A letter to Ryma: You may please wake the bride…

Dear Ryma,

It’s taken me so long to write back to you. I was drowned in the commotion of moving homes from Osu to Sakumono. It took time to settle in and figure out where to catch a bus to work and where the finest kenkey in the neighbourhood is sold. At Sakumono, if I ever fail to get out of bed before five in the morning, I’m sentencing myself to nothing short of misery and struggle at the commercial bus terminals along the Sakumono – Teshie Nungua road. It’s no easy road to work, I tell you.

My experiences at the “trotro” stations over the last few weeks are shaping my thoughts on what I want to hear our governments talk about. Less of the so-called macroeconomic indices; more of how they intend to improve transportation and our road networks! Period! Honestly, Ryma, I have decided not to vote in 2012 for any party that promises a macroeconomic utopia. I just want to know from the politicians when it will be easy and comfortable to catch a ride from Sakumono to Accra. Is that too much to ask for?

Sorry I’m whining so much about transportation. You know, recently, I spend 20% of my time out of the house driving in one car or the other and thus, I have become quite passionate about transportation and the road networks in this part of the world. It was on one of such trotro rides from work that I eavesdropped on conversations that caught my interest and I intend to share some with you.

And these trotros, ahem! Ryma, they act as canvasses for some of the most confusing philosophical phrases you can think of in our world and beyond. That was how I found myself in an old and rusty lorry with the inscription: “For all things look yourself first”. The seats on the lorry looked super dirty. There was little legroom for my long legs. Half of the windows wouldn’t open and the engine under the driver’s seat radiated so much heat. I had no option that evening. I wanted to curse the lorry and its owner, and then I remembered the writing: “For all things look yourself first.” As I let myself fall reluctantly into the seat behind the driver, my mind drifted to the day I’ll walk into an automobile showroom and drive out in my dream car.

In my mind, I started calculating the cost of a brand new car and I imagined how I’d arrange the payment terms with the car dealer. I imagined a skinny and hairy Lebanese man taking me round the showroom and explaining the features of each car to me. “This one has a cool box,” he said. “What’s a cool box?” I asked, with my shoulders raised with pride. “This allows you to chill your drinks in the glove compartment when the air conditioner is turned on,” he explained. “The seats are made of superior Italian leather, automatic transmission as well.” “It has over eight airbags.” “It is power windows, power steering.” The showroom dialogue continued and I heard a shrill voice from afar: “Hey! owula ke shika hami!” To wit: hey! Mister, give me my money. I woke up to notice the stretched arm of the driver’s mate in my face, demanding his fare.

I snapped back into the real world! There was no Lebanese auto dealer around me. Neither was there anything close to a showroom with brand new cars. I was still in the trotro. And, Ryma, to prevent myself from drifting into another round of wild and pleasant daydreaming I choose to concentrate on what was going on in the vehicle. I overheard the two ladies sitting behind me giggling and sharing usual feminine pleasantries. I gathered one of them was preparing for her wedding due in about 3 months. “But there’s a problem, Sarah,” the bride-to-be confided in her friend. “I’m scared Nii doesn’t trust me enough,” she continued.

After eavesdropping for a while, I gathered the bride-to-be was telling her friend about an honest conversation she had with her husband-in-waiting. The bride- to-be mentioned how she confronted her fiancé about his lack of trust for her, which he had shown by monitoring her call logs, reading her text messages and calling friends to find out if she was around them anytime she left home. She admitted lying to her fiancé once about a sugar daddy from her past. Her fiancé later found out about the lie. She apologised and promised to get over all her past relationships, but she felt it was high time her fiancé started trusting her. According to her, she made her husband-to-be understand that once they got married they should keep clear off each other’s phones and respect each others privacy.

Ryma, it was at this point that I began to ask myself what exactly love relationships and marriages were about. How could someone expect her fiancé’s trust to return quickly even after a lie she told was found out? To what extent should couples be independent? I thought a favourite phrase for pastor’s officiating marriage ceremonies is: “And the two shall become one.” How is it that people who have become one expect to keep their call logs and text messages secret from each other? Is the theory of a man and a woman becoming one after marriage a hoax? Is it just for one to claim ownership of the other’s properties when the other dies intestate? Just before I asked myself the next question, the driver’s mate cried out: “Sakumono!” “Bus stop!” I responded.

Just before I got off the bus, I turned to look at the two ladies who sat behind me and whose conversations I eavesdropped on. At that point, I almost said to the bride-to-be’s friend: “You may now wake the bride.” This woman must be sleep-talking! I paused looked up at the trotro and the writing caught my eyes again: “For all things look yourself first.” So I bowed my head, Ryma, and walked towards home reflecting on the varied expectations we all have of marriage. Walking home was powerfully evocative of many happy visits I made to your house in our childhood. My love to your son. Just tell him his Super Uncle says hello.

With fondest memories, Senyo