Komfo Takes a Deutsche Dame

By John Coomson

They soon got to Bruch Strasse number twelve and into Komfos one room where Komfo threw himself onto the bed shouting, Im free! Im mobile! I have the future!

But K, Brigitte called.

But what? Komfo jumped off the bed with open arms and coming up to Brigitte. If I should carry you, dear, I will. Where do you want, my shoulders, my back? Make your choice, my love, my future.

We now have to think of the future, Brigitte said.

Oh, Komfo sighed, and pulled Brigitte fast to his chest, a hard press and a long kiss.
When they had come back to themselves, both of them a little bit slitty in the eyes, and very much exhausted, with bodies and wedding clothes apart on the floor, Komfo slowly got up, and said in a low tone, Meine-Schone-Deutsche-Dame, the future has been thought of many years ago, and for many years ahead. YOU ARE THE FUTURE. Together we are one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Nov 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477242247

John Coomson

John Coomson was born in Ghana in 1955.He attended Entumbil Catholic School, Ghana; Takoradi Polytechnic, Ghana; and London Metropolitan University, United Kingdom. He has lived and worked in Ghana, Nigeria, Italy, Germany and the United Kingom. He is married with five children.

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2012 by John Coomson. All rights reserved.

First Published by Ras Publications Ltd.

2nd Edition 2012

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, rebound or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/16/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-4225-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-4224-7 (e)

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CONTENTS

KOMFO TAKES A DEUTSCHE DAME

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

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KOMFO TAKES A

DEUTSCHE DAME

Komfo arrived at Dusseldorf Airport by African Airways, at six o’clock in the morning.

He had thought of appearing like a business executive on a holiday, yet he was in sub-standard immaculate, which was not more than hustler’s best, mostly second hand clothes he had bought near Tema station Fouls line, the market for common man and junior civil servants.

Fine summer morning, great. But Europe is Europe—far from the equator. You see the sun but the weather is cold, cool.

He joined the queue going up to the Immigration Desk, while watching the neatly uniformed men and women pacing up and down the arrivals hall. The heftily uniformed men and women paced up and down, mostly with .45 calibres in their holsters, some with G.3 types.

This reminds me of where I came from; uniformed men with guns outside the barracks and hefty as some West African uniformed men.

Komfo was not surprised at the rate the queue was moving. Only people coming from outside the European continent caused delays at the immigration desks. There are big differences. Within minutes we shall be cleared, compared to tens of minutes spent on one flight in some of the places we have seen.

Komfo got his passport stamped to commence his two-week tourist visa granted to him by the German Embassy in his home country. He was also cleared at the customs and excise post. Gold trinkets on him—the necklace and rings on his fingers and wrist which could not have escaped the jealous eyes of a Heathrow customs officer; passed without tax.

Outside the arrivals hall stood taxis. On the other side were other people purposefully waiting for the public bus to arrive.

This is not the time to mix up with people, no time to waste, he said to himself. That is why I travelled with a lot of money, to avoid unnecessary delays.

He headed to the airport Information Desk and asked for a map of Dusseldorf. After glancing over it, he put a circle around Graf Adolf Strasse, locating where to get to the YMCA hostel. He came out of the airport building to board a taxi to Graf Adolf Strasse.

"Graf Adolf Strasse, please, he called trying to sound more English than African. Komfo stared at the driver. He looks like a Chief Executive," he thought. Had the car not been a taxi colour and had not had a taxi lamp, he would have avoided him.

Bitte? the taxi driver demanded.

Komfo’s pronunciation of the Graf Adolf Strasse was far from a sound that a German could interpret as a German name. He had forgotten at that time that he was not in an English speaking country. At the immigration and information desks, he was uninterruptedly communicating in English.

I’m sorry, please do you understand English?

Little bit.

Komfo handed to the driver the written address of the YMCA lodge. I want to get to this address, I suppose it is the YMCA building, pointing to the scribbling on a bit of paper.

"Ja".

Fidgeting through a pile of cassettes as they moved on, the driver picked one and inserted it in the radio cassette. It was Jimmy Cliff’s "Struggle man, no time to lose, got to move."

You like him, Jimmy Cliff? Nice music isn’t it?"

"Ja, ja’, he’s my man in music."

Komfo was wondering at the choice of music at that time. He had to control his nerves with this embarrassing driver, he thought.

You like this job, being a taxi driver?

Quite much. After considerable travels, I have considered it being quite luxurious. You talk to many different people every day. Just like being on a holiday. Flexible hours and quite rewarding sometimes. It can also be provoking with some passengers, much as it is boring sometimes. But it’s much better, compared to keeping the ledger, being tuned in to a daily routine work.

Komfo listened dumbfounded. The carefully and clearly spoken English and the intervals at which it was spoken. He turned occasionally to look at the rolling lips. This man says a little bit, but he speaks like an Englishman, he thought.

You mean this is better than office work?

By far… particularly figure work. You go home with figures running through your brains, and the unlimited office instructions. And, you are in hell if you have that kind of a woman at home.

Komfo interrupted with a big laughter. In between his laughing he kept asking repeatedly. Which is the type of a woman that can change your life here on earth into hell?

The driver was wondering how someone looking that matured could ask such questions. He considered it childish.

You mean that you are not a married man too. You don’t know what a woman could be?

Not yet.

Girlfriends, I suppose. You look all right. Few ladies would refuse you.

Very few, but I think it would be wise to have a wife. I have had some very ugly experiences with a few of them, and I have come to realise my wrongs. I wish that I have one of those few with me always.

The taxi driver turned to look at Komfo contemptuously. He could not understand why a man could so humiliatingly confess to offending a woman. A big joker of you. You mean you miss a woman? You haven’t seen anything yet. Women are good just when you need them. You dispose them off when you don’t."

They got to Graf Adolf Strasse 102.

"Zur, here you are… YMCA building."

Thank you, Komfo said to the attendant who