An American in Ghana

I walk down the road to go to see Faisal. I pass the woman at her wooden stand selling loaves of fresh sweet bread with her children playing around her in the dirt. They yell “Obroni, wo ko hen?” (white woman, where are you going?), like they do nearly every day when I pass. I veer off the road and cut through the skeleton car park, where old rusted cars go to be abandoned, and later found again when a part is needed. It’s the kind of place that in the U.S. would be surrounded by a 10-foot chain-link fence with barbed wire and maybe a Doberman to discourage people- especially children- from needing tetanus shots. In Ghana it’s open to the public, and frequently visited by bored children. Today I see three children I recognize from my kindergarten class at the orphanage school, playing like it’s a jungle gym. They see me and call to me “Madam Anna, Madam Anna!” and run to meet me and hold my hands.

They follow me past the car park to the foot path that continues to Faisal’s house. I can’t believe how tall the grass along the path has grown in the last few weeks since the rains have started- it’s nearly taller than me now. The sun is beginning to set and the fireflies are glowing around me and the crickets are starting their night-long dialogues. The path winds past the half-built house where the frogs like to gather to listen to their croaks echo off of the unfinished walls. The children leave me to go back to their playground. I carefully step over the stream of open sewage that crosses my footpath next to Faisal’s neighbor’s outhouse. I round the corner and see Nurea (she is Faisal’s “backbone”, his sister born directly after him) and greet her, “Good evening, sister Nurea!” and she responds “Good evening, sista Ana”. She is tending to a fire in the yard in front of their house. Surrounding the fire are three clay mounds, holding the pot that contains the stew she is making for our dinner. I ask if her brother is in, and before she can answer I see him coming around the corner of the house from the direction of the well. He is holding what looks like a striped teapot, and I know it must be time for prayers. He greets me and says “Welcome”, like it’s the first time I’ve visited him- though I come here every night. He brings me a plastic chair from his room and I sit in the yard and watch the goats and chickens roam around while Faisal performs the ablution.

I watch him crouch in the dirt and wash methodically- his hands, first right then left, his arms, legs, feet, ears, nose, mouth and head. When he is finished he slips his long white prayer dress over his head and arranges his mat facing East- to Mecca. By this time his youngest sister notices me and comes to sit in my lap. She doesn’t talk yet but I am trying to teach her- “Huda, say ay-yeh. Ay-yeh”- but she is not interested in copying my Fante words. She is much more interested in touching- and yanking- my hair, and touching my face.

By now it’s too dark to see much, but I can hear Faisal praying in Arabic. I can imagine what it looks like- I’ve seen him do it so many times: standing, kneeling, putting his forehead to the mat, repeating. I can’t imagine what it’s like to pray five times a day, every day. I wonder what he prays for all those times. Sometimes I ask him- usually he says money and good health for his family. In the U.S. I would think it was wrong to pray to Allah for money, but I understand things differently here.

He is finished praying by now and comes to sit with me. Soon his friend Egyiri comes for a visit. I can’t understand much of their Pidgin-English conversation, but it sounds something like “Hey Chaley how dey be- dey be fine- da light dey be offed – aaa, dat be Ghana, Chaley- Ida go come…” I understand that they’re talking about the power being off again- a nearly daily occurrence here- sometimes for a few seconds, sometimes for several hours. I now understand the spray-painted messages I see on some of the buildings in town: “No lights, no vote”, and I’m happy to see that the people here believe in the democratic system in Ghana, and know that their voice is power.

It is time for Egyiri to go and Faisal and I walk him to the road. He leaves us with “See you, eh?”, with the handshake and finger snap. A trotro passes us on the road and Egyiri wonders out loud why everyone is staring at us. “It’s Anna, the Obroni”, Faisal explains. Egyiri is not used to the attention you get when walking with an Obroni, but Faisal is used to it by now. Egyiri laughs at the explanation, and we part.

Faisal and I maneuver back to his house using the moon to light our way on the path. I’m convinced my night vision has improved one hundred percent since I’ve been in Ghana. He reminds me again that I should start bringing my flashlight when I come to see him after dark. He’s more concerned about encountering snakes now that the grasses are starting to over-grow the footpath in the rainy season. I tell him I will, but secretly I like walking in the dark. The Obibinis (the locals) don’t use flashlights at night, why should I?

When we get back to Faisal’s house, dinner is ready. Faisal lights a candle in his room and we both sit cross-legged on the floor with two bowls between us. One contains Kokonte- a round sticky ball about the consistency of play-doh made of maizemeal, and the other holds the stew that goes with it. Today it is garden egg stew, one of my favorites- a thin, very oily, very spicy soup made with African eggplant and one whole dried fish curled into a ball so it looks like it’s trying to eat its tail. Faisal brings a cup of water for me to wash my right hand, and he does the same. I’ve gotten really good at eating kokonte now, but it does take some practice. I pick a small piece of the playdoh-like stuff with the thumb and first three fingers of my right hand. (It is against custom to use your left hand to eat, so though I am left-handed, I have adjusted.) I roll the kokonte in my fingers to make a ball, then press the middle a bit to make an indentation like a scoop. I dip it in the soup and quickly bring it to my mouth, trying not to drip on the floor, though sometimes I still do. I taste the soup in my mouth but don’t chew the kokonte- only swallow it. It doesn’t taste like much anyway- it’s the stew that give the meal flavor. At first it was hard for me to swallow food without chewing- it left me feeling like I hadn’t really eaten anything, though somehow I was always full afterward.

Every day we playfully argue over who eats the fish, and today is no exception. We always share it anyway, but it’s nice to offer it to each other. We both pick pieces of the flesh from the bones and give them to each other. I give Faisal the head and the tail- less to be generous than for the fact that even after four months in Ghana I still can’t bring myself to chew the fish bones. He happily accepts, and crunches away.

He tells me with a smile that I’m looking fatter every day. I doubt if it’s really true, but it’s a high compliment here and I’m happy to accept. Around here, big is beautiful. If you’re heavy, it’s a sign that you’re wealthy enough to eat as much as you like, and it means you’re healthy. If someone says you are looking thin, it is an insult and it means you must be too poor to eat enough.
When the kokonte is finished and we’ve licked the last of the stew from the bowl, Faisal fetches water to wash our hands. I roll the bar of soap in my hand and Faisal does the same. He actually washes my hand for me- pouring the water while rubbing my fingers clean. It is a gesture of caring to him, and one that I really appreciate in its simplicity. Afterwards, we go sit outside to talk and watch the stars, and I feel warm and full and happy.