Mug Shot
on Anthony Lovat in Bolgatanga (Ghana), Unknown, 34 days ago
It was market day in Bolga and, as with every market day, the town seems to double in population. The sleepy pace awakens once every three days into a frenetic hive of commerce. Where men sit dozing under trees on any other day, stalls materialise selling fried bean cakes, straw baskets, tea bread and smoked fish. Laura and I still do a weekly shop together. We have a regular route through the narrow alleys of stalls, often so closely huddled together that two people cannot pass side by side. Rusty corrugated iron with tetanus loaded nails stick out at head level; dogs and goats snuffle in the shadows; bare footed children sit patiently next to their mothers. It all seems very ordinary now, quite unremarkable. Shopping is as much of a routine as it once was in Tesco.Having loaded up with food for the week, we met Donatus and his friend, Kojo, at a pito spot on the edge of the market. By the afternoon of every market day, pito spots are heaving with the merry drunks of Bolga, determinedly and happily drowning their sorrows and frustrations. Laura and I sat on a rough wooden bench, ordered pito and were presented with a large calabash each filled with fresh, warm fragrant pito. Before long, an old man sat next to me dressed in a matching blue and green shirt and trousers with“Our Lady Mother of Mercy” emblazoned tastefully across the chest in luminous yellow. He also ordered pito (I don’t think it was his first) and asked me where I was from.“Ah, you are British!” The old man slurred enthusiastically. “You know, the British people colonised this place,” he pointed at the dusty ground where a chicken picked at a stone. “You British came here and we were under you people. I am an old man – I have seen more than you. I rememberwhen you British were here as government agents. That’s what you were called. I remember there being British government agents around this place. They were good people. I was born in 1948 that makes me...” he counted on his fingers, “62 years old. You see I am an old man! I went on retirementin 2008. I worked at the ministry for mining for more than forty years.” He paused for effect and I duly congratulated him on his employment stamina. “I was born in Gambaga. You know Gambaga?” I smiled and nodded. “If you enter Gambaga from WaleWale you will see the graves of two governmentagents, their wives and their dog. Those British government agents loved this country so much they wanted to be buried here. God bless them. Gambaga used to be the capital of all the northern regions – that’s why there were government agents there. Bolga and Tamale were just small places then –villages – this was long before the road was built. Now look at how this place has developed.” He looked admiringly around at the rickety wooden structures perched on the edge of the pot-holed taxi rank. “I remember when Ghana won her independence from the British. Queen Elizabeth sent us a gift, a personal gift to the people of Ghana. It was a mug, a plastic mug. On one side of the mug was a picture of the Queen Elizabeth and on the other side was the new flag of Ghana. I went to see it with my classmates. We had to travel a long way to see the mug.”He looked wistfully through drunken eyes.“It was a wonderful thing, that plastic mug.”