The Premiere Journey to the University, The Rough Ride Experience

CHAPTER THREE: The Block Factory Narrative and the Osu's Scam (Cont.)

Casting memories back, I quite remembered I had been to that factory only twice: one in Basic 4 and the other in JHS 2. As we landed on the dusty road that he often took any time we were going to the factory, I took a deep breath and was knocked sideways having noticed that those villages that linked the road had still not undergone any significant development. Once in a while, an unroofed storey building bearing a bold red inscription “STOP WORK, PRODUCE PERMIT NOW!” on its wall would pop up in one of the deserted towns. The folks too had not upgraded their modes of life either. Thorough and unblushing skin bleaching, the rife in teenage pregnancy, gangsterism, miscreancy, debauchery, arrant animosity for schooling, and what have you. Another school of thought too would argue that such lands could not grow anything vegetative. How on earth could a seed survive on such degraded lands? Had one not been to one or two of those arid farmlands with their coextensive scanty foliages? Who were you to stop those bulldozers and Caterpillars too? Didn’t the avaricious youths connive with the chief to trespass on the lands of the weak with those earth-breaking machines, and eventually sold them to foreigners? And when Mr Osmanu Iddrisu, that man of integrity dragged the issue to court, who stood by him to restitute the sold lands to their true owners? How could he win the case when the chief and his cohorts had already greased the palm of the local court to bend the law in their favour? Nature spat out its resentments! Doblo Gonno, Kojo Ashong, Oduntia, Okushiebiade, Akraman… and these were linked contiguously to one another seemingly in that order. As I rolled down the car glass to allow in some fresh air, I vividly recalled the names of such small towns and villages. From home to the block factory often took about a thirty-five-minute normal drive and that was the only nice thing about the whole journey.

All too soon, we had landed! While we were few metres close to alighting, Torgbe had had a call at home and that meant he would drive away immediately we arrived at the block factory. I was as right as rain and so he did after he reached out ten Ghana cedis each to the three of us as our feeding fee for the day. “WELCOME TO YAHOMAN, THE TOWN OF HOPE”, those words were adorned in deep blue on one of the two signboards, rooted adjacent to Sonday’s (Torgbe’s nephew) welder shop. The said shop and Torgbe’s block factory were few metres close to the roadside. It had been four solid years since but the environment had not changed that much. A few self-contained and storey buildings with modern corrugated roofing sheets and some such unroofed had been put down in the town. The single-room cement store which stood close to the untarred highway had still not been plastered and its concrete roof had been attacked by green algae. The unwalled building structure where the general factory work operated still laid in front of the janitor’s house. Those six conjoined cemented water tanks were still in good form and as usual, were adjacent to the former and full of groundwater nearly to the brim.

The words of Apollonius of Tyana, “Don’t keep your good manners to the end another time, begin with them.” were very dear to me. As I peered in the direction of the said tanks, my eyes caught Paapa, the factory’s machine operator. He was a moderately tall sixty-year-old dark man who mostly spoke Twi but was an Ewe to the backbone. At that old age, I always wondered if he really could operate that machine but dare him not! All this while, he was earnestly servicing the machine and was oblivious to our arrival. “Good morning, Paapa”, the three of us flew there and lent out our greetings in chorus. “Eish! Eish! Eddo, Michael and as usual Kweteh good morning, when did you come? Kweteh had been here for the past week. Eddo, I learnt you had completed secondary school. Where is Torgbe himself? He bought ten bags of cement yesterday for today’s work. Where is the gallon of diesel?”, he woke up from the trance and registered his response. We answered every bit of the queries after which Michael handed him the gallon of diesel. “Please, change your attires. We need to start early. Eddo, take the wheelbarrow and fetch the ten bags of cement in the store. Michael and Kweteh should help Kantoman carry the block pallets and arrange them close to the machine.”, Paapa further remarked and we acted accordingly. Kantoman and he had worked in the factory for over ten years. The former, few years younger than Paapa and somewhat plumpy, had been monopolized as a glutton, yet worked with very little thrust and ego. Whew! Why wouldn’t Auntie Mansah pick a fight with him? How could he come to her daughter’s wedding, eat virtually all the meals, drink in addition, and leave without him contributing even a pesewa? And did he even smile to add a little beauty to the pictures taken at the same wedding? What could one say more?

I could count almost one thousand and five hundred cement blocks at the factory out of which about five hundred were partly dry. It was obvious the latter were moulded few days ago. I could see roughly two and a half trips of sand relatively closer to the factory machine and that was not quite bad. After attending to those duties we were assigned, we decided to eat something before facing the real work of the day.

Geared up, we were set to work. As Paapa instructed, Kweteh and I were to conflate the sand with the cement while Kantoman and Michael were to carry the freshly moulded cement blocks on a wheelbarrow and locate them at a convenient place so that they could dry. The former work apart from it being the toughest demanded gross attention and experience; the compactness and durability of the blocks depend on proper mixing of the cement and sand. It was not customarily right for the operator to push the truck of block or do any sand mixing especially when there were at least three workers including himself. “Eddo, I know you’ll be stressed up because it’s been long you’ve held shovel but don’t worry, it’s not one man’s work.”, Paapa let out his condolences and I received them in good faith.

A bag of cement required about six or seven full wheelbarrows of sand and the mixing had to be done about three times before stacking it close to the machine. As Kweteh and I delved the shovels in the caked sand, opened it up, and ruptured one of the bags of cement into it, my palms had begun to hurt. Michael fancied watering the sand-cement mixture and that I was not amazed when he grabbed a bucket close to the machine and immediately attended to that. Tardily, when the first mix was set, Paapa as usual donned his cap and repositioned it backward, filled the machine’s tank with some more diesel, took the steel machine starter, plugged it into its wheel, took a deep breath, and finally fired the engine after two unsuccessful attempts. The sputtering of the machine was deafening and could be heard in the whole area. “Torgbe must get an electric machine! The starting of this old engine has as usual drained the very two balls of kenkey in my system.”, Paapa lamented and was sweating profusely. He then gathered momentum, filled the two-compartment machine mould with the set mix, and started the first operation. My wristwatch which lay on the tank read five minutes past 8 AM. Everyone to his duty. I stared at the rest of the nine bags on the floor with contempt and looked straight into Kweteh’s face and we both laughed. We were fully engaged in the work in that manner and by 4 PM, we were done and had washed down ourselves and dressed up. Back and waist pains caught me on the raw and my palm had hurt terribly.

Each pallet carried two blocks and every single cement bag mixture should produce twenty pallets of five-inch blocks. I could see two hundred and twenty-one pallets of freshly moulded five-inch blocks there which meant out of the ten bags, we had gained roughly a bag of cement and that was twenty additional pallets of block: Torgbe’s delight. Mind you, this had its negative implications – the blocks may be less durable because more sand was added thus declining the strength of the cement. Losing customers was the repercussion. Torgbe had just driven in with the same car he had brought in the morning. “Paapa, how many bags did you finish up today?”. “Please, as you can see for yourself, ten bags and one over.”. “Okay, and I guess that amounts to one hundred and forty-three Ghana cedis.”. “Yes, please.”. Those were the usual or similar talks Torgbe and Paapa had any time we got off from any of the factory works – moulding of blocks, loading them to sites of customers, developing them into poles when there was no space at the factory, and so forth. Paapa having given us our share and ensuring all working tools were sent into the cement store, bid us goodbye and as usual, walked away home with Kantoman. The two were in the same area and that was so close to the factory and that there was no need to take public transport. Torgbe then drove us home instantly. “Eddo, how have your bones been?”, Torgbe teased and guffawed few minutes to arriving home. “Hmm. I managed.”, I replied in an undertone.

The block factory work had perpetuated in that manner and was booming and attracting more customers. Except for Sundays and Thursdays, the rest of the days were devoted to active work. I needed not skip the Friday evening service too which started at 6 PM and that I had talked this over with Torgbe and he had concurred and made sure we closed from the factory latest by 5 PM. Sundays were as usual dedicated to the office work. All too soon, my hands had grown callus and I had subsequently become accustomed to the drudgework. The too-way-farther sand tippings from the factory’s operating machine was one of the racking experiences. This often resulted when we had used the same trucks of sand at least twice. When Torgbe didn’t take pains to hire a tracked vehicle to attend to that, which he often didn’t, it only meant that we had to convey the required bulk of sand using wheelbarrow before beginning with the actual work. Apparently, this was time wasting and ungratefully too, one received no extra payments for such donkeyworks. How did I manage to track that full tipper truck of sand using one wheelbarrow on that Saturday when I was brought alone to the factory? Apparently, who else had instructed me? While the sun was intensely scorching, did I not start at 8 AM and by 5 PM was done? How much did I receive after all? Such peanuts! But I thanked God I lived because I had heard of a man, not an old man, who selfishly worked out a similar grinding but died at the spot when he was virtually done. The cement attack on my soles which made me stand down for a week, the feeling of a fresh ground pepper thoroughly smeared in one’s wound? Where was the safety boot?

No wonderment though, but Michael and Kantoman had become sporadic and as result, Torgbe had seen the rest of us as the lynchpins of his factory. Well, Torgbe had kept Michael under his nose and the former had equated the latter’s attitude to gross indolence. “Michael! Continue to feign sickness and be behaving like an anaemic old lady! The new year is almost here and I shall tell you how I pay your fees!”, Torgbe threatened at him one afternoon at the factory.

Difficult roads often lead to beautiful destinations, so they say. The odds came in battalions and I was somehow prepared for them and I would say Mum’s pieces of advice had entwined my scattered good intentions towards any business I was involved in. “Eddo, please be reminded that Torgbe is not your biological father. He had to bring us here and customarily marry me when your real father joined his ancestors. Matthew and Kwesi, your elder brothers were older by then and they could remember the story. Carina was just a toddler and may not recall a thing. Please, on that note, even if he refuses to give you a dime at the end of that hard labour and insults you in addition for no apparent reason, put yourself together! No situation is permanent, as they say.”, those words were from Mum and were directed to me the night before I started the factory work.

It had been three weeks of active labour but the wages came in bits and other weeks, not at all. I had been wondering why we were hardly paid though the factory work grew each day. Paapa would complain bitterly only when Torgbe was away but I could not phantom the former’s cowardice. Besides, is he not about four years older than Torgbe?

Hmm. Roughly one and a half months had elapsed and my siblings would be coming home for the Christmas holidays. Some of my colleagues I had graduated in the same year with would also vacate soon and pester me with their maiden experiences at the university. I was nagged by these thoughts and these reminded me of that Sunday evening when Mr Obeng, one of my benefactors, a chemistry tutor, and the coordinator of the then quiz team at the Accra Academy (my alma mater), reached me through phone call. He wanted to know if I had bought any of the awaiting university forms which I said no, with remorse. The very next day, I was called to the school and he and Mr Ebo Sey, the then assistant headmaster (academics) and a benefactor too, tried their best to get me one of those forms but unfortunately, all the tertiary institutions had closed down their admissions. These two knowing my plight wanted to help me secure a scholarship and to further my education that same year. Graved, though I was, I told them I shall continue to be indebted for their supports and good intentions towards me. “Don’t worry, Mr Ebo Sey and likewise Mr Obeng. I hope to gather some money and purchase one of those forms and apply to either KNUST or Legon next year, God willing. Petroleum Engineering, I suppose. Thanks again.”. Those were the words that flowed from my mouth as I bowed out of the head’s office and said goodbye. I told them I shall keep in touch with them and call them when the need arises. That incident took place after two months of my leaving secondary school.

A new year, 2020 had kicked in. To rake over old ashes, the foregone Christmas holidays came in swiftly but I was too anxious in my savings and that, paid very little attention to whatever jollification the family had had. Nothing strange in that; looking ahead was what mattered to me. All schools in the country had reopened a week or two immediately after the new year celebration. The block factory had continued in its usual form and luckily, the payments had improved. Kwesi had joined us two weeks before leaving again for school. By February, 8, I had gathered enough money, went to the Amasaman post office, purchased the KNUST form, and applied for petroleum engineering as my first choice while having picked three similar engineering programmes in addition. Securing admission at the tertiary is not enough, I said to myself. I needed to apply for one or two scholarships to eliminate the same or similar miserable fate I had suffered in secondary school. All the while, Mr Ebo Sey and Mr Obeng, my benefactors were still in mind but I didn’t want to confront them this time around because I felt they had done so much already. Besides, did they not have families to feed? What about their children’s education? Did they not pay fees?

There, a test of time lingered in. March loomed in too soon and as I was reading a post from f*******:, the mistress of the female staff of my secondary school messaged me through: “Agbesi, a government scholarship for the brilliant but needy student is out and I’m glad you’ve been shortlisted. Please, are you interested?”, I read the message in thorough bliss and replied affirmatively. I then paid seventy Ghana cedis to her via mobile money for a form she recommended to me. That done, I was told to board a car to the head office of the Ministry of Education at the Central Region, Osu to fill in the form and be assessed through an interview.

I had never been to Osu before and it was quite farther away from Accra. Whatever holds, I needed to secure this scholarship and was very passionate for it. This propelled me to use google maps and I finally landed there. There, disaster struck. I had tried severally to reach the mistress on phone but the latter wouldn’t just pick. Once in a while, her phone would be off. I was struck in trepidation about her weird attitude because she had called through the same line just few hours ago while I was in the public transport. “Kaish! Baba Oluwah! Dem take do you too? Brotherman, ebi Ghana you dey and your eyes for gbele like Hajia koko.”, a Nigerian security man at the place expressed his grief after I told him the story and later told me that there was nothing like government scholarship there. Two students had already been ripped off the same way, he added. I kicked myself for how foolish and gullible I was. “Aww! The seventy Ghana cedis, the heavy transports…gone? Oh, I now see! I guess one of those scammers used that innocent woman’s picture and contact to execute this diabolical agenda.”, I whimpered, cursed the swindler, and walked away.

Well, I opted to turn the bad day into a blessing of disguise. The Parliament House? The Independence Arch? The Black Star Square? The Christiansborg Castle (also called the Osu Castle)? The Ohene Djan Sports Stadium? Did I not tour around those national scenics in Osu for the very first time? What about the sight of its glorious azure beach that made me accidentally strike my forehead against someone’s? Every cloud has a silver lining, and so it was but I dared not tell anyone especially Mum and Torgbe the mess. I had kept this to myself and never thought of disclosing it either. Torgbe, especially? Hmm he would roast me with all the insults he could ever think of and give me hot beatings in advance!