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 was having a discussion with one of my regular taxi drivers the other day. We were on the subject of a depreciating Cedi, high levels of government misappropriation of funds and other social ills in Ghana, when he suddenly pointed to a man walking
“HIV! HIV! – Go fuck yourself!” she said. And then I woke up. Or maybe it was the other way round. Maybe a whore outside my door was actually cursing her punter and I wasn’t dreaming at all, and then, I woke up.