My grandmother tells the story of how I frequently escaped the attentions of my caregivers as a toddler. I would wander off to Tesano Market to go shopping, armed with a little basket and without money. Invariably, some market woman would recognize Kobby from the house up the street and carry me back home.
So far as I could recall, the Tesano Market was situated about 75 metres from my grandmother's house and was absolutely massive. One could walk till their legs hurt and still not see all of it. But then again, I was only about five years old in those days.
This December, I visited my grandmother and out of curiosity, went to the market for the first time in about 15 years. Several things struck me about the market: first, it is absolutely tiny. Even at a saunter, I could walk the length of it in under three minutes. Second, I didn't recognize anybody; certainly nobody remembered me.
But the more profound experience was how much I stood out. Even though I wore only a tee-shirt and cargo shorts, compared to everyone else, I looked dressed up and immediately felt out of place. I approached the orange seller and spoke loudly, switching between Twi and Fante to demonstrate my oneness, "I'd like some oranges, please." However, I quickly lost whatever gains I had made when I handed the lady the lady a ¢10 bill for 25p worth of oranges. "I'm not sure I have enough change for you," she said, as she rummaged through bags and boxes. She eventually took some money from a nearby trader to make up the difference. How could I possibly relate to this market woman who probably made less than ¢5 that day? How could she relate to me?
On my way back home, I walked by a stall that I remembered from my childhood days. And right there, behind stacks of old shoes and sandals, in the same spot he had been sitting, doing the same thing he had been doing for well over 20 years, a cobbler with tired eyes and a very familiar face. "How are you? It's me, Kobby." He paused briefly, searching his memory. Then his eyes lit up, and he reached for a handshake. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, "So, what did you bring me for Chrismas? No beer money?"
"Well, actually, all I have on me is this money I need to get back home," I lied. I was driving my mother's car that day. Nonetheless, I dug ¢7 out of my pockets to prove I really didn't have much. Quick as a flash, he snatched ¢3 right out of my hand. "Thank you," he said, beaming.
Before this past holiday, I enjoyed feeling connected with the average Ghanaian. After all, from an economic standpoint, I grew up just a few notches above them. My visit to the Tesano Market, however, showed me just how far-removed I am from the lives of the ordinary people. How connected can I really be to people whose daily income is less than the cost of a drink at Rhapsody's? Then again, do I need to be exactly on their level to understand how difficult their lives must be? The only thing I can say for certain is that the gulf between the haves and the have-nots is astronomical.... It feels unjust.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
A Crisis of Conscience
So I'm picking companies to apply to for summer internships. In this uncertain job market, the pickings will be slim, and the competition fierce. It's important to grab onto any opportunity.
One of the firms hiring at London Business School is British American Tobacco. Should I even apply to join the company, knowing that if I somehow got in there but nowhere else, I would face even more severe temptation to take the experience and the money? On the one hand, I think it would be wrong to put my shoulder against the wheel of an organization that creates a product that ultimately kills so many. But on the other hand, I'm broke and poor. Can I afford to be principled?
...
I've pondered this for a while. I'm not going to apply. I'll just tiptoe around that "Apply" link and carry on with my life, come what may. I declare very few principles in my life because I want to be able to freely question everything in my life. Respect for human life is one of those very few principles whose importance I hold self-evident. Working with British American Tobacco, no matter how financially rewarding it may be, should never justify rationalizing away this basic principle.
One of the firms hiring at London Business School is British American Tobacco. Should I even apply to join the company, knowing that if I somehow got in there but nowhere else, I would face even more severe temptation to take the experience and the money? On the one hand, I think it would be wrong to put my shoulder against the wheel of an organization that creates a product that ultimately kills so many. But on the other hand, I'm broke and poor. Can I afford to be principled?
...
I've pondered this for a while. I'm not going to apply. I'll just tiptoe around that "Apply" link and carry on with my life, come what may. I declare very few principles in my life because I want to be able to freely question everything in my life. Respect for human life is one of those very few principles whose importance I hold self-evident. Working with British American Tobacco, no matter how financially rewarding it may be, should never justify rationalizing away this basic principle.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Afriqiya. The Airline from Hell
A more inept airline there never was. I had one of the most challenging days ever. Started at 6:30AM and is still not done playing out, over 24 hours later.
1. realized i'd misplaced my passport as i was walking out the door, and had 15 panic-filled minutes, frantically searching for it.
2. after rushing to Gatwick, realized the flight to Libya had been delayed for 2 hours
3. had a delayed flight from Libya to accra, so sat around for 2 hours
4. The airport at libya is the WORST i've ever been at. I mean truly FILTHY...this coming from someone who keeps generally messy surroundings. They had cockroaches (dead and alive), unemptied trash bins, uncleaned toilets...you get the picture.
5. Went through the most tedious boarding process ever...took at least an hour in total. They felt the need to check everybody's passport and boarding pass at the gate, even though we were all on transit, and nobody had left the airport since our earlier flights landed
7. Flight from libya to accra boarded and taxied, and tried to take off before it turned back to the gate: hydraulics failure (WTF?)
8. Returned to the filth and grime, and unpleasant airport officials at Tripoli airport
9. Sat around for 7-ish hours, not knowing when we might leave
You know how I am when I get tired and irritable, right? Well, many Ghanaian men are like that; they don't give a shit when they're pissed. So imagine an airport lounge full of angry Ghanaian men, not knowing if they get to go to Ghana tonight, or whether their wives and children are going to have to sleep at the airport. Which brings us to...
10. A fight broke out. LOL. It started out with the Ghanaian men arguing with the Libyans to get some information. They they started arguing among themselves when a Ghanaian detractor suggested that the treatment we were getting was OK since we only paid 650 pounds for the flight.
11. Repeated 5.
12. Landed in Accra to find that despite sitting in Libya for 11 hours, the libyans failed to put our baggage on the plane.
So I'm sitting here in my skinny brother's tight-ass clothes, feeling sorry for myself. Fuckin' hell.
1. realized i'd misplaced my passport as i was walking out the door, and had 15 panic-filled minutes, frantically searching for it.
2. after rushing to Gatwick, realized the flight to Libya had been delayed for 2 hours
3. had a delayed flight from Libya to accra, so sat around for 2 hours
4. The airport at libya is the WORST i've ever been at. I mean truly FILTHY...this coming from someone who keeps generally messy surroundings. They had cockroaches (dead and alive), unemptied trash bins, uncleaned toilets...you get the picture.
5. Went through the most tedious boarding process ever...took at least an hour in total. They felt the need to check everybody's passport and boarding pass at the gate, even though we were all on transit, and nobody had left the airport since our earlier flights landed
7. Flight from libya to accra boarded and taxied, and tried to take off before it turned back to the gate: hydraulics failure (WTF?)
8. Returned to the filth and grime, and unpleasant airport officials at Tripoli airport
9. Sat around for 7-ish hours, not knowing when we might leave
You know how I am when I get tired and irritable, right? Well, many Ghanaian men are like that; they don't give a shit when they're pissed. So imagine an airport lounge full of angry Ghanaian men, not knowing if they get to go to Ghana tonight, or whether their wives and children are going to have to sleep at the airport. Which brings us to...
10. A fight broke out. LOL. It started out with the Ghanaian men arguing with the Libyans to get some information. They they started arguing among themselves when a Ghanaian detractor suggested that the treatment we were getting was OK since we only paid 650 pounds for the flight.
11. Repeated 5.
12. Landed in Accra to find that despite sitting in Libya for 11 hours, the libyans failed to put our baggage on the plane.
So I'm sitting here in my skinny brother's tight-ass clothes, feeling sorry for myself. Fuckin' hell.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
My Shame as a Ghanaian
Every Sunday, I go to Regent's Park to play football with members of London Business School's Men's Football Club. The park is public so sometimes, people who come to the park looking for a pick-up game join us when we're short.
A couple of Sundays ago, a Ghanaian joined us during our kick-about. Cue the exuberance when one Ghanaian meets another Ghanaian in a place very few Ghanaians frequent. His name was Martin, and he spoke in the patented English accent with an easily discernible undercurrent of a Ghanaian accent. We chatted as we passed the ball back and forth between us. All of a sudden, "You know, if you meet any of the guys here who can't do their work, let me know; I know a guy who has been through all of this, and he can help, innit." He continued: "Because, you know, sometimes, some of the people just can't do the work, innit." He didn't say it, but his tone implied "for a small fee."
Martin felt comfortable enough to propose this idea to me after barely five minutes of meeting me because I'm Ghanaian. I'm convinced he wouldn't have suggested this to a white Englishman he'd only just met.
Ghanaian culture is inherently socialist (if you can read the word without the negative baggage it carries in the West) and populated by people with natural capitalist (read: selfish) instincts. Everybody is their brother's keeper; we look out for each other. We'll make a quick cedi out of it, wherever we can, but in general, one of our underlying instincts is to play benefactor. The problem with this is that we don't know where to draw the line. We don't know when helping a brother out morphs into providing an unfair advantage to one person, probably at the expense of another, definitely to the detriment of our community as a whole. It is this flaw in our ethos that dogs the fight against corruption. In everyday life, the administrator at the DVLA is unable to process that giving an unqualified driver a license in exchange for "something small" is probably going to lead to someone getting killed on the road. The headmaster as St. Augustine's does not figure that admitting the underqualified son of his old classmate compromises the chance of some unlucky kid to get the quality of education they earned.
You don't know what you don't know. To eliminate corruption, you have to be aware of how it manifests itself, especially in the subtle ways. I'm no angel, and I know I've contributed to this in the past. The first (and arguably most important) trick to beating corruption within society is to identify how we contribute to it, in our own small ways.
A couple of Sundays ago, a Ghanaian joined us during our kick-about. Cue the exuberance when one Ghanaian meets another Ghanaian in a place very few Ghanaians frequent. His name was Martin, and he spoke in the patented English accent with an easily discernible undercurrent of a Ghanaian accent. We chatted as we passed the ball back and forth between us. All of a sudden, "You know, if you meet any of the guys here who can't do their work, let me know; I know a guy who has been through all of this, and he can help, innit." He continued: "Because, you know, sometimes, some of the people just can't do the work, innit." He didn't say it, but his tone implied "for a small fee."
Martin felt comfortable enough to propose this idea to me after barely five minutes of meeting me because I'm Ghanaian. I'm convinced he wouldn't have suggested this to a white Englishman he'd only just met.
Ghanaian culture is inherently socialist (if you can read the word without the negative baggage it carries in the West) and populated by people with natural capitalist (read: selfish) instincts. Everybody is their brother's keeper; we look out for each other. We'll make a quick cedi out of it, wherever we can, but in general, one of our underlying instincts is to play benefactor. The problem with this is that we don't know where to draw the line. We don't know when helping a brother out morphs into providing an unfair advantage to one person, probably at the expense of another, definitely to the detriment of our community as a whole. It is this flaw in our ethos that dogs the fight against corruption. In everyday life, the administrator at the DVLA is unable to process that giving an unqualified driver a license in exchange for "something small" is probably going to lead to someone getting killed on the road. The headmaster as St. Augustine's does not figure that admitting the underqualified son of his old classmate compromises the chance of some unlucky kid to get the quality of education they earned.
You don't know what you don't know. To eliminate corruption, you have to be aware of how it manifests itself, especially in the subtle ways. I'm no angel, and I know I've contributed to this in the past. The first (and arguably most important) trick to beating corruption within society is to identify how we contribute to it, in our own small ways.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Taking a Leap of Faith
As part of a team-building exercise yesterday, I climbed atop a 40-foot pole and stood on a 1ft x 2ft board. I then waited for Baltazar, another team member to climb up that wobbly pole, and helped him onto that tiny, shaky board with me. Gripping onto each other, we found our balance on the pole and leapt forward, grabbing onto a trapeze about 8ft away. I reached the trapeze, while Baltazar didn't and hurtled downwards. This was mostly because I'm much taller than Baltazar, but that was besides the point of the exercise.
Earlier on, as I stood listening to our instructor describing the exercise, it sounded like good fun. I was sympathetic when I saw the four people who went ahead of me looking scared, although I laughed at them. But I was confident I had the mental toughness to just get up there take my leap of faith, hang on to the trapeze and get lowered down with my pride intact.
Halfway up the pole, my face replaced its smile with a look of mild concern. By the time I reached the top of the pole and felt it swaying gently back and forth, I knew I was in trouble. "Erm...I'm sorry guys, but I think I'm going to climb down now," I considered whining out. But the thought of being the first person unable to climb on the board was unbearable. Instead, I muttered a string of expletives to myself and reached for the board. This was the most terrifying moment in my life. I heaved my ass onto the board and started thinking of how best to get my feet on the board without toppling over. Cue expletives. Finally, amidst the encouraging shouts of my teammates, in one sweeping movement, I hoisted my but up in the air and planted my feet on the board. Exhilaration!
If that was hard, waiting up there alone, 11 metres from solid ground, as Baltazar climbed up, shaking the pole even more, was unbearable. I recall flirting with the idea of jumping off the board long before he reached me. Somehow, though, I persisted through my fear and quaking knees.
The objective of the exercise was to foster a team spirit, and to take ourselves out of our comfort zones. I certainly went way outside my comfort zone, but I also think these events laid a solid foundation for bringing us together as teammates.
Earlier on, as I stood listening to our instructor describing the exercise, it sounded like good fun. I was sympathetic when I saw the four people who went ahead of me looking scared, although I laughed at them. But I was confident I had the mental toughness to just get up there take my leap of faith, hang on to the trapeze and get lowered down with my pride intact.
Halfway up the pole, my face replaced its smile with a look of mild concern. By the time I reached the top of the pole and felt it swaying gently back and forth, I knew I was in trouble. "Erm...I'm sorry guys, but I think I'm going to climb down now," I considered whining out. But the thought of being the first person unable to climb on the board was unbearable. Instead, I muttered a string of expletives to myself and reached for the board. This was the most terrifying moment in my life. I heaved my ass onto the board and started thinking of how best to get my feet on the board without toppling over. Cue expletives. Finally, amidst the encouraging shouts of my teammates, in one sweeping movement, I hoisted my but up in the air and planted my feet on the board. Exhilaration!
If that was hard, waiting up there alone, 11 metres from solid ground, as Baltazar climbed up, shaking the pole even more, was unbearable. I recall flirting with the idea of jumping off the board long before he reached me. Somehow, though, I persisted through my fear and quaking knees.
The objective of the exercise was to foster a team spirit, and to take ourselves out of our comfort zones. I certainly went way outside my comfort zone, but I also think these events laid a solid foundation for bringing us together as teammates.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The 2008 Notting Hill Carnival
Fantastic! I've never really been to a carnival, so my experience at the Notting Hill Carnival was defining. I caught the last bit of the parade, which is essentially people dancing in face masks, scantily-clad women, and men and women gyrating sensually to loud dance hall. But that was only the beginning.
I'd woke up only an hour earlier and convinced myself that this event happened only once a year. I forced my lazy ass out of bed and jumped on the Hammersmith & City line to Westbourne Park Station. After making my way through several crowds of people dancing to different genres of pop music, all VERY loud, I happened upon some London Business School students I recognized from Pub Crawl. At least I wouldn't have to do Carnival by myself.
With each other and beer for company, we made our way through even more throngs of people, talking, joking, laughing, and hitting on random girls for laughs. At £7.00 a plate, food was at a premium, but beer and white wine kept our bellies full as time and daylight steadily slipped away.
Seven PM came, and the bulk of the LBS crowd got restless and left, leaving four strong: Francois from Canada, Gil from Togo, Maheep from India, and yours truly. We walked to a urinal where we met up with three Eastern European girls - we hung out with them for about an hour before one of them (who wasn't getting enough attention) dragged them away; we got into a verbal joust with 3 London girls (I elicited the wrath of one of them by calling her an "unfriendly bitch"...she'd earlier described herself as "unfriendly"; the 'bitch' bit was me and the beer within talking; we (all four of us) peed in the garden of a church; we converged on two unsuspecting Italian girls, who Maheep took control of eventually; we danced behind Ghanaian and Jamaican floats.
Of all these things, I have to point out that the Metropolitan Police are, without a doubt, the coolest police service I've ever encountered...and I have generally VERY little patience with the police. These guys are polite, friendly, and social. We got one of them to give us his hat so we could take pictures with him; I offered myself to a female officer for a bodily inspection amidst laughs from her male counterparts. Later that night, I saw the 'wrath' of the Police when one guy hit a Police officer in the face TWICE. Very quickly, about 20 officers converged on him. But instead of beating him down as I'd expect the police in the US or Ghana to do, they held him down until he was calm, then let him sit down and talked to him before sending him to the police station.
At this point, we were exhausted - it was well after 10PM. We walked slowly to the Westbourn Park Station and headed back to Baker Street and home.
I'd woke up only an hour earlier and convinced myself that this event happened only once a year. I forced my lazy ass out of bed and jumped on the Hammersmith & City line to Westbourne Park Station. After making my way through several crowds of people dancing to different genres of pop music, all VERY loud, I happened upon some London Business School students I recognized from Pub Crawl. At least I wouldn't have to do Carnival by myself.
With each other and beer for company, we made our way through even more throngs of people, talking, joking, laughing, and hitting on random girls for laughs. At £7.00 a plate, food was at a premium, but beer and white wine kept our bellies full as time and daylight steadily slipped away.
Seven PM came, and the bulk of the LBS crowd got restless and left, leaving four strong: Francois from Canada, Gil from Togo, Maheep from India, and yours truly. We walked to a urinal where we met up with three Eastern European girls - we hung out with them for about an hour before one of them (who wasn't getting enough attention) dragged them away; we got into a verbal joust with 3 London girls (I elicited the wrath of one of them by calling her an "unfriendly bitch"...she'd earlier described herself as "unfriendly"; the 'bitch' bit was me and the beer within talking; we (all four of us) peed in the garden of a church; we converged on two unsuspecting Italian girls, who Maheep took control of eventually; we danced behind Ghanaian and Jamaican floats.
Of all these things, I have to point out that the Metropolitan Police are, without a doubt, the coolest police service I've ever encountered...and I have generally VERY little patience with the police. These guys are polite, friendly, and social. We got one of them to give us his hat so we could take pictures with him; I offered myself to a female officer for a bodily inspection amidst laughs from her male counterparts. Later that night, I saw the 'wrath' of the Police when one guy hit a Police officer in the face TWICE. Very quickly, about 20 officers converged on him. But instead of beating him down as I'd expect the police in the US or Ghana to do, they held him down until he was calm, then let him sit down and talked to him before sending him to the police station.
At this point, we were exhausted - it was well after 10PM. We walked slowly to the Westbourn Park Station and headed back to Baker Street and home.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Football Players are Just That, Even at London Business School
Anybody who plays or watches football is not unfamiliar with passions running unchecked among players. In the best cases, this results in a shouting match; at other times, this exuberance boils over into fisticuffs.
I suppose a naïve side of me expected that somehow the people who attend business school would be in complete control of their emotions, even on the football field. Not so. At one point during our Sunday evening game today, two opposing players chased after the ball; there was some jersey tugging and pushing. As the ball rolled out of play, one of the players squared up to the other. They exchanged words, before the first player, apparently the more annoyed of the two, shoved the second away from him. Nearby players quickly defused the situation, but the brief tussle demonstrated to me that football players are just that, and susceptible to bouts of fury, even if they're at business school. Here's hoping I don't throw any punches of my own while I'm here :-)
I suppose a naïve side of me expected that somehow the people who attend business school would be in complete control of their emotions, even on the football field. Not so. At one point during our Sunday evening game today, two opposing players chased after the ball; there was some jersey tugging and pushing. As the ball rolled out of play, one of the players squared up to the other. They exchanged words, before the first player, apparently the more annoyed of the two, shoved the second away from him. Nearby players quickly defused the situation, but the brief tussle demonstrated to me that football players are just that, and susceptible to bouts of fury, even if they're at business school. Here's hoping I don't throw any punches of my own while I'm here :-)
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