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.

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!

Free yourselves from Mental Slavery - Ghana's Mental Health in Crisis

I’ve been reminiscing about the good ol’ days, during my first few years in Ghana, when I lived an entirely different life… The days of the compound of 54 people, all Ghanaian except me, all living in single rooms surrounding the common space – a concrete square that at one time had a big tree growing out of the centre for shade. (That was hacked down in the rage of one of the adult sisters in the family along the way, no doubt getting back at others for some or other trivial dispute). But that is another story.

We had quite motley crew of family members and random tenants among the 54 of us, and there are definitely stories enough to fill a novel… maybe one day!
Today I remember Sistah Konadu. A sweet and well-meaning girl in her mid-twenties, with a large frame and a tiny voice, she wasn’t actually living full time with us, but apparently had problems with some other members of the family who lived elsewhere, and sought refuge with us many times.

Konadu was slightly ‘mad’ as the family affectionately described her. I found out later, mostly from observation, that she was clinically a schizophrenic. I imagine the medicines in Ghana are expensive or not available, had there even been a proper doctor to make such a diagnosis in the first place.

One afternoon as we sat in our little room, bathed in sweat, fanning ourselves, there came a big noise from the compound. A woman’s voice shouting frantically, “You! Think you can hide in a chicken disguise?! You are the devil! I see you! Evil chicken!” We peered through the dusty slat windows to see Konadu, dressed in her best cloth and jewelry to match, running in circles, chasing some benign neighborhood chickens with the fury of an exorcist. The children were running behind, jostling and poking each other, falling in tiny clumps of laughter. Some of the adults poked their heads out into the yard and called for Konadu’s mother to fetch her to the asylum. It seemed the illness had reached some sort of peak and she was dragged, warning us all of the dangers of the little devils among us, with the help of some strong guys around the area, into a taxi and off to what they called the Asylum. Sounded pretty scary to me. Little did I know.

Konadu disappeared for a few weeks. When she came back she was dull, thin, her skin grayish and the corners of her mouth sagged. She looked highly drugged. The fire in her eyes was gone.

What we didn’t know at the time was that she had been chained by her ankle to a large heavy metal ball on the floor in what constitutes a cell. Some patients are chained to car batteries or any other heavy unmoveable objects.


This is rehabilitation?! The conditions in Accra’s only Psychiatric Hospital – the Asylum – make the horrors at Korle Bu and others look like a hotel. There is even less funding for these hospitals around the country, not to mention a huge stigma. The patients are fittingly referred to as inmates and as I read in an article published on AllAfrica.com, the regional director of CHRI (Commonwealth Human Rights Initiative) explained:

“the treatment includes chaining, denial of food, verbal and physical abuse, isolation and forced medication. According to her, their research revealed that the incidence of chaining up the mentally disabled constituted a feature of the healing process.”

What is equally disturbing is what I read on the front page of the Daily Graphic (whose website is currently under construction), Ghana’s largest newspaper TODAY. Ghana’s ‘Mental Health in Crisis’. The article goes on to explain that for the 22 million people in Ghana, of whom they figure 30 -40 % will suffer some form of mental health problem during their lives, have 2 – that’s TWO qualified and practicing Psychiatric doctors to attend to them. Statistically that is one doctor per 11 million people. Do I need to write how dismal that is? Apparently there are actually 4 doctors in the country, but two are lecturing at Universities rather than practicing.

So what happens over at the Asylum to the thousands of ‘inmates’? No doubt they are guarded. Doubtfully they are fed, (unless family members come to visit and bring meals to them), but no chance are they being treated by a doctor. And that is sad.
I haven’t seen or heard from Konadu in ages. She had a baby and got married and was on her ‘medicines’ that last I knew. God forbid she relapse and need medical attention.

With all the hue and cry about the atrocities of slavery during the early colonial days, here we are in modern Africa, where citizens are being enslaved, in their minds and by the literal chains that bind them. The treatment of the mentally ill in Ghana is one of those dirty little societal secrets, on the bottom of anyone's list in terms of making changes, and in the dark ages in terms of cultural attitudes. God help them, those who cannot help themselves, for no one else will.

He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother - the health care saga continues

The health care saga continues in Accra… So after his horrible ordeal in the North, our engineer flew down to Accra yesterday morning with multiple breaks in his arm, and was admitted to the 37 Military Hospital, which is close to the airport and was recently renovated with German government donations and expertise.

Our engineer is a professional with money and a company supporting/backing him. (Which is very important in seeking service at a hospital in Ghana). Yet it is not enough. He does not ‘know anyone’ who works at, or has clout with the hospital.

What does this mean? Even though he has money to pay for any treatment he would need – like immediate x-rays and a long overdue plaster cast, they have refused to serve him as of this morning, and he sits on the bed, with his mangled arm hoisted above his head in a ridiculous sling. No medicine, no cast. Meanwhile the bones are healing over, without having been reset and the long term implications will be evident. Imagine he had needed surgery, or that his injuries were more life threatening?

We are making arrangements to take him now to the main and largest government hospital. But I don’t hold out much hope for that. I’ve seen many people die there with my own eyes, all completely preventable. One vivid example comes to mind.

Years ago in the late 90's, during my wild and free days as a volunteer in Accra, when I was the ‘obruni with the blue motto (Vespa)’, a friend and I were mugged one evening and dragged along the road by thugs in a car who wanted my friend’s bag. Only the bag was slung across her body and it was difficult for them to pull it off, while driving alongside us in a car, the passenger’s torso hanging out of the car…

It must have been quite a scene actually – me concentrating quite hard on the handlebar/steering wheel as the car bumped and nudged my little motto from the side, with a huge open gutter on my other side, my friend holding onto my waist for dear life as her bag was being torn from her, until finally they yanked hard enough to pull her to one side, my balance thrown, we skidded into the gutter, the Vespa cracking as it slid out from under us, and the two of us grinding along the gravel as the car tore off ahead.

Once we’d semi-recovered from the shock and picked ourselves up, we hobbled towards a nearby restaurant to assess our wounds and make some calls to get us to the hospital. My hubby came immediately and we headed to the infamous Government hospital. Emergency ward. We were pretty bloody but luckily it was all surface wounds that just needed cleaning out.

On arrival at the place, (I was still a bit new and naïve in Ghana) and I have to admit I was just stunned. It was dark, a few fluorescent tube lights flickering here and there, the rest dead. Dirt and dried blood everywhere – on chairs, benches… thick grime on the windows and corners and dirty, grimy walls. You couldn’t tell what colour they once had been painted. It was night and there were only a few people around, but from the moment we walked in we heard screaming. Loud, high pitched screaming. After a nurse gave us some forms to fill we came around a corner into the hallway.

On a metal guerney there lay a woman in complete and utter agony. Blood was soaked through her wrap cloth and pouring literally down the metal legs of the guerney and had started pooling on the floor. She was the screamer. Being the 'nosey obrunis' that we were, we could not bear to watch her without knowing why no one was helping her, and what had happened etc., so we rounded the corner to ask the nurse. Conversation went about like this:

Us: Please, the woman in the hall, what happened? Why is she screaming? Can you please come and see if anything can be done for her?

Nurse: (Looking up very slowly with a look of extreme annoyance) Don’t mind her! She is shouting too much but doesn’t want to give out the coins in her cloth. We told her! Here, you buy the medicines. You don’t pay, we won’t mind you.

Us: But what is wrong with her? She is bleeding!

Nurse: She is an orange seller. They shot her driving by. In the leg. But she is stubborn! Since they brought her here, only screaming. We tried to collect money from her for the drip, but she only holds tightly her cloth, greedy with the coins. We ask her if she has family. Nothing. We are not paid to fight the people, oh! So we are not minding her. The family will come soon. Now come, here is your list for the pharmacy.

With that she sent us down another hallway to buy gauze and sterilizing solution etc.
After a very rough treatment of scraping all wounds and scrubbing the both of us through a few silent tears of our own, we were sent off.

By the time we came out to the main hallway the screaming had stopped. The lady on the guerney lay silent and lifeless, crumpled bright designed Ghanaian cloth around her, soaked dark with blood, her one leg limply hanging from the side… I just knew she was dead.

I came around the corner to look where the nurses could be, and there they were. Two of them, sitting at an old brown desk, eating something. They gave me the ‘what-do-you-want-now look’.

Me: The lady in the hallway? Who was screaming?

Nurse: The boys are not in yet. They will bring her to the morgue.

With that they turned away, back to their chat and their snack. And we hobbled out, bandaged, clean and devastated.

The road is long
With many a winding turn
That leads us to who knows where
Who knows when
But I'm strong
Strong enough to carry him
He ain't heavy, he's my brother.

So on we go
His welfare is of my concern
No burden is he to bear
We'll get there
For I know
He would not encumber me

If I'm laden at all
I'm laden with sadness
That everyone's heart
Isn't filled with the gladness
Of love for one another.

It's a long, long road
From which there is no return
While we're on the way to there
Why not share
And the load
Doesn't weigh me down at all
He ain't heavy, he's my brother.

He's my brother
He ain't heavy, he's my brother.

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.

Now blow out your wishes and make a candle...

Birthdays, like New Years Eve are always anti-climactic. Everyone wishes you the best, and says have a great day! But what if it isn’t a particularly good day? Afterall, anything could happen. You could get your period and feel like a ten ton truck with a couple extra water filled tires hanging heavily around your waist, for example. You could get up, look in the mirror and see the dark circles of life settled deeply under your eyes.

You might just be facing a work day that is particularly stressful and have a pounding headache, and not enough time to grab a sandwich even for lunch.
It might just be that you find yourself completely alone on that particular day with nothing to do but contemplate all the far flung well wishes and your own self pity.
You might come home to a quiet house with yesterday’s chili in the fridge and reruns on TV…

Happy Birthday! I’d like mine postponed this year, and while you’re at it I’d like the number adjusted by 10 years.

I’d like a big surprise party so I could blush and feel special and then diamonds and other extravagant unnecessary luxuries to prove I’m loved. I’d like a chauffeur to pick me up and whisk me off to a spa for a day of full pampering and self indulgence.

But I’d settle for good health and savings in the bank. Uh oh, both those are in jeopardy this year as well.

Probably a good idea to skip the cake too, as the number of candles needed at this stage could crush the cake and start a fire!

Birthdays put so much pressure on you to be happy, be honoured and be remembered.

But what if deep down you know that you have a great family and friends who love you all the time and that you might get a random gift on an off day when no one is expecting you to, and won’t ask if you got spoiled on the big day?

Isn’t it just as good to have a great child, be in an amazing relationship, have a challenging job and dreams that are forming into tangible future plans? Is it not good enough to wake up to sunshine and warmth and two fried eggs on a plate?

Birthdays should give you a chance to reflect on how the year has disappeared and ask yourself what special moments you can remember. And then keep them with you. Birthdays should remind you that time is short and precious and irrevocable and that every minute, day, month, year you have should be filled up with your best. Loving those around you and laughing as much as possible.

I think I’ll dust off that bottle of champagne at the back of the liquor cabinet, pop it open and celebrate near 4 decades of an excellent life, and toast the effort to make the next 4 decades even better.