The mobile phone is a wonderful tool. It means more than the moon landing. Because it means more to more people. It has expanded the boundaries of democracy and eased human contact beyond horizons never previously imagined.

But the mobile phone can sometimes be a throbbing pain in the hind cheek.


My phone rings. Once. I ignore it.

My phone rings again. Once again. I ignore it. Again.

My phone rings again. Twice this time. It’s the same number calling.

Should I take it? …. Naaah, if it’s that important he/she’ll invest at least a minute rather than flash me.

My phone rings again. Three times. The line cuts the moment I hit the answer button.

This is getting irritating. I’m drumming on the pillow with my finger tips. I’m trying to calm down and….

….My phone rings again. Just once. Again. Same number.

Maybe it’s one of my cousins at Akropong. Maybe something’s happened to my father. He’s 83….

Maybe my mum is… maybe armed ro… I banish the thought before it fully forms.

If there’s been an event of a really urgent nature and a complete stranger has chanced upon it and has found my number, I’m sure he/she would be kind enough to call me quickly and ask me to call back. Besides…

….My phone rings… Once. Allllright!!! I’ll return the call. This is the sixth time. It has to be important.


His/Her phone rings….

“Hello.” It’s a..a…a… man! There’s no urgency in his voice. There’s loud music in the background … “I wan to sheee you my fada…I wan to shee you my …… 

“Yes, hello! Good evening, sir.

“Eh? Eh? I can’t hear you well,” bellows the fellow.

“Sorry, but you called my number.”

“Eh? Speak up! I can’t hear!” He is shouting at me now. It’s as if it’s my fault that he is at a drinking spot, and worse still that it’s my burden that he’s seated inside the loud-speaker!

“Y..o..u c..a..l..l..e..d m..y p..h..o..n..e!” I said.

“Who are you?”

“Who are you?!”

“I say who are you?!!”

“No, who are you? You called my phone!

“Me I don’t call your phone. Never! What is your name?”

“Could you please take a look at your call register. Maybe you mistook my number for someone else’s.”

“It’s not possible. Never!



Five minutes later….


My phone rings…. It’s the fellow. He’s flashing me. Again!

I decide to turn off the phone…. But then…

My phone rings….again and again and again and again and again and again. He’s not flashing me this time. Maybe he’s discovered who it is he called. Maybe we know each other.


“Hello, again!” I answer.

To the accompaniment of Batman’s ‘Se obi do wo a…’…..”Yea, charley, I want Awushie, Awushie! Make you call Awushie for me eh! Awushie!”


I’m thinking Agushi, agushi! Agushi is what you want, motherf….. I’m thinking it but I’m not quite dishing it. “I’m sorry, I don’t know Awushie.”

“Oh, why Awushie no be your sis?”


“Don’t you live at Agbogba, near the gutter?!”



I take in several deep breaths — iiiinnnn, oooout, iiiinnn, oooout to avoid smashing my own phone against the wall in fury.

I’m drowning in adrenalin.

I look at the time on the phone before switching it very off.

It’s 2.42 a.m!

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