My Royalist mother would have been smiling down at me from her seat on the right-hand side of God, as the taxi arrived to pick me up to meet the Queen at Buckingham Palace. Today would have been her seventy-third birthday, so I hope she’s still smiling down at me as I write this little missive.
I thought moving to Ghana was a dream come true. But after only a week in the bright and stifling glow, the heat had not been kind. Was I having a nervous breakdown?
On being a “Big Man” in Ghana the trick is to marry early. Give your wife at least two children; a house, and a “home used” 4×4 – and you’re free to roam.
An old man walked into the 37th Military Hospital in Accra early one morning. He had known all his life that the 37th Military Hospital in Accra was a place for deserving Ghanaians, and so he had travelled there from far, obviously very sick and
The young American white couple a few doors away from me are leaving Ghana today. So I’m told. “Too poor,” they say. “One minute, water no lights. Next minute, lights no water.” They’ve had enough. After five years of working to improve education in this
My mother wore a wig for all 47 years of her life in England. I still for the life of me can’t understand why. Why at twenty-one years old she would suddenly decide to hide her own natural hair and start wearing any one of a dozen Winnie Mandela-style curly afro wigs in public?