(Un)stolen Memories

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!