The best and worst of Ghana

I woke up from a night of endless tequila; the alarm interrupted my drunken slumber. I texted reluctantly: "I'm awake.” Then later and shamelessly, "let me know when you're on your way so I can get out of bed."

I was picked up in a compact car, tiny, really. I slumped in the backseat, trying to will away the hangover. It didn’t work. But we all agreed that food would make everything better.

Waakye was the first stop. Ghanaian-style rice and beans topped with a hard boiled egg, noodles and orange cous cous-like garnish. A fly took one of my eggs hostage.

Once our bellies were full, we were off again, speeding down the road. Accra behind us and paradise in the horizon.

But then, police waved us to the side, “checking for arms,” they said. They turned the car upside down; no warrant, no precedent, including our personal bags. They looked through the glove compartment, my friend’s cigarette case, makeup bags, our sunglass cases, furiously. 

What were they looking for?

A hash toffee was found inside the driver’s wallet. They demanded she drive the car into the mud, so the car was obscured from the highway, and then to turn over the keys. She would be arrested.

“I thought you were looking for arms,” she said, softly.

She was escorted across the street and into the police truck, despite endless pleads in the form of “boss, I beg.” The two of us remaining were ordered to sit in the car, so as not to bring attention by standing on the side of the road.

Hours passed, they wanted money; they were scared to ask for money. Between the three of us, we were a radio personality, a famous rapper and an “obruni”: a white person. They thought they hit it big, but knew they needed to play it cool.

After about two hours, one of the cops came to retrieve the driver's phone so she could call us to finally ask for money. We didn't even have 100 Ghana on us and they wanted a thousand.

So we were instructed to leave our cash in the car and walk deep into the mud, away from the highway, further obscured from the highway’s view. The cop, who grabbed her phone, then hopped into the passenger seat and ordered her to drive to the ATM to empty her bank account. His AK rested on his lap like a pet or small child.

While we waited in the mud, we played catch with rocks, raced them, too. See, we were delirious by this point. “Is this real life?” We asked, volleying between anger and disbelief.

The mere 250 she was able to withdraw was not enough, she called to say, even though she brandished the receipt that showed her account at $0. The police were firm on their 1,000, even though our pockets were completely empty and so was her bank account. “Call your boss or your mom,” they suggested.

Our friend and the cop finally returned, and again she was placed inside the police car.

I was fed up.

I stood on the side of the road, glaring at the pigs in uniform, daring any to meet my eyes. Five minutes later, we were free.

They took the money, returned the hash toffee to my friend, and advised her to take it, because another cop would be quick to extort her, too, they said.

Would we still go after all that?

“Yes, let's go,” we agreed. Plus the edible would set in soon. Jay-Z’s new album 4:44 was our soundtrack for the remainder of the ride.

Cement road stopped and dirt road took over, a sign that we were close.

We entered a stunning private property, thanks to our artist friend. A bright turquoise house, decorated with black-painted wood. Acres of green: mango trees, flowers, bushes. Stone walkways guided us to straw couches and copious amounts of marijuana. We smoked, and then again, to numb the corruption and our empty pockets, just a little.

Past the green was an acre of sand. Small tables shaded by umbrellas and adinkra symbols. We walked deeper until the lake water touched our toes. We swam until we were tired.

As night crept in, we moved from the water to land. We sprayed our ankles with my natural lemon and eucalyptus bug spray, slightly symbiotic to the juicy fruit that was presented to us. Bananas, papaya, pineapple and lots of it, we stuffed it in our mouths, swatting mosquitoes with one hand and wiping our chins with the other.

It was getting darker.

We made our way to get food. It was a nearly 30-minute journey to a restaurant that was hid by tall panels of wood, with a Thai menu on its awning as well as the words "Cuban cigars."

Inside, stretched, oversized and vintage leather chairs, globes, and a map of Paris adorned the place. Louis Armstrong played and cigar smoke masked the rounds and rounds of weed. Endless white wine prevented cottonmouth, thanks to the owner, who tended to our needs with a strong British accent and short shorts, his thick thighs begging for air. The only traces of his Ghanaian origins were when he switched to Pidgin English.

Then pad thai came, with shrimp, so succulent; we inhaled. We talked international politics, trying to be louder than the jazz that consumed the room.

High, and satisfied, we left. It was pitch black, I fell asleep in the back only to be woken by thunderous music. I jerked up to a sea of people, gyrating, sweating, joyous. It was like being in a car in the club. 

Were we on the street or in someone's living room during a house party? Were we on drugs or were they?

The couple grinding center-street, needed to be shaken from their lust to move out of the way. A retreat to let the car pass became part of the choreography rather than an interruption to their party.

We made it through and thought we were finished with the obstacle course until we came across a herd of small goats immediately afterward. Their bodies snuggled inside the potholes, their bellies pressed against the ground to feel its warmth and in a formation that was maze-like. We dodged them.

The beach was the last stop. The wind was cold and the water was angry and aggressive. 

Finally back to the lake house, the two women slept in a massive-sized bed, the largest I’d ever seen in Ghana.

We woke up early, to go read by the lake before breakfast was served. Fried eggs in unprocessed coconut oil kept arriving at the table. So ongoing that we imagined there was likely an egg waterfall in the kitchen. Lemongrass tea and raw honey washed down the thick white bread.

We swam, again, until our shoulders turned various shades of brown. Time was the farthest thing from our minds.

Finally we prepared to leave and thanked our host for everything he’d done. He gave us money, because even though we spent no money while there, we still had nothing.

We passed a police barrier on the way back; they barely looked up, too preoccupied with the money they were counting.

And just five minutes past the police barrier, a huge billboard with a picture of policemen on motorbikes flashing their lights, said in block letters: “DON’T CORRUPT THE POLICE.”

This was the best and worst of Ghana.

My week back in Accra

I feel like I've been neglecting Views from Accra this week, but it's mostly because I've been working. On Tuesday we visited another media outlet, Joy, which has extremely popular radio and TV stations. I got to meet one of the most famous DJs in Africa, DJ Black, who really shepherded in the hip-hop scene here in Ghana. He curates mixtapes, has an app, and of course, has a daily radio show.

I've conducted three really interesting interviews this week and I feel so much more clear on what my thesis will be. I met with one of the first and most prominent spoken word artists in Ghana, Mutombo Da Poet, who releases his work through music videos and certainly considers himself under the hip-hop umbrella. I interviewed Panji, who is an OG in this scene by anyone's standards. He's a producer, A&R of sorts, and a general music historian. He has been apart of the hip-hop scene here since the beginning, and he was really able to synthesize what makes Ghanaian hip-hop so unique. Lastly, I spoke to Worlasi, who is an up and coming musician and visual artist, with just one mixtape under his belt, but blowing up fast. He makes music for "his people," as he likes to say and isn't at all concerned about the Western world. "What if we never even knew the Western world existed?" he asks. Worlasi also boldly addresses the stigma of blackness within his music. Whether it's certain sayings that use blackness as a marker of inferiority, or a superior way of treating white foreigners, he's trying to shatter prejudice and deprogram racial hierarchies that still exist from colonization.

But this week hasn't just been work. I went salsa dancing Wednesday night, and man, Ghanaians can dance! I studied salsa in Cuba and so I never feel worried that I won't be able to keep up, but these people were incredible. Last night, I also went out, to a great local bar called Purple Pub. Just after 12:30, the music switched from shitty American music to amazing Ghanaian dancehall. Everyone was belting the words, having dance offs and consuming the mystery blue drinks that were their specialty. I had so much fun. Before I knew it, it was 3am and I had been dancing for hours.

I'm going a bit out of order, but I also went to some markets this week. The Arts Center is a small scale open market, with individual vendors selling clothes, crafts, etc. There, I learned some basic West African drumming. But the highlight was Markola market, Accra's central market. I could spend all day there and never see the same thing, it's massive and populated.

I was standing on the main road trying my Twi with a woman selling onions, when I felt a hand pressed to my leg. I turned and it was a sweet baby boy in complete shock at my presence (and skin.) He didn't want to smile or wave like most kids I run into, he was touching me to see if I was real, his eyes bulging with confusion. That stayed with me.

I think those were the highlights from this week. It's hard to believe this upcoming week is the last one for the students and this program. I'm really looking forward to staying on longer and just having total freedom.

Business Women: Shea Butter and Basket Weaving

I can't believe I forgot to mention meeting a woman's group who cultivate shea butter!

The following day, we traveled all the way up to the villages which border Burkina Faso. The first place was Paga and the Pikoro Slave Camp. This camp was also utilized in the Trans Atlantic Slave Trade. People were captured in the north and forced to travel in chains and by foot to the southern coasts where the slave ships ported. Capturers would travel on horse and this journey could take 2-3 months.

Then, we stopped at Catholic Basilica, a church built completely from mud.

The final stop had the greatest impact: the Single Mothers group in Bolgatanga. There are other single mothers groups in the north, mostly comprised of widows, but this group was incredibly unique. We walked into women brushing off benches for us to sit, as other women sat on the floor, their fingers moving a mile a minute, weaving baskets in various colors and patterns. A group of children kept growing of young boys and girls, who stared at us.

An older woman, who's torso was bent at a total 90 degree angle, was escorted in to a seat in the center. After maybe 10 or even 15 minutes of reticence on the women's part, they began to rise and gather. Then they started to sing and clap, and then they danced. One by one, a woman would enter the semi-circle and let the rhythms and energetic movement take over. Knees hit their chests and their hands met the ground, as their feet created poly-rhythms that contrasted the clapping of the group. Then they grabbed us, one by one, until we all were dancing and stomping together, pitifully keeping up with their full-bodied movement.

After we danced, and sat back to our seats, our chests heaving, sweat droplets dripping down our foreheads and big smiles taking over faces, the environment was now set to converse.

Cecilia, the spokeswoman for the group, explained the culture. In Bolgatanga, the land, home and name is carried on by boys. If a father only births girls, the youngest daughter is forced to stay behind and take care of the home and parents. They are not permitted to marry, but they will have children with men who may be married or who understand that they will have no involvement or rights to the children. If a son is born, he is the property of the father and will carry on the family's legacy. These are single mothers.

But these women have gathered for support and have formed a sisterhood of sorts, all the youngest of a family of girls. They are not victims, they are empowered. They basket weave together and sell their baskets in the market to support themselves and their families. Their children play together and weave, as well. These single mothers are sisters.

We learned to "weave." I put that in quotes because all I really did was slow my partner down and force her to correct my mistakes. But it was a powerful experience, nonetheless, and their products are stunning.

That evening, I had my first guinea fowl, a bird similar to a chicken, but more tender and smothered with hot pepper sauce. Ghana's club beer was the perfect pairing.

The next day we departed Tamale, before the sun came up and drove all day to get back to Accra. We did stop early on at Kintampo Falls, where there are three levels of waterfalls.

For the first time and after getting back, Accra felt like home. I was eager to sleep in my bed, looking forward to getting back to some of the restaurants I love and meet with friends I've made. It felt good.

Exploring Tamale

I just got back to Accra, late last night and had to spend several hours sifting through 45 unread emails and messages, after 3 days of absence from the digital world. But I'm officially caught up. I've contacted my parents to let them know I'm alive, (neither of them were worried.) More so my friends sent me some frantic text messages after seeing the coverage of the ongoing flooding in Accra. I wasn't in Accra and reassured them of my safety, but there were people who were not okay, communities that were not okay.

I follow many Ghanaian people on Twitter at this point, rappers, and poets, visuals artists and media. "You gotta learn to swim before moving to Accra." "Accra is the new Venice." These tweets showed up on my timeline as Accra underwent another round of flooding, almost a year to the day of the disastrous floods that submerged neighborhoods in Accra last year and killed over 150 people.

People are frustrated. People are dying.

I'll get more into this later, as I'm thinking of adjusting my thesis. It just feels so dire, so urgent. And, like the government is abandoning its people.

But, I want to tell you about Tamale. We drove there Thursday, early in the morning and about an 8-hour drive from Kumasi and the Ashanti region. As we crossed over into Ghana's Northern region, cars thinned and motorcycles driven by women in hijabs filled the unpaved and pot-hole ridden streets. The clothing got longer and more conservative, though the fabrics remained just as vibrant. The pace was slower, houses and villages were separated by miles of trees and unoccupied land. Cows, goats, and chickens ran in flocks and in solo ventures.

Our first stop was the Tamale market. It was a fraction of the size of Kumasi's, but still just as easy to get lost in as a novice. We then went to visit Dr. Edward Salifu and Kassim Abdallah who spoke of rural media and the role of media in Northern Ghana, the language barriers and the high percentage of illiteracy, and the need for specific and different news than Accra circulates daily.

Friday was a full day of immersion into Tamale. We visited a beautiful mosque, early, before midday prayer commenced. Then, the same guide discussed Islam with us, and unfortunately, he felt the need to go into detail on the disconnect between terrorism and Islam. He felt the need to explain, in a country that has been colonized repeatedly, and its people enslaved and murdered in the name of Christianity, that the actions of a select group doesn't reflect an entire religion. *Sigh* He was eloquent, and thoughtful, but it just bothered me that the conversation needed to exist.

We took a quick visit to Radio Savannah, as well, to meet some journalists and hear how the upcoming election is covered in the north.

The absolute highlight of the day was taking a tour of Dr. Abdulai's Shekhinah clinic, which just celebrated its 25th anniversary. Dr. Abdulai's background is devastating. He was one of eleven, and all his siblings died from poverty-related illnesses. His father also passed away and it was just him and his mother for a long time. Until she too passed away, in his arms.

Dr. Abdulai became a doctor, as medical complications plagued his family. But his life's work became solidified in 1989, when he performed an emergency surgery under a mango tree, which began his clinic. The clinic is home to many, many mentally challenged people who's families don't know what to do, or have been on the street. People are free to come and go as they please. Some people have lived there for decades.

But Dr. Abdulai isn't trying to "cure" them, he isn't injecting their bodies with drugs. He feeds them, provides a roof over their heads and offers them love.

He also has a ward for HIV patients, he performs surgeries twice a week and consults walk-in patients 3-times a week. All of his services are free and every employee is a volunteer.

A volunteer shows us their new garden, where they are beginning to grow yams to save money on food.

It was certainly a profound experience. The clinic and living conditions and medical rooms were bare and basic. But it was home for a woman who sat topless in the sun, for a blind woman who's other family members passed away, for a mother and son, who were HIV positive, for a young man, who's family had dropped him off, for a woman, and for who had been living at the clinic for 26 years, but no one knew exactly what country she was from. The clinic is for everyone.

I've found my soul in Kumasi

There's something that really resonates with me about being in Kumasi. The history of the Asante people is filled with unity and resilience. After centuries, the Asante culture is still so rich and valued. And the people... I swear, I have never met such kind, warm people in my whole life. I feel at home here. There's a true sense of community.

Last night, at the hotel, I ended up talking to Emmanuel, the bartender, for hours. He's from Bolga, which is way up at the top of Ghana, bordering Burkina Faso. He has two daughters and moved to Kumasi for work purposes, though he visits his family regularly. But we got deep. I laid out America's deep-rooted race problems. We discussed Ghanaian politics (which I'm starting to get pretty well-versed in.) We both agreed that the two-party system is outdated and non-functional in Ghana and the US, and that governance doesn't ever really reach the masses. We talked about poverty. He was so surprised about the economic realities in the US for so many people, and that we too, have homeless people, and that our government doesn't care about poor people. Our conversation was pretty dim, but enlightening, and it felt like we were old friends.

Today, we explored Kumasi. It was magnificent.

We first visited Okomfo Anokye hospital, where the famous Asante sword remains in the ground. This is a sacred place for the Asante people. Okomfo Anokye, a leader of the Asante people, placed the sword in the ground to signify unity. He stated that if the sword is ever removed, that will be the end of the Asante people. Until 1995, people have tried to pull the sword from the ground, including Muhammed Ali (to no avail, of course).

We also toured Manhyia Palace, the original palace of the Asantahene (King of Asantes.) The Asante are the oldest tribe in Ghana, and proved serious competitors to the European colonizers. Although, had colonization and the slave trade not commenced, it is believed that Ghana would be Asante region and Twi the official language.

My favorite stop was the Center for National Culture, where Kumasi's finest art was displayed. There were artists selling paintings, sculptures, pottery, jewelry and clothes. The Adinkra symbols are prevalent in jewelry and accessories. They are symbols created by the Asante people and have specific meanings relating to God, hope, the past, etc. Later on, we visited a place where they create the dye to imprint the Asante sashes with these symbols.

I was drawn to the Sankofa bird, a well-known symbol of bird looking backwards. As you move forward, you bring the past with you.

Speaking Twi to Market Queens

Friday night was an interesting ordeal, though, one I can't say I'm eager to repeat. It's been tough being a TA for an abroad program for various reasons, but mostly, it can be lonely. I spend most of my time with the students, but none of them are in my peer group. I have been meeting plenty of artists, activists, and media, but they have all been men. I have really been yearning for the companionship of women.

Anyways, Friday night, I had heard about an event in Jamestown, a neighborhood in Accra, but a slum by anyones standards. The community is known for speaking Ga, fishing and birthing incredible boxers. The company, YoYo Tinz, "aims to promote, document and archive the Ghanaian hip hop culture." And having met the two men behind the brand, they invited me to their website launch party.

It was an evening of hip-hop. Graffiti and artwork lined the walls, beatboxers and rappers performed, breakdancers freestyled, and a resident DJ supplied the music for the evening. I initially invited one student along, who has already been to Jamestown, but almost the entire class ended up coming. Unfortunately, because of NYU's mandatory dinners, we missed most of the performances. But the Jamestown in itself was raw and fantastic, and the gallery was buzzing with energy and creativity. It was a do-your-own-thing event. Some people were drinking, others inspected the local artwork, Nana Osei and Selorm (the founders) were being interviewed by a British camera crew.

Following that event, we headed to Republic, upon a student's request. I had been there one time before, and the crowd was overwhelmingly white, with a mix of tourists and expats. Friday was more diverse, but the pricey drink list simply attracted tourists, and only Ghanaians of a certain economic class. As house music played and the tables became crowded, the environment felt bourgeois (bougie) and foreign. The students also got progressively more wasted, and honestly, I've never felt my age more.

Saturday, we all attended a charity football (soccer) match at the sports stadium in Accra. I'm by no
means a big sports fan, but the excitement and site of it all was enjoyable. Sunday, I attended a huge gallery featuring African artists called Artists Alliance. Located in Labadi Beach, a poor neighborhood in Accra, the pink building holds paintings, jewelry, sculptures, masks, clothes and furniture for display and for sale. Each corner of the three-floor gallery offered something new.

Today we began our journey to the North. First stop = Kumasi.

Kumasi is home to the largest market in West Africa, as well as the region of the Asante (Ashanti) people. One of the Ghanaian NYU staff members has been teaching me Twi, the language that would have been the national language of Ghana, had colonization not happened, yet is generally, widely spoken.

The market was packed, and confusing, and hot, and intense, but I spoke to so many people! "Good afternoon" was met with response, but being able to ask in Twi: how they are, respond myself, ask their name, explain my Ghana name and where I'm from, was so appreciated and gave me so much pleasure. My dad always taught me that it's crucial to put in the effort to engage with someone in their language while traveling, and I've truly carried that with me.

Halfway through the market tour, the students were having me translate for them and one student even asked me if I could teach them some phrases. But I was absolutely blown away by the kindness of the people I encountered in the Kumasi market. I'm not sure how often visitors and tourists, especially with white skin, care at all about learning Twi. English is technically the "official" language in Ghana. But I haven't been in the presence of any two Ghanaians who speak purely English to each other.

I received so many smiles and laughs and warm conversations today. I just feel so full and encouraged to learn more.

Canopy Walk and Boat Rides

Sunday, on our way home from Cape Coast, we stopped at Kakum National Park to cross the legendary canopy walks.

It was terrifying and amazing at the same time. It was built 20 years ago and is just an extended metal ladder with planks of wood on top. 

Tuesday, we visited the Daily Graphic, Ghana's main newspaper. They emphasized the popularity of radio and their movement into the online platform, as well as their state obligation. The editor explained that they do the best they can, but the government is essentially their boss, and so a certain censorship comes along with that.

Yesterday, I met with one of the founding members of the Occupy Ghana movement. It started a couple years ago by a group of middle class professionals, who's businesses were being disrupted by the ongoing and rolling blackouts in Ghana. They organized demonstrations by city hall, and recruited celebrities to attend. Their main objective is holding the government accountable and diluting corruption. They are currently in the middle of a lawsuit with the government for the "bus branding scandal." Ghana is in debt, poverty is widespread, and President Mahama painted all the city buses with his face, enlarged and in color, as well as past presidents in black and white for over 3 million dollars. Occupy Ghana has used social media and TV and radio to communicate their message, but it's has remained strictly a middle class movement. These are lawyers and doctors and engineers, and there is not much connection or engagement with the truly marginalized and poor communities.

Today, we took a day trip with our other professor Audrey Gadzekpo to Radio Ada, a community radio station by the people, for the people and about the people. They translate news into local languages, they have programming for children and they broadcast local, national and some international news. They also train other community radio professionals. 

After touring the radio station, we also went through the town of Ada, before stopping at a beautiful hotel for lunch. A DJ played the tunes, as we sipped cokes and ate cheeseburgers on the river side. We finished the day by taking a boat ride and visited various islands in the radius.