Can Watching TV Be Therapeutic?

We’ve been watching In Treatment. An American TV series shot entirely within the confines of a therapist’s office. (The entire script is adapted from the Israeli show Be Tipul) It’s addictive and engrossing. J has even been glued to it, and he has no suspension of disbelief, meaning he normally hates any fictional drama series.

Throughout my life I’ve had friends in therapy. I felt like it was some sort of club I didn’t really need, had no clue how to join, but had a morbid curiousity about. I wondered whether there could truly be a formula where peoples’ lives could be spoken – like puzzle pieces poured onto a table - and with a therapist’s presence, reflecting the words back upon the wounded one like a mirror, the puzzle would fit together and the person would emerge cured…

In as much as a TV show reflects the reality of our lives, the series illustrates the fact that there is no secret at all. That therapists are not special nor gifted. That they have neuroses of their own, that they can be weak and impulsive and damaged. That they cannot see the patterns they theorize about, when it comes to their own lives. In essence, that they are just one of us. Normal in their imperfections.

This is depressing and elating at once.

At the end of the season 1, the hero, our therapist, decides finally to follow his heart, professing his love for a patient with whom the sexual tension has been palpable throughout the series. He visits her house, enters her bedroom and … has an anxiety attack on the edge of the bed. He begins to sweat uncontrollably and gasp for air. He flees.

I never believed in anxiety attacks when I was younger. I grew up with the impression that most psychological problems were just melodramatic self absorption. This was easy to believe. Easier than facing the possibility that life’s experiences could damage our minds, our hearts, our souls.

One day a few months after my six year old son died inexplicably in my arms, I found myself at the bottom of a pool of air, forgetting how to breath it in, how to stand, how to walk. I was gripped with panic at the thought of walking down the stairs, sipping water, living another moment. In my mind, I knew that something had to give. I would have to pass out or vomit or die.

I had an anxiety attack. I found myself on the side of the road in my car, on the streets of Accra, in a neighborhood I knew well. Lost, out of breath and terrified. I had to call a friend to come and save me.

I knew then that the mind was a delicate organ and I was so scared that mine was tipping into the uncontrollable. Turning against me. I have never been more frightened about my own sanity. I needed a miracle.

I wanted a therapist to soothe my shaking psyche. To talk me through my own mine field of experience. To make me better.

I came to realise that the choice was inside me. The strength to pull up and out of the abyss. Time is a healer, more than a $150 an hour psychotherapist.

Their theories and the incessant talking about memories and feelings are all stabs in the dark to help us, but in the end, futile without us. I have lost the naive belief in external cures. I am much more in awe of the human brain now though, and how it reacts to the blows of reality. I will never venture to judge again...

But my morbid curiousity is not abated. I have realised that watching the therapy dynamic is fascinating in it’s inaccuracy, interplay, and raw emotion. It makes brilliant television.

Ode to an Old Soul : For the Grand Mother who has gone

My grandmother died last night.

Most will send condolences and imagine the cordial service at a local church.

Some will picture her 93 year old frame, frail and dusty, giving in without resistance to the reaper’s grasp.

None will imagine her as the hero, bagging carrots in a factory until each finger bent irrevocably under the burden. Single handedly putting two boys through school on a pittance wage.

None will know how she loved Boy George later, his energy and crazy hair, and kept his poster on the back of her guest bedroom door in her tiny apartment with the slanted walls…

They will sit quietly at her funeral service, hands in their laps, listening to the generic words of the priest - not knowing that she was vibrant and alert, not so long before, and painfully aware of the limitations of her failing parts.

They won’t realise that she kept the family memories alive and well in her mind – she had the sharpest memory I’ve known. S at up in her hospital bed two months ago, head crusted with blood from where she’d fallen, body hunched and dry and so tiny… she said to me matter-of-factly:

“I’m 35 years old in here” (pointed at her heart)

“Getting old is annoying. People talk loudly to me. But I’m the same person I was at 35, just got stuck in this old body”


And it struck me.

So many are afraid of old people. They fear the fragility, as like a mirror, it fortells the future. It forces us to face our own mortality and the sickly smell of urine, warm and without dignity, that characterizes the demise into old age. It repells us.

We see them so often as already gone – mentally, physically. Many will not look for that flicker in their eye, that could reveal a person to relate to and understand. A person who has loved and been loved.

But it struck me when my gramma said this to me. I looked deep into her eyes, and there she was. Lover of shortbread cookies and the best baker of them in the world. A mother, a sister, a soul that I could relate to. It was a reminder that one day, this could be me.

I wanted to reach out to her, to hug her so tightly. But she’s never been the affectionate type. And her body had grown so skeletal (from the bad food, according to her), that I had to resist. To just be content to be in her presence. A woman who I’d grown up with. Who I had always loved, and who in that moment, I was so connected to.

And then I had to fly away, as I do, and the news came of her continued weakness.

The nurses hovering around her, a patient number on their rounds, chatting amongst themselves, lifting body parts and replacing them mechanically.

They didn’t know who she really was. I suppose they didn’t have time to look.

And as the talking around her got louder, she became quieter and more still. Her breathing got more shallow and her body started to shut down.

She slipped into a sleeping state. She was tired. I wasn’t there, but I know she was too tired to carry on. What with the annoying oxygen tube they put across her little face, and the sores on her legs refusing to give her a moment’s peace.

She decided to go, my grandmother did.

And as with everything in her life, she knew her own mind and she did what needed to be done.

But for us weaker ones left behind, I only hope we can do her legacy justice. Her soul escaped our world and left an emptiness we now hold.

Go well Gramma, we will remember you for the wonderful woman you were. No generic lip service from me. I love you forever.

5 Years since you've been gone: on visiting the cemetery

It was so difficult those first couple years, arriving at Osu cemetery, full of dread and love sick for the want of you. Incredulous that this place, wedged between the football stadium and the conference centre, scene of so many funerals, where swarms of black and red clad mourners and hangers on gathered, and the traffic piled up – could house you, my baby, my son.

Each time we emerged from the car, we were swarmed by the gangs of cemetery boys who spend their days sleeping on the grave stones and smoking marijuana.

I was floored as we battled our way through the crowd of them, jostling, each fighting for the tip they’d get to show us ‘our grave’.

I stumbled along the muddy path, blurry eyed, deep into the forest, serenaded by swooping moths and with the street-fight banter of the boys behind us, urging us onward.

John’s hand, a warm reassurance, tugged at me ever so slightly to the left, off the main path, toward your grave.

I was dizzy with grief and the pungent smell of weed, as the smoke wafted up in tufts, swirling through the green green forest roof, captive like us, under the oppressive heat. The rot of leaves and bodies left a stain inside me. Even now I can conjure up the smell, the sound…

A few boys would run ahead of the others, shouting your tribal name, “Kpakpo!”, and the others, “Kpakpo Mingle!”. “Madam, this way-o, follow me, I will show you.”

We clambered over other people’s graves, some smooth polished, others caved in completely, the name barely visible.

The boys would jump, triumphant when they found you. They tore rabidly at the wild vines that had smothered the site, ripping them from their roots in a frenzy to please me, to ensure a good ‘dash’.

I was too weak to argue, to shout, “GET AWAY FROM ME, FROM US! HOW DARE YOU INVADE MY SPACE AT A TIME LIKE THIS?!” Instead, I blinked away tears and nodded. Docile, non-present.

And then I would be faced with a terrazzo block, rectangular, with a raised panel, it had your name, misspelled though it was, written across the front in bold black letters. And below it, “6 YEARS OLD”. And each time I see it, even in my mind’s eye, I weep.

6 years old, yet gone. And I could not find you there at all. I sat at the edge of the cool stone, above the earth that houses your body below. And I felt nothing. And I knew you were not there. Not dumped into the hungry ground, part of a chain of decay and growth.

You, being the soul that dazzled my days, and the light that screamed out from your eyes – this earth cannot hold you.

And I looked up, through the maze of branches and saw a glimpse of sky. Through the tears I saw you in not seeing you at all. My baby, you shine down now.



And after John mechanically took out his camera and recorded the event, I stood and walked numbly back, staring at the red mud under my feet, even as he negotiated with the boys who hovered close by, how much each would get, who helped most, who was most aggressive.

I needed to protect the fragility of my mind and my bleeding heart. I flew up above and left my walking shell, the robot below to make its way back to the waiting car.

And since then I visit rarely. No reason to feed the boys; to tear at the eager vines. Leave them rather, to their lives, to that cycle of decay and growth.

You and I, we are out of that circle. We are free now. You above, and me here for now – meeting in dreams and in the laugh of children. Meeting as we do in the aisles of the supermarket through memories. You remind me of the times we chose which face on the hair dye boxes we would be, and of course which one was John, and we’d laugh – and there I stand with a knowing smile on my mouth, in my eyes, you shine.

Shiloh Nights

In the hours where night blurs the lines of day, and the laws of physics and form are soft and pliable, I often float to you.

I call out and find you, elusive and ageless. The energy of your smile dazzles and carries me into a new place where you comfort me with your presence. You take the form I know, the soft downy boy’s body I crave and adore, you come back to spend some time with me and fill my heart with just enough, so I can keep going in the day, when you’ve gone.

This is my secret – our night meetings where I give you your favourite biscuits and watch the crumbs on your tiny lips. Where your laughter is pure sunshine and your voice is an angel’s. My angel.

Last night you were three. All the memories of you then, so little, came flooding back...
And though it was such a short visit, and you slept in another room, I needed you and you came. I held your tiny warm hand. I draw around your fingernails with my mind. The rough skin at the edge of each round nail, the soft pad of your palms. I breathed you in and held my breath. Though I dreamt a regular dream, somehow we both knew that you had come to help. That I needed your eyes, your skin, your little soul.

And days that hold a silence and a dull gray emptiness, I find myself alone in the car, your song will tease me from the radio, “I will go down with this ship, and I won’t put my hands up and surrendah” I hear your proud little voice singing along. But it is only a memory and the reality of day pierces my senses. Tears roll down my helpless face.



It is only our secret nights where ‘real’ is weak and love is stronger, that I am strengthened. Your power my boy, is bigger than I and this shallow world that you have left.

I love you like my baby and respect you far beyond. At once you are gone and yet you haven’t left me.

When my brave face laughs and I feel the happiness of love, the joy of good friends and good food and the tickle of a gentle breeze, you are the one I cling to inside.

I know in a way that only mystery can answer, that we have traded places. I took care of you here, I wiped your tears away and cuddled you at night, and now you take care of me – soothing my fears and cuddling me in that special place where night blurs the lines of day.

Eleven years ago today Shiloh came into this world.

...sequel to yesterday's post...

I had gathered all my things the afternoon before, and made the two minute walk (or waddle in my case at the time), down the road to the back entrance of the hospital. All the kids from the compound were in tow, each carrying something, quite proud and happy to be part of the event and journey. At the hospital gate the guard tried to shoo them all away, but a few were allowed to follow me inside.

After the formalities of paying for everything, from bed space to intravenous bags, my Canadian friend and confidante, T and I were led to a fairly clean, private room.



We sat on the bed and chatted. We imagined what the baby would be like, what the birth would be like. My nerves ebbed and flowed.

In the evening my husband brought Kobi (Q) down the road to be with me. We all sat, we chatted. I hugged my boy. The nurse came and told me visiting hours were over. This was it. I was to be alone until the next day, after by baby was born.

I felt instantly terrified and sentimental. I wanted my family back. Aunty Maude! My mom. I’m sure I curled as much as I could into a ball and cried myself to sleep, hugging my belly and gathering the strength and bond the two of us needed for the next day.

In the morning I was wheeled down to the surgery ward, past the busy lobby, through the morning prayer being observed by all, made the obligatory stop and then proceeded to a smaller quieter lobby with a few people lying and sitting somberly on the hard benches.

The waiting ensued. I was supposed to be scheduled for 9am surgery, but on GMT (Ghana Maybe Time), I knew this was to be far later.

I was uncharacteristically calm. Serene. Baby thumped now and then to say hello and comfort me, in light of the dangerous events that we were about to submit ourselves to.

There was gathering momentum around the surgery as the time got closer, with nurses and other uniformed strangers moved in and out of the worn swinging doors. I was acutely aware of the dusty floors and hand marks on the walls and doors. Would they use sterile equipment? Would they handle any crisis that might arise with level headed expertise? Would they treat my baby with love and care while I lay there in a drug induced sleep?

The time came, the big white hospital wall clock showed five past ten, and a nurse came to collect my receipts. She pointed to a rickety wheelchair. “Get in”. I obeyed.

The room was blindingly bright. The light drowned out the dirt in the corners, and reassured me. It looked like a real surgery room.

I was heaved up onto a cold table while people shuffled around me. Soon I was connected to an IV and I remember asking semi-frantic questions about how long the procedure would take, where I’d wake up, did they promise to take care of my baby. I was largely ignored.

I looked around for my doctor, who appeared seconds before they injected the sleeping serum. His smile gave me an instant sense of calm. He was cool and collected and had an air of much needed authority. The curdled nervous mess of my insides became a smooth silky pudding. I slipped away while staring right into his eyes. All a mother’s trust thrown across the cold room in a glance that faded away with me.

I woke up dazed, with a heavy thudding pain in my middle. My eyes seemed crusty and my mouth was a harsh unforgiving desert. As I became aware of my surroundings I realized I was in a hospital room. There were three other people to my left. One groaned loudly. This sound was probably what brought me around from the groggy underworld. I wondered in a panic whether I’d been in an accident, what was wrong, why was I here?
Then as my mind caught up with my panic, I remembered everything and it all came rushing to me and up through my throat and formed into a frog-like yelp, “My baby!”
I’d apparently disturbed my bed-mates. One turned to me and talked loudly, as if I were deaf or a small child,

“You are in a hospital. You are fine. People are sick here, please do not shout.”

“Someone call the nurse that the obruni (white person) has woken up.”

Me: “But where is my baby? Where is my baby? I want to see my baby!” I was quite emotional, demanding, frantic. I feared the worst. What if I’d made it and the baby hadn’t? Why was I in a room with sick people? Why not the maternity ward?!

A nurse eventually appeared in the doorway, slouching against the doorframe, she looked at me with heavy lidded eyes. “Madam, you have to stop shouting! You will pull your stitches.” Her voice came across flat, monotone, slightly annoyed.

I was incredulous that no one would respond to my question. I started to cry. No one reacted. One of the other patients made a point of loudly turning over to face away from me. I was sure the baby was gone and that this was the dawning of the worst day of my life.

The nurse left the room and walked slowly down the hallway, her slothly footsteps becoming quieter and quieter, until they were gone. I was so alone, so afraid, so helpless. I considered getting up to go and ask someone in charge. I tried to move but was instantly overcome by shooting pains as my body attempted to twist. That was not going to be possible. There was nothing I could do but wait.

I called through my tears to each person who passed the room. No one was willing to help. Maybe they thought I was crazy. Maybe I was. I began to wonder. Where was my husband and my Kobi? Why wouldn’t they visit me? I checked the clock and it was after 1pm.

This was easily the most lonely I’ve felt ever, and it was the deepest, despairing emptiness that I shudder to recall it at all.

Then an angel appeared. A Canadian friend called G. I heard her sharp accent in the hallway and my anticipation of her arrival at the door was palpable. She appeared in the doorway, her face alive and bright, a huge basket with balloons and gifts and sweets in her arms. She looked so out of place in this dismal ward.

Her expression turned instantly dark once she saw my tear stained face and looked around the room. Still she came to me, dumped the basket and hugged me. Despite the pain, I grabbed onto her and the warmth of her embrace filled me to the brim. Definitely one of the best hugs I’ve ever had. I drank her in. Then she got to business and I was beyond grateful.

“Where is the baby?!” “why are you in here?”

All I could do was shake my head as more tears welled up and spilled, hot and frustrated down my puffy cheeks.

She squeezed my hand and assured me she’d go sort out everything and she ran down the hall.

I could hear her firm and then raised voice as she questioned the lethargic nurses down the hall. She was demanding, shouting now. And then silence. I bit my lip and waited some more.

An indescribably long time after that, she reappeared. Still alone but with a smile that gave me hope for the first time since I’d awoken.

“Well my dear, you are the proud mother of a healthy baby boy!”

I could have kissed her face off. My eyes lit up, by heart soared.

Me: “Where is he?”

G: “The nurses are just washing him and will have him up here in just a couple minutes, or I’ll go straight back down there and get him myself”.

She then went to work to gather up the shattered pieces of my sanity and cleaned me up, in anticipation for the arrival of my little king, Shiloh.

Three nurses came padding much faster than usual up the passage way and I heaved myself up into sitting position. I was gripped with both childlike wonder and a violent maternal desire to protect her young. Bring me that baby!!

And there he was! Wrapped all tight in a soft cotton blanket. His chubby tan face shining out the top. My baby! I devoured him. Grabbed the bundle of him and smothered him with a thousand kisses.

I felt in a bubble. I could hear nothing. The world was just me and my news.
I was at once amazed, frightened, ecstatic and numb. My baby boy had arrived!



They wheeled in a clear plastic bassinet for him to sleep beside me but I had no intention of letting him go again.

G had a mobile phone and we were able to call my mother. I barely said a word, and just managed to blurt out that the baby was a boy and that he was so sweet. I cried and smiled and blubbered. She did the same on the other end of the line…

I wanted to feed him right away but was informed by ‘nurse wretched’ that it wasn’t necessary as they’d given him a bottle of glucose syrup. I was furious. But at least he was with me.

Then G told me about her experience with the nurses downstairs. She had wandered around the surgeries and eventually found Shiloh, alone and unwashed, lying in a cold plastic bassinet. She was appalled and ran out calling wildly to the nurses. They were in a lunchroom, greedily pawing kenkey, fresh pepper and fish from a shared eating bowl. When she asked why the baby had not been cleaned and brought to his mother they casually explained it was lunchtime. I was beyond furious at the story, but at least he was with me.



I mentioned to G that I was sad and concerned my husband and Kobi had not come in yet to visit, she told me that they were refusing all visitors since it was not yet official visiting hours. I was furious, but at least Shi was with me.

Then G went to the nurses, now that she’d quickly developed a reputation as a no-nonsense obruni, and she demanded to know why I was placed in a room with sick patients. Apparently there was no room in the other ward. I couldn’t believe it! The man beside me had a rotting foot. My ailing roommates resented my eventual flow of visitors and Shiloh’s deep newborn cry. I was upset, but at least Shi was with me.

And when, in the night I had to call for the nurses help to use a bedpan, with the man beside me gawking, the nurse annoyed and unhelpful, my stitches pulling and stretching with excruciating pain, I was embarrassed and fuming inside, but at least I had my Shiloh with me.



Happy Birthday Shiloh. 11 years ago you arrived, causing me turmoil, crushing me with worry that I wouldn’t see you, and filling my life with more than a mother could ever ask, once you came. Beautiful, boisterous, ‘bad boy’. You charmed me from that first moment, and had me entranced every day thereafter. I only wish, more than a mother could imagine, that I had you here with me today.
>>>>>>>>>
Shiloh Devon Nii Kpakpo Mingle – January 9th, 1999 – June 22, 2005.
We miss you ‘like harmattan paw paw’. Every moment since you left us here without you.

Today’s lesson in cultural imperialism

We have a couple of lovely visitors staying with us from the land down under. They were both raised on rural dairy farms and are quite down to earth.

I have been asking about the cultural relations between the Aboriginal population and those of European ancestry in Australia. Their perspective is quite honest and derived from personal experience as opposed to academic. They are not concerned with political correctness or viewing relations objectively. I find their candidness refreshing.

Last night I heard the following story: in the white farming community where our visitor *Pamela grew up, there was an Aboriginal grouping quite close by, living on what they called a ‘reserve’.

The story goes, that when one of the influential and well known Aboriginal chiefs died, the priest from Pamela’s village insisted that he officiate at the funeral, and ‘splashed out’ on a fancy, expensive coffin of hardwood and a plush interior for the chief.

After the funeral, the priest made a courtesy visit to the chief’s family some time later. What he found was that the body had been dug up and the children of the chief’s family were found in the coffin, splashing around in their makeshift bathtub.

Imagine the shock for the priest! I’m sure he was incredulous. To this date, the majority of whites assume that the people were simply ignorant, uncultured and ‘wild’…
_______________________________________________________________________________

So after Pamela’s narration of the story , I decided to investigate/research the beliefs and practices surrounding death and burial amongst Australia’s Aboriginal groups.

What I found cemented the notion I had about the blatant cultural/religious imposition.

Aboriginal groups have a completely different concept of what happens to body and soul after death and the traditional practices differ widely and wildly from the Christian conservatives who settled in these areas and proceeded to set up missions.

I found a highly detailed article online here (for those of you who might find this interesting), about the complicated funeral of an influential Aboriginal chief in 1997.

Basically, after a Christian funeral (to appease the ‘whitefellas’), the body is transported to a specially selected cave, removed from the coffin (which is simply a mode of carriage to the spot), and arranged on a high platform, protected from animals and exposed to drying wind.

After two years the bones are collected and ceremonially treated, and then presented to the family of the deceased in an elaborate ceremony of mourning and remembrance. Traditional belief sees the body being locked up in a box and sunk ‘six feet under’ as against the natural procession for body and soul.

Can’t blame them really…



Find here a very concise and well presented site on statistics regarding Aboriginal Australians.

*Any names of real people in this story have been changed to protect their identity.

Incredulous! Joe Jackson uses Michael's death to promote a record label

I am not one to start blogging about celebrity news, and EVERYONE is blogging about Michael Jackson this week, which is precisely why I wasn’t going to... But I just caught sight of the press release on Sky News, held by the controversial, activist yet self serving Reverend Sharpton, and who else but Joe Jackson, Michael’s ‘father’ and it drove me to this post...

We’ve all heard about the tragic abuse that exemplified Michael’s upbringing – he described it himself in the 2003 documentary Living With Michael Jackson. Michael described the beatings and resulting fear he had of his father. He explained that his father refused to let his children call him Daddy, and banned playing. The boys were whipped for missing a step when practising for shows. It wasn’t much of a childhood. When he reached puberty and suffered from acute acne, his father was the first one to criticize. He teased Michael viciously about his wide nose and his developing appearance to the point where Jackson was traumatized for life. (It puts the whole skin and plastic surgery obsession into perspective!).



A less well known documentary called Louis, Martin and Michael, written and produced by the witty British pseudo-journalist Louis Theroux, (who had lost out to Martin Bashir for the 2003 interviews), eventually got the opportunity to interview Joe Jackson. It was almost amusing then. Joe behaved like a second rate mafia boss. Louis was introduced to Joe through a shady cab driver cum magician (who called himself 'Magestik'), who was a ‘close friend’. Joe agreed to an interview late at night in a Vegas hotel room, only if the price was right. They eventually agreed on $5,000, but neither Joe nor his ‘friend’ were happy about the figure for the extortion, so they only granted an hour long interview.

Guess what happened in that interview? Joe Jackson used the opportunity to plug some new acts he was planning to sign to his new record label. He paraded these groups through the hotel room and made them perform. When they were finished, the interview was finished. He did meet Louis again another night for 15 minutes in a hotel room at 2am.

When Louis tells him Michael had been so scared of him as a child he'd regurgitated at the site of him, Joe replies, "He regurgitates all the way to the bank". Nice...

Well tonight took the cake. Michael is dead. After an amazing career and a highly troubled adulthood. A press conference was scheduled, purportedly to discuss the upcoming funeral plans. Joe Jackson came out of their Hollywood home, flanked by the coiffed Sharpton and a yes-man, dressed like ‘Pimp my Dad’ had gotten hold of him just before the appearance, complete with black fedora tipped forward, mirror glasses and some ‘big ass’ chains. This is a man supposedly in mourning, holding a press conference to discuss plans for his uber-famous son’s funeral. And what came out of his mouth? A shameless, pathetic plug for his new record label. Of course he introduced his mafia-esque sidekick as well – his partner in the new label – nothing at all to do with Michael. Joe smiled, laughed, slurred his words. Sometimes his answers to the press's questions were incoherent, at best they were plain ignorant. It was a disaster, a shamble, the most distasteful media stunt I’ve seen.

All of this confirms my speculation that Joe Jackson was the single most influential force in Michael Jackson’s spiralling psychological problems, and complete breakdown as an adult. The only other factor with as much devastating repercussions was the extreme fame. But fame is not by it’s nature, an evil force. Joe Jackson on the other hand, has proven himself an insecure, self centered, brutish, callous coward with only malevolent intentions – having exploited his children as pawns in his pathetic grasps at fame. Luckily his lack of talent or charm ensured that the children achieved the fame, and left him behind. Today, he is a washed up sorry old fool whose transparent lack of concern for his child, exposed him in front of millions.

Poor Michael. With a foundation like that – there was no hope of a well-rounded life. And then there is the case of Michael’s children! I don't even know where to begin with that one...

There is nothing harder than the softness of indifference - Ghana shows it's darker side

I’ve been blogging a lot lately about the perils of the health system, or lack of it, in Ghana. Combined with corruption, horrendous driving (with the resultant high rates of car accident deaths), and a general lack of respect for life, Ghana has a serious side that so many of my fellow bloggers choose to ignore or are simply naïve about.

One of my cyber friends, the Irishman in Ghana, recently took a trip from Accra to Kumasi – which is generally known as one of the most dangerous roads in Ghana He was in a tro tro at night. BAD idea.

His blog post HERE is worth a read. I of course chimed in on the comments section with my jaded reply.

As a foreigner it is a common reaction to assume a car would stop if it hit or ran over a person! And an equally normal assumption that someone should call emergency services. In this case however, the tro tro he was in kept driving, and to his amazement all the passengers were fine with that. When he reported the incident to the police later, nothing was done about it (except for the police no doubt bribing the driver).

The next day when he asked his fellow colleagues who were Ghanaian what he should do about it, they told him to drop it. Today I shared his story with some Ghanaian friends and colleagues, and people laughed. Not a happy laughter but once of futility and despair. Their responses were all along the lines that he was naïve to think anyone would care.

Over the weekend in Accra, a man was hit at about 4am by a taxi which did not stop. By 6am the body had been run over by no less than 3 other vehicles. That means no one stopped – and even once they had crunched and bumped over the mass of a body under their tires, they carried on. This article was published in the local paper, but when I tried to find it online today, I realized it wasn’t important enough to make it to the online news in Ghana.

Recently a friend of mine came to me to tell me that his 36 year old brother was missing after having a minor argument with a fellow tenant in the compound where he lived. It was discovered that three thugs had ‘beaten’ the man and since then he’d not been seen. Two weeks later, thanks to an article the family had run in the newspaper about their missing brother, his body was identified at a local hospital. They had been about to bury his body in a mass grave. No investigation, no questions asked. Luckily the family had closure. But now there was a murder case to follow surely??

You would think so, but then you would be a naïve foreigner. In fact, the three people responsible were taken reluctantly into custody, but bailed out within a day. Now the family is being asked for installments of money to ‘help the inspector’ with his investigations. Yet nothing is happening. No one shows up at the court for the case. The family is not wealthy or well connected and they cannot afford the bribes... the case will die. And that is the sad fact. A 36 year old man beaten to death – no repercussions for the perpetrators.

We went to the funeral and across the crowd, who sat on the rented chairs straddling the open gutter in the heat of the midday sun, fanning themselves with the funeral pamphlet, I made out the dead man’s mother. I saw the genuine grief in her eyes. A grief I know too well. A parent should never outlive their child. I realized though, as I watched the neatly dressed men load the coffin into the ambulance, as they do here (ambulances being used for bodies as opposed to the sick but alive), that in Ghana it happens all the time.


You could be a toddler in a village and catch malaria, or an unfortunate cyclist on the road to Kumasi at night. You could have an argument with the wrong guy or stumble out in front of a car. In Ghana you will probably die. And there will probably be a funeral and Ghana will move on.

My Irish friend likened the reactions of his fellow passengers to fear, assuming that it was this fear that stopped them from forcing the driver to stop and assist the person he’d hit.

But I’ve been thinking and come to the conclusion that is the opposite that is true. What happens in society when there are no consequence for our actions? When we have nothing to fear from authority and also nothing to gain. No welfare from the government, no protection from the authorities. It makes people lawless and also concerned with themselves only. Why help an accident victim on the road if you will be asked to pay his hospital bill or watch him be ignored? Why stop to help someone you’ve hit when the police don’t care and will not persecute you in any way?

I guess I’m the Thomas Hobbes in this discussion, with Ghana representing humans in a state of nature - in a 'war of all against all', without a controlling authority… I'm definitely thinking far too much, far beyond my reach…

All these sad events have made me a backyard philosopher. Time to indulge in some soft fleshy mango and slices of the sweetest and best pineapple in the world – and remember some of the things I love about Ghana!

But say a prayer, pray for the other ones... Dismal health care in Northern Ghana

The only gift they'll get this year is life... (Bono and the Live Aid Band chiming in)... That's if they're lucky. The Northern Region of Ghana, which is about the size of that state of Louisiana or the entire country of Czech Republic HAS ONLY ONE AMBULANCE.

The population of Ghana’s Northern Region is roughly two million people. Honestly, this is insanity. We came face to face with the dismal reality of the non-existent health care system of Northern Ghana this weekend.

Despite years upon years of development projects catering to the North, and many specifically at building the capacity of the hospitals and clinics (one only has to Google Aid Northern Ghana to see), there is absolutely NOTHING there. On the ground, in the district towns and capitals, let alone the villages. Nothing. No skills, no supplies, no knowledge or any care at all for the value of human life.

On Sunday one of the drivers from our office managed to ‘kill’ a seemingly unbreakable and reliable Nissan Patrol, on route with some of the company engineers to do a customer installation at a site in the North. From Accra, with the bad roads, this drive can be 17 hours. They called from the side of the road with the bad news that they were now stranded in the middle of nowhere with a massive hunk of non-functioning metal and rubber. And all their equipment. The plan was to find a tow truck, which they miraculously did within an hour, and they set off again.

Within an hour we had a call that they had hitched up the company 4x4 to the tow, and then had ever so brightly gotten right back into our car, with no brakes etc. and embarked on the next few bumpy hours journey being towed along.

Except not. Disaster struck. The story, like many Ghana stories, seems unfathomable, yet the outcome pretty disastrous. Apparently a group of motorcycles (somehow I just can’t picture a gang of menacing Harley riders up on the roads of the North, lined by mud huts, shepards and families of emaciated cows and goats…)

The motorcyclists abruptly drove into the lane of our tow truck driver, who swerved violently in reaction. Somehow both the tow truck and our Patrol rolled three times and landed in the bush upside down. Interestingly car accidents are one of the main causes of death in Ghana and fatalities (from a 2006 survey) are double of that of South Africa which has double the population of Ghana, and over 4 times that of Canada which has a third higher population. (I’m guessing a big reason is the way the injured are dealt with after the crash).

When the dust settled our guys all climbed out of the vehicle and it was discovered that one had suffered some facial injuries, while another of our engineers had broken his arm in numerous places. Both needed medical attention immediately. But there was none.

They were taken presumably by a taxi to the closest ‘hospital’ (I use this term VERY loosely), in a town called Bole. On arrival they were told there were no doctors, no medicines, nothing to build a cast for a broken arm, and no equipment at all to test for anything at all. Just a dirty, dusty concrete building with some women sitting at a table. I can just imagine the treatment rooms, where the women and children lie on mats on the floor, no beds, no services… just a place to die.

Eventually – a few hours later – despite the extreme pain and suffering of our engineers, they were brought by taxi to Wa – the district capital, for treatment. It was 8pm on a Sunday night. No doctors. Without doctors, the nurses claim they cannot deliver first aid… So the guys waited it out until morning.

Only when morning came there were still no doctors, and once again they were told – nothing with which to cast a broken limb, no medicines, no supplies. They waited all day Monday, while down in Accra we called frantically around for a solution. They needed to get the 100kms to Tamale – the bigger town, where they could fly on a commercial airline back to Accra to be treated. By this time we had heard that the engineer with the broken arm could not sit (possibly due to internal injuries), and we needed to find an ambulance to bring him to Tamale. Apparently there was no ambulance available. This is when we discovered the hideous truth about the one ambulance for the whole region, which was ‘busy’ in Tamale. Knowing Ghana, it was being hired for a funeral… go figure. What we discovered was that there was not even a vehicle in the town of Wa that could take them…

So in our desperation, knowing the dangers of internal injuries, and the very real possibility of the bones in his arm healing in the wrong shape, we tried to find a way to fly them back to Accra. We called a local aviation company who said they could charter a flight for USD $12,000. Only they couldn’t get the plane organized until Saturday – 5 days away!!! We called on a foreign owned and run medical rescue company operating in Ghana that services International companies who are members. We are not members. They responded that they could send a fully medically equipped plane first thing in the morning. It would cost Euro14,000!!!!

Eventually they did manage to find a car and made the bumpy journey, all their injuries notwithstanding, back to Tamale and this morning they caught the commercial flight to Accra. They are now both admitted to a local hospital. Even these Accra clinics and hospitals pose serious questions about the quality of health care.
But the question is – what do the locals in Northern Ghana do in these cases? And the sad but true answer is that they suffer and they die.

Billions of dollars in Aid has poured in… Where has it gone? Why is there nothing?

Why doesn’t the government stop building palaces and start building real hospitals? Why did they spend over $60 million in largely unaccounted for sums on the 'Ghana @ 50' Independence Celebrations when the real needs are ignored completely? What exactly are we celebrating? What indeed.

Happy Birthday Shiloh

My amazing boy Shiloh died 4 years ago at 6 years old. What a statement, yet it's true. Today he would have been 10 years old. I can barely believe it.

I am crushed at times by the bitter sadness of not having him around us everyday.

But there's nothing better than celebrating those you love, and today I send all my love out to the universe for Shiloh.

A very special person sent me some words to live by today, that I share below:

Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal. ~From a headstone in Ireland

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. ~Kahlil Gibran

Grief is eternal but love is stronger

Today is a tough day. I sit at my desk, busying myself with the unimportant, while the undercurrent within me threatens to surge, up through my pounding heart,through my tight throat that fights back with jolted swallows - all the way up into my face, overflowing - my eyes, the tiny openings through which all the feelings will brim over.

Tomorrow marks exactly three years since Shiloh left us. Since I have not held his warm hand or fallen into the warm dark pool of his shining eyes. Of course it is unfathomable not to have my son here with me. It is the stuff of nightmares, and horror films pale in comparison. To even put in black and white the word 'death' - it is so difficult. So very unnatural.

So the only way to approach the reality that faces me is to remember. To celebrate the short time we had. To laugh and smile and hug those who are still here. We all miss him. We all will remember. Always.

I've dragged out an old poem because it is my best tribute to my amazing Shiloh.


For Shiloh

If you were a farmer you’d plant pumpkins

Huge orange nuclear blast pumpkins!

If you were a singer you would wear a white suit and carry a shiny ebony walking stick

You’d have a purple satin handkerchief in your pocket on display

And you’d wear a fedora to match the suit

You would tip the hat forward and wink at all the ladies as you took over the stage…

If you were a bird you would soar higher than happiness

And deeper than 6 oceans

You would grace the sky of my mind with indigo paint brush wings

Touch my cheek so briefly and float on past

Making speed look like a breeze

If you were pink candy floss

You would melt and still be crunchy in my teeth

Fresh and warm and comforting

But you would disappear if I tried to hold you

On my tongue

I would be left with the remnants of u

You cannot be held

You are more than man and mountains below u are small

Though I can’t see u

I feel your red sports car energy

With a yellow lightning stripe down your soul that can only be glimpsed as you

Pass in an instant...