Good (and Bad) Old Days: Swedru Bicycle

I recently saw Kwaw Ansah's movie, Good Old Days: Papa Lasisi Good Bicycle, and was reminded of my own bicycle misadventure as a child in Agona Swedru in the 1970s.

I had moved to Swedru as a class 4 pupil, along with my kid brother, to live with my father and his new wife.

It was a long way from Kumasi, where our mother lived, and naturally we were nostalgic for a good while.

Occasionally, we would drop flower petals into a little stream in front our house and, pretending that they were going to Kumasi, asked them to give our greetings to our mother.

Once, my brother felt so homesick that he decided, unbeknownst to anyone, to walk from Swedru to Kumasi. It took an alert driver to "capture" him on the Nsawam Road and bring him back to Swedru.

Eventually, we did settle down, having enrolled at the Methodist Primary School and made some friends.

As to be expected, we lived the carefree lives of children - climbing trees, playing ball, swimming in the Ankora River (against the warnings of our parents not just for fear of drowning but also contracting bilharzia), stoning birds, picking fights - just being kids, hard-headed kids.

School was fun, especially the first day of the term, when all pupils were given free bars ofGolden Tree chocolate by the school, along with other freebies like Apex pens, note books, text books and a Fanti Bible (which we returned at the end of each term).

I mastered the Fanti language - spoken and written - in no time. Indeed, one of my favorite books was a Fanti novel called Apo Koho Yimdzii (The Knowledge of Seafaring). I read it many times.

There was also a weekly Fanti newspaper which we read as pupils to stay abreast of current events, both local and national.

Life was good.

Like many schools around the country, we used the shift system. While the system might have succeeded in addressing the problem of limited classroom space, it also had the unintended effect of becoming a tool for the devil to engage idle young hands in mischief of all kinds. (Not much different from what is happening today).

Once, while waiting to attend the afternoon shift, my friend Richard and I went tree-climbing near the Methodist Church. By coincidence, we saw one of our classmates standing buff naked taking her shower in her courtyard.

Fools that we were, we giggled out loudly and aroused her attention, whereupon she dashed across the yard in tears to complain to her grandmother in the house.

We quickly scampered down and went home to prepare for school, not giving much thought to what had happened. By the time we got to school, however, the grandmother had already stormed there with a complaint, and the headmaster, Mr. Osei, a man not known for his nice ways, was waiting for us – with his cane.

And, boy, what a whipping we got that day!

Joana (that was the girl's name) was not the only girl to bring wahala upon my head in that school.

Once, during break time, I picked a ripe mango from a tree in the school yard. Rather than eat it outside, as common sense would suggest I did, I decided to bring it with me to class.

The devil, you see, was at work again.

As soon as I took the first bite of the juicy fruit, a kokonsa girl next to me reported me to the teacher, who then asked me to throw away the mango. Reluctantly, I did. But the story was far from over. I was seething with quiet anger.

Right after school, I followed the girl (Nana Efia) home and reported her to her mother, who apologized and bought me another mango. Case closed. Or so I thought.

The following day, Nana Efia reported me to our teacher, Mrs. Tamakloe.

Before I could even open my mouth to explain myself, Mrs Tamakloe was all over me with her cane: Whiw, whiw, whiw!

I thought she would stop after a couple of lashes but when it became clear that she was going to make minced meat of me, I decided to bust a move.

I clambered through the nearest open window, amidst hysterical laugher from my classmates, and ran for dear life, my body aflame with the pain of the caning.

She sent one of the students to come catch me, but he was no match for me; not evenUsain Bolt could have caught me that day. Fright has a way of bringing out the best in you.

Years later, Nana Efia would become my girlfriend. We didn't even remember that unpleasant episode in our lives. Such was the innocence of childhood.

And then there was the bicycle incident. Again, the shift system - that devilish shift system - meant that I had time on my hands to burn before afternoon class.

Both parents had left for work. I was on my own, the master of all I surveyed. I decided to rent a bicycle near the Ankyease Market with the “chop money” I had been given (part of it already having gone into sweets).

I had barely mounted the bike when I lost control and flew straight into the wares of a woman selling palm oil by the road side.

I got up and found myself partly covered in palm oil. There was instant consternation, of course, as curious traders from nearby came running to check out the disaster.

My ears were ringing and it sounded as if they were speaking in tongues in an echo chamber; my vision of them was blurred and twirling.

Scared and disoriented, I staggered from the broken bottles of palm oil and then took to my heels, leaving behind my challey wotey and an obviously distraught - and angry - palm oil seller.

I charged into a nearby plantain farm and ran like a cheetah, never looking back until I exited at the other end, near the Anglican Church. I went to the home of my best friend, Kwaku Asare, breathless and of course still scared.

After hearing my tale of woe, Kwaku helped me out with soap and water. I skipped school that day, playing ball with the kids who came home from the morning shift.

I was surprised, though, when I got home later in the day and found that word had already gotten to my father about my misadventure and that he had in fact paid for the damaged wares.

I expected him to beat the living daylights out of me, but uncharacteristically he never laid a hand on me.

He must have concluded that I was too traumatized to be beaten. Or perhaps I reminded him of his own childhood high jinks.

Whatever the case, such were my "good (and bad) old days" in Agona Swedru, flying bicycles and all!

Credit: Nii Moi Thompson