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Ghanaian men
I met six (6) beautiful British-Ghanaian men, who were sitting at the next table to mine. They had all just landed the night before, that is, last night: apart from ‘one idiot’ who inexplicably somehow booked a ticket for tonight and whom they were just about to haul down from Kotoka. “Do you smoke weed?” ‘Thanks, but I’ve done my time.’ By the end of the night it was, “I love you, Cathoel. No I really mean it, I just really really do.” He had to stand up to say it, putting his hands either side of my face but somewhat far away, not like lover distance, more like new friends. The ringleader whose name was on their band t shirts saying, “Wait, no! put the camera on me. I need to say. I love Cathoel. I just love her! She, is,” and we roared in sympathy as another round of whatever was brought and whatever and I essayed my theory, which is: Ghanaians say to each other, Chairman, Big Man, Bossu, Original, and they particularly say so whenever they need to ask for some service. Can you clean this asphalt under my feet. Can you bring me another cold beer. We ordered skewers and said, soft one, though, Boss — soft one eh. My theory is from how enslaved men once they had escaped into jazz called each other man, yeah man, right, man, that’s a good idea, man. And that this was (so I heard) because they on the plantations were always and forever called Boy. So I think it’s related. The conversation changed. We were talking about the music we’re going to make. That music will be partly Australian, part Ghana, part how did we get here. It is only half past ten I feel stony warm sober and I am in a different world.
