Chapter 6 Banned by Movie Producers

The way to the top is not always a leisurely and pleasurable walk in the park. It is not a tarred road bedecked with roses. It is a rough and thorny path. It can sometimes be slippery too. The journey through this path requires perseverance and endurance if one is to see brightness beyond the dark and gloomy clouds of natural and man-made obstacles. I learned this the first day I went on set to shoot Princess But what appeared later made my experience at the beginning of the Princess Tyra movie pale into insignificance. The obstacles came in different forms-physical and spiritual.

The first notable spiritual attack happened when I was shooting Material A lady who worked with Abdul Salam reminded me that it was the first movie I was leading, without any other big-name or established actors. She said if the movie didn't go well, the producer would not cast me again. I don't know why she said that, but I took it as a cautionary piece of advice that should spur me on to put in my level best. I was determined to do that, but the obstacles were beyond my control. When we started shooting, I had a problem with my eye. It reddened and was painful. When I visited the hospital, the doctor said it was a bacterial infection or something to that effect. I was given medication, but it only got worse. Part of the reason I wore sunglasses in that movie was to conceal the reddened eye. I could mask the pain with smiles and act as though everything was normal, but the cameras could not do anything about a defective eye of the lead actor. When it worsened and we could not continue to shoot, especially with some indoor scenes, we had to put the production on hold until I healed. If there was any change in my condition as we waited, it was only getting worse. It both frustrated and scared me. I could feel the tension around me when I was offered that challenge at a very young age in my acting career. It made me feel there could be something more to my condition than just a physical irritation of that part of my body. I locked myself up in the room for a whole day, stripped naked, lay on the floor and prayed and cried to God. I wasn't someone who could be described as very spiritual, but I had seen the hand of God in my life many times and knew He could intervene in this crucial stage of life He had placed me. It was a crazy act of faith, but it worked. The following day, my eye cleared. And two days later, I was on set. Material Girl was a huge success, and it did not erase my favour in the eyes of Abdul Salam and other producers as the woman had warned. It opened more opportunities that came with their own hostilities. The most hostile obstacle I faced at the time was not spiritual. Even if it was, it manifested in a physical form with known human causal agents. It happened in 2010 when the Film Producers Association of Ghana, a bunch of men whose behaviour I found to be disgraceful, decided to ban me from acting for one year. It all started with my altercation with Abdul Salam Mumuni, the man who gave me my breakthrough. The misunderstanding between us did not warrant a ban. I saw it more as someone who felt entitled to me and wanted to show me where power lay. It was no doubt that he gave me the opportunity to shine when no one else believed in me. I was, and still am, eternally grateful to Abdul Salam. But what I could not do was lose my voice to fight for my right because he had helped me. I had always stood up for myself and others in situations of injustice and didn't think I should not complain about unfair treatment just because he had helped me. My fight with Abdul Salam-if I can call it a fight-happened when we were acting ⁴Play I was in my final year at Central University when Abul Salam called me to join the cast. He was well aware of my commitment to academic responsibilities and that I didn't have much time to spare. I was not ready to defer my programme, and leaving CUC without a degree would leave me in despair. But he still acted in a way that was totally unfair. I had sacrificed a quiz and answered an urgent call to go on set for the shoot when he called me. I left campus and went to sit the whole day, but there was no show. One of the lead characters did not show up. The following day, I again abandoned class and went for the shoot, but nothing happened. One of the lead actors, we were told, was a judge in the Miss Malaika beauty pageant. Those responsibilities had kept her away and kept me at bay from academic work. When I was leaving that day, I told Abdul Salam that I had already missed two days of class and a quiz, so I wasn't coming the following day. What I said was as if I had struck a match stick and dropped it in fuel. He flared up and started a condescending attack on me. I have never seen him angrier. Roger Quartey, one of the crew members, kept fueling his ego and stoking the fire that raged until I left that day. I didn't receive any call to go back on set for the shoot. The next time I heard from or about him was a week later when I heard in the media that FIPAG had banned me from acting for a year. It was the top story on every entertainment show. Social media and newspapers used it as the cud they ruminated on from time to time. When I had an opportunity, I told my side of the story, but the popular narrative was that I was a young "disrespectful and ungrateful actress fighting those who had made her who she is". I must admit it was a tough year. I was in my final year at the university. I was banned from acting. I was pregnant and definitely was not prepared to host another human being. I also felt betrayed by my colleagues in the movie industry, especially the older female actors. I thought I was being bullied and needed their support to confront the all-male producers. If what they did to me was to send a message to those they employed to act for them; if that message was to say that nobody was indispensable and that they could choose to teach anyone they pleased a lesson; then I expected a collective voice of disapproval from the actors. That did not happen. I was alone. And I faced it squarely. Here again, one exception was Majid Michel, who stood by me in the thick of it all. He defended me and even tried to mediate with Abdul Salam, but it did not work. He was one of three people with whom I travelled to Akosombo to see the film producers, who had said they wanted to meet me. The others were Fred Nuamah and Frank Raja. In Akosombo, I saw Augustine Abbey, popularly known as Idikoko, among the film producers. This was a man I grew up watching on television and hoped he would encourage and inspire the young ones to grow. Instead, he was siding with a group of men who thought they controlled the bread and the whip and had the power to deny a bite to whoever refused to be whipped in their incongruous line. In the meeting, they were extremely rude. I still do not understand why they wanted to meet me, for nothing concrete came out of that meeting. Perhaps, they thought I would go and kneel and beg them to lift my ban. I didn't do that. Frank Raja, Majid and I left Akosombo without any sign from them that they would do something about the ban. It continued. Within that year, however, there were cracks in the ranks of the producers. David Owusu of Media Five Productions defied the ban and cast me in a movie, but he was not allowed to release it until the ban was over. Abdul Salam, who had instigated the ban came to me to patch things up. He said we should leave the past behind us and work together. With him, I shot two movies. This was without the knowledge of the other producers because the ban was still in place. Socrates Sarfo, a producer who asked me out for dinner, told me how he was disappointed in the actions of Abdul Salam. I don't know why they all suddenly disembarked from their high horses and tried to court my affection. If I'm to hazard a guess, however, I'll pin it down to the failure of the intended effect of their ban. They had thought I was going to be crushed by the ban, but they soon realised that their action had rather lifted my profile. My name was on the lips of many. Those who hadn't paid attention to me were beginning to find out more about me. While I launched my glaucoma foundation and tried to give back to society in my own small way, a floodgate of opportunities opened in Nigeria for me and I featured in a number of Nollywood movies. Their intended lull in my career turned out not to be the dull moment they had anticipated. Acting in Nigeria was more lucrative than in Ghana. There were times I shot multiple movies on a single Nigerian trip before I returned to Ghana. If Ghana gave me a professional breakthrough in acting, my financial breakthrough came from acting in Nigeria. This is a fact many Ghanaian actors who have featured in Nigerian movies will not dare contest. Nigeria has a bigger market and an even bigger budget for movies. So, before I became active again in Ghana, I had also become very popular with some of the top producers in Nigeria. If the Ghanaian producers thought they were putting an unbearable weight on my head to break me, they ended up strengthening my neck and preparing me for heavier and more rewarding burdens of life. was 2010. And I was 25. I was about to graduate with a degree. My acting career had taken off extremely well, but it was hit with a ban in Ghana. I found a welcome distraction in my charity, the Yvonne Nelson Glaucoma Foundation. I recorded a single that featured some of the top stars in the entertainment and sports industries in Ghana. Musicians such as Sarkodie, Efya, Sherifa Gunu and Edem were featured. Michel Majid, boxer Joshua Clottey, Nana Aba Anamoah, Prince David Osei and John Dumelo also featured in the video. The solace I sought in my humanitarian venture and opportunities in Nigeria was interrupted by a turmoil that started mildly in my abdomen and climbed wildly to my head and gave me sleepless nights. In my head was not physical pain. It was mental torture. I had gone for a pregnancy test to confirm what becomes the most obvious conclusion for a sexually active young woman who misses her monthly flow. I was in the company of Karen. And when the test result was ready, I wasn't strong enough to open it. She did and declared the verdict. "Charlie, it dey there!" she exclaimed. On an ordinary day, I would have laughed out loud and that would trigger a string of jolly conversations and jokes. But this was no laughing matter. It was a grim piece of information that was capable of turning my world upside down. I wasn't the only one responsible for the situation, so I called the man whose potent seed had germinated in me. His name is Michael Owusu Addo, a renowned Ghanaian musician who is better known as Sarkodie. Sarkodie was a budding musician with the potential to become one of the biggest artists in Ghana and beyond. At the time, however, the future looked uncertain, and his way through the maze of life still appeared too foggy to predict. Success was not guaranteed. He was still living with his mother and was not ready to carry a burden while he was being carried by his mother. I wouldn't call what had developed between us a serious relationship. I gravitated toward people in the music industry. For the longest time in my life, music was my getaway from all the unpleasant things life threw at me. So, I liked his talent. We started talking and got close. Closer. And extremely close. Then the unexpected happened. I was 25, and he was 22. I won't say I was too young to know how to protect myself, but I think I was naïve. I was still that tomboy transitioning to womanhood and knew very little about the most important things about women. I knew nothing about safe periods and ovulation and the complexities of the monthly. I grew up with my mother but "vagina" and "penis" were like taboo words in our house. The closest she had come to giving me sex education was when she once forcibly opened my legs to inspect my hymen. After that, she warned me that if I broke my virginity, she would grind pepper and ginger and insert it down there. That was in my teen years. I was now much older and more independent, but I still knew next to nothing about my reproductive system and its cycle. I knew, at that age, that I could get pregnant. I tried to abstain as much as possible, and when it had to happen, I protected myself. But I lost my guard with Sarkodie and had to pay dearly. I called him on the phone and said we needed to talk. He still lived with his mother and this was not the kind of news to break in the house. I called him out of the house when I got to Tema, and we sat in my Toyota Rav4. (He drove a Toyota Matrix at the time if my memory serves me right). I sensed the intensity of his emotions when I broke the news to him. I could hear his heart pounding, and when he finally found his voice, he faltered. His message was, however, unambiguous. He didn't want the pregnancy. That would damage him and his career. The only option was to get rid of it. Whether or not his career and the uncertainty of life were the real reasons he could not afford to let me keep the pregnancy, I cannot tell. I later discovered that he had a girlfriend who was attending a university outside the country. It was in her absence that he got involved with me and things got dangerously complicated. Whatever it was, his stance was clear. And I was left to evaluate my own options. The first thing that hit me when he said no to keeping the pregnancy was my own life. I had grown up without a father in my life. I had often been reminded of how I had been borne by mistake. I was still wondering if the man whose name I bore was my father. How was I going to bring another human being into this world to live like me, someone whose father would reject him or her as Mr. Nelson had rejected me? If there was a way to spare someone else the trauma I was contending with, why would I reject that option, especially when I was not psychologically and emotionally prepared to be a mother? In my circles, only two of my friends knew about my pregnancy. If someone else knew apart from the three of us, I don't know who told that person. I later discovered that Sarkodie's team also knew about it. As I wondered what to do next, a friend of mine said she knew of a certain pill that I could take and get rid of the foetus before it festered. She was in a hostel and had a room to herself. That made her hostel the ideal place to do it. If I tried it at home, my mother would know about it. And hell would come crashing down on an already troubled earth. So, one weekend, I visited her and took the pills. I swallowed one and inserted the other into my vagina. The few days that followed were some of the most excruciatingly painful moments of my life. It was only after I gave birth that I was able to get a condition to liken the pain I felt to. The pain came with severe bleeding that lasted so long that I became weak. I could see life slipping out of my frail body. When I sat on the WC, clots of blood fell into the toilet bowl like constipated poop. When the bleeding and pains finally stopped, I went to do another pregnancy test to ascertain the efficacy of the selfadministered procedure. The pregnancy was still there, intact. Keeping the pregnancy was not an option. Undertaking another selfmedication was also not an option. I agreed with Sarkodie that, this time, we had to do it in a hospital or health facility. Again, that friend of mine had a recommendation. It was a facility in Mamprobi, and, on the appointed day, Sarkodie drove me there with his manager and they left. Having endured the life-threatening but failed attempt, the question I asked myself while entering the facility was, Is this where my life will end? The dilapidation of the building that housed the doctor's operation did not inspire any hope in me that it would be safe. I was given an injection that was supposed to numb the pain, but I could still feel it. I could feel the screwing inside me. I even thought my entire womb was being removed. Whatever it was, my only prayer was for a successful outcome. From the health facility, I went back to my friend's hostel. As had happened with my Nov-Dec exams after school, I hoped and prayed that I would be lucky with this second attempt. The pain, again, was intense and I bled profusely. I felt worse because Sarkodie left me to my fate in the most difficult period. He did not call to check up on me or find out how the procedure had gone. Having an abortion is one of the most regrettable mistakes in my life. If the clock of life could be rewound to my younger self, I would keep it. But the benefit of hindsight is sometimes not useful because the lessons learned cannot be applied retrospectively. I don't know how others who have been through it feel, but my abortion haunted me for years. For instance, whenever I visited the gynaecologist and had to fill out a form, there was a place on the form that asked whether I had had an abortion before. Knowing that it was important to be truthful in my disclosure to health professionals, I had to tick the abortion box. It was not just a tick, but the disclosure of my moment of shame in a judgmental society, sharing a dreaded piece of secret with people whose perception of me might never be the same. I have encountered many young women who have gone through this with varied stories of pain and degrees of regret. I have also heard stories about others whose situations and reasons for going the painful and dangerous route were not different from mine. Some have not been as lucky as I have. They either lost their lives or their ability to have children again. Like me, they are often pushed by the financial burden of mothering a child alone, the emotional and psychological unpreparedness or the unwillingness of our society to accept children born out of wedlock. Apart from everything else, my mother, a prominent member of the Methodist Church, would have ostracised me had she known about my pregnancy at the time. Looking back, however, I still believe I acted foolishly. I could have lost my life. My body could have been imperiled with an irreversible condition that would have left me damaged forever. The fear of the unknown can be paralysing, but in an attempt to mitigate it, it is sometimes difficult to notice the seriousness of the situations we sometimes put ourselves into. If I had taken the risk of delivering, I might have pulled through despite the difficulties. It is almost always impossible to change a situation that becomes clearer many years later. In some cases, however, the lessons learned from the past become useful blueprints for present and future decisions. Some do not get second chances, but I was lucky I did. When I became pregnant the second time, I didn't think twice about keeping it. This time, I was mature enough to know that what mattered most was how my child and I fared. My preoccupation was the kind of future I would help the child build and thrive in. What others thought and what society said about my unconventional way of procreation became secondary. The tongues that wagged about the inappropriateness of having a baby without first having a husband did not move me this time. I was mature enough not to pay heed to those whose next question after learning of Yvonne Nelson's pregnancy would be, "Who is her husband?" I was financially stable enough to fend for a child and give it a bright start to life. With that in mind, I was a hundred percent sure about the decision I took to keep my second pregnancy. And I did not need to consult anybody about it. I did not need any validation of that decision from any man or woman, young or old. First Car, First House and Independence I started to appreciate and yearn for space after I returned from my sojourn in Mr. Benky's house. Before my mother's marriage to Mr. Benky fell on the rocks, I had had enough of the humiliation there so I left before my mother followed. My first taste of an independent adult life began when I returned to my mother's house. That was when I took part in the Miss Ghana contest, started acting and was in the university. At that stage of my life, I was responsible for myself, pushing through my fledgling acting career while studying to acquire a degree. One of my first tangible assets was a rice cooker I bought during that period. That piece of life-saving equipment ensured that I had enough to eat and didn't have to go out on an empty stomach. It also helped me to save because it cut down my budget for food considerably. I have grown to have an emotional attachment to rice cookers because of the first one I bought. If a rice cooker was the first tangible asset I acquired, the first and most expensive property I acquired was a car. My first car was a used Toyota Corolla. In Ghana, that is the template almost everyone follows. Very few people are able to buy brand-new cars as beginners. But the joy in owning a used car-if that is your first-is indescribable. In my case, it did not matter that it was a used car. I bought it from De-Georgia Motors in Tesano, Accra. It was the biggest status symbol that magnified my name at home and put some modicum of respect on my brand at the time. My elder brother drove an old VW Jetta while my mother drove a Nissan Sentra. At the time my Toyota Corolla arrived, it was the nicest car in our house, and I worshipped it. I washed it myself. I don't remember how much it cost, but it wasn't very expensive. I could, however, not pay in full so I paid half and the rest was spread over six months. Abdul Salam had promised me roles in a couple of movies in the period so I worked hard so that I did not have to default in paying for my most valuable asset. It solved a number of problems. This was in 2007 or thereabouts when there were no cab-hailing applications. What this meant was that whenever I needed a taxi, I had to walk to the roadside or a vantage point where I could get one. The inconvenience, especially at night or on rainy days, made owning a car a necessity, not a luxury. My life at the time was a personification of hustling and the car was an integral part of that important chapter of my drive to succeed. I used to carry my costumes to school and would dash to shoot movies after lectures. That vehicle served a dual purpose as a means of transport and a private office that housed my clothes, shoes, make-up kits and everything else I needed at work. Two years later, I bought my second car, a golden-brown Toyota Rav4. It was also a used vehicle but it was in better shape than the Corolla, which had started to break down and give me problems. I had got a car dealer to take the Corolla and I paid a top-up to acquire the Rav4. After three years, the RAV4 also began to give me problems. Besides the mechanical issues I had to grapple with, my brand was growing, and in the showbiz industry, an actress who had courted enormous media and national attention for the right and wrong reasons didn't have to show up at functions in a rickety vehicle. So, for the first time, I bought a brand-new vehicle or what they call here "tear rubber". It was a VW Touareg, which I ordered in 2010 and was delivered in 2011. It made a lot of waves in my circles and I was immensely proud of myself. In 2019, I bought a BMW saloon car, which I still use together with the 2011 Touareg. With time, I outgrew the glitzy lifestyle of the industry. If changing a vehicle every other year is part of the show business, then I prefer something worthier and more impactful to show than a fleet of vehicles. At the time, however, investing in the optics was more worthwhile than in the substance. The showbiz industry comes with demands and expectations, some of which are impossible to meet. I was fortunate to have been shaped by the circumstances surrounding my birth. The early taste of failure and its concomitant rejection taught me to set my priorities right when luck smiled on me or when success came my way. The year I bought the first of my two new cars, I was paying for my first house. I paid in three installments and, by 2012, I was done. It was a two-bedroom detached house at Devtraco Courts in Tema Community 25. I had got to the stage in my life where I felt I had to be on my own. Being on my own and living a life according to my own terms meant that I had to be under my own roof. With that goal in mind, I exerted pressure on myself and worked tirelessly. The movie roles I got from Nigeria paid off and I invested almost all the earnings in that house. The excitement of owning my own house clouded out sound judgment in the selection of a location for the house. Tema Community 25 is far removed from the centre of the city, but in my desperation to leave Dansoman, I didn't consider this. If I had concerns, those concerns were overwritten by the encouragement from my elder brother, who was also acquiring a property there. I later learnt that he was dating a lady in Tema, so moving there was in line with his plans. The irrational choice of location for my house dawned on me when I moved into the house. Whenever I finished shooting and it was too late in the night, going back was a problem. It was not secure to use the motorway at very odd hours and make the solitary journey off the motorway to my new and secluded neighbourhood. That extended residential area of the industrial city of Tema was not as developed as it is today. I sometimes went back to Dansoman to sleep and continue work the following day. At other times, I spent the nights at a friend's place in East Legon. I soon realised that the problem I intended to solve was still there. After two years, I started to look for a place closer to the centre of Accra, where I plied my trade. I saved and acquired a three-bedroom house at Redrow Estates at East Legon Hills. This house had a bigger hall and was more secure than my previous place. I was the second to move into this gated estate when it was completed. The first was a French couple. I was so desperate to move that I didn't wait to furnish it before moving in. The surrounding was still a mess, and when it rained, I walked in mud to my house the first few months I moved in. For the sake of convenience, however, I couldn't wait to move in. The estate developer completed my part when I was shooting a movie, so I didn't have the time to pack or transfer the furniture from Tema Community 25. In the beginning, I didn't even have curtains. All I had was a mattress on the floor, and that was good enough for me to move in. One day, one of the contractors at Devtraco hinted me of a piece of land that was up for sale at East Legon Hills. It took me a year to decide the suitability of the land for the house I intended to build for myself. The indecisiveness also bought me enough time until the Nigerian telecom giant, Glo, signed me as a brand ambassador. I acquired the land and started to build at my own pace and specification to suit my taste. In 2018, it was habitable enough to move in. That is where I have lived up to date.