By Ishmael Junourgh 
This Sunday evening has been an interesting one. I stepped out of my room to walk about, but certainly not aimlessly, and not to report on any of God’s children. I was out and about, stretching myself to be sure my limbs were properly functioning.
Walking along the road has always been a pleasure, but not without being mindful of those popularly called “weekend drivers.” I have had a reason or two to be reasonably mindful about weekend drivers. The one I cannot allow myself to forget was about a woman driver at the Du Bois Centre. This was several years ago, not less than twenty years ago.
She had joined friends of her class to “kill” the weekend over “chinchinga” and, expectedly, the good brand of AP10, perhaps the best version of “apio,” with its many necessary nicknames. The issue then was not the breaking of bottles and exercising of the gum. And certainly not missing out on verbal intercourse. Pardon me before I am misconstrued. I mean hearty and sometimes loose conversations that could loosen things.
Anyhow, this woman driver had everything to her fill until she was possibly tipsy and had to drive back home alone. Making a U-turn to exit the Centre, which she had hitherto done with ease, became her uphill task. She kept hitting the car on all fronts until, possibly, an ancestress thought it was not time to have her home and whispered some consciousness into her.
Nevertheless, I envy, but do not desire, I must make this clear to remain a communicant, weekend drivers, especially those who drive big cars with tinted glasses.
As I said, just when the sun was setting, I walked past one of such big cars and realised that the car was also very big inside. A certain spotless and carefully manicured thigh, not “womanicured” because the man had paid for it, was seated right next to the weekend driver. I could see through because the glass window on the side towards the pedestrian lane was slightly lowered.
Ordinarily, most men do not share the pleasures of their eyes when feasting on such budding feminine assets. But it looked as though this weekend driver possibly wanted to spite me. He allowed me to see through until I had to make the sign of the cross and remind myself that my friends remind me that I have repented.
So, I reluctantly walked away, dragging my feet while singing, “Lord of mercy and compassion.” I had learned this Catholic hymn while teaching at a school owned by a Catholic.
But for once, what I saw through that window made me crave, with impassioned passion, indulgence. In other words, if I could pay to also see through until satisfied, possibly I would have. But, as I said, my friends say I have repented.
Walking away, I saw another weekend driver. He appeared troubled in spirit. He had waited for a young fair lady for a very long time, to the point of despair. But as a man of faith in fairness, he was still waiting.
I greeted him. He greeted back. He almost asked me whether I knew about the fair damsel he was waiting for. I almost said yes, because I recall how, in those days, the work of a “go-between” or “betweener” accrued benefits.
One, it brought one money. Two, the go-between could also take over.
Either way, I had to remind myself about what my friends said, that I had repented, and move on.
But just before I took about ten steps away, I saw the damsel approach. She was not as endowed as the other one. But she appeared to have an air of peerless importance.
In a minute, I thought about how some women are said to “stupefy” men with either “kayamata” or “bedi an ko.” The damsel had worked on her behind, but not like the other one. So, I just knew from sight that I did not need to pray against temptation.
I therefore walked on, but not without wondering what was keeping the weekend driver tethered to this damsel.
Anyways, beyond the possibility of mystical causality taking its course, I was suddenly reminded about what a university mate with the nickname “True, True” said about bedmatics.
This was in 2007, when, as third-year undergraduate students of African Studies, we had gone to Twifo-Heman for our fieldwork.
There, hmmm, I found men of class overstepping each other to have a little space back home with the village damsels while on their knees in supplication.
Experiencing my own nirvana with surprises, I asked True, True, who was truly experienced in such matters and could really talk when AP10, doused with English, ran down his throat. He resolved my quagmire with the answer:
“Every dirty water quenches fire.”
I still do not understand what he meant by that.
Today, as I intersected with weekend drivers, I thought about True, True, wishing he were around to be my Hermes.
But with the first weekend driver, I remembered Bra Nana and Talata, who subverted Nkrumah’s PDA, Public Display of Affection, with no qualms of conscience.
Let me think about myself. After all, what do I know about such matters other than spilling an ink that births nothing?
Maybe spilling what, rather?
Satyagraha