The blessing of water [2]: Discipline of using water like a Capetonian

Good news between when I published the first part of this piece and now. "Day Zero" - Cape Town, South Africa's waterless day has been postponed to as far as next year. More work needs to be done by state and individuals in the mean time.

This is the final part of my "yobbings" written purely within the context of solidarizing with Capetonians. My wish when the dreaded day loomed was to be part of it is strictly experiencing what I never in my life thought would happen – given my past experiences with water.

In Pointe Noire, I am relatively far from Cape Town, If I "clear" Angola, Namibia and a walk across the Rainbow nation, I should get there. But I can’t which does not stop me from solidarizing with the people.

It may be an indirect solidarity but in my view, one that is worth it – worth it for the emotional satisfaction and the water – conscious discipline it comes with. I urge us all to display a bit of it.

My ways are certainly not hard-and-fast, feel free to customize your practical solidarity, at least we will be bounded by the emotional – a common feeling of concern for the people of the Cape.

Every morning, I wake up knowing full well that when I turn on the faucet, water will flow as though it was only natural. I don’t fret over lack of it, indeed a blessing for which I’m forever grateful. [All thanks is due to Allah – Al Hamdu lil Laah!!!]

1. I have since weeks drastically cut down using the shower, rather Icollect water in a bucket and use same over a couple of days.

2. I religiously use my kettle to brush my teeth and perform ablution, the days of using running water are gone – gone forever thanks to ‘Day Zero.’

3. Over to the kitchen, under no circumstance will running water be felt by the dishes.

4. Flushing toilet will be done once – irrespective of what residue is left behind.

5. In my heart, I will psyche myself as sending a daily quota of water to Cape Town – a quota with love and fellow feeling.

Again, my measure are not cast in stone. But I entreat you to do well to also adopt similar measures. We (you and I) are blessed with the resource even if we have to exert effort and cash to get it.

Cape Towners do not have it, they are having to share the very scare water available. God bless NGOs like the Gift of Givers charity who are stockpiling bottled water at military bases to help come ‘Day Zero.’

Whiles at it, let’s always (the religious of us) save time to continually seek relief from Allah. For no matter what bureaucracy, diplomacy, engineering and pioneering – Allah is the ultimate solver of a crisis involving a solvent HE bestowed on man.

I’d quote a verse of the Quran and hadith (saying of the prophet Muhammad) to wrap this up. ‘… and waste not by extravagance. Verily, HE dislikes the Al-Musrifoon (the wastefully extravagant)’ Surah Al-An-aam 141.

Narrated from Abdullah Ibn Amr ibn al-Aas, the Prophet (May Allah exalt his mention) passed by Sa’ad when he was doing wudoo (ablution), and he said, ‘What is extravagance O Sa’ad?’ He responded: ‘Can there be any extravagance in wudoo?’ The prophet said: ‘Yes, even if you are on the banks on a flowing river.’ – reported by Imam Ahmad and Ibn Maajah.

Burma Camp, Aquinas, GIJ but Hamdaniyya was an academic constant

Where and when I grew up, education was non-negotiable. With semi-literate mother (Hajia Fati) and educated old boy (Abdur Rahaim Shaban, the late), you needed to attend school because it was just cool.

School was also not a one-way street within the general scheme of events. You had to pursue the secular and Islamic. Both with the same seriousness. Mind you this meant a weekday of secular and a weekend of Islamic – we barely had time to rest.

It is for this reason that years on after completing Islamic School and being  drafted into the teaching staff, I used to appreciate the hustle of the little ones I taught in Class 2. To me they were heroines and heroes who sacrificed their rest to get more education.

Burma Camp as I have previously written about is where I attended my nursery, primary and junior secondary school education. Those were the very carefree days leading on to Aquinas in 2001.

The three-year Cantonments course led to the professional training arena of Ghana Institute of Journalism (GIJ) also in a residential area – thrust in there after having failed to enter the University of Ghana.

But all through these three ‘flowing’ levels and even long into the days of work, Hamdaniyya Islamic School was a constant. The events of the week could be uncertain but the weekend looked fixed – I knew I had to be at Islamic School.

We started Islamic education exploits at Anwarud deen (Accra New Town) for some reason we quit and stuck to home schooling with our old boy. But that also became inconsistent and led Hajia Fati to enrol us in Hamdaniyya way back in the 90s.

Fuleira and I in Class 1, Sherif in Kindergarten and Sheriffa in Nursery. The packed and heat-generating class will keep reducing over the years, in the end, I graduated with only one person I met in class one back in the day (Ummu Kulthum Ali).

Of course we were joined by Yusuf Yakub, Mohammed Sani – who was at the time our senior, and Rabiatu Harun. The causes of losing students as we go along vary, the boarding school stood as a key contributor.

I rue how whiles in Class four, Saturday classes messed up continuity in my Makaranta education. We were at the time preparing for Basic Education Certificate Examination (BECE) – school did not force classes on us but we found a monster in BECE and played along.

In the Aquinas days, I stuck to only chemistry classes that were usually on weekdays so my weekends reverted to normal programming – full time Islamic schooling. Same was the case with GIJ.

When once the issue of Saturday assignment came up and I raised concerns vis-à-vis Islamic school, a colleague retorted with amazement, to paraphrase him: Wow, you still attend Islamic school, that’s very admirable, some of us sadly closed that chapter long back.

At the time I had graduated and was teaching. I worked at three different media houses (newspaper, documentary film, online) and through these times I still made enough time to stick to makaranta responsibilities, however, subdued.

Till now, when distance finally made it impossible to make physical commitments. I still live with memories of those fun, tough and dope days when we donned the classic blue and white uniform in search of Islamic knowledge.

Those were days of gratitude and of aptitude. When the staff assembled by Sheikh Yusifu Musah (temporal and permanent) imparted into thousands knowledge of the deen. Those days we made lifelong friends many of whom we lost for different reasons.

Those days we interacted with teachers who yearned for us to be better than they are, teachers who motivated us to also teach and to impart into others. Teachers who till date we look back to and rever for their dedication and unfettered determination.

I seek Allah’s blessings for the past, the present and future of Hamdaniyya. For the good that many before us planted in the hearts of thousands past and present. And for those that we lost over the years, may Allah have mercy on their souls. Ameeen.

Handaniyya's BIG THREE at a point - formidably formless. Great men - may Allah preserve them.

When Aquinas boys closed Labone: Regrets of an inactive combatant

Sorry, I attempt to bring up an unfortunate incident back in December 2001, well, for me it’s a simple peronal task of seeking to erase the thought of pride for an incident whose immediate and longterm aftermaths were unpalatable in the real sense of the word.

Aquinas back in the dayhad long been branded ‘public enemy number one’ by technical schools when we met at Interco. Papa Yaw Asamoah, an Interco freak, relates how Aquinas boys were targets of ATTC and EMIT students.

So, there we were, a school where T-square is not used but for strange reasons, we were willing to face off with huge boys who carried that wooden ‘cross’ almost always. Even after games, boys were hunted at Tema Station and Kaneshie, so I heard from reliable accounts.

The Labone incident was seen coming but strictly among a select group of boys. It, however, started as a normal school day till after closing when sentiments to teach our closest neighbours a lesson over ‘disrespect’ peaked amongst the combatants.

As usual, the precincts of the Muslim prayer grounds will play a ‘conference’ role. We had finished praying and left the place but the shade of the huge neem tree seem to provide cool heads for the ‘battle commanders.’

A distraught Father Batsa the following day at assembly noted how he had seen boys gathered there and asked them to leave. Father’s words only came after the newspapers had blazed how Aquinas boys invaded and forced Labone secondary school to be closed.

That morning was my longest trip to school. The radio stations were talking about how unbelievable the episode sounded. In my white shirt clutching my bag, I sat by this man having a Daily Graphic that had our attack emblazoned in the headline – agony but with ‘pride.’

The mood in school was sullen. But myself and several others felt a sense of pride. We were not the education service but had managed to close down a school. That misplaced pride was one birthed from the exuberance of an association with the combatants.

I have gone on to mock Labone friends that we are on record as the only school that gave them forced holiday and that they should be grateful to us.

But there was a price to pay for some who joined the invasion party. The police had accosted a number of boys on the day of the attack, the school will use internal processes to fish out others and we watched as they were transported to court on a number of occasions.

I helped a stranded combatant – a personal mate – who I gave my house jersey and helped with transport back home, we met at 37 station. A number of boys were kicked out of the school over the incident. That was sort of the ultimate price they paid for the entire group.

A ‘dull boy’ like me, I could not possibly have played a role in the attack proper but as was usually the case back then, we collectively stood by boys who exhibited strength against supposed enemies.

Had it been another school invading Aquinas – a distant impossibility – I’m certain we would not be happy. But we towed the line of ‘it serves them right’ because we were at the giving end.

I attended Aquinas in a time pinpointing the wrong doer was an ignoble act, how dare you chook? It would earn one religious pinpointer the famed nickname  – Okechukwu. Mind you, he was a full blooded Ghanaian without Nigerian links.
 
It brings me to a piece of advice our then English teacher Ms. Nelly gave us. She said mass action was sweet but not until you are picked to pay the price for the group. Of course not all the days’ combatants got in hot soup, t’was a select few.

Dear Labone SHS,

That incident needn’t have happened by any of the imagination . It did and is now history. But with the past as an archive of lessons, this is to personally apologize for my inactive role in what shouldn’t have happened.

It had till recently been a (personal) piece of pride and mockery, both of which have since been extinguished to distinguish the matured anguish in me side – by – side a youthful languish arising from my reflections.

Thanks

Veritas Liberat – The Truth shall set you free, so says out school motto. With this, I feel free. I’ll be back with another instalment of ‘nonsense’ as espoused when I was at Aquinas. Ahooo! Ahooo yaya!

March 2017: Officially ‘female’ by Congo law, back to Accra for historic vacation

One interesting experience in Congo is of military men on the roads after midnight running checks. For expats, demanding residency permits from us despite being in an official vehicle.

These cards it turned out were one’s visa if you had to leave and or return to the country. So, when the deputy Human Resource manager handed me my copy, I was happy because my thirty-day visa had long expired.

I later realized there was an anomaly with the card, every other detail was correct but my gender was stated ‘feminin.’ - as in female.

I protested and demanded change, but Roland Kibenga (Mr. deputy HR) will apply one of his trademark responses ‘Oh! ç’est pas grave,’ as in ‘eno be big deal,’ simply put ‘no wahala.’ He said if anyone stops me for that reason, I should just call him. I said yooo.

For my entire 'feminin' days spanning a year, neither the soldiers nor the bank officials paid any serious attention to details on the card. My female-themed card will secure pass mark from security and bank officials over the entire year.

That same card was demanded as I exited a year ago today (March 9, 2017) to kick start my vacation. I learned later that without the card, airport officials reserved the right to bar you from leaving via the airport.

Facts they say are sacred. Pardon me to state for another time that I arrived in Congo in February 2016. My leave / vacation was only due after a year. So in March 2017, I applied for and had my vacation approved.

It all but felt quite funny. Vacation – was till then, a word I knew to spell but had never experienced in my professional life dating back some eight years prior. All three previous employers did not offer vacations till I left – in the case of one for over 5 years.

That aside, the case of Africanews’ vacation was special because it really felt like one. Travel and spend time away from work, then return to box on. Combine both elements of it being a first-time holiday and the lure of air travel, I got butterflies in my stomach.

As if that was not enough, the vacation bonus which I had not factored into my finances meant that I had a financial leap in my step – it promised to be a fun time and damn I was bent on savouring every moment.

The Ethiopian Airline flight left Pointe Noire in the afternoon on 09-03-2017, we stopped at the capital Brazzaville and onwards to Addis Ababa to pass the night. Dabredamo hotel – supper, check emails, watch TV, sleep. Wake up, breakfast, to the airport en route to Accra.

When the view of Accra’s skyline began to manifest and the pilot asked that we get ready for landing, the over five-hour journey sunk in deeper. Then the mini-turbulence as the plane touched the runway and till it came to a stop and we disembarked.

The check out processes were quite smooth for me, grabbed my three pieces of luggage plus my backpack, helped myself to the waiting area where Fuleira, Sherifa and baby Fatima were waiting – I stopped at Mile 7 mosque to pray Jumah, whiles Fuleira and the others took the luggage home.

The month was fun-filled and I’d summarize it in just this paragraph. Getting to see family and friends. Returning to Islamic School (makaranta), visiting granny at Tepa and a week’s stay with Ibrahim – a GIJ colleague, and his wife in Kumasi. Couple that with visiting my former work places, I do look forward to the next vacation.

So with vacation over as I headed back, Ethiopian Airline officials at Kotoka International Airport took my documents – passport and ticket – but went aside dilating on an issue. I remembered I still had my ‘almighty’ female residency card in my pocket but I waited.

The two guys walked up to me after about three minutes, before the one with my passport could speak, I shoved the card in his direction. He passed a funny comment, scanned it and handed me my stuff – then on to weigh my luggage and prepare for boarding.

Again upon re-entry into Congo in April 2017, I had to produce the card to immigration officials before I was passed. My new card gender-correct was delivered in May 2017 and is due for renewal in two months – days to my 2018 vacation, you can do the maths. Lol.

Congo Republic has and continues to play a key role in my (our) professional, social and financial scheme of events. I dream of a day I’d look back at these days. But until that day comes, we live by the day ensuring we are always better than we were the day before.

To quote Damian Marley in his track ‘Speak Life’:

Way Up
Keep your head up and stay up
Even when you sore and pain love
Never giving up till it’s game up
Keep your aim up

And focus
Don’t concentrate on what’s bogus
Never sell out for a bonus
Handle your biz like grown ups
Own up

I’m out but to return with another installment, same place with ‘Thoughts of Hajia Fati’s son.’

BUCASS: The Burma Camp SHS 5th Garrison BECE graduates 'dodged'

Burma Camp as an academic environment was on point, the ambiance was serene always. Mind you, it had crèche through to nursery, then the nine-year basic education was available and beyond that, there was the Armed Forces Secondary Technical School (AFSTS).

Maybe one day they would cap it with a university. Burma Camp deserves that if you ask me. We used to call AFSTS, BUCASS – apparently it meant Burma Camp Secondary School. Our school's (Burma Camp Basic - Complex) main block was sandwiched between their technical and vocational blocs.

The home economics block from where ‘nyunyu’ scents emerged was in front of our school. The rather noisy technical block, on the other hand, was behind us. And that unit did serve us well to a large extent especially with our Pre-Technical Skills class.

From sledgehammer to the anvil, G-clamp to hacksaw blade, the type of saws and planes, the spirit level and the trowel, we saw these tools with our eyes beyond the textbook drawings. BUCASS served us technically as a matter of fact.

We were boys and girls back in the day, we the boys played football on the least available space and the girls jumped and threw their legs shouting ostraighti and okondor, i.e. playing ampe. The BUCASS students, especially in the carpentry workshop, literally were men.

If your ball enters the workshop – you don’t run in for safety reasons, there were moving machines in there so you went to literally beg for the ‘men’ to release our ball. Roundly, they were nice guys who hardly gave us a hard time.

But what on hindsight amazes me is how we – or is it the majority of us, never gave BUCASS a thought when it came to choosing our Senior High Schools. Of course, they were classed as a third-grade school at the time – to the best of my knowledge.

But (again), is it not more because as a people we have always looked down – sadly so – on the vocational and technical subjects? I can assure you that the scents that came from their food showed the food will taste good.

And the outcome of their technical products looked decent. They came across as a very serious bunch with who we hustled for transport on our way back home. On the days we had to make the journey on foot, we were with them on the Burma Camp – 37 route.

Suffice it to state, it was their premises that most schools in the 5 Garrison enclave sat for our Basic Education Certificate Examination (BECE) – the then dreaded terminal exams that we had sleepless nights over.

For the one-week stretch when we wrote two papers daily, Services, Burma Camp, Garrison, Arakan, First Signal, 5BN, Forces, Kotoko and other schools will shepherd their candidates to and from the venue.

Then the eruption of joy when the bell went after the last paper, those that broke their pens did, those that hugged each other did. The end of the Junior Secondary and a wait to transit to the Senior High.

All the days of early morning mental whips (Bra Ansah and Mr. Osei), the French fret (Monsieur Tackie dans l’auto), the Ghanaian language ‘gas’ (Tsoorlor Mensah), and of course the vocational skills vibe (Mrs. Bekoe).

Add that to the mocks that were no joke plus the long story of filling cumulative assessments and those of us who hardly ever attended any extra-classes. The scramble over past questions and for apor – it was all gone!

The future beckoned and here we are …. Still aspiring in some respects as we count modest achievements in education, professions, family life and friendship that temporarily ‘dropped’ but thanks to technology has picked up. This is who we are – the Millenium class of 2000.

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Before Aquinas: 9 years in Burma Camp Basic School was lit

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