Dear Ma Sirleaf, update memoir with $5m Mo Ibrahim, Jammeh jam etc.

On page 313 of her biography "This Child Will Rise," Ellen Johnson Sirleaf made a million dollar dream. Years on, that dream has materialized. Here is exactly what she said:

"And after that? Well, perhaps I will earn the Mo Ibrahim Prize for Achievement in  African Leadership, a new prize rewarded annually to the retired African head of state who most significantly improves the lives of his or her country’s citizens.

"The winner, who must have also democratically transferred power to his or her successor, receives  $5 million over ten years, then $200,000 annually for life thereafter. What is more, the winner may also receive $200,000 a year for ten years toward her public-interest activities and good causes.

"Former Mozambican president Joachim Chissano was awarded the first Ibrahim Prize in 2007, but there’s no reason a woman cannot win soon. I am increasingly looking forward to that chance."

So she dreamt it and received it in Kigali, Rwanda in late April. With another first to her name. First female winner of the award. Other Sirleaf firsts, first democratically elected female president and recipient of Nobel Peace Prize.

But her memoir authored in 2009 would still have some upgrades with the immediate post-presidency - sacked from her party, handing over to George Weah, continuing women empowerment etc.

But for me, the Jammeh jam of January 2017 is what I really want to read about. Sirleaf was ECOWAS chair when The Gambia was plunged into political tension after Jammeh attempted to cling on to power after losing December 2016 polls.

The events of February 2017 saw Jammeh attempt to unilaterally alter the poll results. Sirleaf's maturity laced with watertight diplomacy clearly saved the day.

She was refused to land in Banjul in the heat of the crisis. Later she would accompany chief mediator Muhammadu Buhari of Nigeria and John Mahama of Ghana and Ernest Bai Koroma on two occasions to meet with headstrong Jammeh.

Then flew to Abuja to meet Buhari over the situation. Then there was the famous diplomatic phone call Jammeh recorded and played on national TV. Sirleaf rightfully so did blast exiled Jammeh of engaging in a ruse.

Jammeh is "forgotten" history, he is imprisoned in Equatorial Guinea. Sirleaf is travelling the world positively impacting society. This life affords us options and one must walk the path they pick.

Dear Ma Sirleaf:

I'm happy you are richer out of office than you could ever have been as President.

Having said that, please do upgrade the memoir for us. We need closure to fine details of some of those incidences. We really do.

Thank you.

Ramadan sermon sandwiched by two deaths: Life's biggest reality check!

May Allah have mercy on the souls of our departed and grant us the living, a good ending for indeed his words: "And the end is better for you than the beginning," are entirely TRUE.

(L-R)Funeral session at Mosqueé Sunnah Congo Pointe Noire, the late Imam Imam

Last Friday started out as a normal day that I expected to principally attend the Jum'ah (weekly congregational) prayers at midday. But soon after I had logged on to Twitter that morning did I see news of a death.

An acclaimed Nigerian journalist turned personal assistant of Governor of the northwestern Sokoto State. The death of Imam Imam, shook Nigeria's Twitter space. The shock, the pain, the tributes and recall of memories made for interesting reading and following.

His Twitter bio as at the time of writing this piece read: "Journalist, Image Manager, Former THISDAY Group politics Editor. Directeur des affaires publiques de la Tambuwal." His location read "Abuja, Kaduna, Sokoto," he died in an Abuja hospital.

Take another look at his bio as above reproduced, shift just one word to the beginning, well, that is his current state. Shift "former" to the beginning. He is now officially a former "Journalist, Image Manager, THISDAY Group politics Editor. Directeur des affaires publiques de la Tambuwal."

His wife tweeted the next day: "Today would  have been our one year anniversary. Innallilahi wa inallilahi rajiun. Ya Allah Grant Imam jannatal firdausi miji na mai sona!!!!" Miji na mai sona = my husband who loves me.

He was buried same day at an Abuja cemetery after he was bathed, shrouded and prayed upon. Then came the flood of last chats he had with a myriad of people. May Allah have mercy on his soul and on that of all departed ones. Ameen.

To Jum'ah and a successive week of two prayers

So off I went to Jum'ah and the Imam's sermon for the day was refreshing. Being the last but one Friday till Ramadan, the sermon "opened fire" on the coming visitor.

Among other themes, the goodness of the month, its blessedness and sanctity and the role of Ramadan in our lives. Then the need to prepare to meet it and doing all it takes to reap the benefits thereof.

Sermon done, prayer said! Before the early leavers could start streaming down the stairs, a familiar voice is heard with a death announcement.

There with us in the mosque was the cadaver of a fellow brother. As usual, we were to say the funeral prayer for him and those who can, join the entourage heading to the cemetery.

In less than five minutes the prayer was done and our brother transported to the waiting ambulance. From the second floor, I joined others who looked from above how he was placed in the ambulance but also how scores cried at the sight.

These two - may Allah forgive them - most likely had plans for Ramadan, like you and I have. But to what end, Ramadan and all their extended plans for themselves and for others and that of others for them could just have ended.

May Allah have mercy on the souls of our departed and grant us the living, a good ending for indeed his words: "And the end is better for you than the beginning," are entirely TRUE. May HE grant the respective families patience and the reward of steadfastness in these trying times.

Travel & see, live & love [2]: Why Congo Republic beats Ghana hands-down

Ladies and gentlemen, part two of my thoughts on where and why Congo Republic, my new nation, is a Bhimnation, unlike Ghana - the dum-nation. I hear the lights off has abated. Congrats.

Today is special to me because it was the day in 2017 my second year at Africanews kicked into gear. On this day, I fought my first and last violent battle at the airport on arrival - story for another day.

Now to why Congo is bae and Ghana needs be booed. Final top five reasons by your truly Hajia Fati’s son.  

Somewhere on the streets of Grande Marche in Pointe-Noire, man carrying flags on helmet, Congo on top - that's what's up!

1. Utility prices affordable, respectable availability

Back in Ghana, the tarrif tennis means if the Public Untilities Regulatory Commission smash us in one direction, then the service providers and government clobber us back with a bankhand. Water and electricity as basic resources were/are huge headaches in Ghana.

Not so in Congo. The tarrifs don’t behave like riffraffs, they respect the common man’s capacity and spending power. And service is give – and – take streets ahead of what ECG and GWCL offer.

2. Literacy is too high #French

Okay so in Ghana, English is our official language. But Twi is the on – ground official language. Yet you can’t walk into an average market and begin to be official, of course unless you brace up for some pidgin in there. Taxi drivers and people we relate to on a daily basis may not necessarily be literate in Ghana – as in speaking and writing English.

Well, different ball game in Congo. The Twi equivalent here is Lingala but EVERYONE speaks French – broken French no dey, they speak standard French, market woman, refuse collector, taxi driver, shop assistant. They may not write is but Twi here is French. Obiaaa ka!

3. President is revered and feared 

I’d ally this point to the issue of media. In Ghana where non – entities can insult the President and still grin at their achievement. Here, the media is there but there is zero motivation to go and not insult criticize government let alone president. It’s a democratic autocracy.

So the president is feared and he is respected. You see how in Ghana we blurt his name on air in the newspapers and what have you? Boss, you catch here just respect yourself, it’s as easy as it gets.

4. Election day shock – Man I got shook 

Firstly, campaigns end 24 hours to opening of polls. The only cars that move on election day are those of the security services. Or those that have attained authority to do so. Public transport is BANNED totally from even sparking their engines let alone dare to move.

During elections, internet is nicely lifted – in the name of national security. In 2016 March during vote for president for five days no internet, no call access. But the sweet admirable bit, all election campaign material vanish before voting day.

The town is virtually cleansed of the campaign spirit. You will not see even one poster. It is all scrapped off the walls, off the intersections, off the billboards no matter how high and huge. Election day is like a forced holiday, you no get anything do, sleep.

5. Streets, roads, avenues even lanes are properly named.

No. 91 VILLE DE POINTE NOIRE, 1.E.P. LUMUMBA / BASE AEROPORT. Avenue NGOUANOUNI. If you dey search me, that’s my direct residential address. The naming system for the city is dead admirable.

Last time I checked Ghana was still struggling to deal with streets and link roads in an on – and – off style. Well, back home where I still live with Hajia Fati, I think I live at Tantra Hill Navajo crescent or somewhere like that.

Conclusion

The travel and see mantra has never made as much buzz to me as in the last two years. You cannot but admit that you’ll be strange to others as they they’ll look, be and sound to you. How on earth can people live without waakye and kenkey for example?

But as Hajia Fati continues to stress, you gotta live with what ya got at any material moment. The kenkey (Ga) version of staple here is called manioc. Cassava cooked like kenkey in waakye leaves accompanied by lazy pepper, mayonnaise, chicken and ketchup. Till date I have yet to eat it. Two years holding out.

The blessings of travel, Abidjan airport overlooking the city. Pointe Noire for over a year, Addis Ababa by night and morning and Accra for over the many years of hustle. Tamale, Bolga must hear from me after doing Kumasi on last vacation. When next, I no sabi yet!

Aquinas walls & nickname decor: Razor Blazer’s golden jubilee sign off

Typical boys environment, almost everyone had a nickname. For the records, I did not have one – I didn’t need one and didn’t care for one.

On hindsight, should have picked a.k.a Hajia Fati’s son. Oops at the time she no go hajj – yeah but Auntie Fati’s son would have been better that the Sokoto Gudali they tried to foist on me – Winchester Boye’s badass idea.

To put a slight context to this: "to register" means to write one's nickname on banned surfaces in the school, especially on walls with the use of permanent markers - preferably black.

Some nicknames / nickies refined, others downright crude, some unbelievably nonsensical. Some were local (to particular classes), other extended to the national (entire school). Some teachers had, others were given – known or unbeknown to them.

I heard visual arts students were the worst culprits in registering their names – for all it is worth they use paint. Most classrooms across board had these guy names on desks and class walls. The brave hearted use neutral grounds. Labs, library, staircases and notice boards.

The major chorus going along with the names is so and so ‘waz here som,’ as in they ever attended the school or sat in a particular class. Even on chapel pews some did register, the administration board, school gate etc.

Top picks for my class at the time included B. Banku (Kwame), C Kpanya (Attram), Cocobango (Safo Adu), Kosovo (Daniel Koffi), Nungua Jah Rule (Elvis), Onukpa (Padi), Kpatukpe (Kenneth), Misty flames (Amenyo), Gbegdzra (Rexford), Bawaleshie Ninja (Asare) and Wayo (Albert).

Some had more than one, as was the case with Wayo, it was his other nickname that landed him in hot waters – days to the 50th anniversary celebrations. That name ‘Razor Blazer,’ will blaze around the campus for the wrong reasons.

Read in Ga ‘mini sane’ (what was the matter?) Albert had gone to ‘register’ his name on freshly painted walls of the form two block. The name was known to everyone in our class and others on the block – but no one will chook.

It was clear that Razor Blazer was a form two student but there were 200 odd boys in that set, so who? Visibily distraught Father launched an appeal, prefects nosed around to no end. In the end, Albert busted himself.

The same permanent marker he used to scribble his name was used to scribble same on his bag. The same perhaps to blacken it out in the heat of the search. Then after arriving late to school he left his bag at one end and walked in at the other to escape punishment.

The new security chief, WO, picked the bag and traced the owner to our class. Albert had yet to come in. WO tricked us into admitting the bag was for Albert. He queried and made sure we all agreed.

Then he flung the Razor Blazer question. Albert’s closest associates fought back that it wasn’t him. WO opened the pouch of the bag and turned it inside out. There it was boldly written Razor Blazer in reverse. In less than 10-minute interaction, the biggest fugitive had fallen.

I won’t parrot about what became of Albert – guess? What I would parrot about is other nicknames that made the rounds on campus. An arts student was named ‘wretched’ and he deserved that title 100% - even Mrs Ben-Eghan ever called him that.

I remember JJ Thompson of the Science class, in form one we had a senior called Shato – they said he smoked weed at the time. One chapel prefect reputed for ‘mistakes’ earned the title ‘Ogbaami,’ and there was one ‘Shaker,’ as well.

Among staff members, we named our physics teacher ‘fulcrum,’ one chemistry teacher ‘molar’ as for what we called our General Agric teacher I won’t say – the day he got to know, he told us in expletive Ga (your mothers).

Mr. Dickson did not like his either. But there was one who came with his. Senyo Damali was a National Service guy from the University of Cape Coast, brought to teach us Core Maths. He was cool that we called him ‘Don Sly.’

Still in our class we had other chic names like Prof Blair (Anthony), Aristo (Thomas Aristotle) Pope John Gbedze (Aggor, the late), Don Misty (Frank), Togo spanner (Nicholas), Teee Kornu (Joshua), BM (Mubarak), BH (Emmanuel), Ashamui (Papa Yaw), Dovman (Alfred) Duna Company, Ejalawa, Liber ooo Liber (Attram), Sarbongui (Ibrahim), Lazy Macho, Social Advance (Sampson), Ataa Quaye (Emmanuel), Gentle giant, Kpangoo (Narh), Ayewlity (Kojo) among others.

If it was dangerous to register on the wall back in school, it’s no more, after all I am not a student. I will buy a permanent marker. Walk through the gates and write ‘long ago, I was here but couldn’t register. Better late than never. Signed Hajia Fati’s son, 2g3 batch!’ How about that?