The Gospel According to Shysters
There’s a special kind of madness that comes with living in a neighbourhood where everyone assumes your wallet was woven in heaven. I’ve been called many things in my life; “cool guy,” “quiet guy,” “the one who reads too much”, but in this particular corner of the world, my favourite unofficial title is “the one you can just ask.” Ask for beer. Ask for rice. Ask for 300 cedis because, allegedly, your humerus has fractured. Never mind that you were seen dancing with it last Friday.
I moved into this neighbourhood in 2019. It wasn’t my dream location, but the rent was reasonable, and the neighbours, at first, seemed tolerable. On my second week, I was introduced to fair gentleman, let call him the Electrician Guy, a lean, quiet man with suspiciously clean fingernails for someone in his trade. He came to fix a faulty socket and quoted me an amount that felt like he was installing solar panels at Osu Castle. But I paid him. We had just established that early, sticky form of male acquaintanceship that grows over bottles of Club beer at the local pub. He billed me for drinks. I paid. He spotted me at the waakye joint. I paid again. Small price to keep the peace.
Then one evening I bumped into him at the pub again and mentioned that the socket was acting up. “Oh boss, no problem,” he said with a solemn nod. We went to my place, he poked around with the energy of a man examining a haunted relic, and declared, “You need new switch.”
“Cool,” I said. “Let’s drive to Community One and buy one.”
He shook his head. “I get some for house. I go bring am.”
He never came back. Not that day. Not the next. On the third day, I called. He picked up and unleashed a litany of excuses so dramatic I expected a musical interlude. He ended with, “I’m just on my way to your side.”
Reader, he was not.
Eventually, I hired a different electrician, a young guy from Community Five who came on time, did the job in under twenty minutes, and even cleaned up after himself. I tipped him. The spirit of relief descended upon me.
A month later, as I was locking my gate on my way to work, I heard a familiar voice behind me.
“Boss, good morning.”
It was Electrician Guy. No mention of the abandoned job, the dodged calls, or the failed promises. He dived straight into the well of hardship. “Ei, these days things hard o.”
And then, with the confidence of a prophet asking for tithes: “Make you give me 20 cedis make I buy koko.”
I smiled and said, “Things hard for me too.”
He tried again a few times after that, each time with decreasing conviction, until finally, the anointing left him.
But nature and this neighbourhood abhors a vacuum.
Let meet another gentleman. Let call him Backyard Guy. Same pub, same format, slightly stronger waistline. He used to weed my backyard and I’d toss him something small. It was never free, but at least there was a transactional clarity. After I moved to my new place last December, he sniffed me out like a bloodhound on retainer. Twice, he came by early in the morning. Twice, I had to buy him breakfast before he even touched the machete.
Then he saw me at the pub one evening and, naturally, asked for Club. Club again. There must be a secret communion taking place.
“Cool,” I said. “Pass by tomorrow and weed the place.”
He agreed. Then vanished.
I called another guy. He did the job. I paid him. The earth spun forward.
A week later, I saw Backyard Guy again. He approached me slowly, like a character in a Nigerian film who’s just returned from a failed oil deal. “Boss, I for come, but funeral catch me for Ashaiman. After the funeral I fall sick.”
I nodded solemnly, as if this explained all the world’s injustices. Then he asked for a 5kg bag of rice. Said he had nothing at home. I usually give him rice twice a year. He got one just last December. This time, I told him I had no rice but gave him “something small.”
This was around 11 a.m.
By 5 p.m., I was back at the eatery close to the pub for my evening meal, and there he was, stupendously drunk, slurring half-remembered regrets into a bottle. He saw me and, clearly forgetting our morning encounter, launched into the same story. Funeral. Sickness. Rice. And then the finale: “Small something for the family tomorrow.”
At that point, I began to question whether I emitted a scent that only shysters could smell.
But even that did not prepare me for Gen-Z Slay Queen.
It was a Saturday in October. The bell rang. I opened the gate and saw a young lady, likely early twenties, with the look of someone who could assemble a TikTok reel in her sleep. She said she was hungry, needed help.
I had clothes to wash. The house needed sweeping. I figured, instead of dashing her cash, why not let her earn it?
She agreed.
I handed over the clothes and returned to my reading. In thirty minutes, she announced she was done. The older woman who usually does this work takes two hours. But maybe youth is efficient.
She started sweeping. Ten minutes later, done.
I stepped out. My clothes looked suspiciously damp but dirty. The floor? Swept in spirit only.
Still, I paid her. Twice what I pay the old woman.
The following week, I began seeing her around often. I realised she lived nearby. One night, I spotted her at George’s Pub with a guy, dancing with the full enthusiasm of someone whose rent had just been paid. Again on Monday at Etoile. Same guy. I minded my business and kept it moving.
Then today, she appeared at my gate again. This time, with a massive white bandage wrapped around her right arm.
Something didn’t add up.
She launched into her story: a tragic accident two weeks ago after helping her sister sell at Ashaiman. A motorbike. A fracture. She needed 300 cedis for a review at Aponkye Clinic.
I told her I didn’t have that amount.
Quickly, she pivoted. “Even 50 or 100 cedis go help.”
Now I was thoroughly confused.
I said, “But I saw you yesterday at Etoile. No bandage.”
She nodded, unfazed. “Yes, I only wear it at night when the pain starts.”
I raised a brow. “I also saw you Friday night at George’s, dancing with the same guy. You can’t tell me you were doing those moves with a broken arm.”
Suddenly, she grew quiet.
Then, she walked away not limping, not wincing, just strutting into the afternoon like a woman late for her next gig.
I stood there, wondering if I truly looked that innocent. Or perhaps I just needed a new cologne, one that didn’t scream Gullible Philanthropist.
Then there is the old woman who usually does the laundry for me.
Yesterday, the old woman came to wash for me. She is always throwing in a proverb whether or not it’s needed. As she was rinsing the last bucket, I asked about Frank. You remember Frank? The guy who used to weed the backyard for me sometimes. A very handy man. Haven’t seen him in almost three months. He moved to Kasoa and only comes around occasionally. Perhaps, Frank is the only genuine guy I have encountered in the neighbourhood.
She shrugged and said she hadn’t seen him either. Then, like someone pulling a rabbit from an empty calabash, she added: “But I fit get somebody for you.”
That’s how this morning, she showed up with one high school boy, face like he just finish arguing with his math teacher. Before I could even inspect his cutlass or ask if he knew what yard work meant, I said: “So how much be your charge?”
Boy clear throat and drop: “200 cedis.”
I weak.
Frank, who used to do it and even trim the edges with style, took 50. The guy from the pub? 70. That one random man who showed up barefoot and humming old Daddy Lumba songs? 30 cedis. Now this young champ, who I swear still dey use JHS 2 Agric Practical knowledge, dey quote boutique price.
I tried to reason with him, reminded him of the size of the yard, the economic situation, everything. After small back-and-forth, he sighed and said: “Okay, make it 100.”
Ah. Eiiii. These guys go kill me for here.
As for the old lady, I strongly suspect she dey collect facilitation fees in the background. You know say she go go home smiling like she just closed a cement deal.
In this neighbourhood, charity isn’t a virtue. It’s a subscription. And every time you think you’ve unsubscribed, a new hustler logs in.