Ngomna is like Greek mythology. Nkunkuma is Zeus. You know what that means? Right, in a certain language it means chief -chief god of the Greeks. Lady with the mane is Aphrodite. Zeus’ son is Hercules, not a god yet but err, a demigod nevertheless. The god of Finance is Poseidon, the god of Communication is Hermes, the god of Agriculture is Demeter, the god of Defense is Apollo, the god of the Senate is Hades, the god of Culture is Athena, the god of mines and power is Dionysus. Not forgetting the plenipotentiary god of medium scale, small scale and microscopic scale businesses affiliated to the traders of the Kwasa Kwasa Union of inconsequential proportions. Did I equally mention the god of myopic and phenotypic impunity? Sorry I almost forgot that one. These gods too plenty self. And it’s good.
The gods worship Zeus oh! It always makes me wonder why gods treat another god like that. And chief god bosses them all with his quintessential lightning bolt that strikes and divides and rules in typical Machiavellian fashion, trickling down to all the local Greeks. The gods are however right up there, living it up in Club Essingang. But if Zeus gets involved in a clash of the titans with any of them, he usually flings that one away. He doesn’t send the god down to the local Greek towns oh. He just tosses them into that J.K Rawlingish prison called Azkaban -that kind of place where innocent Sirius Black was bundled to. There are many, many, many gods in Zeus’ Azkaban. Let me not even get started on naming them. You just need to add that ICC incarcerated tailor from Liberia called Charles Taylor to Zeus’ Azkaban and baam! You’ll have a whole new ngomna of a whole new nation fighting for the independence of a whole new celestial Republic of gods. Yeah! And it’s good.
But why are the gods usually bundled and dumped there? Good question. When they do the right thing, they get into trouble. When they do the wrong thing, they get into even bigger trouble. Where I’m from the traditional police is called “Troh”. They wear sack cloth during traditional events and maintain order, grunting and speaking in their nostrils. Sometimes they stick their wooden poles into the earth and grunt in jest to the person in front of it, “If you walk pass my gun you are guilty. If you don’t walk pass my gun you are still guilty.” The person will be compelled to always give Troh kola. Maybe Zeus sometimes uses this weird Troh philosophy in Club Essingang. I don’t know.
Zeus! He dodders on in Orwellian elegance, looking uninspired and uninspiring. It’s like young Greeks don’t live there. People do not dream there. Myriads of progressive attempts have ended in futility. So stories like Barack Obama’s are not even probable. No matter how much big book they’ve read, no matter how qualified they are, forget it, they can never make it as much as the gods of Club Essingang. It is not a matter of what you know but who you know. And who you know paves your way to You-know-who in Club Essingang. In fact, there is a certain rule, “if you can’t beat us, then join us.” So in order to eat the juicy Essingang apples, just follow these simple guidelines, largely stemming from the Igbo proverbial book of wisdom. “The wind has blown and the anus of the fowl has been exposed.” Do some Bluetooth connections with a god in Club Essingang. That is no easy task. But if you succeed, then it is good.
Visit and tell him your aim. He will tell you he wants to place his fan on your back, so that good wind can blow on you and drench your sweat. Wait for the strongest wind to blow and expose your anus like that fowl in the proverb. The wind entering the anus process always hurts because the wind intensity is usually very high. When it’s over, the god will wipe your tears, tell you it’s good and give you a certain batch. You will wear it on your chest and start attending rallies. You will have access to infinite amounts of numerous, juicy Essingang apples. You will gulp 33 glasses of 33 Export and even finer liquor. But take note that the beer colour will be red. Your scrawny giraffe neck will quickly transform to a full fat neck. Your flat tummy will become an Alubassa pot belly and you will not even be able to see your small python hanging below it. And Greece will keep plunging into economic recession because of you and the other Alubassa pot bellies, which is good. Your conscience will flicker out like a candle light. Anything Greeks do whether good or bad, you will just be non-committal, gulp your wine and say “Laissez, laissez, impossible n’est pas Grecque, laissez tous.”
If anybody confronts you, “Tu est Essingang!” Just respond, “Je suis Essingang et puis koi? Uh?” like Jovi. Then do that Jay-Z dirt off your shoulder shrug off to anyone who has your macabo and switch on that legendary song, “Essingang” by Les Tetes Brulés. Rock to the infectious guitar rhythms of Zanzibar’s stylish multicolour band. You will continue to give and take kola that will ensure your eating of juicy Essingang apples. The local Greeks will perform Herculean labours everyday, yet eat tiny apples or no apples at all. If you are a local Greek, don’t complain about your Herculean labour, many don’t even have microscopic labours and are living with their parents. Many others live in pessimism and have lost all faith in the Greek gods, so they just board the big birds flying in the sky and travel abroad. Okay but what about the others who can't ? Okay, make sure you catch that disease called Concours-gitis or matricule number syndrome. Thousands of Greeks catch it each year. Yet, only few can consult a doctor and get good treatment. Most of the times, the doctors are affiliated to Club Essingang and you need to pay some very high consultation fee. But after all the wahala, you will be lucky to receive your “gros lots” medication. When that happens, go to a beer parlour or Matango bar and order one round. Dionysus will be very happy. Then down it all in one gulp while watching the UEFA champions league and delve into that heated "Eto'o know ball pass Drogba debate" or "Eto'o get money pass Drogba" argument. Finally, ask the DJ to switch the music to Maalox, “La bière c’est combien ici? 500, 600, 700. Augmenter les prix, mouf, on va toujour boire!”