Obama and an Osama: An Action Movie Starring the Healthy ‘B’ and an Ugly ‘S’?

…..and Bin Laden was buried at sea at 0600 GMT……

Somewhere in the summer of 2008, I was posted to the Volta Region of Ghana for my national service. I particularly chose the region because of my yearning to experience the culture in the area, having had a taste of life in 7 out of the 10 regions of Ghana at that time, mostly as a result of my passion and work as a community organizer which made me travel a lot. I was scheduled to assume my new role in the Volta Regional Hospital in September, but my inability to find accommodation early enough delayed it to early November. When I did find a single room with an insect-stricken and mice infested straw roofing to rent, I would constantly ask myself if I indeed wanted to do service there.

I had slept in a hotel for 2 days, chasing my landlord to hand over my room keys to no avail. The man, pleasingly thin and appearing to be in his late sixties, and now deceased, had been drunk all the time I had visited him and could hardly communicate. A tenant had advised me to come very early in the morning if I wanted to get the best out of him and above all if I was serious about taking my keys.

I got to his compound around 5:30am the following day and suddenly I was greeted with jubilation that had nothing to do with me. I stood aloof as I watched my landlord’s wife waving her fade away multi-colored cloth as if she was possessed, and yelling, “Obema! Obema! Obema!” Yes, Barack Obama had just made his powerful, well- articulated and immaculate unrehearsed election victory speech, and my to-be neighbors had gone haywire in the compound. My short and frustrating experience with the man robbed me from sharing in the excitement, though I would quiz myself why the old woman would say “Obema”, instead of ‘Obama’, at least that was something to smile about.

The election of Barack Hussein Obama II to the White House was always going to be a difficult one, even to the seat as the Senator of Illinois earlier on, and if Rush Limbaugh, the American radio talk show host with a strong Republican family history, during an on-air show, would say “Osama Obama” to ridicule him to listeners, then you’ve got to understand why and how his first name alone was his titanic nemesis, an albatross that could be capitalized upon by opponents to run negative ads to lose him some votes.

I could imagine several Americans wondering if there was a link between the names, ‘Obama’ and ‘Osama’. There sure should be a nexus, far from an alphabetical ludo game of sheepishly exchanging a healthy ‘B’ with an ugly ‘O’, but here we had the world’s most powerful man pitched in a mortal combat against the world’s most wanted man. And what made the portrait giddy enough to paint? The two names graphically appeared to be comrades rather than enemies, a real funny kink.

Osama Bin Laden was a pain in the neck. Can you imagine a guy who appears on TV and promises, yes makes a promise to kill people, and has a rich and enhanced CV to support his vows? The White House had to consider this option – what do we do with such a gladiator if he is captured? Do you trial and jail him till the coming of Christ, or you put a bullet behind his eyes and bury him at sea? They chose the latter comfortably, to hell with everyone. Please, SEALS Team Six were given specific orders.

Although Islamic traditional procedures and laws of burial permit burial at sea under some special conditions and circumstances, but definitely not in this case, CBS News claims that White House contacted Saudi Arabia and negotiated the burial on Arabia soil but the Saudi government refused the offer, and having limited time to negotiate with any other person, coupled with the fact that it doesn’t want Bin Laden’s grave to be a terrorist shrine, it was a mere act of ocean charity to offer the sharks and aquatic lives in the Arabian sea a rare ‘celebrity’ meal.

What the ordinary global citizen has failed to understand is that politics is full of conspiracies á la carte, to “maximize opportunities and minimize accountability”. Yes, Bin Laden was unarmed when he was shot but there was always going to be a legal justification porridge for global consumption, so heck yeah, White House says he was a military target and as such shooting and killing him was an act of national self defense. They are simply telling us to take it or leave it. Period!

In the meantime, conspiracy theories about Bin Laden’s death are the choruses each day, especially without any photo evidence of the dead body, with many people believing that the US government has staged a Hollywood action film that could break several box office records and beat James Cameron’s Avatar as the highest grossing movie of all time, with President Obama as Bruce Willis, to revive Obama’s poll rating and secure a 2012 re-election. Though am looking forwarding to seeing this movie in the cinemas in 3D, I wouldn’t deny a corn or bubble of reality in this claim.

Happy in Ghana, Crazy in London

I dedicate this note to Divya Nawale, a friend in need and a friend indeed. I thank you for being there for me all these times. I’m telling this story because of you.

I love writing, but I would definitely choose watching a UEFA Champions League knockout match over staying late to finish a piece to be published by a local newspaper. As an erratic teenager, just when I had tied the knot with writing, and before I graduated from the Academy of puberty stricken den of ugly sporadic hissy fits, I used to say that my most fulfilling moment in writing would be to write or blog for the Wall Street Journal, or even the New York Times. But growing up, and after enrolling in the school of experiencing life in one’s early 20s, I realised that writing is more of fulfilment than prestige.

I write mainly to share, and in sharing begets reaching out with a positive vibe, sometimes trying hard to avoid mundane messages woollen from lullabies. I’m sharing this one with you because I feel it would make you smile, and if it doesn’t, I’m not sure you would frown either.

Somewhere July 2010, a street hawker made my day after a terrible time at work, the result of which I put a post on Facebook, only to be responded to by a close friend of mine who’s day had turned sour on another continent at the same time mine occurred.

It was evening rush hour, already intimidated by the disrespectful traffic jam; I strode from the bus with only one thing on my mind- the gracious dinner waiting to greet my weary lips. I wished I had wings to fly and devour the very life out of that arrogant food. As I walked past a swell of street hawkers, a stew of voice caught my attention which ushered me an eerie sense of déjà vu.

A hawker, appearing to be in his late twenties and selling children story and fiction materials on the defaced floor, was reciting some familiar stanzas of Chinua Achebe’s book- ‘Things Fall Apart’. Interestingly, those lines were the first page of the book that I had memorized several years ago.

Suddenly I was frozen in my track beside the young man. As he read and ended a line, I inadvertently took over, reciting two lines to his amazement. I paused, and he took over, and before we knew, we had recited the first page in turns. It was just beautiful. Onlookers ogled, and passersby were caught standing and enjoying the show. After the performance, I swallowed him in a bear hug, as his day- old sparse whiskers tingled my facial pores. I couldn’t hide my joy; I quickly shared it on facebook in a post – “Today, a street hawker made my day”. I was happy in Ghana.

In response to my post was a message by a very good friend of mine, living in London, who narrated her own version that streaked my story with an attitude of untimely irony. Now this was hers: As she was coming back from the temple in the evening, a man (maybe in his 20s) ran past her real fast that she jumped, as he nearly bumped into her. Behind her, a woman went running and yelling “Please stop, don’t do this to me”, bursting and crying. Her hand bag was history; she had been mugged around Tottenham Court Road Station.

At the sight of the wailing woman, my friend felt really helpless and vulnerable and admitted that she would have tripped the mugger over with her leg to stop him, if she knew why he was running. In effect, she was communicating to me "how ironic life can be, that someone’s best moment of life somewhere is the worst for another or maybe the person just sitting next to you on the bus who was having such a terrible day, while you are full of smiles".

She concluded her message, “sometimes I feel guilty to be happy, maybe that’s a sadistic way of looking at things but at least I am real. I am glad you had a happy moment there though. Your status made me smile”.

That night, I played back all the occurrences, trying to borrow her thoughts to connect to my own experience. Before sleep took over my irresponsibly drunken eyes, I sigh and thought- happy in Ghana, crazy in London.

GM (2011)