Dear Kwesi Kyei Darkwah,

I am no fan of yours, but I have been meaning to write to you for a looong time. I am a very busy man, you see? I run a business that takes men and women of every imaginable shade, colour and creed, and I introduce them to life in the deepest recesses of the Ghanaian jungle. I push them to abseil off cliffs, hike through jungle swamps, kiss snakes, bike wildernesses and expand the boundaries of their minds.

Oh, and I just got featured on Pulse TV. You can watch me running my jungle mouth a little bit right here. I trained as a journalist, you see, so you and I may have had a lot in common until your you-know-what. I’m getting all this out of the way so you’ll understand why I am appropriating to myself the unfounded arrogance of thinking I can address you.

You on the other hand used to be the household name for oratory excellence and entertainment television. I remember you in your multi-coloured hues on TV (at the time – and even now – I thought you were overly fond of mismatched clothing) introducing Miss Ghana contestants every girl dreamt to aspire to (I didn’t, even though I am no girl.

I like my girls full and well-nourished, not skinny and emaciated like a bunch of chop sticks). I remember your confidence on stage, your smooth renditions, and how you could make the scrawniest contestant look like skinny-bones was the new face of Africa.

Now that the horse-crap introductions are over, let’s cut to the chase.

Do you seriously believe that “big men” in this country really wanted to do you in, and tarnish your image, as you reportedly mentioned as the reason KOD begged you not to mention his name to do with the African Regent alleged rape saga? I read the story of the interview you granted to Deloris Frimpong Manso, and watched the video on YouTube. You were on point in the Akan language, and looked classy in your comportment and use of proverbs, but your allegations of a big conspiracy leaves a foul stench in my nostrils. If such a conspiracy truly existed, you should be in jail since such “big men” could have had the wherewithal to ensure your incarceration based on the facts of the case.

But first off, if Ewuraffe Orleans Thompson was my sister (or a fifth cousin several times removed for that matter) I am pretty certain, the Constitution one day permitting, I would be looking at your multi-coloured backside walking out of that courthouse from the crosshairs of a Kalashnikov.

Don’t get me wrong. I am a sweet-natured, saner-than-most, highly intelligent jungle boy. I wouldn’t plead mental insanity after the fact. I’d have been looking into those crosshairs in the full might of my intellect and law, and depress the trigger.

Here’s my beef: We all get to chase after women who will never want us in this lifetime or the next. We all get jilted by girls who we think should be easy picks but turn out to be as insurmountable as Uhuru Peak on Kilimanjaro (to this point, I am well ahead of you – I have kissed Uhuru). We all get dumped, scorned, rejected, belittled, disparaged and demeaned by girls all the time for no reason at all, in spite of our special status as men – why should the case be different in yours?

Oh I know how it must feel like. We’ve all been there (except me. I find mountains infinitely more riveting). You go home with a girl after hitting all the right notes in your voice, saying all the right words and showing all the right glitz and crap. You waste a fortune (certainly not in your case) showering her with KFC (kenkey & fried chicken), expensive ice creams and other diabetes-inducing doohickeys just to create the mood (how much does a hotel suite cost koraa nowadays?), and then you advance when the time is right. As you get to kiss, exchanging all kinds of germs in that slobbering experience (never mind that hepatitis B is on the rise), she lets you have your way. You squeeze twin towers like a packet of Fan Yogo, say meaningless hogwash and do everything so the portals to home-sweet-home may be opened to your fumbling monkeyshines, while your breath wheezes like a rutting boar and your heart rate accelerates.

Then, just when all looks set for that to happen which felled all the Great men of history – Solomon, David, Abraham and our own Bill Clinton – the lass remembers the counsel of her mother and admonitions of her father and declares firmly, “Hitherto shalt thou come, and no further.”

Tsooo!

It is a very demeaning turn of events, I tell you; especially if your ding-dong is all pink-tipped with anticipation and has done its most erect salute to date. You rise up, mortified beyond description and blush to the roots of your black skin with embarrassment, wear your tsakoto and rush off to the bathroom to ice your overzealous member and nurse the most loathsome of all humiliations.

This is why you ain’t special in this sense, and this also is the way of all modern men – especially of the fornicating and adulterine kind. You win some, you lose some.

But you didn’t want none of that (in my lafa voice). You felt you were more special than the rest of us – that the great KKD’s sexual desires could not be denied, much less by a 19-year old girl without enough sense to not have been out with the likes of you at that time of day to begin with. And so you raped her.

Viciously.

Allegedly.

Afterwards you gave her an after-pill, so she wouldn’t mother your bastard and sock you with child support later on.

This is what you are. A teenage-raping scum (must I say “allegedly” again? I never quite get the legalese right). And this is what the facts of the case as presented by the prosecution are. There were doctors’ reports to substantiate these allegations – and your Gog-and-Magog courthouse costumes notwithstanding – we the people of John Q. Ghanaian Public find the facts to be more consistent with Effe’s accounts than we did your statement to the Airport Police (which read to me like the down and dirty account of sex from an amateur erotic short stories website).

Giving these facts, I doubt any civilized public prosecutor’s office would have let you go scot-free. There’s absolutely no way you would have walked in London, Tokyo, Paris or Washington D.C pulling crap like that. I have my own theories as to why Effe did not afterwards come forward to help jail your obsequious backside. Either ways, as public prosecutor or brother, you would not be walking out of that courthouse a free man.

But this is all history. A lot of people think (and you certainly are one of those people) that people like me come after you because of schadenfreude. You will have to make me the exception – I don’t give a rat’s posterior about Ghana’s entertainment industry (I find it infantile and boorish), and I think all the press about our so-called celebrities is all a whiff of codswallop.

But what has gotten me all irritated with you today?

I watched your interview on the Delay Show, and your points are inconsistent with the facts of the case as reported to the Courts, but it serves your purposes to assume we all wash our faces upwards. Your attempts to use the silence of the alleged victim to your advantage doesn’t make your actions any less vile – especially the blasé attempt to show that your brand as an iconic figure in the entertainment industry has not been tarnished by your alleged rape case.

You would certainly hope so, wouldn’t you?

I am here to help you wake up. That case has messed your brand up in ways you cannot even remotely begin to understand, and the fact that you don’t understand speaks to the depth of depravity your brand has sunk. It is one thing to lose your gold of excellence to this totally preventable foolishness of raping a teenager (allegedly, darn it), but it is another to delude yourself that the brass that your brand has sunk to is still gold.

That is delusion, my friend, and it not only insults the intelligence of the more discerning segments of Ghanaian society; it insults the experience of innocent victims of alleged sexual abuse like Effe, and well-nigh guarantees that the next teenage-raping scum would be remorseless and emboldened in their foolishness like you are (alleged, of course).

Let me help you face it in these words, and I am not afraid to speak truth to power (and alleged teenage-raping scum, too):

You are not KKD.

KKD is someone you used to be.

Here’s my free advice until I discover Effe is my sister (I have family-tree experts working on that): Forget the darn brand, get a better use for the remainder of your life and prepare for the Second Coming or, failing that, sign up to a yoga class so you can develop the necessary flexibility to shove your head down your esophagus if you think that your story washes better than Effe’s reported accounts. You think your brand means more to Ghanaians than the trauma of the alleged forcible breaking of a teenage virgin’s hymen?

And you have the nerve to speak of sex with a teenager as a sign of vitality and manliness? After you had earlier on apologized for having sex with same? You really believe that younger generations of men are jealous of the idea that younger women come after men of your particular age and ilk because you have more stud-like sexual stamina?

Really?

This is sick!

You need help, and for more than anti-depressants.

Yours, pissed-off-beyond compare,

Me.