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The Late President

Clara Burgess

The little white tro-tro, lacking a rearview mirror and
functioning speedometer, zoomed down the road towards Accra.
To the left, ocean side cement houses lay half built, ‘stop work’
scrawled across the side. The radio blared, and a red cloth flew
from the antenna by the windshield.

A car passed by, papered in the face of the late John Ev-
ans Atta Mills. A woman shifted in her black dress and glanced
to the boot, ensuring her towering stack of bananas remained
steady. It was the late president’s one week. The driver wore a
2012 Atta Mills shirt, all hopes of election gone with the death of
the NDC party leader, illness taking him within a matter of days.

The tro-tro paused in Mankessim and crowds ap-
proached. Windows opened as hands exchanged money for
biscuits, water satchels, or boiled eggs. Children lingered, house
ware perched on their heads, carrying baskets of toothpaste and
questionable DVDs. “Oh it is too sad,” someone wailed on the
radio.

As a few people crowded into the van, the tro-tro revved
the engine, shifted gears, and departed once more towards Accra,
the nation’s capital. The harsh market smells and voices slowly

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