George Sydney Abugri is a prolific, multi-award winning, Ghanaian newspaper journalist. He trained as a science and mathematics teacher, but migrated to journalism after a decade of teaching.

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Why Mills and Akufo-Addo must take the Banda Oath

by George Sydney Abugri | 18 May 2012

…and the Rawlingses put all the cards on the table

Whew..! The elements here have gone totally berserk and I am perspiring like a fish straight out of the deep, Jomo. These days the heat makes a sizzling morning barbecue of the national capital long before sunup. When the sun does go up, it roasts the heart of Accra ever so mercilessly...

As if that were not enough, the heat from the election campaign has stoked up the furnace and sent atmospheric temperatures on an upward vertical hike.
Right out of the blue too, Jerry Rawlings and former first lady, Nana Konadu Agyemang Rawlings have managed to top every thing up with a few more degrees celsius of heat of their own but then, I am coming to that…

Why are they playing voters palm wine music?

by George Sydney Abugri | 11 May 2012

It is not exactly a dog’s life, Jomo, but from protesting muscles and creaking joints through very annoying flashes of memory loss to agonizing and nightmarish hours in queues, a retiree’s life can be pretty tough.

Sometimes, you see a seniour citizen literally falling off his feet in a queue and no one seems to notice. Methinks every pensioner should carry a special ID and whip it out like a sesame talisman to access priority status service when they have to queue up for medicines, bus tickets, bus seats, and bank payments and so on and so on, don’t you think?

Red-eyed men, bozos and an echo

by George Sydney Abugri | 13 April 2012

Given the results of the 2008 election and keenness of this year’s electoral contest, the likely result of Election 2012 is down to a pesewa coin toss, and in spite of the only certainty in life being uncertainty itself, one thing is dead certain, Jomo: One of the two leading parties will lose the election.

It is something the ruling National Democratic Congress and New Patriotic Party each better get used to in a mighty hurry, if we are to minimize the chances of any contrived grievance with the potential to lead to violence. That could sound like preaching to a slab of granite:

The cedi goes to hell in a hankie

by George Sydney Abugri | 23 March 2012

…and I come bearing newsy tidings and eureka solutions to all issues problematic

Jomo, you have probably heard it said that a bad workman keeps mumbling and grumbling and quarreling with his working tools all the time and that a bloke stoned to the bone marrow cannot be trusted to think straight but I swear to it, Jomo, I have no quarrel with my PC which is in perfect working order and its keyboard {which is really my sub-machine gun}, has the full complement of the English alphabet. As for the question of a couple of pints in my skull, why, I am as sober as the Pope during Morning Devotion.

So how did all that gibberish come to appear in this pre-historic column last week? Scrambled is the word, old chap. Well and truly scrambled, Jomo. As I worked at my manuscript, the Electricity Company kept behaving like an excited fairy playing pranks with the power supply switch.

FM radio and Jumping Jack’s machine

by George Sydney Abugri | 04 May 2012

Here is the final check list of the key components of my perfect plan for a peaceful and stress-free election, Jomo. It is really a short and not too demanding one at that, if you ask me: The Electoral Commission keeps to the very barest minimum, any cases of late delivery, non-delivery or delivery of defective equipment to polling stations.

Election officers, the police and other security personnel and mandated party representatives apart, no one has any business hanging around polling stations on Election Day. The moment the ballot paper sails down to the bottom of the ballot box, the voter quickly vanishes from the polling station in peace and in one piece.

Dr. Gyan, code 1733 and the blue man

by George Sydney Abugri | 30 March 2012

This nation appears truly bound straight for the nut house, Jomo: Do you reckon anyone, no matter who he is or thinks he is, has the right to flood my phone mail box with an incredible 78 text messages in as many seconds or less?

I switched on my phone one morning this week and to my horror, triggered off a staccato “peepeepeep” that went on like a smoke alarm manufactured in Fairyland, until all 78 text messages which had been sent from short code 1733 while the phone was switched off, had registered. Now, that is what I call a most uncouth and downright criminal invasion of my privacy.

The monster, His Lordship and my taxes

by George Sydney Abugri | 11 March 2012

Once upon a rollicking, grand old time, Jomo, when the entertainment media had not yet, with a little help from the colour and spark of technology, cultivated the corrupt habit of packing the public spaces with popcorn celebrities whose art measures not up to average scratch, I was the most famous bloke in town, ask anyone who knows what he is talking about.

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Why Mills and Akufo-Addo must take the Banda Oath

Why are they playing voters palm wine music?

Red-eyed men, bozos and an echo

The cedi goes to hell in a hankie

FM radio and Jumping Jack’s machine

Dr. Gyan, code 1733 and the blue man

The monster, His Lordship and my taxes