The other night while I was walking on the beautiful beach
in Busya, a criminal snatched my phone and ran away into the darkness. This, by
far, is the biggest blow that I’ve received while being in Ghana. And in some ways
I’ve been fairly lucky. I was not held at a knife point, or beaten. I was not
raped, strangled, or murdered. True, I was robbed, which is not a very pleasant
experience either – your possession is taken, your personal space is violated,
your privacy is in jeopardy, and your communication with others is hindered.
Perhaps the biggest reason I became upset was the fact that all (literally,
all) pictures and videos I’ve taken while in Ghana are now gone. Yes, I’ve been
telling myself to back them up on my laptop, and I haven’t. Yes, I should have
finally learned how to put my data on the cloud. So, lessons learned. I will be
more watchful next time. Besides, after some thinking, I realize that most of
the pictures I’ve taken….were not that good. I am neither Annie Leibovitz with
her elaborate celebrity portraits full of special lighting and make-up nor am I
Ansel Adams with his sweeping vistas of American splendor in black and white:
my photos don’t stand a chance of being featured anywhere except on my friends’
Facebook news feed. They were taken on
an impulse because the scenery (to me) looked cool or cute, or they were taken
for reports (so I could remember how many people showed up to my meetings).
Most importantly, my pictures and videos may have been stolen, but my memories
were not! In fact, some of the best images were not in my phone - they were
(and still are) in my head J.
Here are several of them:
The day when I met my home-stay family in Anyinasin: my host
brother Imma took my giant orange suitcase, put it on his head like it was
nothing and walked to my new home, while his sister Effia ran along. Just
picture them in the distance, framed by plantain trees and glorious sunset.
One evening I was very late for a Grassroots Soccer
practice: I assumed the school kids left for their homes, but then I saw
several girls still waiting for me. When they noticed me, they smiled and ran
to me yelling “Madame, madame, you returned!” It was like they haven’t seen me
in years. Just picture being surrounded by their smiling faces.
Riding the bus full of excited singing football fans to a
friendly match.
Watching the downpour from a local spot, while old men next
to me poured some apeteshie to
appease to weather gods.
Walking in the bush in the morning, getting ready for the
day, flooded with memories, emotions and sudden urges to stay here forever.
Riding a giant but rickety bus to Tamale, getting a flat
tire, skidding off to the side, waiting in the darkness for the tire to be
fixed, riding again, a person next to me offering his dinner.
Right before the rain, wind picking up dandelion-like fluff
from oak trees; watch it float in the dark sky, just like snow…
My courtyard floor, covered with children’s Crayola
drawings.
During one soap-making session, oil in a pot caught on fire.
The fire created vortex in the pot and started shooting upwards, higher and
higher! It was subdued, but I was really afraid it would spread and burn down half
of a village. “This is how NOT to make soap,” I told villagers. They solemnly
nodded. Later, still covered in soot, we finished making soap and started
singing and dancing. Ghana – the country of contrasts….
Walking somewhere far away from my village, and all of a
sudden being greeted by a friendly wave and “Sister Akua! Me huuwatche! (I’ve
seen you long time!)” instead of the dreaded “Obroni! Ma me sika! (Give me
money!)” Oh, the sweet relief of being recognized by your name and not by the
color of your skin….
Getting an encouraging text from a friend thus making my day.
True, the text is gone, but its effect is still with me!
