That was clearly not the best Xmas greetng for Honorable Honorable, whose political party had been humbled by the ballot. The revelry continued through Christmas, New Year and beyond with parties, street carnivals, music and dancing. ‘Eye Zu Eye Za’ was the going slogan as celebrants made merry, chanting and teasing in green colors. Vuvuzela was in attendance, so was alcohol, making it possible for celebrants to pause behind houses of losers, to noisily invite them to join the fun.

The scene was different at Kejetia and Oseikrom neighborhoods, where there were more crawling lizards than celebrants at the city center: the swagger of male lizards across empty pavements, and parades of pot-bellied rodents nibbling piles of cassava deserted by dejected traders. Cassava had been abandoned only because the favorite sport of pounding had been suspended by Oseikrom dwellers, simply because ‘Honorable awe.’

Elsewhere, posters of the elephant party started peeling off; broad party banners sagged in humility; and giant billboards tilted not in style but in pain. For once the great campaign song ‘Paluta ee’ that mobilized mammoth crowds cross-country, sounded different. ‘Polluta,’is what I heard polluting the air waves. At the A & C Mall in Accra, where the hymnal ‘Noel Noel’ was blurring to lure shoppers into Christmas, something else fltered through the ceiling. ‘No Well No Well’ was the chorus I heard welcoming Christ.

December 7 itself did not speak loud. Quiet polling stations, near empty streets, short queues here and there; pockets of youths chit-cha]ng within safe distance. Had they voted? No, I soon found out. They slapped their flat tummies and waved unmarked thumbs at you, waiting to be persuaded to vote. Thumbs for sale? Special party squads called Go-to-vote (GOTV), formed for special field operations, paced back and forth helpless. Almost depleted they made S.O.S calls for extra ration since the going was tough.

Seated that day were the electoral offcials plus party agents, who were ofen two and half in number but were representing 13 flagbearers. Even so, a few were doing charity work in the name of democracy. They had been implored to stretch their vigilance to cover flagbearers who could not afford hiring their own agents. Call them flagbearers with limited ribs. But party reps are to be pitied; they are ofen seated afar, indeed too far to monitor nimble fngers of EC offcials. Indeed party agents have been trained to believe in the mantra, ‘In Jean We Trust.’

A few yards away sat the security capo, ofen thin-legged and narrow-chested particularly if appointed through ‘protocol.’ By protocol, is meant the employee’s father is a so-called big man at Jubilee, and could show you a red card if his boy is not appointed, and hurriedly promoted before the next government comes!

At the time we voted, very few knew the likely outcome at 5pm; not even the eventual winners; and neither the religious prophets nor their academic counterparts ensconced in their cloisters. A marginal difference between the two Big Boys was possible. Not a knockout that would yank the grand elephant off its feet. Even as I write, several weeks afer December 7, a good number of the elephant following are still in bed, not yet regained consciousness. A few tough guys have shed tears before me. Almost all parliamentary seats are gone, and the minority side of parliament is almost ready for a mushroom harvest. Indeed, Honorable awe.

Nobody knew this was coming except one small box that stood quiet and alone, almost deserted at the polling station. That stuffed box takes all, hears all, knows all but talks not. They call it the Ballot Box.

December 7; all eyes were rivetted on the little box that contained personal secrets of voters. Into it every voter had dropped their choice of candidate and walked away. But the little box knew those who voted against their own party; tenants who voted to shame their landlords; young boys who collected transport money from the Elephant and gave it to the Umbrella; wives who voted against husbands (for coming home late those campaign days); and middle aged men who entered the polling booth, only to say ‘tweaa’ and exit.

One thing, however was known to all. Weeks before the D-Day, parties had prayed and fasted all night, imploring the good Lord to give them the No. 1 spot on the ballot paper. If you were No.1, chances were that the typical Ogyakromian voter, afer surviving a long queue, would wisely choose the top spot, and hurry home to eat. The song refrain ‘hwe osor ho,’ look up there, was indeed meant as a relief tonic for the weary. ‘Look up to Providence and all things shall be added.’
That was to seal the victory already lifed by the Elephant. Happily, the rival party, Umbrella, had been sentenced to No. 8, and was meant to suffer till eternity and out of frustration, go and sin here no more. Indeed any search for an obscure 8th image in hot harmattan weather, was itself a self-inflicted penalty. The Ballot Box, however, knew the whole truth: that being No. 1 on the ballot could simply mean, you would be the first to run home in tears. That’s why the Elephant arrived in the neighborhood to special Christmas greetngs by the kids: Honorable W’awe, Honorable W’awe.

kyankah@ashesi.edu.gh