What’s it Like Playing Pool with Gangsters in Ghana?

Drinks at a beach bar had an unexpected twist

The Reggae Bar was brilliantly located on top of a cliff, which rolled gently towards a beach below. The bar had a stage with space for at least 100 people to enjoy the music blaring out from the impressive set of speakers on display. The Reggae Bar was also home to a hotel. Not perhaps the two things you would immediately put together, none the less the Reggae Bar was a part live music venue, part hotel.

And it was here that my sister and I would be spending our final night in Accra, Ghana’s capital city. From Accra, we would be heading north to Lake Volta, which was until recently the largest lake in the world.

I thought about the strange blend of having a live music venue, attached to a hotel, as my sister and I waited at reception to check-in. We had moved from the wonderfully named ‘Somewhere Nice’ (it was pretty nice as it happens) to The Reggae Bar because we had found a rock bottom deal. The price, alongside photos of the beautiful scenery, made it an offer we couldn’t refuse.

The receptionist who had greeted us was trying her best to be as unhelpful as possible. You almost had to give her respect for how little she cared about welcoming us; hence, why I was looking at the stage pondering how a music venue masqueraded as a hotel.

A room with a view

Having drawn no conclusion, the receptionist’s colleague arrived to show us through to the back of the bar, where the hotel began. The view as we walked through was beautiful. Just how the pictures had looked. Each adjoining room had an enchanting view of the ocean. I could handle this, I thought.

The view was the best part of the experience, though. The hotel itself left much to be desired. The room was straightforward with the bare necessities. Now the price was starting to make sense.

I could live with the room; the major issue was the shared toilets. Walking towards them was like walking into a dragons lair. The bathrooms being exposed to nature was something I could live with, but the abandoned feel to them was something I couldn’t.

The toilets were filthy, and I dreaded it each time I had to visit them, but we were only staying for a night, so it was a bearable inconvenience.

There weren’t many people staying in the hotel as it was January, the low season in Ghana. Having had a relaxing day exploring Accra’s tranquil botanical gardens, my sister and I got ready for drinks. We were excited to listen to the best Reggae acts Accra has to offer.

With a hop in my step, we strolled over to the bar. And as I swung the door open, I expected to be engulfed by the buzz of people enjoying live music. What met us was a wall of silence. There wasn’t a soul in sight. That wasn’t what I had expected.

I ordered us two ice-cold beers from the bar and asked why there was no one around. The barman let me know there had been a power cut, so there wouldn’t be any live music tonight.

It seemed like our last night in Accra would be a damp squib.

The Jamestown Blowman

We still had the sounds of the crashing waves to enjoy.

While sipping the last drops of my beer, I was startled by a Ghanian who brushed past me. The shock was more out of having no idea there was anyone else in the bar.

“Do you have a lighter I can borrow?” he said.

“Sure,” I replied as I handed it to him.

He drew a joint he had pre-rolled to his lips, sparked the lighter into life, and carefully lit the joint.

He inhaled deeply and as he exhaled a plume of smoke billowed from his nose.

Once he had finished exhaling, he bombarded us with a flurry of words.

“I’m the best boxer in Jamestown. That’s why I’m called the Jamestown Blowman.” He said with the enthusiasm of a car salesman.

“Okay,” I replied, a little taken aback by his introduction “are we close to Jamestown?”

“Yeah, it’s a ten-minute walk away.” He said as if I was stupid for not knowing.

Jamestown (I found out later) is a notorious part of Accra. It shows the city in its rawest form, but you’re not advised to go there by yourself, and certainly not at night. If you have a chaperone during the day, no one will bother you, if you don’t, it can be dangerous.

“And why do they call you The Jamestown Blowman?” I asked out of curiosity.

“Because I’m devastating. I leave my opponents in the dust. I have the most powerful punch in the whole of West Africa.” As he said it, he started flexing his biceps. The Blowman oozed charisma and self-belief.

“Everyone knows me in Jamestown. I have my own gym. I work out there every day, and we train the people. Lots of boys come to train at my gym. It gives them discipline, which is good. It’s important,” The Blowman continued.

As The Blowman was revelling in his boxing exploits, I looked at him as the effects of the joint started taking hold. The Blowman was built like a bull. He was short but stocky, and you could tell he worked out regularly. The Blowman had braided hair and sharp features. A prominent jawline, and cheekbones that revealed themselves when he smiled.

“I’m the best boxer in Jamestown. Everyone respects The Jamestown Blowman.”

He said it so often I thought he was going to break into song. But as he continued talking about his exploits, he asked us if we wanted to buy some weed.

“We’re all good thanks. We don’t smoke” my sister replied.

“Okay, that’s fair,“ he said as he relit the joint he was smoking. “I don’t want to sell weed, I want to train the boys at the gym, but we don’t make much money, so you have to do what you have to do.” He explained.

Even though he referred to himself as The Jamestown Blowman every other sentence, I have to say I was warming to him.

“It’s pretty dead in The Reggae Bar tonight, is there anything happening in the area?” I asked The Blowman at one point.

“Yeah, of course, I’m going to a beach bar after this”

Ohhh, that sounds great, I thought.

In my head, I pictured sitting down listening to great music, while brushing my feet in the sand as I sipped on a cocktail.

“Do you fancy going, Lou?” I asked my sister as the Blowman was taking the last drags of the joint.

“Yeah, we could do, I’m not too bothered” she replied, nonchalantly. My sisters laid back and will usually go with the flow.

“We don’t have to stay for long, we can have a few drinks, and it’s only a ten-minute walk away.”

“Yeah, why not.” She said.

The drab night I had foreseen was taking an unexpected turn for the better. I went back to our room to get spruced up, and within a few minutes, I was good to go.

The beach bar

While we were walking to the beach bar, The Blowman continued to regale us with his boxing exploits. His energy and lust for life were infectious. I tend to be a good judge of character, so I had no reservations about joining The Blowman at the bar.

I knew we were fast approaching because you could hear Afrobeats blaring from the speakers. It was so loud it was vibrating the ground an impressive distance away. To get to the bar, you had to walk down a narrow road that led towards the beach.

Upon arriving at the bar, The Blowman embraced a few guys standing at the entrance. And as we hopped over a step to get in, I attempted to hide my surprise at what I saw.

The bar was next to a beach, so strictly speaking, it was a beach bar. But that’s where the resemblance ended. It was more of a shack, then a conventional bar.

A few lights dimly lit the area. The aluminium roof shook gently with the sounds of the music, and the low ceilings meant it felt like the roof could cave in at any moment. There were plastic chairs strewn all over the place, with groups of men playing cards.

The atmosphere was a little intimidating. Imagine one of those bars where only locals are welcome. As soon as you push the creaking door open everyone looks at you as if it say, what are you doing here? It had that type of vibe, but as we were with The Blowman, no one seemed to mind.

The bar itself was a small window in the corner. There were a few fridges in front of it where you could pick out a drink of choice. So if anything, it was more like a shop, then a bar. No cocktails here then, I thought to myself.

I went up to the bar and asked my sister what she wanted. The Blowman was greeting some friends, but I asked him if he wanted a drink, and got us all a beer. Once we got our drinks, we went to find some seats closest to the beach. I could see everyone’s eyes drawn to us as we walked through. That wasn’t a surprise as we were the only non-Africans in the bar.

Lots of people came up to The Blowman to ask how he was doing, maybe he hadn’t exaggerated his boxing exploits, after all. The Blowman was a respected man in Jamestown. Well, he was in the beach bar anyway.

I made myself comfortable in the chair and took a sip of my beer as I looked out at the beach. I expected The Blowman to continue talking about his heroic stories. But we were met with a wall of silence.

It all became a bit awkward as The Blowman became reserved. Unwilling to talk anymore, I tried making conversation, and I got one-word answers.

That’s odd I thought, but concluded The Blowman was around people he knew, so he had to keep up appearances. It all felt relaxed, but there was an edge to the place. I looked around, and it dawned on me that this didn’t have the vibe of a typical bar.

It turned out (I asked the owner of The Reggae Bar the next day), the bar was a local hangout for a group of Area Boys. These are local hoodlums who racketeer shops in exchange for protection. In essence, you either pay the gang, or the gang will destroy your business. So, you’re essentially paying for them to protect you, against themselves.

I had no idea at the time of course, but you could feel it was an edgy place.

A game of pool

As we entered yet another awkward silence, I looked over my shoulder and noticed two pool tables on the other side of the bar. To break the silence, I asked The Blowman if he wanted a game.

“Of course” The Blowman replied as the smile returned to his face.

We went over to the free table, and I perched on the side as my sister started playing The Blowman. Leaning back on my porch, I couldn’t help but smile at the comical angle the table was on. The right-hand pocket was about two inches lower than the left-hand pocket on the furthest side. Whenever hitting a ball, it would swing wildly to the right side of the table.

You could tell The Blowman was used to playing on the table as he lined up his shots with the elongated angle in mind.

While my sister was being blown away (no pun intended) by The Blowman, I started glancing over at the pool table next to ours. One of the players was drunk, and getting ever more vexed as he tried and failed to pot a ball. From the mutterings I overheard, they had placed a bet on the game.

The two players reminded me a little of Laurel and Hardy. The Hardy looking character was short and plump, with large dimples and the way he sped around the table gave the impression he was a live wire, who seemed to be suffering from small man syndrome.

Laurel was skinny and towered above Hardy. He played with a slow, languid style which seemed to only anger Hardy further.

The angle on their table was possibly worse than ours. Playing with such a ridiculous angle on the table was a handicap, but playing while being that drunk would do no one any favours, particularly if you had money on the game.

As The Blowman smoothly pocketed the black, signalling his victory over my sister, Hardy let out a scream of frustration as he missed yet another ball.

A sharp exit

I started lining up the balls to play The Blowman, but you could feel Hardy’s fury increase. The Blowman seemed non-plussed about the whole ordeal though so while I was on edge, it seemed rude not to give The Blowman a game.

Once we started playing, I caught my sisters attention and raised my eyebrows in alarm. We both had a ‘let’s get the hell out of here’ kind of look in our eyes.

I wasn’t paying too much attention to what was making Hardy so angry, because I was more focused on trying to deal with the wonky table.

It was as I scrunched my eyes up in frustration as another ball rolled harmlessly away from the pocket, that Hardy lost it.

“Ahhhhh! Why?” He roared out in frustration, as his ball failed to go where he wanted it.

Laurel made a comment that was drowned out by the roaring music, but whatever he said it fired Hardy up further.

Probably not a wise move when Hardy was holding what could quickly turn into a weapon. And, on this occasion, it was the provocation that pushed Hardy over the edge. It’s crazy how angry people can get over a game of pool, but Hardy went for Laurel with the cue.

In an instant, dozens of men rushed over in a bid to stop the flare-up from escalating into a fight. The scene wouldn’t have been a miss from one of Laurel and Hardy’s comedy sketches.

Luckily for us, the pool tables were located next to the exit of the bar, so while the skirmish was being calmed down, we made a sharp exit.

“Wow, that went bad quickly,” I said as we were a safe distance away.

“There are lots of stupid people” The Blowman replied simply.

I was a little shaken by the whole affair, but for The Blowman, it was another day in Jamestown.

As my heartbeat was subsiding, we walked past a mural. The Blowman stopped suddenly and started reading what it said. He struggled through each word, and when he got to the end, he beamed with delight. Proud that he had shown us he was able to read.

My sister and I listened attentively, if somewhat awkwardly.

When he finished, on we went.

As soon as we got to the hotel, we were about to bid The Blowman farewell, when out of nowhere he asked us for some money. When we politely said no, he shrugged his shoulders in a, you win some, you lose some kind of attitude.

As he disappeared into the darkness of the night, that was the last we heard or saw from the one and only Jamestown Blowman. Lesson learned: Ghana is a beautiful, vibrant country with an appetite for life. But if you’re ever invited for drinks in a beach bar, be wary, you may not get what you were expecting.