From my archives: Rent a Londoner

(a satire)

Sep 24, 2024

Introduction: This piece, Rent a Londoner, was one of the first articles I wrote for what was once Ghana's flagship news magazine, The Horizon.

It is a satire about how many Ghanaians (I should rather say Africans) are self-loathing. Also, many of them who are garrulous towards their compatriots and fellow Africans become mellow and quite diffident in the presence of anyone with a lighter hue.

I have seen Ghanaian officials bellow angrily at fellow Ghanaians for not "dressing properly," only to smile and begin to vibrate with awe as soon as a badly dressed Lebanese wearing slippers walks into the same office. I saw a Vice President of Ghana crawling on all fours to play with the children of Asian visitors to his office.

It is quite sad that despite the best efforts of some of us, things remain as they were twenty or so years ago when we wrote about them.

Where's the sense in the whole nation convulsing over a teenager wearing his natural hair to school? Why should this be a problem in an age where man-made probes are roaming planet Mars and AI computers are holding debates with human beings?

Why should a people who spend billions of dollars to import hair products processed from dead human cadavers and animals make a big deal about a child wearing dreadlocks? Why should a nation that aspires to make progress have bigoted officials running its affairs?

End of introduction.]

My keeping Sunday as a Sabbath has no religious significance whatsoever. It's just that human biology dictates that the body must be rested once in a while. As the Nigerians are wont to put it: 'Body no be stone.'

It was like your average June morning in Kasoa – the heavens had opened up at dawn with a heavy downpour that slashed through the early morning, with sizzling lightning punctuated by staccato bursts of thunder that threatened to uproot the house.

Predictably, the electricity company had switched off the power. I have difficulty sleeping in darkness, so I took my morning ablutions, came out, and sat under the mango tree, where I watched the dawn turn into morning, and the majestic sun start its leisurely stroll across the vast expanse of space. Little birds chirp happily as they swing from their perches into the air to catch a fly. Wings of termites littered the ground – attracted by the lights, they had flown out of their termite hills last night. I took time trying to figure out why some genes would order these creatures to come out of the comfy of their subterranean abode, only for them to perish as food for man or birds or toads. Molds of fluffy clouds still race across the sky, nothing threatening, though.

The power had been restored, but I busied myself to admire nature's mysteries. I made myself an herbal drink and returned to continue with my meditation under the mango tree.

I was still engrossed in my estimation of nature when the clang of the gate bell shook me up. I cursed silently. I had a feeling it was one of those Jehovah's Witness Bible peddlers. I always resent the unsolicited visits of the colporteurs of alien faiths who believe that MY CREATOR will be talking to ME through THEM. There is no driving them away, though. They came every Sunday without fail. They are a persistent pest – constantly pushing their version of piety. I have made it abundantly clear that I am fully prepared to face my 'creator' and my benevolent father in heaven and account for my actions if that's called for. No, still, they won't let me be.

I opened the gate with a deep frown pasted on my face. Kodjo pushed himself into the house, smiling like a sweepstakes winner. He was carrying a small attache case. In his tow was a copiously-backyarded, massively-hipped, enormously-breasted, small-nosed, petty-mouthed, heavily made-up, attractive lady with a small head that gave her the appearance of a mannequin.

Kodjo knew his way around, so he walked straight and sat under the tree. The lady flounces around like they do in the movies – her heavy-duty backyard vibrating vigorously. She waited until a chair was fetched and dragged for her. She poured herself into the chair with a flourish.

"This is my current affairs," Kodjo said without a hint of irony.

He certainly must rank among the greatest womanizers since Casanova.

It is impossible to see Kodjo with the same girl twice. He tools around town in an ancient jalopy, inherited from an elder brother, now deceased, which he believes is his license to mess up the lives of unfortunate girls looking for 'lifts.'

"Doesn't she have a name?" I wanted to know.

"Abena."

"My name is Portialita." The lady corrected.

My friend shrugged his shoulder as though he couldn't care less. "Abena or Politila, who cares?"

Surprisingly, the lady found this enormously funny as she smiled coquettishly at Kodjo's put-down.

My friend shouted me down when I asked what I could offer them for a drink.

"Anago, we no come here for a drink," he said and smiled at his 'latest- catch,' "What drink do you have here that I don't have in my house?"

He was obviously posing for the lady. I did nothing to discourage him.

The lady also declined my offer of a drink.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your eminent presence?" I was been sarcastic, but my friend was too much in love to notice.

"Can you wake up a decent complimentary card for me?" Kodjo asked, grinning wolfishly.

My friend is a film, especially American film-addict. He loves nothing better than to use patois and American slang. Little wonder the ladies are falling over themselves for him.

"Wake up a card?" I wondered.

He gave me a disdainful glance and, rubbing the fleshy thigh of his girlfriend, he shouted, "Yes, what's wrong with that? I thought you were in the business card design business. Can't you wake up a decent card for a friend? Look, if money is your problem." My suave friend said, fished out his design wallet, showed it to me, and promptly put it back. Kodjo was grandstanding, and the lady loved it. She smiles like a Quean.

"If only you'll speak English."

Kodjo finds my assertion hilarious, and he laughed uproariously. The lady giggled with him.

"Not only that, Anago. You have to rejuvenate some posters for me." He declared and opened his attache case. From it, he extracted some folded papers. He put my tea unceremoniously on the ground and unfolded his papers on the table. They were obituary posters. Some were in color, the rest in black and white. "Do you think you can put some life into some of these posters here, Anago?" He kept teasing me.

"You're not making any sense to me, Omo Ghana," I ribbed him. "You wanted a card woken up for you; now you are carrying obituary posters like prized possessions and wanted me to 'rejuvenate' and put 'life' into them."

Kodjo smiled maliciously at my lack of comprehension and told him his latest scheme (scam is more appropriate).

Like most young men whose jobs have been wiped out by market forces alias HIPC or 'austerity measures,' Kodjo daydreams about how to make it big. Going abroad is out of the question. He has already been deported from the US of A. twice and also from a host of European countries – he's wanted by the police in a couple of them.

Pointing to the posters, Kodjo demanded of me, "Omo Nigeria, what's the only constant among these posters here? Take your time to study them; I'm not rushing you."

I glanced through them anew but couldn't make a head or tail out of what Kodjo was trying to tell me. They're your everyday type of posters. Sensing my confusion, Kodjo smiled and collected his posters, he laid them neatly on the table. "Look," he bellowed confidently, "I'm going into the consultancy business. I am now a Funeral Consultant." He beamed. "Your job is to wake up a decent card for me, rejuvenate some of these posters, and give me an appropriate letterhead, envelopes, and things, and I am in business. If that's too much for you to handle, I'll take my business elsewhere."

God knows that Kodjo has never paid me a pesewa for all the jobs I've done for him. Whenever he'd a brain-wave, it's to me he usually ran. I'd designed cards, making him a Pastor, a Freelance Journalist, and many other titles that caught his fancy. I've also polished CVs upon CVs for him.

"What is a Funeral Consultant?" I wanted to know.

Baring his strong, white Ashanti teeth in a toothy smile, Kodjo fingered his macho mustache and declared, "What do we have in common? I mean, you Anagos and we Ghanaians?"

"Our inability to get straight to any point?"

Both Kodjo and his girl find me humorous. "Very funny," Kodjo declared. "You forget that you Anagos love titles." He paused to wink at his girl and rub her massive thigh. "It was in Nigeria I saw people call themselves: 'Professor Alhaji Doctor Engineer Chief Sheikh.' You guys are crazy plenty. We in Ghana are more modest. Our aspiration doesn't go beyond having a family member outside Ghana and boasting about it. An Uncle in Togo, an aunt in Cote d'Ivoire, or even a third cousin in Nigeria will do. I asked you what you saw as the only constant among these posters here. You didn't notice a thing. Look here." Kodjo cried and re-spread the posters. On the top poster, he traced his fingers to the section on children; it reads:

Albert Kudzo (Canada), Emmanuel Kudzo (Germany), Elizabeth Boham (The Netherlands), Ebenezer Kudzo (Nigeria), Isaac Kudzo (U.S.A.) The section on grandchildren reads: Samuel Kudzo (Kumasi), Matthew Kudzo (USA), John Kudzo (Germany), Jude Kudzo (USA.) Philip Kudzo (Germany), Kingsley Kudzo (Holland), Charles Kudzo (Kumasi).

"You see, Anago, there was a great man whose funeral will attract the well-heeled. The funeral of any man or woman with a child overseas will command more respect and more money than those whose children are all locals. My investigations and analyses revealed that this is a great worry to many of our folks. Funerals have become a big business in Ghana. Some are losing out, but I'm not in the losers' league. I say to those without a child abroad, "Your worry days are over." He handed me a leaf of paper on which he's written his business name; it reads: 'Khodjosons Rent A Londoner Enterprise.' "We intend to take the anguish out of those whose bad luck it is not to have a relative abroad. You know that I am the globe-trotter par excellence. There's hardly a country in the world that I've seen with my own eyes. You don't think I wasted my time on all those business trips, do you? No, I didn't. I engaged my time in cultivating contacts and business contacts. What I intend to do now is to collect all my IOUs. As soon as you wake up my card and letterheads, Mylove here will word-process some business letters, and we will be in business."

"What is going to be the nature of your business?" I asked him.

"Our business is to take the worries out of the lives of those without relatives abroad. We charge a flat fee for those who want to rent the name of our contacts. Princess here has helped compile a database of my contacts. Everything is legit. You have a funeral and would like to impress folks with relatives abroad; we come in, no problems for us. For a fee, you can have your pick from our database of over ten thousand names and addresses divided into four sub-sections viz, US of A. and Canada; Europe and Japan; Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa; the rest of Africa and other Third World countries. If you make it worth my while, I'll remember you when it is good for me. Make me look good with a nice complimentary card, and I'll be pushing obituary and funeral poster design jobs to you. Can you fire up the computers? I haven't got the whole day?"

"Not unless you can persuade them to work without electricity."

"Do you mean to tell me that you don't have electricity?"

"You are mantic."

"Let's get out of here," Kodjo said, dragging himself and his lady out of my house.

Farmer, Writer, Published Author, and Social Commentator.

My latest book, From Stamp to Click (it's still a hello) is published and is available online at:

https://www.africanbookscollective.com/books/from-stamp-to-click-its-still-hello

How to order it: https://www.africanbookscollective.com/how-to-order

My book, "Africa: A Continent on Bended Knees," is available on:

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