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The six-day assault of Kilimanjaro via the Macheme route was a walk in the park for me. This was my 16th assault of Africa’s highest mountain, and I had, between 2001 and 2009, survived the other more grueling routes under all kinds of murderous weather conditions. Macheme was easy peasy lemon squeezy.
That last part was only in my head, of course. No mountaineer with his head screwed to his neck at the right angle will disrespect a mountain prior to reaching its summit. It’s a little like telling the crocodile while you’re crossing the deep river on his back that his warty snout is particularly unattractive. You can be sure of this: not only would you not reach the other bank; you’d be croc dinner too!

This is not to lend any credence to the ridiculous superstitions making the rounds about some mountains in Africa. BraveHearts Expeditions and I had to deal with one such unfounded superstition when in 2015 we launched the first abseiling assault on the face of Mount Odweanoma in Kwahu. We were told the mountain was the face of some god, and that setting foot on its face (which we would with abseiling) would be sacrilegious. We abseiled, of course. The gods haven’t shown any interest in us yet. Still, no experienced mountaineer disrespects a mountain. In the case of Kilimanjaro, approximately 1-thousand people are evacuated each year, and some 10 deaths occur annually, mainly due to altitude sickness. You don’t want to be trekking up Kilimanjaro in miniskirt and high heels, wearing attitude and throwing shades at the 4,359-year-old mountain when acute mountain sickness, hypothermia, rock fall and avalanches, colds and respiratory infections contribute to stopping hundreds of people from reaching the summit each season.
But in West Africa, the killer-humidity on the Akwapim-Togo-Buem highlands is so energy-sapping that hiking alpine mountains are such cool endeavours. And it is with this backdrop that I consider an assault of Kilimanjaro as a walk in the park. Except for the bone-calcifying cold at night, of course.

Anyway, so here I was on the fourth day of my 13-man assault of Kilimanjaro. So far, I had escaped the exhaustion some on my team were experiencing, the altitude sickness and constant vomiting of a sweet other, the farting and anti-bath mountaineering policy of yet another team-mate and the I-never-poop-on-mountain-adventures plan of still another. To be sure, I was the envy of everyone else. Then came summit night at Barafu camp. I had been feeling increasingly feverish the night prior. I knew the symptoms of malaria so much that there was no doubt in my mind that the nightmare I had on Night 2 was an indication of how much running-around those annoying plasmodium parasites were doing in my blood. I had the right medication – that oh-so-awful combination of artemether and lumefantrine. Knowing what hell a malaria-free mountaineer experiences in summiting Uhuru, I felt it was necessary to start the dosage early. So I popped the first tablets at lunchtime in the hope that the second tabs by midnight might reduce the symptoms of the malaria and make the final assault easy peasy as well.
Midnight came and Patty, our head porter, woke me up in my tent and offered a bowl of hot water to thaw my thick, frozen fingers. Breakfast consisted of hot chocolate drink and some biscuits (I have since vowed to take a mixture of gari, sugar and groundnuts on all future assaults), and I washed the medication down with breakfast. Then the midnight trek to Stellar Point began. From Barafu (altitude 4,645m) we hauled our backsides through the icy night with nothing to guide our vision except the stars and our headlights. We reached Stellar Point (altitude 5,739 m) at sunrise at enormous personal effort. I could barely put a foot after another. I was far worse for wear than my team-mates who had thrown up every step of the steep, scree-filled slopes. The enormously high altitude of Kilimanjaro had increased the number of my red blood cells. This was my body’s way of dealing with the increasingly thin oxygen amounts in my blood. Consequently, the amount of the malaria medication that attached to each cell increased, reducing the amount of free drugs in my plasma and lessening the effectiveness of the medication. My theory is supported by this University of Cincinnati research.

“In high altitudes, our bodies produce more red blood cells,” says Prof. Wolfgang Ritschel. “Research on the body’s reaction to medication is generally done on subjects who live at sea level, and these results are extrapolated to people at high altitudes. This study suggests that a dosage’s clinical effectiveness should also be tested on people in high altitudes” before assuming effectiveness in high altitude terrains. My assumption that malarial medication would help was proven to be unfounded. Not only did it not help, it induced sluggishness, extreme sleepiness, overwhelming exhaustion, dizzying headache and an overpowering desire to return to my Mama. It was a wonder I made it to both Stellar Point and Uhuru Peak (altitude 5,895m).

As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t have made it without the help of my team mates in the Mountain Goats Clan, the Russian-blooded Sergei, the German Daniel, and his beautiful wife Christina. After we made it to Uhuru, Christina and I (probably the ones who suffered the most on the assault) made it back to Barafu in record-breaking time. Our bodies screamed for sub-peak oxygen and enabled us to literally ski off the summit, but that story is for another day. My point: high altitudes and anti-malarial medication do not mix. Do check your blood plasmodium levels before you assault Kilimanjaro. Your house people might not help you the way mine did.


3 decades and counting… and I still hadn’t figured out how exactly menstrual pain felt. Which isn’t surprising. I am a man, after all. Still, every time I saw a member of the fairer sapiens writhing on the floor, all covered in grimaces that spoke little to the real pain they felt in those crampy moments, I tried to imagine how it would all really feel if I traded places. True, I empathized and sympathized with those I knew had such issues. But can you imagine how terrible it would seem to say to a woman in the throes of menstrual pain, “I know how you feel”, or “I share in your pain”? That, of course, would be ludicrous. Talk about taking sympathy to modin sane levels.

But I wondered. And wondered again. What will the experience be like for me if I suffered pain similar to menstrual cramps, at least for a day? After all, what was the point of empathy if it failed to generate a sense of knowing the experience of another person in ways that harnessed all cognitive, affective and behavioural resources to the benefit of the sufferer?

Let me break the grammar down. How can I empathize with a victim of dysmenorrhea as if I myself was sharing in their pain? You can’t silly! You’re a man, my inner voice said. He was right of course. Few studies have directly examined empathy for pain. The best materials on the subject suggest that observing somebody in pain activates similar neurons as if the observer was experiencing similar pain himself.

But that has been debunked by other research that observe that only the affective and not the sensory components of the pain network are activated when we observe a person we care about in pain. In short, my face can imitate the grimace from the pain a girlfriend is experiencing from menstrual cramps and even imitate the distress that accompanies the nerve-wracking experience, but there’s absolutely no way to actually induce the throbbing pain in the abdomen (unless I asked someone to kick me in the family jewels), or induce the headaches, dizziness and nausea.

No sir.

So I had to accept the maxim that no pain could be compared to cramps, and that only women could bear or tolerate the pain. If that lot fell to men, women were pretty sure we’d be a crap-faced, pathetic bunch indeed come the end or so of each menstrual month. And I believed them. Until recently.

I can now say, on authority, that men know exactly how menstrual cramps feel like. Even better, we are capable, and have done so on more occasions than we can count, of bearing infinitely more pain than our female counterparts. Ours trumps dysmenorrhea any day. Here’s why I say so:

I like to laze about a lot on Sundays. I just chill. Other than the occasional stepping out to find me some nice waakye in the morning, I bring the wrath of a typhoon to bear on the head of anyone who forces me to leave home, TV and my dogs on Sundays. And, as befits Sunday morning relaxations, I walk around unrestrained.

Y’all know what antipe is, right?

You don’t?

Antipe is when a man walks around in shorts without first wearing underwear. And that’s perfectly alright at home, of course. Can’t be walking around town with one’s ding-dong dangling every-which-way, now, can we? So antipe is all good and well at home. Creates room for Sir John Thomas, also known us Long John Black or, even better, L. L Cool J, to take a breather, you know?

And so here I was, this particular Sunday morning. It was eleven. I had just watched The Hitman’s Bodyguard and was laughing my head off at Samuel L. Jackson’s conversation with his wife when I decided I needed to use the bathroom.

You know the drill for men. Unzip. Unpack. Flow. Shake. Shake some more. One more shake. Repack. Zip up. Pretty routine. Here’s why this morning’s was different. As I was performing the final part – the zipping up part – I must have zipped up too fast while L. L Cool J was only now settling away from the cloth of the zipper. I ended up zipping a whole inch of L. L Cool J skin in the zipper!

What do you mean, “Did you scream”?

Of course I screamed my head off! I yowled, howled, caterwauled, wailed, whined and screeched, in no particular order. Heck, I must have reached octaves in the throes of that excruciatingly painful ordeal. My dogs howled in return of course, but the skin stayed right where it was… zipped up together with my shorts.


See, anyone familiar with the male reproductive shaft knows that it’s all one muscular contraption. The skin covering it is the thinnest skin there is in the human anatomy – and the most sensitive. It stretches, of course, during blood engorgement, but that is what makes the experience dreadful. A whole inch of it was locked up in my zipper, and already the throbbing pain was giving me a splitting headache.

Forget Tramadol. This pain was the stuff of high morphine dosages.


Or have I said that already?

Double ouch then.

Make that triple!

And, as every man who has gone through this ordeal knows, those moments are most tender. You can never find a man at his tenderest any other time, I’m teling you. I locked my knees like a robot. Any movement was going to end up tearing skin, and that, my friends, would be pure, unadulterated, PAIN!


So I locked my knees and begun the most tender process ever enjoined by a man of unzipping and setting my inflaming member free. Passing a zipper over the skin of a penis hurts like hell. That has been established herewith. Now, imagine passing the zipper back down the same inflamed skin.

Maame eeee!

But a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. My breath came to me erratically. My knees were shaking, and sweat had broken on my brow. My hands shivered as I set out to perform the unimaginably painful operation of excising my penile skin from my zipper. Slowly I moved the zipper back down. Each interlocking teeth pinched me some even as I slowly worked it down. The whole world knows that the average zipper bears ten pairs of teeth per inch. That’s 20 teeth over my most sensitive skin!


I screamed as the zipper pinched, and pinched and pinched. By the time I was done, I was so sore I couldn’t even allow air to pass over the skin without screaming the entire neighbourhood down. I forgot to turn off my living room fan, and when a gust hit me and my nakedness when I returned from the bathroom (I had discarded the shorts, of course), I almost passed out.

I didn’t wear “dross” for a week after the incident. And even afterwards, I wore only soft cotton boxers. The memory of the pain, however, lasted three months. Even now, as we speak, I have checked to be sure that my zipper is in no danger of mistaking my flesh for a cloth. And this, my friends, is the ordeal that trumps menstrual cramps any day.

Dear women, please take a bow on this. Menstrual cramps has nothing, and I mean NOTHING on zipped penile skin.

I get nightmares just remembering that one-time incident.

And cold sweat too.

You’re right. I am definitely a what-iffer. Life would be intrinsically more boring for me if I wasn’t. Being a what-iffer doesn’t mean that I am exactly insane but, all the same, let’s agree I am a what-iffer. Some of my what-iffs are productive.

Examples: What if Ghana had the longest zip line across the largest man-made lake? What if free SHS was possible? What if the ecstatic, unintelligible gibberish of today’s churches wasn’t the tongues of the Bible? What if I could change Ghanaian culture in favour of outdoor adventure activities? What if Sunday worship was the Mark of the Beast? What if America was truly racist? What if I could reconnect with my first love in ways that could build the best friendship I had ever wanted?

These what-ifs are productive in the sense that they cause me to bend my mental, physical, intellectual and financial resources to seeing some happen, discovering many to be true, lambasting false Christian theories and building better relationships. Then there are the totally useless what-iffs; the ones I call modin-Sane: What if, instead of having an abortion it was possible to extract an embryo alive from the womb of a woman who didn’t want it, and move it into a lab that could sustain it to babyhood for nine months? What if we could have shitholian African Parliamentarians taken out and shot? What if Ghana could launch a real space ship into orbit (I knew I shouldn’t have eaten too much pepper the night I had this what-if)? What if we could rid Africa of corrupt leaders by May 26, 2018?

As you can see, not all what-ifs are positively whatifiable. So, when I what-iffed the possibility of a non-existing God, I immediately filed it under modin-Sane.

But the thought wouldn’t be so easily discarded. My mind actually thought it would benefit from considering the possibility that there was no God. This had come about because many unbelieving friends of mine had that week put up spirited denunciations and ridiculed the concept of the existence of God. I faced them fair and square of course (no one I know of has ever accused me of running away from an intellectual fight), and floored the archeologists and humanists among them (let’s hope they don’t read this and write rejoinders ;-)).

So I gathered my puny human intellect, picked up a glass of aluguntugun juice, sat on a camp chair on an island in the Akwamu Gorge one evening, raised my eyes to the starry skies and bent the forces of my mind to contemplate the possibility that God did not exist. Before this exercise, I had availed myself of all the still-unrefuted scientific evidence that had been discovered and widely published in some of the world’s leading science journals. Some of them had for 40 years supported the Genesis Creation record that God made the heavens and the earth and the sea and everything in them. By embarking on this what-iffer, I was essentially about to suspend what I had believed for 35+ years and consider alternatives.

Make no mistake. The only way to declare that God does not exist is to attack the first book of the Bible – Genesis. But since Genesis had done me no wrong (I like Moses actually. His meekness is one I aspire to, just as soon as I get rid of my Kalashnikov), I could not bring it up in my what-iffing. If a person is willing to consider that there is no God, that person has no business bringing a book of God into his or her enterprise. If God does not exist, then Genesis does not exist. Therefore, I had to turn to something that wasn’t godly – the big bang theory of relativistic cosmology – earlier deduced by an “army of data” to have occurred 5.5 billion years ago and was later amended to some 13.8 billion years.

The theory essentially claimed the universe as we know it started with a small singularity, then inflated (bang!) over the next 13.8 billion years to the cosmos that we know today. What commends the big bang theory to itself is its reliance on what seems to be overwhelming experimental evidence for an ancient age of the earth and its unquestionable laws of radioactive decay, also called radiometric dating.

Christians claim that God created the heavens and the earth, the sea and everything else that exists. They cite the Bible as the source, and the basis, of that belief. If one wants to refute that, then one has to refute the Bible’s authenticity, and as the world knows, there is no end to the relentless pursuits on a daily basis to discredit the Bible.

But for the Christian, there really isn’t much work to do to prove anything beyond what the Bible has said. God created the heavens and the earth. Enough said. Since Science claimed to be above faith and the Bible, I began to ponder whether Science had any real evidence from among the “overwhelming scientific data” for the claim that the earth had banged itself into existence over billions of years.

What physical element, substance or property was scientifically credited to be the evidence of the big bang? I was informed by the documentation I assessed that pleochroic halos were deemed to be the phenomenon, which supposedly established the constancy of the decay rate of radioactive matter over geologic time, and threw out the ananse story of a God who had power to create. If there were no God, then the scientific evidence should support no claim of a fast-solidifying foundation of granite rock – known as Precambrian rock. Science holds that these rocks were formed (excruciatingly) slowly as molten magma cooled down. The Bible holds that these rocks were formed instantly in one day when the Spirit of God moved over a formless earth and caused the dry land to appear from nothing. These pleochroic halos are apparently formed by radioactivity in various rocks and are most easily observed in mica under a microscope. Uranium forms the rings of a certain type of one of these halos, which is the key for scientists as to whether the rate of decay was constant. But uranium is not the only element that forms these halos. Polonium does that too but, unlike uranium, polonium has only a fleeting existence, leading scientists to only credit uranium with the production of the halos.

As a what-iffer my interest, while sipping my aluguntugun juice, and trying to make sense of tons of scientific gobbledygook, was knowing when the Earth was formed. If the evidence proved that it took billions of years, God would cease to exist in my eyes because a God of truth would not have us believe that it took Him six days only to create the heavens and the earth when it took Him billions of years. But if science could not prove when the earth banged into existence, then it simply would become charlatan and false, and God would be true.

Essentially in big bang cosmology, all of Earth’s chemical elements formed hundreds of millions or billions of years before the time matter finally began to condense to form the proto-Earth as a molten ball of matter. Geologists generally believe that these are Precambrian rocks because they contain no fossils and have no evidence of life in them. These are the rocks that underlie the continents – the foundational rocks – and are the ones that contain the uranium and polonium halos. The evidence I studied, while the harmattan winds whipped Lake Volta into a frenzy, suggested that the polonium halos could not have emerged from uranium. Granite cooling from a molten state would have taken so long that there would have been, in the heat and all that turmoil, no traces whatsoever of polonium. In fact, polonium would have been incinerated in minutes.

The answer to how polonium could have been around in the long time it would have taken the granite to cool was the answer to my musings. Basically, a speck of polonium in molten rock could be compared to a tablet of Andrews Liver Salt in a glass of water. The beginning of effervescence is equated to the moment that polonium atoms began to emit radioactive particles. In molten rock the traces of those radioactive particles would disappear as quickly as the Martin Liver Salt crystals in water. The only way the crystals would be preserved is if the water were instantly frozen. Polonium halos could only have formed if the rapidly “effervescing” specks of polonium had been instantly encased in solid rock.

The truth, of course is this: there are immeasurably large number of polonium halos embedded in granites around the world. Just as frozen Martin Liver Salt crystals would be clear evidence of the quick-freezing of the water, these many polonium halos undeniably give evidence that a sea of primordial matter quickly “froze” into solid granite. The occurrence of these polonium halos, then, distinctly implies that our earth was formed in a very short time (in six days actually), and not over a long, drawn out period of billions of years.

The most credible source of that information is the Bible, which speaks unimpressed with scientific gobbledygook about the foundation rocks, “And, Thou, Lord, in the beginning hast laid the foundation of the earth; and the heavens are the works of thine hands.” “Of old hast thou laid the foundation of the earth: and the heavens are the work of thy hands.” “By the word of the Lord were the heavens made; and all the host of them by the breath of his mouth. … For He spake, and it was done; He commanded, and it stood fast.” (Hebrews 1:10; Psalm 102:25; Psalm 33:6,9).

Before the alunguntugun juice ran out, my belief was strongly reaffirmed that God exists. He is. He was. And always will be. Scientists, not unexpectedly, believe the polonium-halo evidence for Creation is, at best, a tiny mystery, in spite of the fact that they haven’t been able to refute the evidence in close to 50 years. “But God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty” 1 Corinthians 1:27.

Polonium halos may be insignificant in the discussions of a big bang theory, but they clearly offer a big challenge to the science of evolution and totally flaws the theory of the big bang, and until that challenge is proven beyond reasonable doubt, I believe in God!

So, with that resolved, I bent what was left of my what-iffing over a long night to what social evidence we would see if there were no God. And I realized that people would have us believe God does not exist as a way of shaking off His moral restraints. Evidence abound that the increasing rise in divorce, fornication, licentiousness, homosexuality, vice and all the putrefying sins of the world is linked to the removal of God’s moral restraints. Other than His law, what else would make stealing another person’s wife abhorrent (unless you were the victim-husband)? Human laws have not been enough to curb society’s hurtful tendencies, and neither has the proliferation of churches in every available street corner of Accra where I live. It is God’s word and His law – not the false churches that create economic opportunity for themselves in His name, nor the false humanists who would have every allusion to God’s power and grace to save removed from all mention, nor the false scientists who move from their failure to ground the theory of evolution to declaring vile homosexuality a hereditary tendency over which its adherents have no control – that would make the world a better place.

This jungle boy believes God through Christ will come soon to clean the mess we have made of His earth and restore us into His image and His original plan for all His created beings – joy, untold happiness, and the realization and achievement of our sanctified dreams and aspirations higher than our present senses of self-actualization.

Sometimes I feel I am a total stranger in “this our country Ghana”. I spend three weeks of each month in the jungle so I tend to miss all the juicy nonsense that make the rounds in the news and on social media until the modin sane have gained full throttle.

Usually, one of my more perverse WhatsApp platforms would have discussed the issues, tried and passed judgment long before I find out what’s been going on. Catching up on a thousand chats can lead to bipolar deficiencies, I tell you, and nothing can generate lengthier chats than discussions of a sex tape gone viral.

Two particularly vile issues come to mind. The first concerns Abena Korkor, who came to some social media prominence when, while standing for election as president of the Students Representative Council (SRC) of the University of Cape Coast (UCC), she circulated her own nude videos. The shock and awe she was expecting from exposing her body in those nudies backfired though. Her electoral dreams were incinerated beyond salvageable ashes by that singularly unwise move. More recently, she has made the social media list of modin sane by alleging to have been involved in over a hundred infractions of engaging in sexual activity for a fee, with more than two score men, over a dozen of whom would qualify as Ghanaian celebrities. Screen shots of her clearly-mentally-deranged confessions took over Facebook and WhatsApp alone for a week.

Then there was Afia Schwarzenegger, a media person with an acidic tongue and TV shows full of sickening sexual innuendoes unfit for the consumption of any society with its head screwed on properly. Her nude videos were circulated over ten million times, in which she was seen engaging in lewd acts with an unidentified partner under the threat of an acid bath. When the video was shared on one WhatsApp platform I belonged to, I absolutely refused to download the aberration, to speak less of distributing it. I wanted no part whatsoever in the production and dissemination of stupidity. Many phones would engage that video, but mine, and the resources of my time, phone and data was sworn to have no share in the trafficking of that particularly vile sex tape.

The summary descriptions of its content on various platforms and news media were enough to make me lose my breakfast on the prized Persian of my home floor. Whereas I may understand male perverts’ obsessions with sex tapes, nudity, and confessions of sexual exploits, I have a hard time understanding why females download sex tapes and sex scandals. Anyone with a teaspoon of moral brains in their heads know that the true victim of any leaked video of a fornicating duo is the woman. Why, then, were women on platforms the ones who more eagerly shared the videos and visited Abena Korkor’s wall looking for details of her many sexual partners? Surely, it wasn’t to find out if their husbands made the list, was it? Our obsession with these leaked sex tapes and nudies speaks to one thing, of course.

We are a society of sexual perverts. Other than porno addicts, what in goodness name is the fun and gratification in watching two people fornicating? Or, even worse, wasting internet resources in sharing those? There is no maxim more laughable in Ghana than the tag that we’re a Christian nation.


To think that Peter, James and John would have viewed and shared a sex tape – and that we belong to the same stock of faith as they did – is a more dire mental illness symptom than any bipolar hypersexuality. Shame on you! I am here not going to get into the argument of Afia Schwar’s and Abena’s mental state (my personal diagnoses is they belong to an asylum), but to get into the mental state of a country that celebrates sexual scandals and allied stupidity. We have a bestial curiosity towards the mundane, the sickening, the sexually explicit and the morbidly sheepish. That is the reason we share nude videos and share photos of the dead and dying. Can you believe we once even shared videos of toddlers attempting to have sex?

That, my friends, is who we are. A veritable bunch of perverts. Don’t let the tongues and church prayers fool anyone. One thing to note though. None of the intelligent WhatsApp groups I belong shared the videos or talked about them. None. And I’m not here talking about Church platforms where to post one would have been to incur the scathing holier-than-thou rebuke of Sister Michael and Brother Patience. I am talking here about platforms with men and women so professional and mentally acute that they feel it is an unforgiveable insult to waste the time of group members with such foolishness. Even after Abena had deleted her posts from off her Facebook wall, folks in the media and online apologies of news portals continued to feature her deleted posts as newsworthy.


Let’s leave Afia and Abena well alone. There are no bigger, sicker perverts than us.


The Supreme Court of Ghana has ruled that the transfer of the two former Guantanamo Bay detainees to Ghana was unconstitutional. Of course, we all knew that the two Gitmo dudes had no business in Ghana where respect for the rule of Law was concerned. Everyone knew this – except, of course, those who like the NDC, wash their faces upwards with chicken piss. Former President John Mahama was dead wrong, and that is the reason this jungle boy tore into him on his pathetic excuses for bringing them in, and the one of Christian compassion topped the list of the most ridiculous, never mind that these Gitmo Illegals were Muslim.

But what got all of us angry the most was how they were smuggled into the country. You don’t bring Gitmo detainees into Ghana without letting our representatives in Parliament in on it, never mind that our House of Parliament is increasingly becoming a bastion of corruption and extortion. But even so, bribe them as is their increasing custom, let them pretend to deliberate and make some rare, intelligent contribution to the matter, and have it approved by the whipping in line of your majority. That way, even if the Gitmo Illegals presented at KIA with a couple of bombs attached to their electric-shock-enlarged testi-balls, we all would have slept peacefully knowing that our (presumably wise) parliamentarians believe the two won’t blow the Makola Market up one day in a fit. That’s what I would have done if I were president at the time. But our resident Dead Goat met the Americans, discussed the benefits accepting the Gitmo Duo would bring (and no one can persuade me to believe that large amounts of cash did not change hands, tweeaa), and sneaked the two into our apampamu-store Republic.

But accepting two former Guantanamo Bay detainees into one’s country requires some serious intelligent work. These two were arrested shortly after the September 11 WTC attacks on US soil, brow-beaten, interrogated and tortured mercilessly for many years since then without access to any legal representations whatsoever. There are numerous reports detailing how, under such inhumane conditions, former detainees who otherwise would never have known of bombs in their lifetime, afterwards resort to bombing US targets for putting them through such satanic cruelty. This is what happens in Guantanamo Bay, and the Bay in its name notwithstanding (y’all watched too much Acapulco Bay), Gitmo Bay is not a fantasy beach. The facility can turn a pope into a terrorist la. This is why we all got pissed about bringing them in. And how exactly, as Ghana, could we ascertain their levels of threat? Because the United States said they posed minimal threat? Really?

So I was glad the government got sued (I was considering it myself :-P) and now, the fact of Law has been established. The NPP Government now has the interesting task of getting parliament to ratify an act they bastardized of the former President. An act that they made political capital out of, demonized and well-nigh presented as the most unwise National Security decision ever made by a sitting president. These are interesting times, you see?

Me, I’d have bundled the Gitmo Illegals and dumped them before the gates of the US Embassy. I’d have given the US 72 hours to have them removed and relocated to Trump Towers… especially in the face of the recent arrogance of the Embassy and the ridiculous suggestion that the Peerless John A. Kuffour, the indefatigably booming John Jerry Rawlings, and the comfortably leading John D. Mahama would have to queue in the sun some, just to get a US Visa.

What nonsense!

Massa, I’d have tipped the Gitmo Illegals from a tipper truck over the walls and into the Embassy la!

You: “Why shouldn’t their stay be renewed if they have proven themselves to be low risk?”

Me (and some unnamed friends): “The same reason the US deports aliens with impunity – because they broke the law in the first place.”


But no, that’s just me. This government will have to go to Parliament to seek that ratification. And the two might well remain here ad infinitum. After all, one of them is happily married to Maamle Afi Borborbor Ibn Atlef, and their offspring look amazing. They might make fine counter terrorism experts one day, so there’s no need to be seeking vengeance. But the issue, when it gets presented to Parliament, would make for great laughter, I tell y’all. The NPP will be for it, of course, but the NDC will play their usual devilry and demand, especially remembering the rancid response of the NPP in opposition to the Gitmo saga, that the government return the two. I have me a cauldron of popcorn to sit back and enjoy the ride. No matter how bad things get in this our republic, my friends, we can push our impending heart attacks far into the future if we take the fun view of things, and our politicians are the classic comedians if ever there were some.

Until we speak again, I’ll probably be watching Kumawood’s new sensation:

Gitmo II – The Illegals!

Author: JayJay D. Segbefia, NAV Journalist, Business Person, Jungle Boy Chupachups Accra-GHANA First off, if your response as soon as you saw the heading of this article was, “Tofiakwa! God forbid!” then you really need to be taken out and shot by the next available terrorist. When the assault is launched on Ghana (and I will soon give you several reasons why it probably might before this year is over), we will not be saved by our laughable religious fanaticism and unfounded charismatic sentimentalism, but by our readiness and preparedness, and by an almighty dose of the common sense that so eludes our government sometimes. We must be out of our minds if we think we’re more righteous as a nation than our neighbours who have lost lives to AQIM (Al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb), perpetrators of the killings in Tunisia, Morocco, Algeria, Mali, Burkina Faso and now Ivory Coast. Our elders used to recommend that one puts a pail of water on stand-by as soon as one sees his neighbour’s beard on fire. That recommendation needs amendment, in my jungle opinion. What if I knock down the pail of water in my haste to douse my beard when mine catches fire? Consequently, my personal policy remains to immerse my beard in the Wli waterfalls as soon as I see my neighbour’s beard smoking. Let’s first get to understand who these terrorists are, what they want, how they are funded and how Ghana can refuse to be an easy target, before we assume the unfounded arrogance of hoping that the prayers of AGLOW International Ghana alone will save us. 1. Who carried out the Ivorian and other Attacks? And Why? The attacks in Grand Bassam were carried out by six gunmen affiliated with AQIM. Although globally recognized as being an offshoot of Al Qaeda, its members tend to refer to themselves more as the Movement for Unity and Jihad in West Africa (MUJAO). MUJAO’s overriding goal is to “unite all Muslims from the Nile to the Atlantic in jihad against Westerners”. All that they did in Mali, Burkina Faso, and now Ivory Coast, is nothing but an announcing launch of their intentions for the rest of West Africa, and Ghana is an integral part of the grounds they wish to cover with their preliminary campaign. Unless we truly relocate to the Equator and build a Jericho wall around our proposed island nation where rainbows are found at the end of tunnels, we all had better reach out for some body armour. 2. Where do they get their funding? In addition to ransom demands from kidnappings and launching assaults on mines and barracks in search of funds and resources, MUJAO gets its funding mostly from the bottomless pockets of the West African drugs trade, and Ghana is a key signatory to the accords of that illicit trade as a passive transit zone. Remember how scanners at KIA got turned off some time ago just to allow drugs to pass unmolested through our domain? Let’s not be fooled at all by the seemingly huge reduction of the numbers of drug traffickers arrested over the course of the past eight years. A government that is notorious for arresting drug dealers is not a drug-riddled government as many have been led to believe, but a drug-intolerant one. The illicit drug trade isn’t any less rampant because few arrests seem now to be made. On the contrary, silence on the drug-trafficking front is indicative of a dangerous connivance of port authorities with drug lords. By affording drug dealers unprecedented privileges of transiting their wares through VIP lounges at our ports, we effectively contribute to funding MUJAO. 3. Why would MUJAO attack Ghana? There are three core reasons why they would. The first is that they want to. I would love any expedition from the Nile to the Atlantic. I can already imagine the great biodiversity, the ecology, the orgasmic cultural experiences and the fun such a journey would offer. But that is me. MUJAO does not think like I do. For them, it’s a question of how much damage they can inflict and, even better, how much mileage they can achieve in the international press. Hard as that might sound, MUJAO loves PR more than our President, and are more than willing to travel the distance to get it. So, they want it to be known that they have all it takes to take out targets in West African countries from the Nile to the Atlantic. They have the will; they will find a way. It’s that simple. Second, the successes of Boko Haram’s terror campaign in Nigeria has boosted the morale of Islamic extremists in West Africa. The theory seems to be true that West African armies are only living under the reputation of past glories. Having been used more as coup-protecting appendages of illegitimate rulers during the ‘80s, and their menacing ruthlessness and civilian slapping sprees no longer tolerated in peace-loving democracies, our soldiers have resorted to sporting pot-bellies, and are seen no longer to be adequate deterrents to those who are more than willing to lose their lives just to make a statement. The abysmal handling of Boko Haram by the Military High Command in Nigeria before Buhari speaks volumes about West African armies’ readiness to tackle terrorism. Ghana’s Armed Forces have not been tested since Rwanda in 1994 and the slapping of the Ghanaian Times reporter at the other Independence Day parade in 2013; so it’s really difficult to say how things will turn out. Suffice it to say that the handling of the 501 recruits issue is an indication of how low our Armed Forces can also stoop sometimes. I mean, you pick up 501 of Ghana’s able-bodied young men and (maybe) women who are willing and ready (never mind that most do if for hopeful economic empowerment reasons) to die for this apampamu-store republic, and grant one of them power to call all 500 to a parade. He exercises that power and uses it to further his own agenda. The others, after realizing that the ‘Annoyance Parade’ was not what it was supposed to be refuse to be part of it and reaffirm their allegiance to your (howbeit brutish) training regimen. You continue the training as if nothing has happened, send them off under the pretext that they have been offered the privilege of joining their families for Christmas, and then tell the palpable lie to the Ghanaian media that 501 recruits rebelled against your training regimen and therefore have been sacked. Who does that? Or our soldiers think the civilian population washes its face upwards? Ghanaian journalists do not have the gonads required to investigate the matter beyond the Military’s statements, and for good reason. The echo of Vincent Dzatse’s slap still resounds in their ears la. If that debacle is anything to go by, we can rest assured that a response to a terrorist strike here will be reactionary as has been in Ivory Coast and Burkina Faso. Third, Ghana goes to the polls in November 2016. The news of what happens will only be overshadowed by the US Polls. All the major news networks around the globe will otherwise be focused here. And, even terrorists know that the world press are biased towards bad news as bad grammar is biased towards the NDC government. We’ve got everything they need at the moment. And our beachfronts, hotels and malls are just awesome! Now, as a jungle survivor extraordinaire, I will recommend three things to do when we get attacked: 1. Run like hell! I don’t know what, in a pig fart’s name, you would be sticking around for. As we speak, I have given names in my head already mpo to the six exits at the Accra Mall, all of them after my ex-girlfriends… Aisha, Alisha, Tanisha, Tasha, Moesha and the one who tried to kill me… Kamisha. Remember that dude in the Al-Shabab Kenyan university attack who went back into the fray to try and save his girlfriend? Pulling crap like that would get you shot like he was. Run, dammit! 2. If you can’t run, hide like hell! And I don’t mean in your girlfriend’s handbag. Find a steel door, a bin, a roof door or some concrete latrine and hide. Don’t forget to silence your phone, and do not attempt to take a selfie with the terrorists. You will be shoot! (In Independence brochure English). 3. After you have ran or are well-hidden, call the hellish Police! Uhm… strike that. Which Police? Call a radio station instead. You know darn well that darn 9-1-1 shindig doesn’t work here. We’ve tried it before, remember? And a miserable excuse of a Policewoman picked it and laughed shortly into it before slamming down the handset! So call the radio station, and hopefully, some hard-wired Special Forces dude with metal gonads will arrive half-an-hour after to prevent the escape of the infidels. What? You thought you could call them in to stop the infidels BEFORE they shoot some people? What have you been drinking? There are three ways to make that even remotely possible: 1. Ghana needs to beef up its Public-Place Security Places like the Accra and West Hills Malls need to, as a matter of urgency, play host to a platoon of Police officers and soldiers. As well as an army of CCTV cameras and body scanners. That nonsense indulged in by our president and everyone else just won’t wash. Did condemnations of the Malian attacks stop the Burkinabe one? Huh? Did the condemnation of the Burkinabe one stop the Ivorian one? Did it? How about the Facebook flag thingy? They did nada! So stop condemning and show some action, dammit! I was in Abidjan recently. I stepped out of the Ibis Marcory hotel, took two paces and remembered I had forgotten to carry my power bank from my room. So I stopped, turned around and tried to re-enter the iron gates of the hotel. I was given a shockingly thorough search like I had just returned from Afghanistan, never mind that the guard had smiled at me when I was stepping out. Just five seconds o! So fill our public and expat hangouts with the meanest, ‘baddest’, Kalashnikov-touting soldiers and police officers who wasted precious time jumping up and down in that lousy 59th Indece parade. Put them to better use than that, and we might – not could – prevent us all from getting shot. 2. The hotels have already put in some mean measures, and that is awesome. I couldn’t get a plastic gun into Tawala the other night so I’m encouraged. But we need to do more. We need to screen people as they enter into hotels, and that includes the serving men and kitchen wenches. You dey there and crack nuts with your butt-cheeks. You would soon find yourself in a jihadist heaven if you think these are extreme measures. 3. Get involved in the campaign to rid Ghana of the resident deadGoat! Look. That man means Ghana no good. It is corruption that could enable these terrorists to get in with their weapons and arsenals, and all the corruption in Ghana exist because of his spineless leadership. Even the campaign to boot him out of office will get all the corrupt elements that is his entire government afraid. They will tone down on the accursed phenomenon, and maybe – just maybe – we might grab the terrorists before they shoot our cleavage-bearing and mini-skirt-clad girls patrolling the Accra Mall and giving our old men heart attacks. We need to act now, and take no chances. You, dey there. Me, I have a Kalashnikov.