Chapter 1: The Tro-Tro Argument That Turned Into a Prayer Meeting
If you've never nearly fainted inside a tro-tro because of heat, insults, and unexpected church service, then my brother, you haven't truly lived in Accra.
That Thursday afternoon, the sun decided it was doing body-building. The way it was beating my forehead, I knew I was on my own.
Sweat was running down my back like somebody had opened a tap behind me.
I managed to squeeze myself into a tro-tro that was clearly older than me.
The seats were crying, the windows refused to roll down, and the mate's slippers looked like they had survived World War I and II combined.
Inside the tro-tro, it was a full zoo:
A woman was carrying a goat like it was her second child. Two babies were crying in stereo. A man behind me was breathing on my neck like a dragon.
If you moved an inch, you would smell five different body odors at once.
Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, the mate shouted:
"Last four cedis! Last four cedis!"
Before I could even bring out my money, a big woman from the back roared:
"Massa, reduce the fare! The road sef no be tarred!"
Without even blinking, the mate replied:
"If e no tarred, you go swim come?"
The whole tro-tro scattered.
One man said he would report the mate to the United Nations.
Another woman said she had dreams about this tro-tro crashing — and if we didn't pray now, we were finished.
Before I could understand what was going on, one aunty pulled out a bottle of anointing oil from her bag as if she was drawing a sword.
She started shouting:
"Holy Ghost fire! Holy Ghost fire! Cover this tro-tro! Bind every spirit of accident!"
I blinked twice and suddenly — prayer meeting!
Some people were clapping. Some were shaking.
One man was prophesying that the driver was "possessed with the demon of overspeeding."
At this point, I just bowed my head small and whispered my own personal prayers.
Because whether you believed or not, that day, everybody became born again.
By the time we reached Circle, I didn't even argue about my change.
I just jumped down, kissed the ground inside my mind, and said:
"Accra is a full-time survival game. If you're still standing, you deserve an award."
I wiped my sweat, adjusted my shirt, and told myself —
"Next time, Samuel, walk. Or better yet, stay home."
End of Chapter 1