Number leakages

In the dark days at the end of the last millennium, the UK sought to cheer itself up by instituting nationwide government-sponsored gambling in the form of the national lottery, or lotto, or bingo, or whatever the f*ck it’s these days. As you might be able to tell, I have always held a dim view of this tax on the poor, stupid or desperate. In Ghana the situation is not much different, except, happily enough for the exchequer, there’s a lot more poverty and desperation to feed on here, although on the stupidity aspect, I think we can say it’s about a draw.

The form that a national lottery takes is, like most things, reflective of the national character. In the UK, we laud the winners and make celebrities of them, building them up and up whilst waiting hungrily for their downfall. In Ghana, the lottery is shrouded in secrecy, rumour and arcane ritual. Every week a kind of newspaper is printed with every set of winning numbers since the ‘70s. Looking at this thing is like staring into the mind of Stephen Hawking doing sudoku. Thousands of numbers stare back at you daring you to work out a pattern. And that is what so many in this time-rich country do. You will see them, head hunched over the pages, eyes scrambling across the page, palms feverishly gripping the paper till the cheap ink runs.

Some weeks, the rumour of a certain already-picked number spreads through the country. This is called a leakage, as though the numbers are a closely guarded government secret, and because this cuts your odds down the tickets fly out of the stalls that week. To explain, the Ghana lottery works by punting on 6 numbers out of a possible 99, making the usual odds of you winning similar to betting on Jamie Carragher to be the season's top striker. (To all grownups who don't obsess about football, these odds are rather slim). So, to get one number free is quite a bonus. This happened the other week and several people told me about how much they were going to win and what they were going to do with the proceeds. Not to spoil the happy ending with the truth or anything, but suffice it to say there were no Humvees bumping along the Humjibrean mean streets the next week.