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There have been other cases of flu and it never got to Africa; we argued! Flu is a white man's disease. In fact, it kills them fast; the average white man has lower immunity. Blacks are tough species of humans, more toughened by the toughness and roughness of the African weather and environment. Surely even our harsh weather in Ghana will dry up the virus and bring the rate of infection to negligible figures! We don't have extremely cold weather. These extreme temperatures are friends of flu viruses and we were sure that we could beat this terrorizing virus. My grandparents hushed our fears! ‘'Our foods are spicy, herbs and medicinal plants are our daily vegetables; we cook and over-cook our stuff unlike the white men of the western world! Worry not; COVID-19 wouldn't dare come to Africa! They said. At last, it did arrive at our shores! At the dawn of the lock-down! Fear became our bedfellow! Mainly because I had no savings to stock up food. Nobody to borrow from; God was my only resort! We could only pray and pray. No food! Our electricity recharge finished the very second day of the lock-down. There was no money to recharge the meter. A call to our church leaders provided no financial comfort. Is there any need to fast and pray? we are fasting already; my little son whispered into my ears late in the earliest nights of the lock-down! That did it! That's when I woke up! I stopped making calls, stopped troubling my neighbors; who were no better than myself, and began to think of what to do to make the most of the lock-down! The idea to make Nose-Masks with our used clothes and materials came up when I saw my eldest daughter wearing one. We all have been listening to the news and the clarion calls for the use of Nose-Masks as a way to reduce infection from the virus. My eldest daughter is very smart with needles and thread. Her Nose-Mask looked so cute as if it was made from a factory. The thread lines were so smooth, I was amazed! I called them all together and urged them to join in making many of the Nose-Masks. We could go from house to house and sell them. I could advertise them in all my Whatsapp networks and platforms. There was no accredited Nose-Masks making company as yet. It could sell! It certainly did! We spent less than 5 USD to procure all shapes and sizes of needles; various colors of threads and we all went to work. For two nights and days, I supervised and taught my two daughters and we produced the finest nose-masks and we used the fairly- new clothes from my wardrobe. We had to use the colorful yet beautiful materials to attract buyers. The traditional materials we planned to sell 1usd each while the less colorful was price-tagged for half of this price. My little boy and I took to the streets with 50 units of the colorful Nose-Masks and 25 units of the less. I still do not know where I got the boldness from! Was it the fear of starvation? Was it the need to survive? Whichever it was, God was with us and we sold them all! We came back and were able to procure electricity, cooking gas, Banku, and ingredients to make a pot of soup that could go for a week. On my return, the girls had made a pile of more Nose-Masks. They excitedly showed me new designs that they came up with in my absence. I was amazed! Phone calls came from friends and church members and we sold out more of the new designs. We started a call-and –deliver mini Agency! The last week of the Lock-Down we had competitors. The whole neighborhood seemed to have started making Nose-Masks and the price per unit went down! We had to stop production. We were already survivors! Necessity is the mother of invention they say. We survived the lock-down. We pray it doesn't come ever again! The Virus has reached almost all the regions of Ghana. Yet, it's not as bad as in the western world. Grand-parents were somehow right! The black man in his African sunny environment can beat the virus! We have the intense sun and highest temperatures of the world; we have herbs; we have been toughened by malaria and many other tropical diseases; We are poor in spirit and the scripture says that the kingdom is ours! We shall beat the virus and many others that dare to come!

Ok to you too or at lwasyn djdso snsals dhejjsj jsossksne

My beloved and I cannot be together–or so they say. But why? I still don't really understand, but they say we are not the same–or so his mother claims. We are not the same? Like how? I'm confused. On the day my beloved and I go to visit his mother for the first time, she makes it clear to me that ‘we' can never happen. I sit there like a log, speechless, as if my tongue is tied but really, it is because I find no words to express my bafflement. He asks me to excuse them–‘Wait for me in the car Emefa, I'll be with you shortly.' He appears to be quite stunned by his mother's mien himself. I obey and leave the room, but I stand by the door and eavesdrop. I need to hear something, at least to help me comprehend why the woman who sounded so sweet and welcoming over the phone, is being so indifferent to me now that we finally meet. ‘Mom, what is the meaning of all this? Why are you being like this?' I hear him say. ‘I'm not being indifferent Akwasi, I'm telling you the reality.' ‘Which is…?' ‘That you cannot marry her, no son of mine is ever marrying from that tribe or any other!' ‘But mom why? She's the one I love.' ‘No way...Never! Then find someone else to love because I am not accepting this one. Not today nor tomorrow! There are equally good Ashanti women around you can choose from, maybe even better.' ‘But she's the one I like. I don't want anyone else. Why can't it be her?' ‘Mm-mm. Impossible!, I will not accept an Ewe as my daughter-in-law.' ‘You know you're being irrational mom. You're much too educated to be speaking like this. You of all people should know better!' ‘Me? You dare call me irrational? Call it whatever Akwasi!, I've said my own. See? She hasn't even married you yet, and she's already turn you against me, your own mother. That is all they are good at!' ‘Mom! Emefa has done nothing wrong. She deserves to be given a chance please.' ‘It's either her or me then. Let me know when you've made your choice. I have nothing left to say.' ‘Ah-ah mom, this is too much. You can't just…' Door opens and bangs. Soon afterwards, dead silence. Bitterly, I turn away, my heavy heart pregnant with words my lips may never utter. I head calmly in the direction of the car. Another door bangs, I know it's him coming out. I sit in the car and watch him tread over, shoulders slumped, his eyes drooped the way they do when he is fatigued. My own eyes sting from the struggle to hold back tears that threaten to trickle down any time soon. He joins me in the car, I stare in the opposite direction into direct nothingness. ‘I know you heard everything. Right?' It was not so much of a question as it was a statement. I nod. Hmm. ‘I'm sorry you had to hear all that Emefa. My mother is not a bad person. I promise to sort everything out. Don't worry dear, we'll be fine.' I smile, a painfully forced smile. He takes my hand in his and squeezes it gently, a feeble attempt made to comfort me when he himself needed it the more. I am not convinced. How can I not be worried? He doesn't sound confident like the Akwasi I know; I can tell he's scared, that he isn't so sure anymore. I stare out the window at the house one more time. Who knows? It could be my last. As we leave, I close my eyes and allow the tears to trickle, caressing my cheeks as they make their way slowly down my chin. I bite my lower lip and wonder, 'Why must it come to this?'. Due to circumstances beyond our control, families we didn't ask to be born in, identities we had no choice but to embrace, because of this division called tribe; my beloved and I can never be–or so they say. A short story on tribalism and ethnicity.

My beloved and I cannot be together–or so they say. But why? I still don't really understand, but they say we are not the same–or so his mother claims. ‘We are not the same? Like how?' I'm confused. On the day my beloved and I go to visit his mother for the first time, she makes it clear to me that ‘we' can never happen. I sit there like a log, speechless, as if my tongue is tied but really, it is because I find no words to express my bafflement. He asks me to excuse them–‘Wait for me in the car Emefa, I'll be with you shortly.' He appears to be quite stunned by his mother's mien himself. I obey and leave the room, but I stand by the door and eavesdrop. I need to hear something, at least to help me comprehend why the woman who sounded so sweet and welcoming over the phone, is being so indifferent to me now that we finally meet. ‘Mom, what is the meaning of all this? Why are you being like this?' I hear him say. ‘I'm not being indifferent Akwasi, I'm telling you the reality,' ‘Which is…?' ‘That you cannot marry her, no son of mine is ever marrying from that tribe or any other!' ‘But mom why? She's the one I love.' ‘No way,...Never! Then find someone else to love because I am not accepting this one. Not today nor tomorrow!. There are equally good Ashanti women around you can choose from, maybe even better.' ‘But she's the one I like. I don't want anyone else, why can't it be her?' ‘Mm-mm, impossible my son, I will not accept an Ewe daughter-in-law.' ‘You know you're being irrational mom. You're much too educated to be speaking like this. You of all people should know better!' ‘Me?, you dare call me irrational, call it whatever Akwasi, I've said my own. See?, she hasn't even married you yet, and she's already turn you against me, your own mother.' ‘Mom, Emefa has done nothing wrong, she deserves a chance.' ‘It's either her or me then, let me know when you've made your choice. I have nothing left to say.' ‘Ah-ah, this is too much, you can't just…' Door opens and bangs. Soon afterwards, dead silence. Bitterly, I turn away, my heavy heart pregnant with words my lips may never utter. I head calmly in the direction of the car. Another door bangs, I know it's him coming out. I sit in the car and watch him tread over, shoulders slumped, his eyes drooped the way they do when he is fatigued. My own eyes sting from the struggle to hold back tears that threaten to trickle down any time soon. He joins me in the car, I stare in the opposite direction into direct nothingness. ‘I know you heard everything. Right?' It was not so much of a question. I nod. Hmm. ‘I'm sorry you had to hear all that Emefa, my mother is not a bad person. I promise to sort everything out. Don't worry dear, we'll be fine.' I smile, a painful smile, when he takes my hand in his and squeezes it gently, an attempt made to comfort. I am not convinced. How can I not be worried? He doesn't sound confident like the Akwasi I know; I can tell he isn't so sure anymore. I stare out the window at the house one more time. Who knows? It could be my last. As we leave, I close my eyes and allow the tears to trickle down, caressing my cheeks as they make their way down to my chin. I bite my lower lip and wonder why it has to come to this. Due to circumstances beyond our control, families we didn't ask to be born in, identities we had no choice but to embrace, because of this division called tribe, my beloved and I can never be–or so they say. A short story on tribalism and ethnicity based on a true experience.

My wife and I had had a great night at the Rad Madison Hotel. Head office announced my new role as regional manager and chief of operations across Sub-Saharan Africa and some part of the Middle East.\n\nRegina was beaming, with a permanent smile stuck to her face. I'd never seen her that happy.\n\nThe Cadillac Escalade crawled into the driveway of our Gregorian type home; sturdy columns, vintage carvings by the prominent Italian wood sculptor and friend El Giovanna.\n\nI stepped out and helped Regina onto the Porch, the light came on but there was no Dare. My Valet and Chef also doubled as the family Nanny and would always watch the kids while we went on outings.\n\nThe day we met, it was at an African day function, he was there cooking up some grilled meat popularly called \\"Suya.\\" We laughed and talked about our homes; how I missed Kumasi and he Lagos. We shared an uncommon bond which seemed to be a result of our West-African heritage.\n\n\\"Why's the house so quiet?\\" Regina asked me. I turned to shush her.\n\nThe eerie silence told me there was something out of place.\n\nEven Kgomotso, our live-in gardener was not at the gate as usual of him. We had made sure our home was colored with African nationals. John, our first son could speak a little of the Zulu he had learned from Kgomotso. Our daughter had taken a liking to Dare who told some of the most beautiful Ijapa and Yanibo stories.\n\nRemembering where we had been from, I always felt like my home was too perfect to remain forever.\n\nI could feel my heart starting to race as I pushed open the front door.\n\nThe lights were out. We stepped into the living room and I flicked on the light. Regina let out a scream.\n\nThe seats and shattered center table were covered in blood. Regina had started to run up the stairs and I followed suit, grabbing a baseball bat along the way.\n\nWe rushed into the children's room, Regina ran straight at the pile of bodies.\n\nFirst, she pulled off Kgomotso whose back was riddled with knife cuts, his body rolled off the pile.\n\nMy hands fumbled through my jacket, grabbing my phone, I dialed 911.\n\n\\"Help me pull his leg!\\" Regina screamed at me, pointing at Dare whose eyes stared into space unblinking.\n\nI could see the tiny arms of my daughter, so I grabbed Regina and held her as she kicked and thrashed about.\n\n\\"My babies, My babies!\\" she wailed on and on in my arms.\n\nThen we heard the sound that shut her up \\"Mommy...\\" John called out almost inaudibly.\n\nWe both rushed to pull Dare's body off. John had a small cut above his eyebrow, a scar that would forever remind us of that day. Kisi cried for months anytime she saw or heard someone speak Yoruba.\n\nThe reports from the New York Police Department (NYPD) led to the conclusion that the homicide attack was politically motivated, there was a letter. Someone had wanted me dead after the deal for DRC oil exploration had pissed off the government.\n\nThey thought I was the key to making sure insurgents were not given the fat payoff they had always had in the region.\n\nThe attacker had kicked open the door smack into John's face. The boy had quickly regained composure and run up the stairs to grab his sister.\n\nDare and Kgomotso had paid the ultimate price to defend our babies. They wouldn't budge until the attacker fled the house.\n\nThey must have made themselves into a body shield covering John and Kisi with their battered bodies.\n\n***\n\nThis fictional story is the result of my thoughts today about Ghana, South Africa, and Nigeria. We have been a major part of African liberation but yet are still full of hate for each other.\n\nNigerians must forgive South Africans in advance for what they might or will do to us. This is the only way to break the cycle of hate in Africa. The same must apply to South Africa and Ghana and every African country.\n\nOur fathers bled for the development of other countries of which today most of us have no stake in. We will always be presented with a choice, to bleed for Africa or to make others bleed.\n\nNo African has had it easy. Whether rich, poor or privileged. We all are products of centuries of bloodshed, slavery, colonialism, and struggle. It's our duty to honour their memories by defending Africa with our lives. This might cost us our pride, our feelings of entitlement, our memories of killings across tribes and countries. It will cost us a lot but we must be willing to forgive ourselves in advance for the evil planted in our hearts by decades of oppression and separatist politics.