There are supposed to be lines on the floor. There are supposed to be sanitizers, and Veronica buckets, and single chairs spaced nicely for aspiring voters. Sometimes there are, and sometimes not.

Weather warning. Image credit - Modernghana

It was one of those good days. I had closed for the day, and the sun had just begun to set. So I decided in obedience to science… and to my wife, to do some brisk walking in the Ridge area. Just for some droplets of sweat to convince my muscles they were good for something, before I headed on the long drive home. I was now on the homestretch back to the hospital. It had been a pleasant walk so far.

This virus hitches rides on droplets. We need to mask. We need to physically distance. We need to keep our hands clean. Any shortcut, and we miss out on the benefits from any sacrifice.

Battle Cry

The number builds. We have lost more people than we thought we would lose. Just when we have begun to fix our focus on getting back to some kind of normal, this disease seems to further deepen its trenches along the frontline. The virus is freely jumping across all the defenses we have sacrificed to put up. And seems to pick whom it pleases. It crosses class, tribal, political lines. No one is safe.

And even though this is the country I call home, where I want my roots to sink, and my heritage to be established, I can’t close my eyes to how this devaluation of people still persists. I can’t be blind to the daily dehumanisation ...

On Racism. Image credit - SEYM

I became aware of my blackness when I left these shores for the first time. It was a strange self realization that living in Ghana did not prepare me for. I have heard astronauts say that they only grasped how special Earth was, when they had left it, and saw that blue dot floating in absolute blackness. This process was less benign. Over the years I have come to understand that there is a certain acceptance of my humanity that I can only experience in Ghana.

Because I have gone round town, the social distancing is dissipating. The trotros are packing up again. The okadas are picking passengers again. The masks are won like fake beards, or hair bands, or sometimes like bow ties. Sometimes, maddeningly they are taken off ...

Front Line

I know something of the helplessness of severe illness. I have memories from childhood. I have also had some experiences in my adulthood. It is not a good thing to be ill. The fact that an illness has a cure, takes nothing away from the naked terror of its journey through the body. Sometimes, I have been ill, and have known exactly what to do. I suffer nonetheless.