How The Old Man Died and Other Stories

He was a very respectable man.

He had been involved in politics and governance for more than 48 years – almost as long as his country’s existence as a polity.

He was fabulously wealthy, and although his wealth came from his government roles and connections, he had managed to mask that fact so cleverly that people swore he came from pre-colonial money and that corruption had nothing to do with his numerous assets. Only his wives and children knew his real origin story – he reminded them anytime he thought they were being ungrateful, which was all the time.

He had a mild heart condition… Comfortably under control… Monthly visits to the best private doctor in all of the United Kingdom guaranteed that.  His health was top priority, so he took the best drugs, ate the healthiest meals and exercised regularly with his highly-recommended French personal trainer.


He was currently driving on the softly rolling hills of the village which was more or less his property. It was a cool afternoon, and in a fit of boredom, he had uncharacteristically decided to drive himself.  It had been well over a year and he had missed the feel of the subtle subtle subtle hum of his brilliantly-restored Rolls Royce beneath his fingertips. As he drove, he wrinkled his nose in distaste at the poorly appointed hovels along the red dirt roads. From time to time, he would pass by a farmer on her way home, her head supporting an oversized load, and reluctantly nod almost imperceptibly in response to her frenzied sycophantic smiling salute.

“Poverty is a state of mind” was something his pastor always said, and in those moments he agreed wholeheartedly. He was hardworking, and even though he started life like them, his perseverance had brought him far.

With a self-congratulatory smile, he passed by the swirling brown river that split the village into two and thought about the payment he should have received about a week ago from the Italian mining outfit. With a slight frown, he decided he would instruct his lawyers to send them a stiff letter as soon as he got back home – he did not like people who did not pay their bills on time.

It was in that absent-minded moment that disaster stuck.

A group of little children suddenly dashed into the road, chasing a small animal and not bothering to look around first – cars were, after all not often seen on that village road. He swerved sharply, and his body released a cocktail of stress hormones, narrowing vital arteries and causing his not-so-strong heart to skip several beats. He had the presence of mind to brake just before he crashed into a tree, but had no extra energy to signal the boys, who were at this point staring wide-eyed at the car and it’s mysterious occupant.

The eldest amongst them grabbed the hand of a girl who was about to run towards the vehicle. “Don’t you remember what grandma said?! He doesn’t like it when people go near his car. He will arrest you oh!”

And so they stood uncertainly as he sat for about ten minutes and then slumped forward in the seat. When the staring game got boring for them, they ran off to find another rat – the nice fat one they had smoked out was long gone now.

It was almost 4 hours later when a yawning Ama told her mother the weird story… and 8 hours after that when Ama Maame mentioned it to her friend Adjo on the way to their farms… and another 6 hours till Adzo told Kingsley, the cook from the big house who was gossiping away in the market as usual… And because the big house was so big, and the old man didn’t like how the servants smelled, it was another 5 hours before Kingsley heard that the old man was missing.

By the time they found the car, he was barely breathing. As there was no doctor at post in the little community clinic he had “donated” some ten years ago, he had to be rushed to the nearest city hospital. There were no beds in the first one they got to, and his son Maxwell, doctor and Chief Director of Public Health wasn’t answering his phone, and so he was rushed to another hospital.

 

There, they sat – secretary, cook, driver and old man in a Gye Nyame plastic chair, for 2 hours… until a distraught Maxwell ran in, barking orders at nurses and orderlies.

He secured a VIP ward for his father in less than 20 minutes.

 

It was too late.

The old man died.


 

 

other stories…

The autopsy showed that the death was quite avoidable. Apparently the simple, nonsurgical procedure that would have saved his life could have been performed by a 5th year medical student. It was such a pity that the community clinic was not resourced with basic personnel and equipment.

Maxwell and his siblings were devastated. They resolved to make sure a thing like this would never happen again.

Each sibling immediately started making arrangements for personal clinics and doctors for their mothers’ house.

Selina, the youngest, also a doctor, started the first air ambulance company in the country.

On Memory 

I have often wondered about memory – how are our memories constructed, and why do we (consciously and unconsciously) construct them they way we do?
As I traveled with my mother to Sokagope about a month ago, we had had a conversation about my childhood…

 It started when a baby boy in the bus threw a messy tantrum. Shaking my head in a amused superiority,  I said something  along the lines of “I would never have done that – I was a quiet well-behaved baby”. 

Now, I know this because I have been told by aunties, grandpeoples and uncles… but mama burst into laughter and said, “yes you were quiet but quietly doing naughty things”. 

I feigned shock – I mean, it’s not the first time I’ve heard this, but it’s the first time I’ve heard it from her. I always thought I outsmarted her! Darn. 
Anyway, my latest latest favourite story from my childhood is about the teacher who taught me to love mathematics. In my memory, it is the epic story of my love for one of my favourite studies teachers (extra classes tutor) and how we fought against all odds to achieve something I don’t even remember anymore. 

Of course my mother remembers it differently… Apparently I wasn’t always the maths shark you know me to be 😊. Up till class four, I would get between 90 to 100% in every subject… except maths… I was languishing around 50% or 60% there. I wouldn’t swallow this dubious information hook, line & sinker if I were you – it’s clear my mother has an agenda :-/

Back to the story – naturally, this inexplicable poor performance in Mathematics which I am clearly naturally good at worried my parents so much that they found me a maths tutor who with careful instruction, clever quizzes and outright bribery got me to a 90-100% grade level. Boring.
Now I don’t remember that – I remember hating the “Cedis and pesewas” topic because my little brother would tease me about having a clever mouth except when it came to answering cedis and pesewas” questions (No wonder I used to beat him. I should go beat him now even. Nonsense)

 And oh, I remember, I remember that I LOVED Mr. Abanga. My mum said I sometimes wouldn’t eat lunch until I saw him and that I wouldn’t shut up about everything he taught me.

 I remember he taught me to write “w” the way he did – Beautifully. I remember I wanted to scratch his girlfriend’s eyes out. (I still do, now that I think about it. If you’re reading this, come let’s fight) 

I also remember he took me to the Efua Sutherland Children’s Park for a show and that’s where I first saw Tic Tac and learned the Philomena Kpitingeh dance (If this makes me sound older than 16, then change Tic Tac to Efya, and insert Efya song). 

I remember he bought me a necklace – a bit of string with a glass trinket hanging from it which was my most treasured possession until… I forget when… my next great love interest I suppose.

My mother tells me the funfair was my reward( or bribe) for scoring 10% over the 80% target Mr. Abanga set for me.

I liked hearing my mother tell me her version of events, and I totally understood her when she added how worried she was about the appropriateness of the whole thing when she realized how serious my infatuation was… Apparently when he realized it, he tried to create distance between us…. But it was tooooo late, I knew his house and I was scoring 90% – 100% in maths. 

He left Ghana eventually and though he came back briefly, I don’t know where he is now. Mr Daniel Abanga, if you’re reading this, thank you, thank you, thank you and please get in touch. We can talk about how you remember all of this ❤️

…….
The other thing I remember differently is not as heartwarming…

So! I have a vague memory of eating the most delicious pastry ever when I was a child. They called it “tyt” which I’m pretty sure is almost definitely actually supposed to be ‘tart’ lol. I remember it as a creamy, delicious yellow bread-like pastry, and so therefore when I heard a woman shout “yeees tyt” at Tema roundabout as I sat with my friend Sarpong waiting for a trotro to fill up, I immediately told him about it. And then I bought one. And bit into it. Waiting for the Angels to break into song. It was disappointing. Tasted like cardboard soaked in the tears of disappointment of Arsenal and Liverpool fans and fried in the oil off the faces of heavy-breathing Accra Hearts of Oak fans. 

<shudder> Anyway, on the way to Sogakope I asked my mother about tyt. And got laughed at. Again. Basically, she didn’t feed me much sugar in my childhood and tyt was one of the first sugar-rich things I ever ate. According to her it’s always tasted like that – but as I noted earlier, she clearly has a nefarious agenda here. I therefore reject her memory, and encourage you to reject it as well  – I SWEAR it was soft and creamy and buttery and delicious – so if you have a memory of tyt (which echoes mine), let me know.

Motherfuckitude by Poetra Asantewa – Some Thoughts

Disclaimer: I only do this for art that tugs at my heart and mind. The last time this happened was for Asa’s Bed of Stone. Fyi, this is not a review. Furthermore, you can listen to Poetra’s EP here.

Poetra Motherfuckitude

Listening to Motherfuckitude back to back for a while reminds me of thoughts I’ve thought and shelved for a while… Like how great most of my generation is at being simultaneously connected and detached. I sense this duality in Poetra’s art in general. I mean.. we’ve had to be great at straddling and expertly navigating a number of worlds. We weren’t born into connectivity – we came of age in it. [Side Note: When I see all those articles moaning about how young people spend way too much time online or how the world is going to shit because these young people spend all time on their phones, I snort in amusement because these people have not realised how great we are at adapting and evolving. We balance “real life” and “social media life” (assuming those are actually two separate worlds, but that’s a discussion for another day) because there really is no choice for us. If I video a concert while watching it does it mean I am not enjoying it? If I check out what other people are tweeting about the show I’m watching while watching it and tweeting about it myself does it mean I’m not watching it? I hang out with friends in real life and in real time on twitter all the time – our conversations weaving and wafting online and offline – No biggie.]

Same way Poetra weaves and wafts – No biggie.

Track by track? Why not?


Naked Listeners is chock full of quotables and preach-sister-preach moments. Not sure what I mean about the weaving and wafting? It’s a constant theme throughout Motherfuckitude and in this first track you begin to experience it. The arrangement is just sublime. The bells. The bells. The bells. 

P.O.A takes me back to awkward moments as a teenager crossing over into my twenties – competing thoughts all up in my head – trying to find my feet, my place in the world, sometimes wondering whether I should even bother. It’s about her personal battle with art, plus observations about the field she’s intimately connected to, yet as I listen, I put myself in her shoes and think of my own (fading) struggles to find my spot(s). 

No Panties is a good one in this collection of good ones. Though it’s not my favourite, I can certainly see why it seems to be so many other people’s favourite track off Motherfuckitude, AND it’s not just because she has no panties on. It’s littered with subversion and rebellion which may not be so subversive as it seems to be fast becoming the ‘in’ attitude now… I remember when I first realised Poetra could sing – like really sing. It was at an Ehalakasa event at Nubuke foundation, she came out with a now long-forgotten guy accompanying her on the guitar and charley, it was beautiful.

The Poetry Ain’t Shit melody is delightfully upbeat for such a depressing refrain. The message is familiar – it ties in with P.O.A in rather nicely. And as always, the ever present (does she even realise she’s consciously doing it? do we?) weaving and wafting… weaving and wafting. 

Masked Commoners is another one that clearly brings out that straddling or different worlds I’ve referred to. It’s quite heavy in terms of the theme, but in a good way. There’s commentary on the worlds we live in today; with the uneasy couplings and balancing acts we continue to contend with in our daily lives. As an aside, I would like to note that the music perfectly matches the words.  

All Love is light and breathless. It’s the sort of track I would imagine playing in the background when I’m a perfect date with a person I expect to break up with in a few weeks. It’s the sort of lighthearted yet serious, breathless yet measured anthem for heart-wrenchingly painful moments you know a bottle of wine and 2 bars of chocolate can fix. It draws you in – promising an easy listen – and you fall for it… listening twice.. five times and then it thrusts you into your feels… and then you shake your head with a wry smile because Poetra got you. It’s ditzy brilliance. It’s my favourite.


In conclusion? I love Motherfuckitude.

to the Kuukuwa across the street

There’s a Kuukuwa who lives in the house across the street. I know this because her mother keeps screaming out her name. Whenever I hear that exasperated drawn-out “Kuuukuwa!” my mind flashes back to episodes of my life as a teenage bookworm. I would often lie curled up in bed, completely immersed in a novel, or hide out in the mango tree behind our boys quarters with my nose buried in a book. And ever so often, my mother would call out for me to come assist her in the kitchen. I always heard her calls, but I quickly became an expert at ignoring ignoring and ignoring!

After two or three unsuccessful prolonged “Kuukuwas”, my mother would barge into my room in irritation. She had different tactics – all in an attempt to instil the desire to help with housework in me. (lol)”. One of the regulars was a short speech/warning that went something like “Kuukuwa, so you didn’t hear me calling you. You’re lazy oh. Come and help in the kitchen or else!” And on very special occasions of despair, she would finish with a “Your husband will put your groundnut soup in a bottle and bring you back home with it oh.” I would usually respond with “Why won’t you ask Fiifi?” (my brother) … or when I was feeling pretty wicked, I would mutter to myself “groundnut soup. Hoh! Did Marie Curie spend her teenage years making groundnut soup? And why would I want husband when all he does is sit in the living room and watch tv while you slave away in the kitchen!” Sadly for young teenage Kuukuwa, these episodes almost always ended the same way – my eyes awash with a film of angry tears while I cut onions, grated nutmegs or ground kpakpo shitɔ in the asanka while glaring at the blender angrily. 

So when I hear the woman across the street call this much younger Kuukuwa, I imagine her hidden away in some corner, trying to get five more minutes with her book… five more minutes in that fantasy world. Five more minutes of imagining herself hand-in-hand with Anne of Green Gables, trading best friend secrets and naming the beautiful springs and trees around them. Or perhaps she’s imagining herself as Hermione right now, feeling Hermione’s hurt at being thought of as a know-it-all and yet powerless to stop her hand from shooting up because she knows the answer… she always knows the answer. 

And sometimes when I imagine this Kuukuwa I have never seen, I think about giving her a pep talk. I tell her to keep on being herself for her love for reading will shape her in the most delightful ways. I tell her that all the recipes for Ghana food are online and that cooking is so easy – she can learn anytime. “Feed your imagination, Kuukuwa. Practice writing yourself. You will never regret it. Write that fantasy novella you’re thinking about writing. The one that you’ll stumble across when you’re 25. That one which will drive you to wild laughter when you read it 11 years later. Laugh at, but be proud of the naive and yet amazingly imaginative paragraphs. You will smile when you remember that Kuukuwa of years past and you will be glad you kept hiding yourself say to read… 

but don’t hide in the mango tree though, those red ants are evil and they attack as a giant coordinated team!

Don’t let the light of your imagination dim, Kuukuwa. Don’t let anyone try to stifle it, and oh they will try – albeit unintentionally and without malice for they don’t know better – but don’t let them stop you.”

Another short untitled one

She felt droplets of saliva land on her left cheek and upper lip.

He had worked himself into a righteous rage, and his speech had reached the heights of passion.

Ghanaians are hypocrites!” he screamed as the heads around his bobbed up and down, smirks on smirking faces because the owners knew that even though they were Ghanaians, they were not Ghanaians because they were certainly not hypocrites. 

“Back in Europe,” the people are always honest, they tell you the truth as it is. “My students – 9 year olds – they tell me plainly all the time – ‘Francis, that is very stupid’ – and I am not offended because we all say exactly what we think”

The heads bobbed up and down even faster – nobody wanted to nod too gently and give the impression that they did not already know that these things happen in Europe all the time.

She had never been good at knowing when to shut up “Perhaps, they just didn’t respect you

That funny way Ghanaians see Ghanaians…

This is in response to Nana Ama’s post, among other things. It was not easy to write, because a lot of people I respect and admire fall in the category below…

I would like to start by saying that I was very disappointed in the Black Stars after they let us down in Brazil. I did not expect much from the GFA or the government for I knew they were in it to make as much profit as possible – be it political or financial profit. I also did not begrudge the boys their large bonuses although I thought the sums were just too much, but if that is what they agreed on, then they deserved to be paid. It was the manner in which they forced the authorities to pay them that infuriated me. You see, I have low expectations of the politicians – and they never usually have the love and support of the majority of Ghanaians, but the Black Stars have… they did, and they broke my heart.

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

It is a sadly common trend for certain Ghanaians to say or write things like “Ghanaians are <insert patronising description>”. I hear it on radio all the time, I see it on online forums and in comment threads and it is unfortunate that this is how people conceptualise themselves and their people. I won’t go into the undertones of inferiority complex that underly this kind of thinking. Usually, the maker of such damning, broadly generalising comments is Ghanaian, but when they make these comments, they aren’t referring to themselves – no, they are different, they are sensible, they are intelligent, they are open-minded and they are (well) educatedThey are perched on a high pedestal, looking down on the “stupid” Ghanaians who have “short memories” and will certainly forget dumsor and the mismanagement of an economy because of one trophy. Seriously?! They know that “2 hours of borrowed electricity from La Côte D’Ivoire would make Ghanaians think that everything is okay with the country. Seriously!?!

And it is not an attitude that is unique to them, it is rather widespread in this “educated” class of Ghanaians. They, ironically like the orientalising Westerner who looks to the “other” to reassure himself of his superiority, look to that average Ghanaian who represents everything that is the Ghana they love and hate, to reassure themselves that they have escaped the “mediocrity”. It is in religion – Christianity for instance, where people have no problems with the “posturing” of the likes of Duncan Williams, but condemn Bishop Obinim for being a charlatan. It’s complicated, but if I had to explain it in one line, I would say “It’s simply because Obinim is not as brɔfɔlised.” Brɔfɔlised is such a great word… Loosely explained it means he does not have the respectability that comes with the ability to speak fluent English. I will admit now that I have had that attitude in past, and I would have still have more than a healthy dose of it by now if I hadn’t gone through some personal troubles that made me seriously reconsider how I looked at others. And it is true that I still relapse into that mindset from time to time – it’s not easy… In fact, I’m frightened of what I might become post-Oxford, but that’s another blog post for another day. Saying “Ghanaians are like….” or “Ghanaians dier…” in that tone of voice is terribly condescending. You know that hot flash of anger you feel when you read a generalising “Africans are <insert stereotype here>” from a white person? Well, it is not quite the same in terms of power dynamics at play, but you catch my drift don’t you?

It’s as though they do not think that other people can compartmentalise their emotions. That anger at the GFA and Mahama’s government can coexist with the ability to recognise the hard work of footballers, and the joy of seeing a son fighting the demons of his father can be relished while criticising the incompetence of the system that manages him.  Do a quick search on social media sites on Black Stars, bonuses, GFA budget and government. You will find out that people ARE upset about the wastefulness of the GFA, the size of the bonuses and the general shadiness of these things BUT they are also proud of the boys for playing hard and making their nation proud. No need to throw out the baby with the bathwater – something Ghanaians have always known.

This “I’m-glad-they-didn’t-win-because-the-government-would-have-capitalised-on-it business” is rather silly.

“A win would have given us a false sense of importance and sent the government into believing (what the cool people describe as) their own ‘hype’ – that we are truly the best on this continent.”

Firstly, LOL.

More seriously, I spent my energy (rather uselessly) wishing the Black Stars wouldn’t qualify in the first place, because barring the obvious futility of sitting on one’s arse and wishing things, that would have made more sense. The amount of money the government would have spent on the tournament would have been close to zero… but you see, once, they were in, and through to the final, a win would have been the only way to make ourselves feel better about the money that was spent – money that WAS spent REGARDLESS. So, as useless wishes go, wishing they wouldn’t win once they were already in the final was pretty useless. The consensus on the loss is that the Black Stars did their best, but were not lucky – I can see how a smart propagandist (like Hanna Tetteh, brilliant at this sort of thing) can use the scenario to generate ‘hype’, but… never mind

That said, I am not surprised that Nana Ama is so convinced about this “short term memory of Ghanaians” theory. She works in radio as a kind of permanent panelist on a breakfast show. Now, the breakfast shows I listen to – on Joy fm and Citi fm are … interesting. The purpose seems to be to pack as much content as possible into the time period allocated. So, we get something like a 10-minute newspaper review, then 15 minutes of ranting about something, followed by very condensed sports football news, followed by 15 minutes of an “interview” with some corporate organization promoting their new product, then some social media trends, oh and some sort of message of motivation followed by a promotion of the radio station’s Easter corporate football tournament and then… you get my drift. It’s easy, I suppose, to assume that people get easily distracted from things that matter to them when you’re working in that context and always searching for next big news story, “forgetting” to follow up till 3 months later perhaps on yesterday’s breaking news story. Certainly, there is a desire for this kind of programming in Ghana and this is why they are so successful, but I personally find that I can only put myself through it once or twice a week.

And frankly, if you work in radio and want people to not to forget issues you feel are important, just keep telling them. You have a platform. Can’t be that hard, surely.

People say La Côte D’Ivoire needed the trophy more, and I am inclined to agree. Only a true football fan knows the euphoria that comes from winning trophies and how your whole day can change because your team lost a match. Do not make the mistake of underestimating the power of something you do not understand, and a time when it feels like “Ghana is the devil’s pet project” (@niilexis, 2013), winning a tournament after 33 years could colour a hopeless situation hopeful again. There’s a reason why Nkrumah invested in sportsmen and athletes even when the country was in a precarious situation. I won’t explain further – if you understand, you understand.

Also this is not really about the AfCON, it’s about that funny way Ghanaians see Ghanaians.

Remembering my Primary School teachers… :-)

I just felt a burning desire to list all the class teachers I had in primary school. These women and one man played an important part in shaping me. If I have time when I’m back in Ghana, I would like to track them and visit. Especially my class 6 teacher. How about you? Do you remember yours?

Class 1 – Mz Asare, I think her first name is Christina. I remember how thrilled she was about my progress in class. You see, I had been jumped from KG 2 to class one because I already knew all the lessons for KG2. My mother, when she was on maternity leave after having my little brother was so bored that she spent her days teaching me things she had no business teaching me. One thing that really stands out in my memory was the afternoon i got into trouble because I said sorkorpimpim. It was a very naughty word and I don’t really remember who taught me or what it meant exactly (had to do with sex), but I said it out loud in class and horrified Mrs. Asare. It’s probably why she wanted to jump me to class 2 after a term, but my mother wouldn’t let her – she thought the other kids would pick on me.

Class 2 – Mz Darko. Elizabeth (I think) was a force of nature. Even now I remember her as an extremely confident woman. She also had the most beautiful shiny dark skin and curly hair – I learned later on that they were called jerry curls. Two moments stand out from my encounters with her; first, she cured me of my “cry-babyism” when she sharply reprimanded me about always crying to get my way. I was so worried about disappointing her as I was equal parts awed and terrified of her that I stopped! Second, she didn’t come to school one day because she was ill, so a substitute teacher took over the class that day and set us to writing get well soon letters. In mine, I wrote that I would bring her Lucozade. Lucozade was a sort of energy drink that my father swore by and I really did think it was the thing to drink when you were ill. I still do! Anyway, the next day I actually did bring her the Lucozade, making her so happy. She actually had tears in her eyes.

Class 3 – Mz Cecilia Boateng. I have one very sad memory from class with Miss Boateng. She didn’t do anything wrong – she was a kind, gentle soul. I think even then she had rather sad eyes. My sad memory was walking into class early after break time one afternoon and finding her sitting with tears in her eyes. She didn’t even notice me, and I didn’t understand why till I overhead some gossip from other teachers about four years later. Gossip that is not my place to share. It is sad that that moment has overshadowed any other memories I have of her.

Class 4 – Mz Millicent Obeng. She was a member of the Deeper Life Church. I remember this because she told me after I asked her why she wore no earrings and wore her hair the way she did. It was in her class that I decided to be a scientist. It was in her class too that I discovered my competitive spirit.

Class 5 – Mz Adanse. Another powerful personality – from her commanding voice to her “presence”. She had a way of walking into class and “filling” the room. It had nothing to do with her size, it was just the sort of aura she had. I liked her and used to visit her at her house which wasn’t far from mine. She also used to make meatpies and rock buns to sell in school and I used to help her carry the little bucket she put the pies in. She was also very good at caning. She used to strike fear in my little heart when she picked up her cane and thrashed some poor soul. I don’t remember getting caned by her, possibly because I was extra good so as to avoid a beating!

Class 6 – Mr Samuel Otoo. He really was my favourite. He used to chat with me at break time when I was going through my antisocial stage, and he took me seriously. In his class I decided to be an astronaut, an crime lab technician, a credit analyst and a professor in no particular order. He was always very interested and I lived for the days when my mother said it was okay to let him walk me home – he also lived near the school. After secondary school, I went by his house and found out that he moved. I don’t know where he lives now, but I would love to meet him again.

The Drowning Girl

There once was a girl who was drowning. Not figuratively – as in drowning in work or in love, but very literally – as in drowning in the Atlantic ocean in the middle of nowhere with no saviour in sight.

Now please do not ask me how she happened to get there… in the middle of that ocean, for it is a tale too long, too dark and too twisted to tell.

Let’s call our drowning girl Aba.

What I will tell you, however, is that after she had been struggling to stay afloat, kicking her feet furiously under water for a long, long, long while, along came a large boat with a girl on it.

Let’s call her Akos.

Aba felt a shiver of hopeful excitement go through her body as she saw Akos draw near. She knew she was going to be saved at last. After all, here was another girl, just like her but with a big boat, some rope and some warm clothes!

Akos drew near, but not very close.
“My dear, I feel so sorry for you! I understand your plight and I stand by you!”, she declared with great emotion, her beautiful eyes shining with unshed tears.

Aba was equally moved. “Thank you so much! I’ve waited for so long to be helped out of this situation or at least to be given a way to help myself, and things have been horribly, horribly hopeless until now. Help me unto your boat, please”

But Akos could not hear Aba, she was very very moved by her own goodness and willingness to stand by the drowning girl, against the oppressing ocean. So she kept on shouting at the skies, and at that wicked ocean… with passion, and pure, noble intentions.
“I stand with this drowning girl. I feel her pain!”

The End.