Punch Drunk Ghana Love
July 18th 2009 17:13
Category: No Category
I’m having an odd period of Ghana love. I don’t know if it’s because I’m drunk, or because I had a fun time tonight.
You know, I blame the fun night mostly on Clam and Hair. Those two, a bundle of fucking good opinions and brilliant stories. Especially Clam, my god. This is the man, who could if you really wanted, tell you how to build a time machine, but there’s no time for that, elephants need to be jacked off. Stories involving masturbated zoo animals, escaped murderers and the love of his life. The man single handily built a space shuttle out of old twine and his right shoe. I could contently sit and listen to him all night. Sadly, the bar, Bywells decided to turn off the lights and we were compelled to leave.
But I’m not sure what it was. I was really feeling ‘the love’ this evening. I’m not sure. I was slightly drunk, admittedly. But that’s no crime. The Aishu and I set out for an evening of sophisticated dining and intelligent conversation. Only to be met with the howling of volunteers, and the barbaric calling of the Obruni collective. To the quiz night, we assumed, good enough fun? Better than watching a season of the x-files, I told myself.
You know, for once, quiz night was a ball of fun. I enjoy the people there, hanging out. The questions were good and fair, the people had fun and can I suggest, any ubroni volunteer from now on has an audience participation round.
But that wasn’t the source of my love. Fuck no. I was overwhelmed by how much I enjoyed communication with these people I couldn’t distinguish from a bar of soap. I didn’t know these people at all. I wanted to, though. We talked.
We talked about feminism, but came to a quick conclusion because we got bored. We talked about the Ghanaian sanitation system, Obama, The French and marriage proposals.
Actually, I talked to a guy at the bar, now usually in Ghana you start talking to a random and soon you’ve sold you liver and are running the slave trade in Liberia. But I decided to actually talk to this chap. I thought, Why not? He can’t be that bad. So we conversed regarding his tattoo on his hand saying FAITH in large black type. In my mind, I thought, a black tattoo on black skin? Really?
But I didn’t say it; he was almost twice my size. The black men, they tend to be completely harmless looking or completely frightening killing machines.
He was ok, though I gave him my number and then immediately blocked it. You can try and blame me, but fuck you. You’ve never been called by a Ghanaian, so you nothing of how awkward it is. Those fuckers ring, ask how you are then sit there, waiting for you to reply. I waited at least 10 seconds the times it happened and then claimed,
It was good to talk to you. See you round man.
They’re usually sated by this. Then I block their fucking numbers.
You know, at this point I’m getting a bad spine slouched over this fucking laptop writing shit for your amusement, so I expect royalty checks well into my old age.
BUT, I’m expecting a sort of partner in crime soon. I suggested a blog to Hair, the effervescent wife of Clam. Lawyer extraordinaire, soon to pursue the much more culturally significant career of writing, was seen to claim blogging seemed like a good plan. This after much prodding and motivational talking from me. As soon as I learn the name of this multinational blog of wisdom, ill be sure to post it for you chaps and chapettes.
Now I must admit, I’ve written this shit whilst drunk edited whilst sober, but not a lot. But at this point, I dead tired and would rather sleep then let you know what’s going on in Ghana.
Check back soon for epic ‘trip so far’ post.
As much as I hate, there is the rare occasion, the once in a blue moon year of the horse shit that I occasionally feel the need to love something. Though I'm feeling severely deprived of it at the moment.
I'd actually also like to mention, regardless of the fact that The Aishu is holding a sabre to my neck, how much The Aishu's departure will leave a gaping hole in my life. All the colours seem to drain out of the world and life seems cold and barren without her company.
Except she's following my to uni.
And she has great fashion sense.
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