Sometimes I think we simply accept things as they’ve always been. Kind of like charcoal stoves those ubiquitous coal pots you find all around Ghana. They’re just part of everyday life. You’re walking down the street and there’s that smell of smoke and heat and something cooking. Yes, the oldfashion stoves work, they’ve always worked, and they’re inexpensive. Let’s face it, they cook with more charcoal than a bbq joint and the smoke. It drives into your lungs, your eyes, your clothes. You can smelt it sticking to the skin of everything. It sucks, you keep doing it anyway because what else is there

Well, except for one other thing. These enhanced charcoal stoves, such as the Gyapa ones. Maybe you’ve heard of them, maybe you haven’t. They don’t seem like anything at first just another pot, really but they’re distinct. They consume far less charcoal, so you’re saving dollars. They don’t smoke you out like the old ones. It’s odd how something so tiny, so commonplace, can be reengineered to a point where it jus makes greater sense

People still hold on to the ancient ones. I know, change is tough. Particularly when funds are lean and patterns are entrenched. Sometimes I wonder if we’re truly selecting, or merely compromising. These improved stoves are not just about cooking. They’re about breathing easy, saving a little money, maybe even chopping a little slower. I know, it sounds dramatic, but it all adds up. Every meal, every fire, it’s a decision

Perhaps it’s time to consider the type of fire we’re igniting. Not just the stove’s heat, but what it consumes and what it might conserve if we cracked the equation just a bit more. You don’t have to change it all. Just the burner. Maybe it’s a good start.

You move into a new place. Boxes are still half unpacked. There’s dust wherever a piece of furniture once stood. And like it’s waiting for someone here, there’s a cat seated already on the hallway. It meets your eyes once, stretches, and then walks away like nothing just happened. No fear, no hiding. Just… acceptance.

It’s not even your cat. You didn’t bring it. Maybe your roommates. Maybe it came with the house. Either way, it knows you are now in its loop. You’re sitting on the couch, and then suddenly it’s in your lap. It looks at you like cats do, with a quiet, odd stare, one that seems to tell you, You are here now. Ive decided youre fine.

There’s something weirdly potent in that. You didn’t work for it. You didn’t bribe it with treats or toys. You simply occupied the same space. That was enough. It believes in you before you’ve even figured out how to work the oven or where the light switches are.

And you begin to talk to it as if it has always been yours. You’re checking to see if it’s eaten, if it’s sleeping okay. It nuzzles in between your legs like you and I have been roomies for years. There’s no big moment. No real introduction. Just a quiet agreement. Youre both here now. Thatll do.

The first steps of starting a soft drink plant may seem like a big one, and in fact it is. Even on that small scale, they take up space, use machinery, employ workers and need a plan for keeping everything clean and safe. The equipment alone, mixers, carbonators, bottle fillers and packaging lines can easily add up to hundreds of thousands of dollars. And that’s for a small or midsize system. Some strive to get started for less by using semi automatic machines or secondhand parts, but even then, it seems the money doesn’t go very far.

Then there’s the land. A plant can’t be the size of a city block, but it also can’t be shoehorned into a twinky box either. There has to be space enough for production, storage, loading docks and perhaps even a small office. It might be pricier in a city, cheaper in a rural area, but there is location with transportation as well.

The licenses, safety checks and water testing are often forgotten. A soda business relies on clean water, and if you don’t have it, you will need filters or even a whole treatment system. That can double your startup costs without notice.

Others start small, whipping and bottling in small, in other words, by producing some whiskey then selling it on a local basis. That can still require spending $50,000 or more to get off the ground. Others shoot for the moon right out of the gate and consider figures over $500,000. It does have far to go, but it all comes down to how much control you want, how fast you want to grow, and how ready or ready not you are for the endless layers that keep showing up after you dig in.

There is something pure and good about being at the beach, especially with people you feel good around. The sun is warm, the air great and you hear the waves without trying to. But it’s even better when it becomes a small gathering. Not a big event, not a to do of any kind. People walking up with snacks, a towel, perhaps a speaker playing some music, cool music too. It doesn’t need much.

You sit, you shoot the breeze, you pass one drink around maybe two. Some people walk on the shore. Someone always gets in the water, no matter how many times he said he won’t. You might toss a ball back and forth or simply check out the sky as it changes throughout the day. It had a rhythm, a nice one. There’s no need to be looking at your phone so much. You don’t have to do anything, really.

The sea breeze helps too. It’s easy on the skin, cools you just enough. It tosses around your hair, lifts your shirt a bit, jostles you awake gently. That breeze is just a part of the whole mood. It’s as if the beach is telling you to take it slow.

And when it’s getting late and people are starting to pack up, it still feels all right. Sand in your shoes, salt on your skin, the laughter still hanging in the air. The beach does something lovely to you, it brings peace. Perhaps that's not how everyone feels about this but it's very cool.

I have visited a cool orange plantation. I had not planned to visit the orange farm on that day. I found it while passing through a small town. The sun was not excessively hot and the location looked open and peaceful. So I entered. I had a couple of people guide me through. Of course they were not doing a job of showing me, they were checking the site themselves and I followed. The first thing to hit me was the smell. It was orange everywhere though, like fresh Orange juice, but in the air. The trees were full of life. Their green leaves trembled lightly in the wind and the oranges looked heavy, as if they'd been growing for a hundred years. That's me over exaggerating so don't take it literally.

I remained still for a while, doing nothing at all, looking. It was good. Not funny or amusing, but good in a peaceful way. The trees were spaced well apart, and between the trees, the earth was neat. A man came to me and I found that he was one of the farmers. He talked slowly, and I listened to him. He told me how the roots of the trees hold the land to stay in place. I did not know that. I used to think that farms were only about food.

The way he talked made me think that he was not just growing oranges. He was proud of his job. That stayed with me. It made me look at the fruit differently. Since then, every time I eat an orange, I am reminded of the smell of that farm and the quiet. It hit something in me.

The Western Naval Command of the Ghana Navy doesn't receive headlines, but it operates constantly. It's not an where, it's a collection of units that each provide a different but related thing. The headquarters plans, the fleets patrol, the dockyard fixes things that are broken. The depot inventories equipment. The training school teaches. The Naval Base in Sekondi keeps it all together. No one part can function by itself. Every piece depends on the others, such as a chain that can only function when all the links are strong.

You don't see most of what they do. But ships do not sail on their own. Someone checks the engines. Someone delivers provisions. Someone gets the crew ready before they even set foot on board. And these people are not in uniform. They are drivers, teachers, mechanics, planners. Some were born near water. Some weren't. But they all perform what they do with the same sense of urgency. Not for awards or medals but just because it matters.

And when you hear about people like Commodore Emmanuel Ayesu Kwafo, junior officer to commander, with foreign trained law degrees, it personifies it. You have before you what discreet, dedicated service looks like. The kind that goes on, with or without publicity.