"A Ghanaian-English entrepreneur has designed an electric bike from the ground up that’s transforming short-range transportation in her home country, proving that problem-solving in Africa can be done in Africa, by Africans.
[Valerie Labi's] company, Wahu!, assembles each bike by hand, and they can travel up to 80 miles [128 kilometers] on a single charge. This means that a delivery rider for Glovo or Bolt can comfortably cover a whole day’s work without refueling.
Anyone who’s visited Accra, Ghana, in the dry season will remember the incredibly poor air quality. Poor roads mean that cars are stuck in second and third gears, and old cars traveling in second and third gears mean plenty of extra car exhaust.
Poor roads also mean exposed dirt, and exposed dirt means fine-grained dust. Combined with a lack of rain, the smog, dust, and car exhaust make the air in parts of the capital unfit for human health.
Wahu! bikes help alleviate all three of these problems, and despite her English nativity [Note: Super weird and unclear way to phrase it?] and education, the bikes were designed and manufactured in Spintex, Accra.
“By introducing electric bikes into Ghana’s transportation ecosystem, we’re not only providing a greener alternative but also offering speed and convenience,” Labi told The Mirror. “Our bikes are a testament to how service delivery can be seamlessly merged with environmental conservation.”
Valerie Labi is a true inspiration, and besides her transportation company, she got her start in the Ghanaian economy in sanitation. She holds a chieftaincy title as Gundugu Sabtanaa, given to her by the previous Chief of the Dagbon traditional area in the Northern Region of Ghana. She has three children, holds a double major in Economics and Sustainability from two separate universities, and has visited 59 countries.
Getting her start in Northern Ghana, she founded the social enterprise Sama Sama, a mobile toilet and sanitation company that now boasts 300,000 clients.
During her travels around the small, densely populated country, she also recognized that transportation was not only a problem, but offered real potential for eco-friendly solutions.
“It took us two years to effectively design a bike that we thought was fit for the African road, then we connected with Jumia and other delivery companies to get started,” she told The Mirror. “Currently, I have over 100 bikes in circulation and we give the bikes on a ‘work and pay’ basis directly to delivery riders.”
According to Labi, each driver pays about 300 Ghana cedis, or about $24.00, per week to use the bike, which can travel 24 miles per hour, and hold over 300 pounds of weight. The fat tires are supported by double-crown front/double-spring rear suspension.
The bikes are also guaranteed by the company’s proprietary anti-theft system of trackers. Only a single bike has been stolen, and it was quickly located and returned to the owner."
-via Good News Network, January 24, 2024
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"Now then, Sunshine," Hubert said, plucking a fresh sheet of parchment from the corner of his desk and readying his quill. "Tell me about this person you wish to bring into Lady Edelgard's service."
"Really, Hubert, you should be ashamed not to have heard of my dearest Sara before!" Constance crowed. She unfurled her fan purely to brandish it for dramatic effect. "Her talent for the magical arts is simply extraordinary! Th-though, no match for my own, of course…" she added nervously.
"Yes, yes, your magical prowess is unparalleled," Hubert intoned, waving a dismissive hand yet smiling fondly. "Continue."
Constance stomped her foot. "Hubert! Have you forgotten which of us is the more skilled with Morfean magic?! Anyway… Sara is really quite accomplished in her field! She is trusted with the most important clients, and many of her coworkers rely on her expertise and insight. It is marvellous how skillfully she interprets contracts of privacy law and explains them to others! And the other day, she came up with a most revolutionary Excel formula as well! Why, I believe that with the proper training, she and I could truly be Sister Sages of the highest calibre!"
"And that is not all," Constance continued on. "No no! Sara has many talents off the battlefield as well! She pens the loveliest stories. In fact, you should read the wondrous tale I commissioned her to write about our activities on our wedding night—"
Hubert choked on his coffee.
"And she draws quite skillfully also!"
"Please tell me you didn't commission a painting to go with that story," Hubert groaned, head in his hands.
"Oh, no, I mainly commission her to paint flattering portraits of myself," Constance replied airily. "One of my favourites is a particularly striking one of me against a starry sky that I'm sure you shall like to see sometime!"
"Ah, but I can see you against a starry sky any night I wish, lovelier than any painting."* Hubert smirked as Constance flushed and began fanning herself, clearly flustered.
"I— yes, well—" Constance took a moment to compose herself again. "Let me finish telling you about my dearest Sara's redeeming qualities! She is an excellent friend: a joy to be around, and her presence is sure to brighten one's day. She is funny and kind, and, dare I say, very nearly as charming as myself!"
"I see. She does sound quite promising." Hubert put down his pen. "I shall have to conduct a background check, of course."
"Is my word not enough?!" Constance protested. "Need I remind you that for all your repute as Imperial spymaster, you had not even heard of such a dazzling star as is Sara before?"
"Need I remind you who it was that brought Epimenides himself into our midst?" Hubert shot back, but there was no real fire in his voice. "Based on your personal recommendation, I shall expedite the process. If all goes well, we will send this Sara a formal offer by the end of the moon."
Constance huffed, unable to argue the point. "I suppose that is agreeable enough."
"It's settled, then. Now, I believe we have tea with Lady Edelgard to be getting to." Hubert stood and offered Constance his arm. "Shall we, my dear Countess Vestra?"
Constance took it, positively glowing at the form of address. "Yes, Count Vestra, we shall!"
* Eifie double dog dared herself to write this line.
OH. MY. GOD?! You wrote this for me..? 😭💚
Original Eifie work! So cleverly written!! Lots of references to my fic and little details about me and incredibly well-characterized! You even went out of your way to include romo 🥹
THE EXCEL FORMULA ASDFGHJKL it truly is like magic. Also I LOVE the idea that every single art work and fic I've ever made of/about Constance has been commissioned by her. That is hereby canon.
Thank you for taking me into consideration for the position!! 🙏 (Though I must admit I'm a little scared of what Hubert's background check will mean for me......)
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Hi! I read your post about chrome and incognito mode and better use Firefox. Do you mean on computer or also on cellphone? I have an android one and i think firefox can be downloaded from the app store.. also, here on Tumblr i read many posts about chrome and how is not the best to use.. is my to go site now, for everything.. better change?! Google products work on firefox? (me thinking about gmail or Google drive). Sorry to bother you with this ask, i just want to understand what is best to do and if it's easy to do. Thanks for your time :)
Great questions! :)
Firefox provides more privacy out of the box, so I recommend using it whenever you can. In addition to switching to Firefox on your desktop computer, I definitely recommend trying Firefox Mobile on your mobile devices. Chrome Mobile tracks everything you do just as surely as Chrome Desktop does, and if you're logged in to Google it can even correlate your activities across platforms. That's why Google is so keen on having you log in.
Firefox Mobile can be a little quirky especially on older devices but it's come a long way in the last few years. Also, if you're on Android devices, Firefox Mobile now has the capability of installing addons, which is a huge plus. (On iOS Firefox Mobile can't support addons because of the architecture of iOS.)
Google web applications (gmail, docs, drive, etc) are all designed to work fine on Firefox and Safari, both on desktop and mobile. But if you are signed in to Google on Firefox (or Safari, or any other browser) Google can still track your activities. So it's important to either stay logged out or look into using containers on Firefox.
My solution to this problem is simple: on my desktop computer I use Chrome (logged in to Google) to access gmail, Drive, etc. And that's it. I don't use Chrome for anything else. I use Firefox only for browsing, and I never sign in to Google. On my iPhone I use Firefox Mobile and another browser called Halt, which is a webkit browser with a built in ad blocker. For gmail, drive, etc. I use the iOS apps.
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[inspired by @eliot-wolfgirl-spencer's selkie eliot post]
Featuring selkie feels, shitty parenting (broad strokes only), and Moreau angst, and stopping before any happy ending, so you'll have to see the linked post for that.
[1.7k, also on Ao3]
—
The thing about Eliot is that his isn't a traditional selkie story. His father had a fling with a woman who hid what she was, who had left her family behind and was going it alone. (Selkies aren't all good, either.) She has Eliot, and she loves and looks after him, and she dies unexpectedly while he's still small.
So his father (who has children with someone else already, though she's no longer in the picture) gets his first son. Eliot's barely more than a toddler then, delivered to his doorstep with nothing but the clothes on his back and a soft grey blanket he seems reluctant to let go of, and when Eliot's father gets a hand on it he just thinks: Oh.
He lets Eliot keep it for the comfort, for now. When the kid’s older and less timid and getting seen more by the community he tucks it away in a cupboard so he won’t go drawing attention—it’s not like there’s anywhere good to change around here, anyway—and Eliot sort of… forgets. Not entirely. Not the rough cadence of his mother’s songs, not that there’s a piece of him he has to keep hidden. But he forgets and he’s mostly glad that he gets to. He doesn’t want to be singled out.
And maybe once or twice when the restlessness rises up under his skin, when the town’s so small it’s penning him in and he thinks he might burst from it, he takes the pelt from out of the cupboard and runs out to the lake in the dead of the night. It’s not much of a lake, not remotely pretty, but it’s something that isn’t just forcing himself still until he splits at the seams.
The first time, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s been so long since his mother helped him with this, and he can’t remember where she started. So he’s sweating and he’s getting frustrated and the awkwardness of it is uncomfortably reminiscent of puberty, really, and he has to keep his swearing quiet because he doesn’t want to risk being found, doesn’t know what his father would do.
But once he gets it to a certain point it’s like it… belongs, like it knows what to do when he doesn’t. He should be afraid but he marvels at the change. The water isn’t clean—doesn’t hold him like it should, he knows that in his bones, even if he doesn’t remember what it was like to swim in the sea—but it feels like a taste of freedom.
The sun rising makes him panic, every time. The sealskin's easier to peel off than it is to put on, and he pats it dry once he’s dried and dressed himself, folds it and stows it in his satchel and tries not to feel like it’s a dirty secret.
It is a dirty secret. His father never put it into words, never had to, but Eliot was never meant to use it, never meant to risk anyone else finding out.
He’s managing that much, at least. He kisses Aimee for the first time, learns how to make her smile, gives her a promise ring and means every word of the promises they make each other. It’s easy to confine his restlessness to those strange, guilty nights he slips out alone and banishes from his mind the next day. It’s easy to tell himself he can do this.
It’s easy, until it isn’t.
He meant to leave his sealskin at home. He meant to keep thinking of it as home, even after he leaves, except that his father gets angry. It’s far from the first time they’ve butted heads but it is by far the worst, and Eliot can’t listen well enough to try to fix things over the insistent call of I need to get out I need to I need to, and he slams the door of his room in his father’s face to pack the things he would miss.
He takes the sealskin with him.
Aimee’s family like him enough to put him up until he leaves. He helps with the horses, washes the dishes under the approving eye of Mrs Martin, keeps a little distance from Aimee—she doesn’t want him to leave, either.
But he has to catch her before he goes. She agrees to take the battered old suitcase and keep it somewhere safe—shows him where, even—and she doesn’t press him on what’s inside. He doesn’t think she’ll look inside. They kiss then, and more, and the day after the next he’s gone.
Working for the military doesn’t sate the itch inside him, but he can tell himself it does, for a while. He can tell himself he’s doing good. Then he can tell himself it’s necessary. Then it’s just the only thing he knows how to do. And he misses Aimee, but she’s less happy with him each time he contacts her—she never mentions the sealskin, at least, there’s that—and it’s looking like the life he wanted to have with her is something he left behind without ever really meaning to.
And then she gets married. It’s her dad—Willie—who contacts him, and he’s kind about it, which makes it worse. Eliot swallows his feelings and takes a moment to respond and Willie doesn’t seem bothered by it—awkward, maybe, but that’s to be expected. Eliot gets out the niceties, the congratulations, to equally awkward responses, then stumbles into I left a suitcase with her.
Willie makes the arrangements, and next time Eliot’s on leave he stops by for long enough to collect it and to thank him, and leaves before things can get any worse.
He moves the sealskin around a bit before finding the hiding place he’s happiest with, near the bottom of a stack of blankets at his most secure safehouse. He’s on his first PMC by then. It’s been years since he shifted—not since he became an adult, not since that grimy old lake he would sneak out to at night like visiting a secret boyfriend—and the pelt has become dry, still supple, but less like touching a living thing.
Eliot doesn’t like touching it.
It’s a burden, is the thing. A weakness. An achilles’ heel he can’t afford. He’d have destroyed it, except his research—and there’s precious little research available without talking to actual selkies, but the idea of that made his skin crawl when he considered it—suggested that wouldn’t be safe to do. A part of him, then, just not one he ever has to acknowledge.
He finds Toby. He finds a reprieve from his numbness, a way to put something good into the world, a way to talk to the parts of himself that he thought were closed off forever. He finds his hands covered with more blood than he could ever hope to wash clean.
He flees.
Working for Moreau might be one of the ugliest things he’s ever done, but at least it’s simple. He doesn’t work well without someone else calling the shots, he doesn’t want to begin to examine the breadth and weight of his work so far; he wants to do what he’s good at and let this wild thing out of his chest just long enough, just far enough, to let him rest easy in his skin.
Easier, at least.
He moves his pelt to San Lorenzo: the safest place he knows, the place he arranges the security for. Maybe he knew the risk he was taking, maybe he’s ignoring that part of himself so much that he’s forgotten it, but when he comes back to his room one day and finds Moreau standing over the desk running his fingertips over the fur, Eliot feels a stutter of something like fear in his chest.
Damien’s kind about it. He doesn’t take it from him.
The thing is, Eliot wants it gone. He doesn’t want to have to deal with it. And sometimes when you’re facing the awful thing, the fear of being controlled, the terrible truth that you’re a monster, all you can do is lean into it. Yanking out stitches to let it heal, even if it heals up ugly.
The thing is: just as much as when he was a child, when his father pulled the sealskin from his fingers and told him it had to stay hidden, Eliot’s ashamed of it.
Damien accepts when Eliot offers it to him, and it feels like a blessing. Damien tells him: don’t worry. He tells him: I’ll take good care of it.
Eliot doesn’t miss it when it’s gone.
(He doesn’t see the ways he was led to that decision. He doesn’t see the satisfaction in Damien’s eyes.)
It’s the lightest he’s felt for years, being known, being seen for all he is and accepted for it, and he wonders why he didn’t do this sooner. Damien didn’t flinch from the fur beneath his fingers or the patchy explanations that were all Eliot could give. Damien doesn’t flinch from the things Eliot can do—he finds a purpose for them. Eliot scrubs blood and tissue from under his fingernails and the rough thing inside his ribcage is almost at rest.
So he falters, sometimes. So he tries to be something he’s not, lets people go or kills them too quickly, questions Moreau’s orders. He always returns to here. He always remembers what he’s for.
He doesn’t think about Toby. He doesn’t think about Aimee, who wanted him to stay, who knew him before all this but didn’t know what he was trusting her with. He doesn’t think about his mother who braided his hair when he was small and kept him from sinking under the waves when she was teaching him how to swim.
(He doesn’t let himself think of them often.)
Then one day he goes even further. He didn’t think he could. He didn’t think he would get this moment of terrible clarity again, looking at what he’s done, at what he is, with everything inside him rebelling. Last time he detached from himself, denied feeling anything in an attempt to escape this, and he can feel that starting again. He can feel himself teetering.
Last time, it didn’t work. He realises, in the parts of himself he’s been ignoring for so long, that he doesn’t want to end up here again. He can’t afford to. He can’t survive it.
With his sealskin in Moreau’s hands, running could mean death. But he doesn’t have a choice. If he goes back, Moreau will talk him into staying.
He runs.
Moreau lets him go.
And Eliot leaves a part of himself behind.
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