#5 A visit from my former selves.

I hear a clanging sound coming from the kitchen, and I wake up with a start. There is someone in the house!

Before I reached the mosquito door of my bedroom, I run through my mind. Did I lock the Pasico with the key. Did I lock the hall door? OMG! Someone broke in?

I freeze just as I reach the living room. The lights are on. And across the room, are 6 people. 

A 15 year old kid. He is in love; or so he thinks. He is scribbling in a black 1999 diary, pictures and words, romanticizing the world he wishes to be, at the expense of the reality trudging on around him. 

To his side is an 18 or 19yr old, no taller than the 15yr older, but more solidly built. He is sitting legs akimbo with a Drawing board on his upturned lap, and he is drawing with pen in a Teacher's notebook. His forehead furrowed from deep concentration. His world is in Fiction, stories of superheroes and heroines, coming of age stories and video games he just knows he will some day create. 

Then a voice cuts through the silence, and a guy; a sophomore in his early 20s walks into view, talking a mile a minute. His accent is clipped, his pacing deliberate. He pauses for effect, sits on the couch head-rest next to the kid, still talking. But of course he does. His opinions are confident, arrogant even -- full of analogy and theories -- Too many theories.

Then the door on the other side opens, leading from the kitchen. I flinch as the light shines through the mosquito door. And in the doorway stands a guy in his mid 20s with a low crop. He is in National service or his first job. In his hand is a saucepan with food in it; Rice and gravy. 

I breathe in but cannot smell anything past the tomatoes. I stifle a cough as the pungent burnt smell whisks through the door. 

Dammit! That was my favorite pan! 

He pulls off his tie and unbuttons his dress shirt at the neck, kicks off his shoes and sets the pan down on the glass center table. He says nothing, but walks up to the other end of the couch and collapses into it, pops a pair of earphones in his ear, closes his eyes and fades away into his music -- Evanescence on loop. 

A low voice comes from the couch out of my view. He speaks slowly -- too slowly, and almost inaudibly. He sits up and I can see him from the back. His hair is in twists and his T-shirt seems to have been worn for 2 days straight. He is wearing only boxer shorts below that. His tone is subdued, betraying his sense of defeat. This is a depressed and broken man.

He finishes his speech, indifferent to whether or not anyone was listening. 

Then a voice comes from close to the computer. I arch my neck to see the 6th and final person. This one is a maybe a few years younger than myself. He wears an olive green dress shirt, rolled up at the sleeves and a pair of black jeans. His hair style is similar to the fast-talking early twenty-something year old, except more unkempt. He talks fast, but not as manic as the others. He paces as he talks confidently; fewer theories, no quotes. These are his own words; his experience. He shows them sometng on his Nexis tablet, and jabs a finger at the screen as he speaks. He flails his arms and skips a bit as he speaks, without actually leaving the ground. But there's lack in his words... I pause trying to see what is staring me squarely in the face that I am missing. 

Then I smile to myself. Now I get it. They are me. All of them. At various troughs and waves of my my past life. 

I feel for my phone in the dark bedroom and blink at the little white digits. 6:15am. I suppress a yawn, and walk past them. They stop talking and watch me. I wave to them without turning and head to the kitchen to make coffee. 

There is a lot these chaps have to learn about their precious opinions, but I am in no position to teach them. I'm still busy figuring out me. And I'm not entirely sure how their stories fit into mine just yet. 

I cross the living room once again, holding my mug in both hands, sipping. Somehow, I know that once I am done drinking, I will return to an empty room, and another new day of plans, schedules and deadlines. 

#4 But before all of that, wiggle your big toe

I recall bringing my Course-list to my dad when I was 15 in JSS 3 and having him nod after barely looking at it, hand it back to me and say,
"Ok Yaw. Tick what courses you want to do in secondary school and then I will sign"

I was flabbergasted; which is incidentally the only word I can use to accurately describe what emotion I felt at the time. Was I really being asked to make a real decision that would affect my life?

It felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I had been standing there, minding my own business and someone had come up behind and shoves me really hard. That jolt that snaps your head back from the inertia as you're thrown forward, and out of that all-so comfortable position of entropy.

Now I joke about this often, and it's true, I feel I was 22 until one fine day, I woke up and discovered, to my horror that I was in fact, almost 30.

It may have been the day I decided, after months of not exercising, to go for a 20 minute jog, and found out at literally the 20m mark, to my chagrin, that I could feel my heartbeat through my face, and I had the sneaking suspicion that if I were to run another meter, wheezing for air as I did, my heart would give one pained cry of indignation, keel over and die. Whatever happened to the rest of me after that was none of its business. 

It may have been the weeks following my 28th birthday, when I met my 2yr old nephew for the 1st time and realized with disturbing clarity, there was this entire generation of human people younger than myself; living breathing and making word-like sounds.

I like to ask people this trite question on their birthdays, "How do you feel?", for which most invariably, the answer is something like "The same as I did yesterday?"  

Well, I felt 'the same as I did yesterday' for 8 years, until I didn't.

It's like we're growing not in days, months or even years, but in leaps and bounds, interspersed between long periods where absolutely nothing happens. I coined a word for that; Homodysis. the human-equivalent of Ecydsis, the molting and growth spurts and final slow-down cycles cockroaches experience. And why I still remember that nugget from secondary school Biology, I will never know.

You are 22 because your thoughts and memories of events and people remained focused on the topic of College friends, fond memories and misadventures in secondary school (Which always feels like it was 'just yesterday'). Then, at some point, you snap to the present and the years have gone by. Everything between then and now, a blur.
What is interesting about finally getting your head sufficiently out of your own ass to realize where you are and what time it is, is dealing with the inertia of being asked to do 'grown up stuff'... whatever that means. 

It's all well and good scoring highly on a paper or holding a class enthralled by your unique insight into Plato's philosophy of Human society, or your opinion why the best form of government in African countries isn't Democracy, but when you are being paid to deliver on REAL things, no serious company cares about your highfalutin theory. They want to see results and they expect you to roll up your sleeves and manage the process to completion. And you might experience that jolt, as you're once again shoved out of yet another aspect of  comfortably passiveness. And again, and again, each time you face a new 'life challenge'.

Now that I am trying to go into business for myself, reminded every now and again by the fact that I am riding this bicycle without those training wheels I so wish were there, but I am acutely aware I couldn't possibly still have on, a small part of my consciousness is spectating from a few feet behind me, musing, 'Wow! Yaw are we seriously doing this?'

I'm guessing that part of me is some remnant of my 22 yr old self, the guy still living somewhere between 2002 and 2009. The one before the wind got knocked out by life giving him a sudden push when he least expected it. His continued existence is the thing that makes me all too aware every day I wake up and face this life, that there is no such thing as standing still, dear boy. You are either moving or your limbs are atrophying, and dying.

#3 When a whole lot of Zeroes start to make sense

It seems sort of like a no-brainer, but when I first started working, some 7 years ago, I could not get my head around figures larger than GHS 1000. 

Oh, I knew how many Tens were in it, and I knew what multiple or factor of several numbers it was, 

but I couldn't comprehend its worth. 

Maybe this is easy for everyone else, but unless I can relate a value to some object you can get for it, it's really just a string of numbers followed by zeroes. 

Now, I struggled with the new Ghana cedi like most did after 2007, but no, that wasn't the cause of my cluelessness. 

Take 4,000 cedis and 40, 000 cedis for instance. After I finished secondary school in 2002, by the the old denomination, not adjusted for inflation, that would have been 40 million and 400 million cedis respectively. 

In my mind, That was 'a lot of money' and 'even more money', but what did 'a lot of money' buy you? 

I had no concept of the cost of land, cost of a car, a house or regular salary. The largest cost I knew of, was that of my College fees and that was an arbitrary number. 'A lot of money' basically. 

My personal costs were not even in the 100s of ghana cedis. A box of indomie, a dress shirt, a tube of DVDs or a plate of check-check. Multiples of ones and meer tens of cedis. 

It took me starting to think more and more about the cost of a start-up house, salary for a year, cost of a used car etc, before these strange numbers begun to stop rolling around in meaningless strings of commas, zeroes in my mind, and slightly larger numbers became more real -- At least as real as was the case for a National service person with zero previous work experience, earning GHS 250 a month. 

But then, how was I supposed to feel about the magnitude of such figures?

Like, what is the difference between GHS 4,000 and 40,000? 

I mean, '4,000 ghana'. That's big, right? 

CEOs and managers would talk about a company of interest making profits well over GHS 200,000 and I'd only gotten used to quickly calculating that that was 4 billion old Ghana cedis. Billion? These were simply fantastic figures to me.

I mean, 'Who MAKES 4 billion?', I thought. What does 4 billion even look like? 

How long could you live off that? Could you buy both the house and car, or only the car? 

To me, anything over 1,000 was so out of what I could save up to in a couple of months, it simply faded back into 'commas, number and several zeroes'

But this is what happens as you get older and start thinking more and more about not just those needs, but what to do to get those needs met. How fast can you make GHS 5,000? How fast could you double that? And how much did you need to increase your revenue to save 50,000?

These weren't thoughts I had previously considered. And frankly, it felt like I had been thrown out of my comfortable life of academic workout and ephemeral social adventures straight into one where my mind was constantly crunching numbers about everything -- Especially since failing to do so could mean the difference between a salary that survived till the next salary day and one that depleted on 23rd of the month. 

Yes, that's another thing that happens when you fly the coop; or even if you don't, when you start being the breadwinner or as much of a contributor to house bills as your everyone else. Everything past breathing the free air COSTS money. 

Your salary 'drops', the counter is reset for a split second to that value, then it begins counting down to 0 again - and nothing can stop it. You can slow it down, or speed it up, but from the moment you're paid, you're spending. 

Now, I catch myself syncing my data bundle with my bank account balance, to inform me on how fast each will diminish based on my current rate of expenditure and data use, without even refering to my budget in MS excel. 

And yes, I found myself voluntarily using that too. Who would have figured I'd whip out my laptop just to fire up that most-annoying of applications. A thin that once upon a time was only of interest to me when I wanted to print names by rows and columns, or accidentally clicked it instead of MS Word. 

Because when you're paying rent, working to keep having food to eat, thinking of what's reasonable to bill a client, accounting for cost of your transportation, upkeep etc, GHS 4,000 and GHS 40,000 are no longer just  'a large amount of money' and 'an even larger amount of money'. They aren't even numbers any more or meer nouns. They transform into adjectives; describing words with a value that is all too real to you.

#2 Why the act of beating kids should have seen its last sunset

Now, I'm African, so this piece may seem... Well, way too Hipster.

But I'm sprawled on my couch trying to double dutch a John Greeen novel and a Chimamande.

It's one of those days where I can't pick what type of melancholy I'd rather swim in tonight. 

My playlist is of the classic kind -- Violin mostly. And boy, how I miss having a glass of wine to perfect the mood, especially tonight, when all I want to do is zone out. 

I share a wall with a very religious family; a very thin wall in fact. I call them The Portnoys, from that fat character Jack Black plays in Tropic Thunder -- becauase they are all rather rotund. You can hear them singing hymns early in the morning - and in early I'm talking, four, five AM early. Or sometimes it's speaking in gutteral tongues. Today however, I'm listening to a very different chatter; the very uncomfortable altercation between... I think its the dad and what sounds like a girl with an Alto or guy with a Tenor -- I'm not sure which. He, or she sounds about 12, maybe a bit younger. 

The discussion, from what I am privvy to, when they speak loudly enough, has to do with a percieved disrespect by the child and from the dad's raised voice, and a few yelps I heard not too long ago, he's deciding a fitting punishment, while biding his time with 'physical lessons'. 

At first, I thought it was some kind of domestic violence, and I was ready to get over there and stop them before I gleaned some context from snatches of conversation carried through the hollow dividing wall. 

I have no choice in the matter. These apartments were made on a miserly budget. 

Now the last time the notion of lifting a hand to a child came up, I decided it was really dependent on the culture. I'm not entirely sure 'time out' or 'being grounded' works, but I'm not convinced resulting to slaps sends the right message all the time either.

Coming from a family where I was physically disciplined as a child, I'm very much of two minds on the subject. On one hand, there is no denying my character was enhanced by the discipline I gained, on the other, I'm not entirely sure the slaps were it. 

Now listenining in, it is clear from the child's screaming, 'I am sorry' in an equal measure of defiance and regret (Or at least, dread), that the lesson won't be receieved this day. Now, I don't know how trucculent this particular person is, but I've known some mates of mine who had a mind of their own, and who got the Lion's share of the caning for it. And talking to them years later, it is clear it didn't take. 

On the flip side, there were meek children who simply found themselves on the wrong side of the teacher and got a caning here and there. I should know. I was one. And if anything, it made me more scared of the cane than bringing to mind the error of ways.

Now listening in again, it is quite clear that the punishment being issued by the 'dad' is as much borne out of a need to put the child in his place as it is to regain some ego after the child's disrespect. 

Education and character building are only implied. 

Put simply, I'm not sure it comes from the right mindset, and so I can't imagine it sending the right signal to the recepient of this 'education'. 

It's not as simple as saying, 'don't beat kids'

Like with any form of leadership, you shouldn't reveal all of your hand. 

If like Batman, everyone knows you won't kill, then the offenders will be running circles around you, won't they?

But I doubt it is keeping a child in fear that some day you just might beat them, either. If all I've written means anything, it's that, although historically true for our species, amongst ourselvels, fear of punishment may not be the best way to get a lesson across. 

Frankly, if there are reasons I have no intention whatsoever of bringing human life into this world, It is from this very dillema. 

Everyone acts like they know exactly what they are going to do as parents. 

'As for me, I'm going to beat my kids', they say with the conviction of a data-anylist.

Almost no one has a clue. There is no scientific book that exists that is based on anything more than a school of thought. And I'm not sure I can play cha cha with another human's life when 

The very reason for willing them into existence in the first place is entirely about self-gratification, 

Especially because the jury's out on which set of parents are able to accurately read their child's temperaments and personality -- and which completely suck at it. The implications of which may determine that child's entire life.

At least we ought to start pruning the edges of this thing called 'parenting'.

If not for their sake, for the future of the human race. 

#1 - Love and its countless alternatives

You know what I figured out, and it's not exactly a novel concept so bear with me, but it may be more true than you may think,

Most people are looking first for someone 'going somewhere' than they are for someone who is funny, interesting and 'treats them right'.
Funny and interesting help, sure. But that's cellotape. What keeps the interest is a tad more lucrative than 'personality'

This is true more for girls than guys.. Its just cultural conditioning and not hard-wiring. We are all trying to survive the gender-biased system we were born into.

Ryan Gosling, in Blue Valentine said that he found men more romantic than women. He had his reasons. In this case, it may appear true too.
For the most part, a man's first impressions regarding a woman is about her appearance and personality.
So then, being more 'romantic' doesn't imply depth, since looks and the 1st instance of personality are nothing more than an imprint of our own ideals on an existing human being and not entirely our innate sapiosexuality.
'Is she the one?' is more about what she has than who she is.

Women, I'm gathering, not as attracted to the superficial, tend to be colder, less emotional in their assessment - Yes, really.
When I look at my own romantic failures in the distant and recent past, I see this clearly.

Some people are actually less subtle about it. Take one recent instance of mine for example.
Even before showing any interest in her that could be construed as exclusively romantic, I could tell she was already judging me by if I appeared to be a success-in-the-making or just a 30 yr old former youth trying to figure it out like everyone else (And trying to figuratively 'get into her pants'). And by this blinders-on assessment, she didn't even bother picking calls or replying messages; focused more on climbing the social ladder by association. Because honestly, who has time for you if you're not obviously going to be the next Bill Gates or at least, appear to be.

And I suppose it's as much my lack of personal branding as it is social conditioning and a harsh reality of human priorities. 

In the end, it may be her folly, because who knows the future for sure.
But it may simply be just good risk-assessment. As I said, who knows the future, after all?

It seems tragic of course that people aren't more interested in your depth as a personality as you think they ought to be.
Or rather, it takes mucho skill in trying to make that the key focus. Sort of like a magician keeping an engaged audience by stage craft.

Risk-assessment and the who's-who of it all, it seems, is much more natural to human choice than the 'dancing game'.  
And you may even think, bitterly I might add, that women deserve to be treated as trophies by the successful men they get who have no clue about human decency; that the woman deserves her bad choice, but this assessment is neither here nor there, because as I did mention, you are bitter, and not being objective about what is essentially a hard fact of human limitation across board.

To put it differently, the movies doth lie to you, dear Romeo.
Juliet is not sleeping, nor will she take her life for you - Like, EVER! She is else where; balancing opportunity cost and life-insurance.

Still, it's a good yardstick to use to measure yourself rather than measuring 'types of women' by.
In this regard, there are no 'types of women' -- or men. There are just people.

Love doesn't conquer all -- At least not in the beginning.