Ashaiman probably has the most elaborate public transportation system. The main lorry station is built in concrete, complete with local GPRTU offices that are well-labeled. The bookmen are mostly old folks, some of whom are retired drivers and drivers’ mates. Others have once driven articulated trucks and petrol tankers.

The bookmen engage in the orderly loading and offloading of registered and licensed vehicles. They also form .an advisory body from which the GPRTU takes advice before implementing policies. The bookmen also know the police and how effectively to influence, if not, bribe them.

Bookmen advise new drivers: "Between Asikuma and Anum, there is a sharp curve. Slow down if you want to come back with your balls intact. Mind you, the bridge over that stream after Woeta is the playground of the children of a river-god. Moments before getting to the bridge, blow your horn three times. You understand?"

Indeed, the experienced book-men know that the roads are death-traps. They are also superstitious and will tell you that a large tree next to a road is in fact a god that has to be revered. A single toot of the horn is enough to acknowledge the powers of the deity.

At Ashaiman, drivers load both passengers and cargo to all parts of Ghana. As early as 4:00am, loading begins from Ashaiman to Akropong; to Golokwati Ashaiman; to Peki-Avetile; to Hohoe; to Koforidua to Aflao. The drivers prepare well before each journey. Some money is put away to make highway policemen very happy. It is a ritual.
Normally the policemen do not demand cash. They demand ’pure water’ and since the driver is not expected to carry ’pure-water’ on board for distribution, he must provide it through cash. It is expected that the four policemen at a barrier will require two bags of ’pure-water’ for the day. That will go for GH¢2 per commercial vehicle.
Sometimes, the driver just doesn’t want to play ball.
So his license is required and roadworthy certificate scrutinized. "Mr. Driver," a policeman will inform the person at the wheel. "Park properly! Your roadworthy is dead and buried long ago. As for your case, only Attorney-General can ’handle it."

The passengers will start grumbling, so the driver must remove some singles and put them into his license and hand it over. It takes only 30 seconds for him to return to his seat and off he speeds away.

Where the driver exceeds the speed limits, some critical passengers are likely to flare up. They’d order the driver to slow the goddamn bus. "Where are you rushing to? ... This is what you do and kill innocent people ... I’ve got five children; if I die now, will your father come and look after them?" the comments will flow. Sometimes, the comments are such that the driver cannot take them anymore: "Hey Driver, your fat balls! Where did you learn your driving at all?"

Such a comment can make the driver halt the car to address the passengers in very clear terms. "Anyone of you who thinks he can drive better than me should come and take the key. I won’t drive this bus again. Come and take the key and drive it yourselves."

The bewildered passengers now have to plead with the driver. One passenger will announce: "The person who insulted the driver’s fat balls should apologise so that we move on."

Such an announcement isn’t likely to do the trick. It is more of an emphasis on the insult than any attempt at damage control. Some of the passengers will be compelled to go and plead with the driver. Some who know him will call his pet names, and he’ll start grinning from one ear to the other.

So the bus is back to the road and the driver now drives 25 kilometres an hour at snail pace. Other buses far behind overtake them much to the annoyance of the passengers.

"Driver, you are a goat!" one passenger will cry out.

"Why do you allow all those behind to overtake us?"

"Because you said I was speeding too much."

"You’re an idiot!" "Okay, now I’m prepared to fight my enemies:’ the driver will park the bus a second time, alight and start flexing his muscles. Anyone of you who thinks he is stronger than me snould get down and face me. If you haven’t heard, go and ask the Odikro in my village what I did to Kofi Nimo. Stupid fools, all of you. If you have money, go and buy and your own bus!"

It takes about 35 minutes to calm the fuming driver. He returns to the wheel and slots in Peter Tosh at full Blast. Nobody dares complain now, because they know the consequences.

In some instances, the passengers are more powerful. Once I took a bus from Ashaiman to Accra and sat among a hot-pot of all the tribes of modern Ghana. Some were chatting so animatedly; others opened up their waakye polythenes and began enjoying the morning’s fare. Another was happily sucking porridge from polythene and noisily munching on the koose. A man sat next to me, coughing his lungs out.

Three women of the same were chatting so noisily and I thought I was getting irritated by the noise. I bent over and told the driver’s mate to stop the women from disturbing. "He bent over and whispered into my ear. If I tell them to shut up, they’ll cut of my balls. Don’t try those women. Just bear with them."

"But the noise is too much!" I protested. "Please, take it easy."

"Can I talk to the driver?"

The mate looked at me and laughed. "Well, the driver won’t mind you. In this vehicle, I’m the boss. I own the bus; the driver is only an employee."

I looked back at the mate. "Why have you made yourself a mate?"

"It is because man must learn sense in this world."

"Man no fool!"

Spectator/AMA