What is true peace?

True peace doesn’t foster hostility or destruction
but embraces mutual respect and a win-win resolution
Towards nature-wildlife conservation
True peace promotes coexistence and evades extinction

True peace lies not in the unwillingness to agree
But in acknowledging and to foresee
that Wildlife too has rights to exist and live free;
to flourish and evolve just like we

True peace sees paying attention to nature not as a pitfall
But a wholehearted response to a clarion call
to every living creature big or small
That we’re a reflection of each other after all


Meet a serial investor, who plays the odds

Gambling, goes the consensus, is a mug’s game. Certainly that was my view. Apart from the annual raffle draw in the office where I worked, I steered well clear. Not least, having cleared the contents of my late uncle’s slum flat in Ashaiman, strewn with betting slips, I associated it with failure.

This March, marks my 10th year with Universal Merchant Bank in Accra. As a senior vice president relationship manager with a private bank, I have been working with many of the same high-net-worth clients for years, advising them through any decisions they must make regarding banking, lending, trusts, insurance, and investments – every financial aspect of their life.

At a business cocktail on a certain Friday, an age-long client introduced me to a cousin of his – Dr. Herbert Hansen; a Nigerian entrepreneur, philanthropist and   professional gambler, widely regarded as among the most successful sports bettors in West Africa, having a winning streak which extended for over a decade.

“I want to stop all gambling other than sports betting and returned to my roots in business; car dealing,” he announced while sipping his Martini on the rock.

The effect was immediate; two other men stopped their conversation and spun around to face Dr. Herbert. Then they all giggled like it was a big joke.

 “You are in safe hands,” his cousin responded; pointing right at me.

I was quite astonished because I had never associated gambling with success. When I think of gamblers, I imagine a different class of persons; the term “degenerate” definitely pops up in my head.

He winked at me, “I am a responsible gambler. I bet only on short odds. Never more than 1/1 (or “evens” as I learned to call it), but more often around 4/9.  I think like an investor. I never bet for emotional reasons,” he clarified.

 “I started gambling when I was 9 years old, when I bet the money I earned from my first garage junk sales on the Brazilian national football team (Seleção Brasileira de Futebol) to beat the French national football team (The Blues), in the 1986 World Cup Quarter Final. In terms of pure skill, this was the greatest World Cup game of all times,” he recalled.

“Wow! I remember that game; I had supported The Brazilian side too. It was the final World Cup for many Brazil legends such as Socrates, Junior and Zico. I reminisced -envisioning the game in our small 80s television box.

“In the scorching sun, Brazil roared into the lead through Careca and missed a number of chances to extend their advantage. France equalised through Platini, and both teams exchanged blows in a truly epic encounter. The Guadaljara crowd chanted Zico’s name so loud and for so long, demanding that the veteran was brought on as a substitute, Tele Santana eventually obliged. Zico rolled back the years, creating a penalty with a genius through pass. Zico stepped up to win the game for Brazil, but inexplicably saw his spot-kick saved by man-of-the-match Joel Bats.” He narrated.

“The game went to penalties after more missed chances. The two captains both incredibly failed – Socrates and Platini – but it was France who emerged victorious and I lost the bet, but it did not deter me from gambling. I was a losing gambler for many years. I had lost $50,000 by the time I was 22. I once lost my house in Nigeria after an English premiership match ended not in the favour of my bet. The winner did not take possession; we agreed that I pay off the debt over the next 18 months and I did.  So you see, I didn’t end up in the streets,” he continued.

“I am a millennial millionaire. My success changed in my mid to late 30s; over a period of 10 years, I had only one losing year, with a 7-year winning streak,” he expounded.  

Dr Herbert Hasen dalliance with betting was an interesting and profitable diversion, but for an estimated 500,000 people, gambling to improve their income I wasn’t too sure.  Gambling is like cocaine. Some can handle it. Most cannot.

I listened attentively to the gambling master but I was certain it wasn’t something I wanted to try.  I presented some business deal involving millions and billions of dollars that he was very interested in. He asked me to send the necessary details to him via email and we scheduled for another meeting in Lagos Nigeria.

 Dr Herbert Hansen, after taking the last sip of his expensive cocktail said, “Anyone thinking of emulating my years of betting responsibly is absolutely on an unpredictable yellow brick road. Sure, you might end up in profit. But personally I wouldn’t bet on it.” He gave me a firm hand shake and walked away with a smirk.


The Dire story of a Child Bride

When I tell my story, most people think of me to be Halima or Fatima from the far north of Nigeria where child brides are most common but I am not. My name is Dedelolia Dinma-fiberesima – nee Egbema. I am from an impoverished fishing community in Ogbia by the delta of the Niger River; sitting directly on the Gulf of Guinea on the Atlantic Ocean in Nigeria.

I am the oldest of five children. I was just 7 years old when my mother died shortly after giving birth to my youngest brother Boma.  Not long after, my father was killed in a communal clash. 

Suddenly orphans, my four young siblings and I had to leave the place where we grew up, and move in with our grandmother in a village nearby. Our grandmother struggled to look after us. She sold vegetables from her small farm to sustain us. She was only able to provide a single meal for us and most times we went to bed hungry. Caring for us became unsustainable when grandma’s small farm got submerged in flood and her produce washed away. She felt she had no choice but to arrange a marriage for me. 

I was 11 when I got married. My husband was 36 years old. He was a hardworking fisherman who traded with big city merchants. He took up the responsibility of taking care of my siblings and grandma.  He paid my siblings school fees but he didn’t think I should go to school. He made me join his other workers to smoke and dry the tons of fish he brought home. Then he took some to the local market to sell and most of it he sold in the city.  Selling was easy because he had ready off-takers. The money made was use for our well-being.

My husband was mostly at sea. Whenever he got back; he made me to perform my wifely duties. He was never gentle. As a child bride, I endured the terror and pain of an unwanted physical relationship. After some months, I discovered I had inflamed skin around my vagina and an abscess – a swollen clump of infected tissue that made me cry when it was time to pee. I was taken to a specialist hospital in another town. After some test, the doctor told me I had Vesico-vaginal Fistula disease and I was also 4 months pregnant.

I was traumatized by my latest discovery; terrified and alone. I was preparing to raise a child while I was a child myself, I didn’t know how I was going to manage. I had no idea about pregnancy or childbirth, all I knew was that I was far too young to be having a baby. The pain and uneasiness I felt between my thighs was a proof that everything was wrong; I could barely walk. My husband wasn’t around he wasn’t going to be back till the next week. He had travelled to the city. I was scheduled for an emergency catheter placement surgery that evening. It was so frightening.

The surgery was successful. I was still in bed when the news of my husband’s demise got to me.  On his way back from the city, he was involved in a car accident. I was devastated. The news passed through me like a hurricane. I wasn’t sure of my fate anymore.

After the funeral, his brother and successor to his land and property, inherited me. I was more of a slave than a bride. He tortured me for his pleasures.

One day, I asked him if I could give my siblings a little money I made from my cassava sells. He didn’t let me finish my sentence. He pounced on me like an angry cat. He squeezed my shoulders and started screaming at me, “Any money you make is mine and no one else.” Then he slapped me and he shoved me to the ground not minding I was pregnant. I fell to my back and began to feel intense pain than anything I had ever imagined. Nothing could be more brutal, not whips or chains. My husband looked at me in total disgust and left me there. My screams and wails attracted neighbours who rallied round to help me.

Unknown to me I was in labour. Each contraction came with a pain that dominated my entire being. In those moments, for those seconds that stretched into infinity, there was nothing else I could see. I could only hear female voices telling me that it was time, time to push. With a guttural grunt I did so and stopped to catch my breath. I felt the baby crowning; the baby’s head was visible from my vaginal opening. Without any further effort the baby slid into the hands of one of the women. There was elation, it’s a girl, and in seconds she was there, nascent eyes opening.  At this point, my life as a child was over. Though I was only 12 years, I was a mother, a widow and was in my second marriage. The sad realities of my life had made me grow into adulthood. I gained the consciousness that I was now responsible for another, and my ultimate success depended on the choices I made. My evolutionary decision to leave my village gave me mental freedom to hold unto the last string of hope. My mind was filled with  vary of thoughts, all with branching questions and no correct answers. I braced myself as the eldest woman laid my newborn in my  hands. Time stood still then. There was no memory of the past (not even of the pain i was in) no thoughts about the future. I stared at her in awe and she looked at me, her eyes wide open, I knew I had my world in my arms! Right then I made a promise to her of a better life.


Saturday @ My Local Market

Mile-12

The streets roared with rage for it now was awake from its peaceful slumber. Stalls were stuffed and shopkeepers screamed out offers on the top of their voices to attract customers and buyers desperately tried to bargain for the best possible prices. This is my local market, a place which is always drowning in the sea of people. Not a single empty place could be spotted between the stalls. Street hawking made the street extremely narrow forci…ng people to walk in a straight file like soldiers going to battle.

The sun mercilessly shone down upon the market. It warmed up the stuffy, stinking air which smelled of sweat and rotting garbage. No air freshener could have defeated this sour, rancid stink which ruled over the cramped air there. Beads of sweat glistened on everyone’s forehead and many faces turned red due to the sweltering heat. The meat stalls packed with shopping wives sampling various pound of meaty flesh. The sellers used their dirty hands to wade off flies pointlessly dancing around the fresh fish and smoked fish alike. A helpless woman fumbled through the scores of bags she carried and tried to tick on a list with a pen clenched between her teeth.
Sweaty buyers skilfully wove their way by locating minute gaps between people and squeezing through. Pickpockets felt like sewage rats in a feeding frenzy and munched purses out of many pockets of innocent buyers too busy bargaining. Experienced visitors like mama Bolu wore tight pants for the same reason.

The afternoon flamed the market exhaustion and breathlessness silently approached the first time visitors, but the everyday buyers proudly held on against the torture of the market and kept shopping. The deafening chaos in the market made ears split as if you were standing under a giant speaker.