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Driving from NEW GBAWE TO ACCRA

The guy is parked squarely in the junction, and his car looks like it fell off a junk-yard truck that had
passed by, overloaded with scrap metal, and one had fallen off. Fascinatingly enough, human beings are
climbing out of the back seat, and asking for their change –they had actually taken a ride in the contraption! -
which the driver has to crawl out of the front passenger side to distribute. His side of the car has its door tied
permanently with iron wires, and the entire vehicle looks like it could fall apart with just a cough from one of its
passengers.
Mr. Driver looks in the direction of my vehicle with apology on his face, and makes to hurry up … until
he realizes that it is a female behind the steering wheel. Instantly, the apologetic look turns into a sneer with a
touch of mischief in the eyes. He gives my vehicle a once-over, then turns slowly and crab-walks like a cowboy
back to the passenger side of his junk. His head gets in first, then his shoulders, then feet, then the rest of his
body is sucked inside slowly.
I watch him as he laboriously works his 150 kg body over the middle gear-section and into the driver’s
side, and spark his engine to life. After an ‘eternal’ half minute of warming up the engine, the vehicle shudders
into motion and totters its way up the road, wheezing like the king of whooping coughs.
My heart feels slightly heavy already - a sign that I will be dishing insults out very soon to any such
drivers who cross my path further on in the journey. I slither my way romantically over the rocky, bumpy road,
all my windows rolled up to leave just a slice at the top – for much needed ventilation – natural fresh air. Not
because we believe in using energy wisely, but because air conditioning long took a hike. The dust wraps
around the car all through this half-kilometer stretch, and at consistent intervals I have to roll and unroll the
windows up and down; thank God the windows are electronically controlled!
A fifteen-seater tro-tro speeds past me at a dangerously fast pace, the mate’s buttocks sticking out of
the window, and his ‘Calwen Klein’ briefs proudly displayed to allow him sag his khaki trousers. Just as it
finishes over-taking me, one back tire glances off a large rock half-protruding from the ground, and the whole
vehicle is hurled into the air for a split second. In that slow-motion blur of the moment, I see the faces of 20
passengers come alive with fear and astonishment, then turn into grimaces and cringes, and in the case of the
pregnant lady wedged between the mate and a huge load of yam tubers, a lot of pain and discomfort. The
driver and the mate, throughout this slow-motion second, are both busy cleaning their teeth with the local
‘twapia’ sticks used in lieu of toothbrushes. As soon as the vehicle lands, the mate stretches his neck towards
the front passenger window, and spits marvelously over the head of the Alhaji seated there. I hear the
pregnant woman wailing as the tro-tro runs on into the distance.
Turning to look at my son, I say, “Poor baby. Will be born dizzy and cross-eyed, at this rate.”
“Ba-bu-ba-ntoko-ntoko-mi-muu” my son replies, and turns back to the window to enjoy the scenery.
We are almost at the main Gbawe-Mallam road, just around Samala Clinic, and the road is so quiet and free, I
realise how really crowded Accra becomes during the weekdays.
Checking both sides to make sure I am clear to join the main road, I notice another tro-tro approaching
from behind me at top speed. Without breaking speed, he darts past me on my left, and straight into the main
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road, cutting me off completely. I am used to this, so I follow him on, refusing to take bait and scream
obscenities and curses at his disappearing tail-lights. The next few minutes are uneventful, and we enjoy the
freshness and quiet of town as we cruise past Netab, Mallam Station, and on to Mallam Junction. A few people
are already by the road side waiting to catch public means of transport to their places of destination – some in
casual wear, most in black cloth with large ice chests sitting by their legs on the ground; sign of an impending
good time at a funeral or two.
At Mallam Junction, I opt to take the unofficial short-cut through the park to the other side, for a
quicker connection to the Odorkor-Kasoa road, so I join the queue of cars in the middle of the road for that
option. This is a completely official illegality - yes, you read right! – and you usually have to be smart and
cunning about cutting off the cars in the incoming lane, so as to get over to the entrance to the park. Once this
show of idiotic bravado is over, and you have gone through the shower of insults from the cars you cut in front
of, you meet Chief Twenty Pesewas.
He stands with his cohorts at a makeshift barrier at the entrance, and all must pay twenty Ghanaian
pesewas to pass through this park to the other side (whilst the Tema Motorway collects five Ghanaian
pesewas). I have never gotten to find out whether this park is government or individual owned, but the Chief
and his cohorts must have near-finished mansions from the dues paid by now.
“Yes sah, boss. How?” I ask him with a smile and a flourishing salute.
“Small small, strong madam. You dey fine?”
I nod, smile, and move on. Never spoke to the guy in my life before, but what the heck? I feel bouncy today!
We work over to the other side, join the Odorkor-Mallam road, and get stopped by a red at the traffic
light. I am third or so in line, and very soon a Hummer and a thirty-three seater trotro sidle over to my side and
start eyeing me ‘small-small.’ Being a woman in a much smaller car, I am very appealing easy prey. As the
minutes pass and our turn approaches to move off, Hummer revs his engine in an impressive show of brute
strength and capacity, and my heart starts joggling about in my chest – my adrenaline is pumping, it is!
Soon light flashes green and I rev my engine, keeping my front close to the bumper of the car ahead of
me. Hummer leaps forward delicately, closing up to my front bumper; I leap forward slightly, keeping close,
and Hummer leaps forward again. With what can only be well-timed and superior show of driver-manship, I
expertly leap forward, fight Hummer off ‘offa’ my rightfully earned place in the chain, and leave him scrabbling
with thirty-three seater for the spot behind me. Soon after, he catches up to me on the road, and lowering his
window, shouts over at me, “And then what? You women are always like this on the road. Aren’t you just
ashamed of yourself.” All in Twi, then he sucks air through his teeth and speeds on, probably intending to leave
me spluttering in the fumes from his exhaust – he does.
Between that point and Sakaman junction, all the way down to Radio Gold, Lartebiokorshie, I enjoy the
experience of getting stuck behind 4 tro-tros rolling along the road at 10km p/h and loading on way-side
passengers; 1 large tipper truck bullying me off the road by driving in the middle; more than 10 over-takings
that occur in tiny spaces, curves with blind spots, and one even occurred in traffic – taxi driver cut in front of
me by force, just because he felt like being in front of me, and when I yelled at him, he drawls, “Come. Come
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and bash me. What at all?” and sucks air through his teeth. – and best of all, a private vehicle driver who spat
saliva at me from his car because I paused to ask him why he was parked badly at the side of the road, and
blocking off the entire lane.
After I yell dark, terrible obscenities back at him and block traffic for about 5 minutes, another driver
gets out from somewhere behind, to come and settle the fight and let the flow begin. This guy starts well and
all neutral, and really cools me down to the point where I switch the engine back on and prepare to move off,
when the idiot turns to the other guy and states matter-of-factly, “That’s all … she is a woman, so you just
have to understand that most of them are not too okay mentally. Look at this one, she even has a child in the
back and no man in front … she has her issues, heh.”
It takes a good thirty minutes for the people in the stores around to come and cool things down after that. I
pour my anger out on the silly man well-well, and by the time I drive off, the first guy offender is now the one
cooling me down.
“Eeeiii, la-a-a-a-dy! It’s ok now! It’s alri-i-i-ght! Go go go … I will talk to that foolish man for you!”
“It’s you who are foolish,” I mumble under my breath as I move off.
I spend the next half hour explaining myself to my son, and secretly feeling ashamed of my behavior. When he
does not respond or make I sound, I whirl round in alarm, only to find him soundly asleep. I get caught in
moment as I take in his innocent, un-spoilt features and begin thinking of how this cruel world would soon get
hold of him in a battle of choices and decision, and I decide there and then, that I will focus on savouring every
moment of this day with him, instead of allowing some crazy drivers to work me up into a mad woman.
A loud, screaming horn brings me back down to earth, and I jam on my brakes out of reflex, looking
ahead and around to see what could have caused such a furore … it is a cargo truck and a taxi-driver having
their own shake-down by the road-side. With a huge sigh of relief, I sidle into the parking lot of the Unilever
Employees car park at Makola, and roll into one of the lots.
“One Ghana cedi, Madam” the parking attendant announces as soon as he gets within hearing
distance.
“Ma … alu shine, steel wool, scouring pads, normal sponge, tissue paper, face wipes, and even t-roll.
Which one should I remove?”
“Nice tops for you oo, sister. This one is your taste … very nice for your nice body. Nice price too.”

Aaaah …. I sigh again.

“Give me alu and face wipes … don’t tell me any ridiculous price. And the white shirt here, Ma, what’s
your last price if I buy it and the orange skirt? Corn-wine seller … please I will buy some.”
“Ma! Mi-mu-ntoko-ntoko-bu-ba-baaa? … Ma mama ma mama maaaa …!” My baby is awake and
primed to go as well.
“And a little bit of it for my little boy as well, ok?”
And sod all those crazy drivers and their useless issues.