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Which man in Ghana hasn't experienced the frustration before? You see a stunningly beautiful damsel, plenty of good news in her body, your heart fell and you fall in love.

“Hi, princess,” you say in a weak voice. “What's your name?”

She smiles shyly, “Florence.” Most ladies in Ghana have abandoned their indigenous names for foreign, mostly Anglo-Saxon, names.

“Sunshine, where do you live?” You want to know more about this lady whose beauty is doing something to your psyches.

'Awoshie,” she replies, edging closer to you.
“Beautiful one,” you whine, “which street?” You'll give anything to get this girl.

She takes her time scanning her memory and drew blank, “I don't know the number of the place,” she giggles, “come to think of it, I don't even know the name of the street.” She giggles the more. She's finding her confidence and her voice is becoming more stable.

You didn't find the situation so hilarious.
“Princess,” you cry, “why are you doing this to me? You don't know or you don't want to tell me?”

Her face turns into a register of profound concern. “Oh, no, not that! I am not doing anything to you. It is just that they keep changing what they write on the house. The last time they came, I think that they wrote something like M or H or something and they added some figures like 538/D or 385/M or 835/P, I really don't know.”

She then goes on to describe her domicile like this: “You stop at the Awoshie trotro stop, the last bus stop. On the right side you'll see a woman selling Kenkey in a chop bar, I think it's called the Bachelor's Korner or something. At the back of the chop bar is a small road. You take that small road and walk for about fifty meters until you reach a T-junction. On the left side is a small mosque, you continue for about twenty meters, you'll see a Pentecostal church, a very small one. They are just starting there, you turn to the right, twenty meters down that road, you'll see another chop bar, it is right beside an akpeteshi bar. At the back you'll see a small white house, you go right in the middle of the house, don't worry they will allow you to go through, you'll emerge on a small foot-path. Ten meters thence, you turn to the right, walk until you get to a tall Nim tree and then turn to the left. Count five houses on the left side, my house is the sixth one.”

Your mind is in turmoil. Inasmuch as you desire this beauty, your mental faculties are incapable of coping with the geographic hocus-pocus she calls address. Unless you're wagoned ('have a ride' in Ghanaian parlance), you'll have to curse your bad-luck. Bye-bye princess.

Why are streets not named in Accra, and why are named-streets numbered with a system that looks as though it was designed by a crazy mathematician or a guy who thinks that Calculus is fun or someone who eats Kenkey and Shito every morning? In most cities that I know, houses are numbered consecutively. That is: 1, 2, 3, 4 and so on. It is not so in Accra where a special alphanumeric code is in use. House number one could be mysteriously numbered N 123/X, the next one enigmatically numbered B789/V and the third equally cryptically encoded.

To find answer to the puzzle, I went to the GPO headquarters in Accra and spoke with the Deputy- Director. He was an elderly, round-faced man with a round and paunchy stomach. He looked so old that I was tempted to ask what the retirement age is in Ghana. I was ushered into his bare, austere office by a volumptuos secretary. The very large office sported no modern amenity sans the fluorescent light. A fifty-year old looking typewriter is the most technologically advanced appliance in the room.

Mr. Patrick Aidoo welcomed me like a lost son, “Welcome, you're very welcome, eh, eh. Kindly take a seat.” He threw some ancient files down from a chair and dragged the decrepit thing to me. “Sit down. You're very welcome, eh, eh.” He almost suffocated me with his effusiveness.”

“Thank you very much.” I said and tested the strength of the chair before sitting in it.

“Don't mention,” aged voice assured me. “You're welcome, eh, eh. What's it that we can do for you? Welcome, eh, eh.” He took his seat, re-adjusted the glasses perched rakishly on his nose.

“Thank you. I am doing a research on the Ghana postal system with a bias towards the street- naming and house-numbering system.”

“Oh, I see! Research, postal service, street-naming, house-numbering system. Research, eh, eh. I see.” I don't know what he saw. And why can't he stop all the ermings and ehings?

“Actually sir, I think that if by system we mean some resemblance of logic and order, I think that in the context of the postal service, system is the wrong word to use. I think that we should be talking about a lack of a system.”

“Young man, are you ridiculing our system?” Mr. Aidoo's voice trembled with ancient emotions.

“Far from it, sir. I was just thinking that system is the wrong word to use in a situation whereby streets are not named and the ones names are numbered by system that looks as though it was designed for a secret society?”  Continued    Source: Femi Akomolafe

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