana screamed as she dives helplessly with her basins of corn. She has stepped just right on the mouth of our evil hole with the right leg up to the sheen level. In an attempt to save her corn standing on one leg, the small basin on top fell off her back and landed on her head. She was lying flatly on her tummy whiles wailing for help. Our cheeks were full of laughter but we couldn’t laugh. Her fall was too scary to claim responsibility for.

In no time, good Samaritans gathered to rescue kokolana from the trap. At this time, there was dead silence in our hideout. Our victim suffered multiple broken bottle injury: a piece of broken bottle had pierce generously into her leg and another piece cutting the flesh around the ankle. The women rescuers helped in collection of the corn heap on the ground back to the basins – they were able to collect a third.

The men lifted her up from the ground and helped her to limp back home. She was going to the grinning mill to mill the corn for porridge the next day.

Later in the day, one of the ring members came and informed me that he saw kokolana with one of her legs smeared with black sooth – a very traditional way of treating fractures and dislocations. I was not frightened because I knew it was well-executed plan and none will know the perpetrators.

The following morning, I was snoring restfully after the previous day hard work. It was harmattan season and the weather was freaking cold. I had collected more clothes to bury my shivering body. I didn’t want to wake up. I was sleeping on a mat in my father’s room. 

My father woke me up with plastic insulated intertwined wires. The first whip made me developed express rabies. The pain had melted throughout my body and I didn’t know where exactly to scratch or pad. He continued to whip me like a thief of a golden watch. I could see he was distraught with anger.

At a point I gave in to tears and wailed cowly for help. As if the wires were not doing the beatings satisfactorily for him, he complemented what I felt was child abuse with dirty slaps. I couldn’t run to anywhere because he locked the room. I saw the disfiguring of my very skin with every effortful stroke with the wires. I began to sweat and it made matters worse as the sweat trickles into the crevices of my battered body.

My body after countless whips of the wire became temple of pain. At a point I couldn’t tell whether the pain was in my body or my body was in pain. It was just inexplicably excruciating and every nerve under my skin even lost its sensation to the repeated ignitions. I became lethargic to block with vim other accompanying strokes and slaps. 

At long last, a neighbour came to my rescue. He was beating at the door and shouting “Afa Abdulai chelo Naawuni zugu” to wit “Afa Abdulai leave him for God’s sake”. After several futile attempts by our neighbour, he pulled the gate forcefully and ripped off the hinges to open it. “Aba Afa Abdulai, a y3n ku’o mi?” literally meaning “Why Afa Abdulai, do you want to kill him?”

My dad started relaying the crime I committed yesterday. All along the beatings I didn’t know the reason for which he was subjecting me to these biblical whippings. “Ah, how did he get to know”, I asked myself. I thought no one saw us. Our neighbour was shocked to hear my crime. He asked me if indeed I carried out such an act. I confessed but mentioned emphatically that I was not the only one. My father shouted, “If you are not the only one and so what? You are mine and that is my business”. He added, “I will tell Mr Baba to beat his children as well”.

My mother went to fetch water early in the morning. She returned and couldn’t come to terms with my bloodied body. She was utterly upset and furious. The whole situation almost degenerated into a heated fracas between a husband and a wife. At a point, my father nearly almost summed up my mother in the early morning showdown. I felt proud in the tussle between a loving mother and a “hating” father.

“Wow, this woman is truly my mother but this man I am afraid he is not my father. He beats me mercilessly always in the name of correction”, a thought crossed my mind. Out of anger, my father said whiles calling my mother’s name, “Anti, Anti, if you think you love Hanan more than me, then never complain of his bad conduct to me. Are you not the same person who mentioned to me that he was the protagonist of the clique who masterminded the evil hole?”

“Yes, but this way of disciplining a child is just too heart-breaking”, my mother replied with flush face whiles pouring charcoal into the coal pot. She was heating water to attend to my badly bruised body.

In growing up, I had the best combination of parents – a mother who will “open your anus” before my father for the shit to be cleaned. And a father who will show you love by beating out every demon that strays into me. But for my mother’s love I would have ran out of the house into the wilderness. However, absence of my father’s beatings would have accumulated troublesome demons in me beyond exorcism.

As a child I supposed my actions and deeds as mark of bravery but now I know it was out foolhardiness and ignorance of the possible dangers inherent in them.

As a fully grown man now, I believe if my mother could beat me as my father, she would not waste time reporting my bad conducts to my father. She will just beat the living hell out of me.

I was a record holder in school attendance obviously not out of love for school but my father so hard to convince. I had better be in school rather than finding a reason to stay at home.

Every day, my love for my father is increasing even though I felt some of the beatings were not professional. Sometimes, I feel I have been ungrateful to my mother because I side with my father in most family issues. The sensationalism my mother showed me as a child is still in her – I have no problem about it. That is a true definition of a woman – making judgements based on emotions.

But make no mistake, it will take my father a hell of effort to gain the biased love I have for my mother – he almost scared me out of the house. 

On this special day, I will say Happy Father’s Day to my mother. But I believe my mother owes my father Happy Husband’s Day.

And to my father, thank you for your wicked love!

Note: This is just tip of the iceberg. My childhood mischiefs and misdemeanours are so exhilarating and harrowing whenever I recall them. I am imagining how a chapter of my childhood days in an autobiography will look like: the ugly, the bad, the joys, the sorrows, the hustles, the pranks – OMG, let me stop imagining! 

Sexual Perversions: Paraphilias

My interest in paraphilia as an aspect of psychiatry is deep. Paraphilia is abnormal sexual orientation - a perversion of what all other sane people okayed. It is a mental disorder. I have read several literatures on paraphilia and some of the commonest include:

-Exhibitionism, gaining sexual satisfaction by public exposure of one's nudity especially the genitalia.

I see people notably my sisters dressed in a bizarre way as if they belong to the dark age of rarity of animal skin clothing. They dress half naked in their designer rags making every man of functional erectility uncomfortable. Sometimes they choose rather unpopular style of vividly demarcating their 

divinely-carefully sculptured mounds with super elastic finery.

This unwarranted provocation of people's manliness is what they deemed as fashion. Jeez! This is not a fashion! It is madness! As a student of psychiatry, I always see them as people who need psychiatric attention for they are in misconstruction of their disorder of exhibitionism as fashion.

Next time, if you see a lady nakedly dressed, please refer her to the mental home. She is sick but mental patients will never accept the fact that they are sick. Drag them there if you can!

-Paedophilia, is the affinity to have sexual acts with children of either sex. You can call them the hymen breakers. But when the victim is a little boy, the anus is penetrated - a special case of paedophilia, paederasty. In the realm of consenting adults we may term it sodomy!

Male paedophiles are just nauseating. How do you often feel when it is reported that a 35-year old man has penetrated a 5-year old girl? What at all did he fall for from a tiny tot girl?

Female paedophiles have soft spot in my heart. There is nearly almost no possibility of inflicting irreparable damage and trauma to their victims irrespective of their age difference.

Imagine the proportional relationship between an adult vagina and a child penis. Think same of an adult penis and a child vagina. The latter is a scenario of effortful destruction and perpetual traumatisation.

-Zoophilia, is sexual attraction to animals. Common victims of these libidinal compulsion are goats, sheep, cows, donkeys etc. Growing up in my vicinity, I have heard and seen people accused of unleashing this dastardly terror on animals.

The practice of this wickedness against animals abound in our today's society even though a vagina cost half a penny in the many uncertified brothels dotted all over every town in every region.

I think paedophiles are better than zoophiles though the former in our legal jurisdiction get harsher and draconian punitive regiment.

However, sometime in the future, I strongly believe zoophiles human right groups will spring up. I hope I won't live to see it.

-Voyeurism, a perversion in which a person receives sexual gratification from seeing the genitalia of others or witnessing others' sexual activities. Colloquially, they are termed as Peeping Tom.

I knew of one man in my former neighbourhood who had gained notoriety of peeping at women when they were bathing or dressing. I am not a fan of Peeping Toms but I don't have serious issues with them. Sometimes, some people actually want one to watch their sexual activities or nudity. At least, everyone for once became a situational Peeping Tom.

I simply believe it is foolery to smack one's lips over food enjoyed by others or watch food one won't have the opportunity to taste. I am not sure if it's criminal in our statutory.

-Necrophilia, is compulsive urge to have sexual intercourse with dead bodies. Yes, I mean lifeless, sensationless and motionless body by virtue of cessation of critical physiological process. These bunch are only attracted to dead people. Lord have mercy! A living deriving pleasure from the dead.

When my readings brought me to necrophilia, I stopped to ponder over the rationale or motivation for such an obnoxious practice.

"In Ancient Greek, Necrobulus, the Crown Prince of Thanes loved a young beautiful lady by name Mulaika. He did all he could to win her heart to no avail. Mulaika was the moon goddess of glistening beauty and stature. One could almost see his image in the bosom of Goddess Mulaika. Several men of power and fame slay competing men of valour to make her their bride.

One day, Satyribus, the father of Goddess Mulaika organised a fierce bloody elimination contest for all his prospective sons-in-law. Great warriors of Great War of Armageddon all fell to the bloody dust of Necrobulus' spear.

Goddess Mulaika in time past accosted Necrobulus. 'I don't love you and you can never have me. Over my dead body', Goddess Mulaika jibed Necrobulus.

Nicrobulus had defeated everyone including Confidus, one of the venomous competitors the goddess wish and love to win the contest for her hand in marriage.

Nicrobulus won the contest and married the goddess. The goddess committed suicide upon reflecting on her past words to the victor of the contest. Necrobulus thought he had suffered and fought manly to get the goddess. He couldn't possibly come to terms with the goddess decision to kill herself to deny him the pleasures of her treasures, bloodily fought for. He embalmed the goddess and made love with her afterwards"

Please, this is my own mythology of the possible rationale and genesis of necrophilia. You may want to conceive your own mythology of this weirdest practice.

There are several other paraphilias that is mind-boggling and greatly tantalising. Shockingly unbelievable but true. I will find time to share more on it.

Strangely, homosexuality and lesbianism is not considered as paraphilia in any conventional literature today. They were before deemed paraphilia. But for political and social factors they are now considered normal sexual orientation and interest.

Personally, I feel all other forms of paraphilia is better than gaysm (same sex affair). However, gays unlike their other counterparts are gaining more social acceptance in Western and African communities.

The million dollar support for gay rights could have been used to rehabilitate these queers and les from their absurd mental disorientation. Like I mentioned earlier, other paraphilia rights advocates might just come out with strong reasons to be regularised and expunged from the list of paraphilias.

Recently, CEO of Mozilla, Bredan Eich was coerced to resign amidst controversy of his comments and donation to California's anti-gay marriage preposition. This was sheer justification of Einstein's belief that human stupidity is infinite. If you have a right to champion gay rights with your half-baked ideations then the vice versa can't be a crime.

I don't hate paraphilias except gays. The whole mental concept of shit-hole fantasies is disgusting. I had rather spent a cedi on a rehab for gays than a pesewa on a right for gays. Gaysm is a mental disorder and gays need help.

If you identify yourself with one of these aforementioned situations or any other out of normalcy sexual behaviour, then consider seeking an asylum in a mental home for a rehab.

True Story: A Murky Coincidence!

It has been in my chest for half a decade now. It lingers on my heart freshly like a second ago experience. The harder I try to drive it out of me, the inertia becomes momentous. It was humiliating and it is time I let it out of my heart.

I felt a cold touch and woke up. I looked around and I couldn’t find any of my guys in the room. I believe they didn’t pass the night in our rented abode closer to school. I elevated my head a little and gazed at the clock. “What?”, I exclaimed. Within half a minute I prepared gari soakings with sugar. In the next lap of the minute, the gari was history. I drank the almost tasteless gari like a glutton in an eating contest.

I jammed my toiletries, clothes and whatchamacallit into Ghana-must-go bag and I was off on the street walk-running. I could hear the echoes of my footsteps as if I was trailed by a ghost. I couldn’t run because I was juggling with lot of things in my hands. The streets were silent as though the zillion noise-making insects were on strike. One could hear a pin drop.

I could see lights afar in the fashion of fireflies’ congregation. I became relieved a bit. My hopes were rising and rising until I could hear distinct voices as I approach school. “Gracious God!”, I sighed. I nearly miss the bus. Everyone was seated ready for the half-a-day journey.  I jumped on board and shoulder my way to the rearmost seat. 

There was exhilarating noise in the bus. Everyone was apparently happy to go to Cape Coast for the psychiatric affiliate programme. This programme will bring to finality the 3-year long hustle and bustle for Diploma in General Nursing.

Quite unusual of me, I was quiet. I had no reason to celebrate but one. I smiled to myself. I felt freedom in my mind through my heart. For me, we were finally free from the shackles of extortionist school authority. The authority had no speckle of shame to demand for moneybags from students in very bizarre circumstance.

The smile fades away for wrinkles. There was one thing that hovers around my mind. I settled all my bills with the school except my registration to sit for the nurses and midwives’ council licensing final examination. I was in pensive mood with lots of arithmetic criss-crossing my mind about how I was going to register myself as the deadline was a fortnight away. No slightest idea of how to get the money came to mind. My distant maternal uncle whom I depended on in pressing times was out of the country.

I had paltry money on me but I was not worried because that was day one of Ramadan. The Ramadan for me was a cedi saver. I knew I could survive with the little I had. My fasting served two purposes – supplication to God and austere management of my finances.

Midway to Cape Coast, I was afflicted with migraine headache – the pain was throbbing – I envisaged a griffin hitting my head with a mallet. The uncontrollable noise in the bus aggravated the pain. When we got to a bus stop point, I rushed down, bought frostbiting water and cold compressed my head. I felt inexplicable relieved. I grabbed two rubber-tied ice kenkey with bread and sank it into my tummy like the Hulk. Fasting broken! I could now focus on both distant and near objects clearly with maximum fineness.

At long last, we arrived when light was handing over to darkness. The ambience of Ankaful Psychiatric College was serene. We arranged for a decent cubicle for five of us. We were in Room 1 on the second floor of our affiliated hall. 

Days passed by and my mind was still troubled with my inability to register for the final examination. My moodiness and silence was atypical of the Confidences. Everyone noticed a missing sensation in a lively character in the clique.

The motivation to attend lectures was apparently missing. Each day whiles my buddies were in haste to dressed up for lectures I lay down in conscious oblivion. I shared the second top-level bed with Hudu, nicky, Abortion. I was always lying supinely to catch the attention of God. All the possible money-getting equations I worked in my head got me zilch. All the noughts-and-crosses I played never gave me tic-tac-toe.

I woke up one morning feeling excited to the amazement of my friends. “I have registered”, I disclosed to my roommates. I was part of the morning haste in preparation for lectures. My presence with the usual mannerism, Confidence fever, was now felt hugely. Noted for my gregariousness, I readily integrated with the system and was catching up with all the missed actions.

In two days’ time, I was returning from the lectures and I overheard my name in our cubicle. I paced closer to the door to eavesdrop the conversation. 
“Have you noticed that Confidence mood has changed”, asked Friend A. 
“Yes”, replied Hudu. 
“He told me he has registered now”, Friend A added. 
“When did you notice that your money was missing”, Friend B queried. 
“Just three days ago, I removed the money from my bag, counted it and kept it in the same place. I even took some money from it for the excursion trip to Kakum Park”, Hudu answered. 
“Was Confidence with us on the trip?”, Friend B asked curiously. 
“No”, Friend A replied.

The conversation went on and all accusing fingers were pointing at me. All circumstantial evidence were against me. I felt deeply hurt and perhaps remorse about the unwinding situation. I returned to the lecture hall and dozed off the pain. I woke up feeling otherworldly.

I returned to our cubicle and realised a new protocol of tighter security measures. The news of Hudu’s missing money was not news to me again. The theft was tactfully disclosed to me by one of our roommates. I received it with the greatest flippancy and snobbery.

In the few days to follow, I felt like Iran on sanctions under the United Nations. Almost everyone’s attitude changed sternly on me. I felt restrained. Close buddies who hitherto maintained strict respectable relationship with me began trampling on it. I felt like a bug in the system. I made a great deal out of rationalisation as applied in coping mechanism.

At a point, I felt obliged to bring clarity to the whole caboodle. But I knew such an attempt was tantamount to “P” trying to show it worth in “Psychology”. There was no need to make myself more vulnerable to mistreat from colleagues. The circumstance from all angles made me the prime of all suspicions – more or less a crime that was not bailable.

In the wake of all these niggling troubles, one of my roommates was rather pushing me too far. His acerbic tongue was cutting and hurting.  He was handling me like a kid until I lost my sanity to anger. We locked horns in a fierce fight. We broke everything breakable in the room – from drinking glasses to window louvres including the chair we fought over.

In the tussle of separating our intertwined arms afforded me a “free header”. As if I disowned my head, I thrust it backwards and catapulted it forward with my eyes tightly closed. It landed on my friend’s forehead with a bang that still echoes in my ears. I sensed sparkles of light diffusing haphazardly across my eyes. I imagined my brains hitting hard against the skull.  There was a splash of blood squirting noisily like an opened tap flowing under pressure. Some spectators who had rushed to watch the show down were carried away by the rippling current of blood.

I was wrestled out of the room by armoured men. I ran a quick check on myself. I was unhurt. I was surprised because that head-butt was a kamikaze. Yes, kamikaze – I know could be hurt too!

I was outside the room panting like a missed catch of the lioness. “Where is that Confidence?” a voiced asked impatiently. It was Hudu, the epicentre of the whole wahala. “You have hurt the guy. I swear, you won’t sleep in this room tonight”, he thundered angrily. I didn’t utter a word even though I looked at him as Goliath in my David’s shoes. That was anger’s deception. Hudu was not my match – he could beat me whiles squatting.

He stabbed me with the knife on my right breast. I was lying face-up. I had a giant nail in my hand and I drove it violently into his throat. I held his hand with the knife in my chest and bite it deeply into the bone. He pulled out the knife and I screamed. I woke up and realised that it was a nightmare following my ding-dong fight with one of my roommates.

I passed the night with the nextdoor cubicle. I returned to my cubicle the next day ready to kill or be killed. I stripped off all courtesies I have with everyone in the room and I was ready for the worst that could possibly happen. Obviously, I became the monster in the room. Everyone treated me as if I had a signpost on my forehead that reads “Temple Of Insanity”. The roommate I fought with had a deep laceration above the right eyebrow. I learnt it was sutured before dressing to prevent possible formation of keloid.

The status quo of my aggression remained the same the days afterwards. On a bus returning to Tamale, I had a flashback of how I got the money to pay for my registration. A week to close of registration, I was chatting with a friend Zanji Abdul-Karim Mohammed, I complained about my inability to register yet the deadline was inching closer. “Have you called Sule? Call him. I am sure he will get the money for you”, Zanji advised.

I dropped Zanji’s line and phoned my brother Sule Amadu. I requested for the money without hesitation. “Sorry”, he started, “I am very busy lately pursuing some deal but I will give the money to one of my boys to send to you tomorrow”, he added. “Tomorrow?”, I asked loudly. “Yes or is it urgent?”, he queried. “No”, I replied almost screaming like I have won a bet.

The next day before noon my brother called me and said the money was paid into my account. I rushed to town, withdrew the money and paid it into Zanji’s account. The registration in absentia was completed by Zanji for me.

That’s my story. Five years down the memory lane neither Zanji nor my brother is ever told this story of humiliation. But I feel oblige today to share the story with the world as a way of celebrating my brother’s birthday today. This story represents all that my heart ever yearns to tell him before, now and after. Bro, this is my present to you. Happy Birthday!

This year, when I had admission to into University of Ghana, Legon, he supported me to pay the fees too. It's simply clear that I can't pay him back.

Lest I forget, never judge people with circumstances they found themselves. Circumstantial evidence is not an exception to the inherent nuances of coincidence - give people the benefit of the doubt, even if you have a thousand reasons to believe and just one reason to doubt. They may be as innocent as a baby! As a matter of fact, the law believes it is better to release thousand guilty persons than to imprison one innocent person. 

PS: Experience they say is the best teacher but the fees it charges is too expensive. I will share with you how this experience helped me solved a theft case in a school I worked as a maths teacher and nurse.

Roommates: Alhassan M Awal, Abdulai Mohammed Naporo, Ali Baba Hudu, Abdul Nasir-Chelsea

This story will be expanded next year on his birthday.