The Business of Throwing Sand in Eyes
Have you ever played ‘nkuro’ before?
I mean, on your way to this destination that is ‘adulthood’ where you have to, at all times, pretend to know what you’re doing, did you ever take time off your precious childhood years to pretend you were an adult who knew exactly what he/she was doing?
That has been the underlying philosophy of nkuro since time began, hasn’t it? Children gathering around to play pretend—the pretence of adulthood.
I must admit that when this matter of nkuro occurred to me sometime earlier this week, I suffered to get much in terms of memories when I racked my brain for a fitting anecdote. The only remaining clear memory I still have of my nkuro years has to do with this man who owned a lotto shop. Painted red, yellow, and green, and adorned with a black star, this lotto kiosk stood majestically before us—right across the street. And there came this man, out of this kiosk beaming with overt patriotism to buy from my friends and I…
You know what, before I proceed, let me just quickly mention this: one of these days, we would have to spare some time to talk about this right here—the fact that for generations, the lotto kiosk has remained Ghana’s unfailing patriot. For years, all across the country, the lotto kiosk has remained unchanged in its assertion of patriotism. Not the Presidential palaces we have had in our history as a people, not our Parliament houses, not our ministries—none of these agencies have led the unshaking call of conspicuous patriotism as this institution right here, the lotto kiosk, has. An institution founded on the philosophy of betting against unknown odds… I wonder if it is a longstanding directive issued by the National Lottery Authority, or if it has been out of the abundance of the hearts of these lotto agents that they have displayed such time-honoured, symbolic patriotism. Maybe Sammi Awuku can help us with a little education on the matter. But for the meantime, let’s get back to the issue at hand…
There was a construction of a Presbyterian church underway. Naturally, there were heaps of sand mounted at the construction site. And that right there was to constitute our working capital. My friends and I decided we were going to go into the business of manufacturing powder—white, soothing body powder. Fit for the armpits; fit for the face; fit for all the crevices the human body is gifted/plagued with. I believe Hollywood hadn’t done a number on us yet. Because without fully understanding the concept of the other white powder—cocaine—we might have just innocently included that substance in our business model had we heard of it from these American movies. But as I said, we hadn’t seen enough movies by then, so yes, body powder it was…
To deliver on our value proposition of ‘soothing’, the powder needed to be smooth, so naturally I volunteered to go for my mother’s kitchen sieve. Specialised in the sieving out of foods, fruits, condiments, et al., the sieve was, on that day, to be used for sand. We may have invested actual capital in the packaging—I am not entirely sure. But what I do know is that we ended up coming by rubber bags in which to wrap up the sand. One cup, two cups—our body powders came in different sizes for our varied prospective clients. We mounted a ‘kiosk’ of our own—by that I mean, a table and a chair, with a rag for a tablecloth. With all seriousness, we arranged our wares—construction sand turned body powder through the very elementary process of sieving. We were ready to service all and sundry—our cherished Ghanaian clients.
Our cherished ‘clients’ indeed. But what is it that we see approaching us, proceeding from that majestic lotto kiosk? A representative of the nation’s leading overtly patriotic institutions. The lotto kiosk owner. Money in hand. Coming to buy sand—I mean body powder.
I must say, I had undertaken the entire process of powder manufacturing with utmost seriousness—a level of seriousness befitting every industrious industry. But I never expected the end result to be met with even the least level of seriousness—from the adult population to boot. But there I was, selling sand posing as powder to a representative of our nation’s leading patriotic institutions—a lotto man.
Set Camps and Late Entries
My memories of my nkuro years are indeed not many. They are few because the instances of me actually partaking in these nkuros were, admittedly, regrettably, very few. Introverted, my idea of ‘fun’ has always been inside rather than outside. But you know how parents do—one moment you are ‘sitting your somewhere’, minding your own business, reading a book; the next moment you are forced to go outside to engage in the compulsory childhood activity of ‘play’. So very, very often, there I was, each time, a new member of a sort, asking admission into a very well-defined, long-established nkuro camp.
These childhood camps operated on a first come, first served basis. It operated on the ‘survival of the fittest’ mentality. And for one to get the most important roles to play in this ‘society’ one had to consistently represent; one had to strongly assert themselves. One had to fight for the positions of ‘maame’ and ‘paapa’—which were the most important roles in this pretend community. These roles weren’t just handed to you. You couldn’t just sit in your room reading all day and expect to be welcomed into the camp with a ‘mama’ or ‘dada’ position—especially when you’re only present in begrudging fulfilment of your parents’ order. I mean, who do you think you are? You display that behaviour and you end up as ‘baby’ in this pseudo family. You come out as the child, resigned to the receiving of instructions, being sent out on errands, and receiving the occasional beatings from the ‘parents’.
I must say, I didn’t care for this position of ‘child’ at all. Because I didn’t care much for being sent around. Resigned to playing child in real life, I wasn’t very enthused playing same in this fictional world where children were adults. And also, I was bad at it—being sent around on errands. My mother had learnt this the hard way—countlessly. It was always with these two: ‘Maggi’ and ‘Royco.’ She would always ask me to get one of these spices, “Maggi cube—the red one!” She would say, with strong emphasis on the ‘red.’ And I would always return with the yellow one—Royco. But I must tell you, by the grace of the good Lord, I no longer mix these two up again. Yes, you heard me, my conundrum between Maggi and Royco has been totally healed—by the grace of this good God of ours.
Plagued with this innate inefficiency when it comes to following mundane orders, this role as ‘child’ in this world of ‘play pretend’ wasn’t for me at all. To add insult to injury, there was also the matter of the occasional beatings from parents/teachers which I didn’t enjoy in the real world, and was not ready to be made subject to in a fictional one. But when one finds themselves forcefully pushed by their parents to join an already established nkuro camp, one has no option but to take on whatever role that is assigned one.
Interestingly I didn’t care for the role of parents either. I didn’t care for the mushy mushy stuff expected of adulthood—people holding hands walking about… and in so holding hands, ending up procreating… I didn’t care for all that. I’d rather die than be made subject to that. And my brothers and sisters, I made that point clear in one church play—which I had been forced to partake in, I might add. I don’t remember precisely what the play was about, but I remember specifically that I had a spouse, and this spouse was inclined—per the script—to call me ‘darling’ every now and then.
Naturally, I wasn’t enthused by this. But having my parents unavailable during the rehearsals to vehemently complain to, I bore the pain that is being called ‘darling’ throughout the entire journey of the countless rehearsals. But alas, my opportunity came. Right on the day of the play, as we, the children, lined up, coming from behind the audience, ready for the stage that was in front of them… As we headed for the stage to play pretend as adults in front of real adults, I saw my father seated somewhere in the audience. Of course, I did run to him. Of course, I did tell him, on this day of this much-awaited, highly anticipated ‘Children’s Day’ event, that I wasn’t going to take part in the play.
“Why?!”
“D-darling…” I was being called darling…
Finding a Seat
So, there I was as a child, called on in the land of ‘play pretend’. But here I was, not caring for the position of ‘child’, nor that of ‘parent’. In this land, no one asked you what you desired to be; things were imposed on you. In this land, for one to be able to call the shots, one had to undertake certain crucial steps—the crucial step of asserting oneself ever so strongly. For instance, if I had been given room to successfully express myself out of the two-dimensional confinement that was ‘parents’ or ‘child’, I would have told them that I wanted to be… teacher.
“Huh?!”
“I said ‘teacher’”.
Of course not. Of course, these children, seeking to escape the harsh realities of childhood, had no plans of jumping right into these same old problems in this fantasy world they had created for themselves. So, of course, schooling did not form part of this fantastical world of nkuro. Oh no, don’t get me wrong. Most times mention was made of it. Your pretend parent, enjoying their role as bosses in charge, would instruct you to go to your pretend school. But no one thought to actually set up a fictional school for the attending. And that was where I felt my expertise would come into play. It would have been revolutionary—if they had accepted this proposition. Nowhere in the history of Ghanaian nkuro were real children, playing pretend children in a fantasy world orchestrated by children, made to go to pretend schools. My brothers and sisters, think about it, in your experience as a former nkuro member, did that ever happen?
But come to think of it, when, in our history of this real Ghanaian world, have we been quick to jump on real revolutionary ideas? Fellow Ghanaians, please tell me: when? I was expecting too much from these children, wasn’t I? Expecting them to willingly accept such a revolutionary proposition—that was asking too much, wasn’t it? I should find myself lucky they didn’t permanently exile me from their society—so as to teach me a lesson. And then who would I be going to when my mother sacked me from the house to go out and play, huh?
To be frank, my reasons for making this recommendation of ‘pretend schooling’ wasn’t necessarily an altruistic one. It was the ‘canings’ that drew me in. Teachers lining up students for one offence or the other—late submission of homework, non-submission of homework, ‘talking in class’, sleeping in class, lateness, etc.—and administering two lashes, three lashes, or more depending on the gravity of the offence, I must say, that very much enticed me to actively seek the role of pretend teacher.
Of course, I did hate being on the receiving end of these lashes in the real world. But in this very fictional world, to don the crown as teacher, and administer real lashes to pretend students… I mean, please tell the truth, how irresistible would such an offer be, if it were ever made you in this fictional world of nkuro?
I remember vividly, my mates and I being in elementary school, just a year away from entering junior secondary school, and hearing that the headmaster in charge of this segment of the school, notorious for his quick, decisive, and hard lashes, had been involved in a car accident. I remember us, young folks, praying fervently that this man be met with his ‘timely’ death… Yes, you heard me right. Please let’s not be prudish about this. I know you yourself have wished some level of deaths upon your own fair share of teachers… One French teacher at least… No? Just me and my classmates? Yoo, we hear…
But here is the thing though. This realisation did shock me. The realisation that as a teacher, one had to, at one point or the other, live through life, having certain jarring prayers said behind their backs—prayers demanding their demise. That really scared me. So, in my proposal to play teacher in this pretend world, I undertook, rather, to do so with altruism—to actually teach. Not beat every chance I got. But to try my hands on actually teaching instead. Give homework; give class exercise; mark them. You know, like normal teachers do.
This, I must say, was going to help me (and my father for that matter) more than it was going to help these pretend students even. Because there I was, as an only child, reading voraciously, and naturally getting tired of this one activity from time to time. And what would I do to combat this boredom? Admiring what teachers traditionally do with the red pen, I would take on these same books and start committing red marks on them. As my teachers mark my ‘homeworks’ and ‘class works’ I would begin marking these published works as though the writers were my students. I would read an entire paragraph and decide to give it either a ‘correct’ tick, or a mark down. Correct! Wrong!—I would mark an entire paragraph of text. And after reading that entire page—often not understanding what I had just read, for these were very advanced works of literature—I would score that page 9 over 10—if I was feeling particularly generous; or say, 1 over 10—when the ‘spirit’ moved me. And these were my father’s cherished books we are talking about here—poor, poor man.
So, you see, having real pretend students, giving these students class exercises and homework, and therefore getting books to mark, was a very crucial ingredient in this stage of my childhood. It was all I needed so as to be able to save the books that ended up shaping my formative years—these books from my father’s library (by that I mean ‘wardrobe’ and ‘shelf’), these largely Western books (most often ‘stolen’ from various school libraries by him, his siblings, his father, and perhaps his father’s mother). The legacy of ‘borrowing’ books (Western books as they characteristically are) from libraries and never returning said books, has, I must say, remained a longstanding legacy in my family. But alas, that legacy has been broken. Dearest friend, I am proud to stand before you today to let you know that I have never… (coughs).
A Dream Deferred/Destroyed
But this dream of playing teacher was one I very scarcely ended up realising.
As I sat in my Primary 2 or 3 class (I forget precisely which), as our English teacher told us to open to a particular page of our textbooks…As I, to my shock, found the chapter we were reading to be a story of an nkuro…A story of children playing ‘maame and paapa’, with one child, the seeming protagonist of the story, being doomed to play ‘baby’… As I watched on as this child in this illustration had to compulsorily put his thumb in his mouth and suck on it—as babies do… I couldn’t help but curse my unlucky stars, knowing that after school, came home, and home came the burden of having to compulsorily partake in a world of nkuro—a world where one is doomed to play whatever role assigned one. A stringent, imbalanced world having a few ‘early people’ sitting comfortably at the top, calling the shots—dooming one to play whatever role they fancy. This world of nkuro was a harsh one, I loathed having to partake in it.
But one had no option but to partake in this world, you know—this fake world. Even more so, one has no option but to partake in this world—this very real world of ours… This imbalanced world—a world having a few nations sitting comfortably at the top, calling the shots, dooming, in hopeful perpetuity, all other nations to inferior roles. These nations sit so comfortably at the top that they can afford to waste precious years of their national lives in the very destructive bellies of war, but still emerge, at the end of the day, as bosses in charge of the entire world around them.
My brothers and sisters, I can’t help but curse my unlucky stars knowing that I am part of a world where the rules of the fictional world of nkuro ruthlessly apply… A world where, for countries to get important roles and be placed on important seats, these nations have to consistently ‘represent’; consistently and very strongly assert themselves… A world where nations have to figuratively fight for the desired, top positions…. A world which operates on the survival of the fittest philosophy…
More than anything, it hurts knowing that one’s nation has (and still is) showing no real signs of playing an active and influential part in this very real world.
Oh yes, we are still employing WWI as a case study; and we will find out next week how this whole article fits as a metaphor for our very harsh reality.
