It was 5:30 pm on a typically moody Friday in Kumasi—the kind of day when the clouds gather for a union meeting with thunder serving as chairperson. I found myself leaning on the rusty railings of our office balcony, gazing at the Kumasi-Accra highway, where traffic was peeling out of town like students fleeing a surprise quiz. There it was—our sacred hour of national meditation known as rush hour, when every vehicle moves precisely two inches every five minutes, and trotro drivers become philosophers of lane innovation. The sky above was growing darker, not with night, but with that Kumasi-style rainfall that doesn’t arrive like a gentleman—it storms in like a drunk uncle at a funeral, uninvited but impossible to ignore.
