Chalk two for Sakabo – he outwits a police officer and a journalist

And so to the Bronx I went. The subway had delayed so much that my bladder was bursting at the seams. I rushed to the nearest corner and let go the stuff women don’t like, insensitive to people around. This is New York and ……. I started to say to myself but was cut short with a sharp…“what the hell do you think you are doing?” a female voice asked from behind. I was momentarily startled, turned around and unfortunately sprayed her with the flowing liquid out of my manhood. She jumped back, composed herself and pulled out a writing pad and a pen. I instantly knew she wanted to write summon for me. “Let’s see some ID,” she furiously ordered. “For what”? I snapped. “For lewdness and peeing on a police officer” she yelled back without describing her hue. That would have made her look a racist. “Sorry, but that Arizona (ID) law is not applicable to me. It has not yet even been implemented there” I challenged. “Do you want race riot in New York,” I added. She was genuinely surprised to hear that coming from an accented foreigner. Just then, her radio scrambled. She listened to it and dashed into her police vehicle, ignoring me. Her siren went on as she sped away, obviously to a more pressing issue than public peeing. “Good for her, Sakabo’s pee would make its mark for a long time on a white female police officer”, I reflected.  Had it been Papa Sakabo’s she probably would have been impregnated with “a coffee and milk” baby. And that would have broken all hell loose in her family! Lucky she, I smiled as I entered a crowded African eating place. Something caught my attention – a lone white man in a queue for food. Not another encounter with a white person, I prayed. He got his order and sat on the last unoccupied table. My “wakye” came with spicy “shito” minus fish or meat. The money wasn’t just there for other necessities of food. But unlike the Koforidua Okum kom chop bar owner, this woman knew not to probe. After all this is the Big Apple where people mind their own business. I joined the white man and spied a decent heap of food with accoutrement of fish and the like. “Hi”, he offered his hand, “I’m Bob.” “And I am Sakabo” We shook hands. The guy had probably never done any hard work in his entire life, for his palm was very soft. “Excuse me” he said “what is it that you are having?” “Wakye” I replied. “And mine?” This guy wants to agitate me” I pondered. “You don’t know the food you’re going to eat?” I inquired of him. “No” he said flatly. “I am a newspaperman on assignment about African dishes in New York”, he told me, looking at his food without much fun.  “Well” I started, “the thing in front of you is called Banku”, “and on top of it is okra.” “Better be careful because the combination can Joshua-lized you.” “Can what?” he wanted to ascertain. “Joshua-lized?” he repeated with utter surprise! “Yes, you heard me loud and clear.” It’s a boxing terminology coined from a recent prominent African boxer’s bout. The white man seemed confused. “Yes, that banku and okra could be rough on your stomach. You eat that, better stay close to Mens’ room all day,” I warned, hoping he’ll abandon the food. “How about your food”? he asked. It’ll be better on your stomach because it’s regular rice, cooked in special herbs. The shito is nothing but fried pepper and it doesn’t stink so much. I took a pepper and put it in my mouth to proof my point. Bob seemed relaxed and comfortable with it and suggested we swapped dishes. Quietly I thanked my stars. “Sure, I wouldn’t want you to write nasty stuff about our diet from your first experience” I cooed as I shoved the wakye in front of him and took his food, meat, fish and all, and remembered the full coined phrase “kέ banku a’ba” in the Ga language. I, Sakabo of the sacred village and blessed with the wits and cunning of Kwaku Ananse had gotten free fish and meat on my food for the second time within months.  Chalk another one for me. 

As he threw the first spoonful of wakye in his mouth, he flipped through the Sports section of his newspaper. “What are you reading about?” I asked Bob. “It’s about this god-damn womanizer. He belongs in the woods playing golf with leopards” he said with contempt. “Leave my brother alone,” I shouted at him. Bob seemed taken aback. “If he’s a leopard, he’s a bretuo and therefore my brethren.” “Who or what is bretuo? he wanted to know. It’s a clan thing, but I don’t have time to explain. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you Americans. A man allegedly exercises his right with his given endowment and beds few birds and he’s forced into a nut house for a so-called therapy! What would you have done to Sakabo, with all these women he’d consumed? Crucify him?

Bob looked at me with acute pain of expression on his face. I couldn’t discern whether he was reacting to my tirade or the result of the food he was devouring. But then he started fanning his mouth with his hand. Akoa no aka amakom! “Hei someone bring the oburoni water before he faints, I yelled and with that slipped out of the restaurant. 

Sakabo is a sequel that must be followed to be understood.

Posted by on Apr 28 2021. Filed under Artcultainment. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0. You can leave a response or trackback to this entry

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