"Edziban aa; dzi dzi"

Coming up with a title for a blog post, a thesis or any piece of writing is probably one of the most difficult parts of preparing it. More often than not, the content of the material almost comes “naturally” to you as you attempt to break down the “big theme”. By now, you should know what problem I am confronted with about this blog post; the title! You got that! Just when I had “dumped” 3 or 4 blog post titles, my mind went back to the motherland; to a TV show my family used to enjoy watching. This show was basically about a funny guy named Kwame Djokoto who went round different eating-places and tasting different foods. His humorous antics and hilarious nuances upon eating the food, made that TV show a family favorite. The show was called “edziban” in Fante, which literally means; “food” to which he would self-respond in utmost "jokestry", “dzi dzi”, meaning eat! It was one of the few shows my family took time to watch and laugh into the evening,  in the absence of good old television; "The Cosby Show, 227, Fresh Prince of Bel Air"...well it goes on...

Latina flan

I love to eat, but then, who doesn’t? My half Fante lineage prescribes that not only must I like to eat, but that I take the extra effort to ensure that the food I eat, is tasty and leaves a lingering  in my mouth, until I delve into the next plate. From Fante-fante to “estew”, to “banku” to some good hot chicken soup,  Ghanaian food is what i'd like to call a Mr. Right! With all the right attributes! It holds you when you are afraid and satisfies you when you are dry! Some good waakye garnished with the right amount of gari (cassava flakes, Gey Hey girls' where you at? ) "wele" (cow skin…don’t worry its perfectly safe) is all you need for your Saturday mornings to feel like “heaven on earth”. The tenacity to stay in the Waakye line till it’s your turn to be served is one of persistence and patience. For most, depending on their level of tiredness, it may not be worth the wait. And oh, when the waakye seller gives you special treatment, you would have made it, at least for one moment! And then there is my never failing banku with some good okro soup and “wele” which never fails to make my day after its tumultuous affairs. This section on Ghanaian food would not be complete without the mention of Fufu! Oh the joy, as they tell me since my mother mentioned to me my not eating fufu was due to her offering for the first time and my refusal to eat. Well that was the first and last time I tried this Ghanaian delicacy. Yet I can tell you, the vibrancy I have seen with which people pound that food and the perfect blend of the cassava and plantain into a perfect harmony, like an old couple whose soul twines into one, and finally the delight with which a morsel dipped or better  still scooped in some chicken soup or goat meat soup brings to the faces of the “patronizers” assures me there’s a whole world out there I have been denying myself all these years.

Nigerian food is not very far from home. Though I haven’t had the typical "yam fufu" or "pepper soup" before, I am accustomed to “Nigerian” Jollof which I must say tasted good but not like my Mama’s “Ghanaian” jollof. Oh yes, I just tried to start the debate all over! But then again, I love me some good Nigerian “Eba” which I always try to combine with something more familiar like some good "ole" spiced Tilapia. The joy it brings, like falling in love all over again!

 I find joy in talking about food and maybe this piece will highlight the euphoria  I feel every time I try something different. Brazilian food isn’t far from home either!  My folks over there, eat "gari" too! Rice and beans is what I normally go for at the Gauche Brazillian grill in Blacksburg. Some good old khebab was all I needed to make the meal complete!  My Mama always used to say “sweet after meals”, for which reason I have a special solidarity to eating dessert after a meal. I have had all kinds of desserts, but the day I had flan, life returned to a whole new understanding! Flan had a melting caramel taste with an “orgasmic” effect to it! Don’t think too far now! But if you ever had to visit a Latina restaurant, don’t deny yourself some “flan”!  You can thank me later!

When in Rome, they say you do what the Romans do and yet, here I was in London, the Queensland, eating Indian food! The experience though, was interesting. I have always been a “spice girl”. My food has to be spiced at all cost, sometimes to a fault! So when I was informed that Indian food was spicy, I assured myself that out of the lot in the buffet, Indian was “the one”. I made my way straight to the Indian section and heaped my plate. And why not? I believe in healthy eating but every now and then, I excuse my portions, especially after I learned that becoming slim in my life was “genetically impossible”! After I got my plate of some good old Indian food, the first morsel was “never-to-be–forgotten”. Good taste, definitely, but it was hotter than I could imagine! I had to bear the pain for the next 30 minutes, constantly gulping down some cold water to pacify my mouth, whew! Indian food is definitely like a painful love experiece, you should have enough of and have it no more! But then some good old dessert restored my confidence in food, for after some ice-cream, which melted in my mouth like a sweet first kiss, my "Indian first love" had soon been forgotten! 

Food from Bangladesh, had its good sides. My friend who offered it, is definitely a good cook and having “Bangla food” was like an Indian “rebound”. You know those “love strings you get into which are a simple reminder of what you just left? It's no surprise since Bangladesh is a neighbor to India! I should try other "Bangla" dishes though, something tells me, it may be a better sequel to my Indian episode and I might just fall in love again!

Having Banku and Okro stew in Northampton, was like falling in love with a French man! I have always thought French men, had the inherent propensity to understand and perpetuate the word “romance” better than any male species under the sun. Or maybe it was like being serenaded by a Mexican man, just before he goes down on one knee with my heart thumping out of my chest; “literally” (the effects of allowing young girls to watch romantic comedies and soap operas is definitely rearing its ugly head in this piece! Which is why my daughter is only watching “National Geographic Channel” after which she will submit a piece on how to preserve wildlife and end the menace of “Global warming” ….hahahahaa). Back to Banku in Northampton! Except, after our good old Ghanaian friends went down memory lane with us, asking us about what was happening in Ghana, as if, they had never lived there before;  a medical term I have conveniently termed; “diasporan amnesia”- which is the ability to forget the occurrences in your native country once you leave there, even though you may be endowed with Wifi in your current location”. This medical condition is a real life problem and it manifests itself in many ways. One of its most familiar symptoms is the change in pronunciation or tonation of the sufferer’s last name. The sufferer would have an European/American rendition to names like “Ofori” or “Asare” in a tone, you wonder whether its European or American, so you conclude it’s Afro-American, just for the purpose of avoiding further probing into the date they arrived where this meeting was taking place. Our good old Ghanaian friends mentioned to us the cost of this meal, to be about £14! After doing the conversion into Ghana cedi and realizing the "gastric liability" I had just caused, I could only mutter to myself; "never again"!

Ghanaian Fufu and light soup with goat meat

Since I am a crusader of spice, I should have totally tried to do an ad for Maggi cube back in the motherland! So when a friend suggested Sushi, I naturally baulked at the idea of eating anything in my life that was not spiced! Sushi was not a bad idea at all, especially on a Friday after the week’s work! My friend once mentioned that for the love of Sushi, he might marry a Japanese woman! I had to taste, to understand how this dish could have a “marital influence” on my friend. I did understand after tasting, for it was like a "new love experience". Not very familiar but you could ride on that boat for at least a while. Thinking about it, though, Sushi for me, is like the kiss you never want to remember! No, it wasn’t bad, but it would be better left in the archives of your memory! Don’t get it twisted, Sushi is good, I would just not want to remember it for a little while. Maybe we will pick it up again, like that good old friend, whose conversations are like you both were never apart. 

I am yet to talk about American food yet and that’s because there’s no such thing as American food! Anything, Vietnamese, Japanese, Chinese, Lebanese, Italian is also American! Take for instance, hot dogs, which is the only thing close to American I can think of, or sandwich which I always thought was only for breakfast, at least that was the situation in the motherland. And yet, here in Obamaland, bread is for breakfast, lunch and supper, which makes it almost like the side dish to every meal! Well, if I ever walked into a buffet and saw, the American food section, I will try and let you know. In the meantime, let’s just say American food is hot dogs and its alright! It’s like that friend you neither hate nor like! They are just ok!

The movie love and basketball was a good one and like many of my old time classics, like the “Sound of music”, you can never have enough of it! Just like love, food is that "thing" you can never have enough of. Food comes in different hues; it can rekindle all lost hope and at the same time  spark new fires. It's also that rebound that leaves a lot to be desired and it remains that endless love, that will keep riding with you till your hands are wobbling, your hair is greying and your feet can barely hold you down!

My next foodie adventure should be “Aussie food”. I am not sure how that will turn out, but I will keep you in the loop! Bon appetite! "Dzi dzi"!

Japanese sushi

The land of “the free” and “the freed”

I always enjoyed English lessons in my High School, which was situated on Cape Coast’s Kakumdo hill. Lessons on semantics was my favorite topic. It was like performing surgery on a word, and being a Science student, those were certainly fascinating lessons, since like many African children, I had been raised to think, that my highest achievement on earth would be to grow and study to become a doctor! Poetry was also my favorite portion of literature. Like semantics, poetry seemed to allow you to dig into the soul of a person and somehow, decipher just by reading their words, their thoughts, their emotions and if possible, their very interpretation of life. From when I could barely learn what prowess writers’ possessed, I would occasionally put my thoughts on paper, no matter how silly they were; and it felt, even if momentarily that I was living, vicariously through legendary. Based on my lessons on semantics, I recall for the purpose of this piece that the other forms of the word freedom would include free and freed.

Having treaded along the shores of Obamaland these past months, I must definitely do a piece on her. The ‘land of the free’ it indeed is. The liberality and freedom here may make you believe that there were no rules, though the rules are not just existent, but enforced and if you broke them, you will definitely as they say in my African parlance, “dance to the rhythm of the drum”. This is something I do respect about this land. Yet in this same land of the free, I have observed subtly, yet powerfully, that there is “ the free” and “the freed”.

I am not trying to stereotype any group of people. Where I was raised, race was never of interest to me and frankly speaking, sometimes, addressing this issue causes me more stress than trying to analyze data from my research! I was raised to see all men as equal, and yet I have had to be confronted with a conceptual and yet salient phenomenon called race. So the free may here now be defined as they that enjoy all the benefits of this land, are given the benefit of the doubt in almost every instance and enjoy what is commonly referred to as “white privilege”. Don’t blame anyone for having to be part of this faction; after all, privileges are not for all! Well and the “freed”, your guess is as food as mine!

I would begin with a funny realization I came to, somewhere around winter.  Words like Snow White from fairy tales connote feelings of pristineness, yes snow is white and rightly so, it should be called. But then when snow melts and becomes icy and you trip and fall on it, it is called black ice. My African-American honey bun did a lot to explain why this concept was so. Whilst I may partially concur, I do notice the subtlety that almost underlines this “innocent” play of words. Then again, it only reinforces the perpetual notion; "white is good" and "black is bad"! I may be stretching this a bit much, but do think about all the words that are associated with white and their glorious interpretations vis à vis  words that connote black and their villainous connotations. Just saying. I could go on, but I am sure a few other examples come to mind having sparked this train of thought. I will be happy to know!

I am yet to face a major case of racial injustice even though in many ways, certain instances reveal how this is an ingrained, complex phenomenon in Obamaland, which sometimes, feels virtual and other days, apparent. When my honeybun and I visited Target that fateful Saturday, we were like other shoppers, busily rummaging through the new stock of items displayed. Having been disappointed on one aisle, we decided to move to the other section of the store, in the hope that our trip to shop, will not go unfulfilled. So here we were, trekking to our destination in Target, where something interesting was about to ensue. Approaching our aisle, were two young boys, who by my estimation, were about 6 and 4, who my honeybun proceeded to say hello to whilst, receiving a phone call. The response from these young boys who were Caucasian, was; “what’s up my nigga”! You can imagine the incredulous expressions on both of our faces! I literally had to calm my African-American honey bun down, in order to prevent further shock. I did understand that day, a lot about race. Racial injustices may be a bigger umbrella of an issue, but the ability of these young boys to use the N”…word, when the a fore action was one of a simple greeting only brought to mind the crumbs of issues at hand.Then again, they may have heard it from a song, which granted, I would totally excuse or heard people use it for which reason, I cannot blame these innocent kids. Their expression however was far from innocent and their parents who walked past us few seconds later equally carried that "nonchalant" demeanor. My feelings about the "n-word" will be addressed in a later piece for now, this experience was an eye-opener for me. I still ask myself today, why did he respond that way? We were only being nice! Then I understood; "race" is taught and if we need to deal with it, we should start by  "unteaching" it!

Recently, police brutalities in Obamaland went up the roof! I used not to be bothered by the situation, at least when it started, because it seemed like one “unfortunate” incident and being lawless and resisting arrest when confronted by the police was to me unwarranted even though death of the victims, should not be the result. It was meet that terming it “unfortunate” will give me some rationalization of the matter. At least that could have been the case, until there seemed to be a pattern. I could accept the first two incidents as coincidences, but once too many coincidences,  start to look like a trend. There came a time when I would expect another racially- skewed police brutality against “a person of color” and true to my expectation, another “coincidence” would occur. I became disappointed in myself that I surmised evil, but then after a while, my detective head, deciphered that it was not possible that these were just coincidences. It seemed like a systemic, master-minded action plan to target a group of people, for whatever reason, I am still yet to figure that out, or I may just be joining the wagon of people propounding propagandas, well if that can bring anyone’s attention to begin to bring change, then for now, I will play the “devils advocate”, (always on the Lord’s side though! lol). That is not to undermine in any way the tumultuous service played by the law enforcement agencies in Obamaland.  They do deserve credit. Yet, these brutalities which I hoped was a wave that blew for 16 months and is now a dark cloud which has passed, only creates, fear and sometimes, a deep seated feeling of anxiety, stress and underscores my finding, of how some people in Obamaland though have been “freed”,  may forever have to deal with a sense of freedom which almost always feel theoretical and very far indeed from reality!

During the Dr. Martin Luther King celebrations this year, a lecture delivered in my faculty threw a little light on some issues. Two professors who by the way were Caucasian outlined a research program that had been conducted for 40 years.  The crux of the research was that; it is not as though black people were any less smart, than their white counterparts, but that there were systemic attempts stemming from the “Supreme offices of the land” and the “powers that be”, to constantly, keep fiscal resources targeted at minority groups into other “areas” and attempts by people like them to obtain such moneys for programs to empower "minority" groups are constantly shoved aside to support “other”  projects.

I did not want to touch on matters arising in South Carolina. I cannot imagine the anguish and sorrow of the families of the 9 people who lost their lives. My heart and prayers are with their families and the entire State in shock of the wickedness at the heart of man. The incident however came 72 hours before this piece was done so I needed to include a paragraph on it, since Fox news did a great job of mentioning that, the pastor should have allowed his members to bring guns to church (paraphrased), a comment which leaves me wondering but then again, its Fox news! Racism, sometimes, still remains a conceptual phenomenon to me. Yet, in instances like these, I cannot be numb to the obvious interpretation of what such a heinous crime highlights, Well, should the jury cite some “mental disillusionment” as the cause of the crime and Mr. Dylan be made to seek “psychiatric attention”, no one in America will be surprised including yours truly! As a matter of fact, I expect such a verdict. This expectation makes me disappointed in myself once again, because like many other people of color, I have come to expect the worst from the system and not demand anything more, after all, like you are constantly reminded; “you are better off” since you are in school and “getting paid for it” and considering where you have come from, you should be thankful and not join the “movement” for justice which has never been and probably will never be seen. On that note, I am not trying to stir, contention but #Alllivesmatter but as a sense of urgency I will chant #Blacklivesmatter not to seek sympathy, but just maybe to whip up a conversation that may teach each one of us, that being “colored” or “minority” is hard enough, and in instances like this, you may understand why. Whilst watching the South Carolina story, my mind kept going back to the incident in Target with my honey bun and myself. How was Dylan raised? What was he taught growing up? My heart only bled and now, all I can do is pray for that little boy!

But is racism always a white versus black thing? Admittedly, there are so many layers to this discussion that I have left out, just to introduce the subject at hand. History has served a bad portrait of this matter and whilst I would not rehash the past, I do believe that our generation can start, reconstructing the rubrics of what defines minority groups and what generates stereotyping in the first place. Like someone once mentioned; “Race is not a skin issue, it is a sin issue”. It is an issue of the heart, one which cannot be eroded by its mere mention or the persistent attitude of its victims to address it, as though they would find its “cure” if there is. Truth is, it will remain with us, though may I sound here, not every white person is racist and not every black person is a thug or violent.  The race subject has perpetually hang in the clouds in this land, and maybe, for generations to come, we might be dealing with it. Just like every other problem confronting the human race, its presence only gives us a sense of existence and the drive to thrive. Think of it, the ideology of the “survival of the fittest” demands that there should be forces to contend with in order for survival. Sometimes, it’s helpful to reconstruct your perspective about issues. It lessens the pain!

There will be a sequel to this piece once I know more. For now, though I sometimes try to analyze the ideology of white supremacy owing to the observance of some of “my people’s” sometimes, wishy-washy excuses and the propensity to avoid, working as hard to get what they deserve with the mention of “sabotage” as a cheap attempt to escape the reality of hard work, I do albeit see some truism in the whole concept. I however, am too scientific to leave it at guesses and one-time occurrences, so the sequel would have facts and figures to address this concept.

What’s the solution? I have it! Its love! Cheesy, yes and maybe unrealistic you might say with an admission of how dare this “African newbie” tell us what we do know! Yes, I have got the answer, the solution to America’s race problem, tried, tested and proven! Over-simplified theory? Well, I agree with you whilst bemused at my own sarcasm! So let’s talk about love when we next meet in 14days!

"Alice in Queensland"

The first time my African skin breathed the Queen’s air, I deciphered why 1^st world countries would forever, battle with the problem of immigration. Moving from 33^oC to 13^oC comes with a different set of convictions. You assure yourself that you belong here and there’s no way you will not find the means, legitimate or not to if not now, one day, settle here for good (at least for those of us perpetually dealing with the sun)! I should have walked straight into the bathroom and washed out my ears to be able to accommodate the new accent I was going to have to get accustomed to for the next 10 days. Little did I know that grasping the Queen’s accent had become complicated in the wake of modernity. My infantile assessment that this was my favorite accent in the world now stood void, as I struggled to grasp my “friends” whose lips were always less that an inch apart each time they spoke!

I would not admit that the following were culture shocks even though I think that’s how they are called. In the Queen’s country, there is more “Ceaser” than “Chicken” in “Chicken-Ceaser”. As the waitress beamed her wide smile and placed that large bowl of leaves sprinkled with sparse chicken on my table, I nearly called Yaa Dedaa to vent my frustration into her poor ears! I heard myself scream; “this is not what I paid 11 English pounds for, and do you know how much that is in my third world Ghana-cedi?” Yet, her politeness and sheepish smile followed by, “is there anything else I can get for you" in “my-most-cherished-accent” shut down the questions I had asked whilst being totally oblivious of her courtesy. I had escaped into a head-space where I had punched this English brunette out of sheer frustration! When I realized that would be totally typical and crude of me, I found myself beaming an equally sheepish smile and uttered a disappointing, “no thank you”. The next thing I knew, I was chewing 'leaves' and reassuring myself that I was in the Queen’ s country where healthy eating is highly esteemed and hence my current ordeal should be hallowed and not lamented!

Since I was in the Queen’s country for the first time, it was imperative that I visited some places. I had seen people who had been before take pictures by the London bridge, Buckingham palace, and those who happened to visit Manchester definitely took a trip to Old Trafford and by the “grace of social media”, I had been let in on their rendezvous. I therefore, had a fair idea of the places I needed to go, “to fulfill all righteousness”. I had to meet the queen to tell her of my escape, at least for a few days! So there I was literally running to Buckingham palace to meet the queen. Running along the streets of Central London was both exciting and awkward. I was too stingy to pick a taxi so trekking was my only option. When I arrived and saw several other people who had come to pay homage to the Queen, it brought a sense of accomplishment to my Spirit. My dad had mentioned that he would love to see the queen someday, days to me leaving home. Standing outside of the palace looking on at palace guards who barely moved, felt like I was fulfilling my dad’s dream of “eyeing the queen someday” at least, in part!

 I would like to say I love to travel and I do! But my financial resources don’t exactly permit me to say it with the kind of liberality that I wish I could. If I had my way, I would retire by age 45 and spend the next 15 years of my life touring the rest of the world. If I become richer than, Oprah, or go back home to become the “Nkosuohemaa” in the Kwahu mountains, maybe I could fancy touring the world.

There was something awfully familiar about shopping in Primark; where everything is cheap and first-timers always shopped. Shopping was fun especially since if you are leaving my homeland, your family would write you a list and then your other “family” would write you a list. This other family consists of church members, neighbors and acquaintances who are happy that you are leaving the “predicaments” they have endured all these years even if it is for a few days. They would like for you to get them a few things, which, they had been hoping someone would travel abroad, and then, they would get those things. Lo and behold, they had heard through a friend that your “star had struck” and so they are here to do what they “dutifully” should. 

Saying I got lost in the Queen’s abode doesn’t sound gratifying, but yours truly did and oh with all the ensuing drama. After staying in Primark for 3 hours and walking out with a bunch of bags, I started walking towards my abode and realized 10 minutes later that like Alice in Wonderland, I did not know which way to go. I needed to convince myself that I was lost and after deciphering my fate, I forgot in the 1st world, you do not ask for directions but use your GPS. So here I was with my 3^rd-world antics, asking a man who looked like a fellow African from the East how I could find my way back to my hotel. He suggested I went with him to his car, which, he claimed was not too far from where we were standing. I almost believed him, but then, I escaped to my mental space yet again where I could see Abeiku Forson’s face with his stern demeanor; “do not follow strangers”, I heard him rant and so after I returned, I politely declined, but wanted to ask him whether he thought I was a fish! But I didn’t. Thank God for the fruit of the Spirit.

For any newbie in any part of the world, the cultural and societal nuances can sometimes make you laugh at yourself so much you might wonder if everything was moving on well “upstairs”. If there’s anything I found most fascinating in Queensland, it was definitely the quickness with which the exchange rate came to mind. Each time I saw a price tag, it was as if the fact that €1 was at the time the equivalent of 5.6 cedis was as common knowledge as the fact that, Obama is the first half-black President of “Obamaland”. Each time I had to order food, I would instinctively calculate its equivalent in Ghana cedi, and immediately lose interest in that meal no matter how fancy the name was! I would remind myself that this amount of money could buy about 7 meals of “banku” back home.

 If you ever have fancied living on the countryside, you might just like Northampton. The farms there were both exciting and boring to look at. Passing through for one day, was sufficient for my short-lived excitement. Later that evening, there was a royal wedding since if you are in England, every wedding must be royal! More like my colleagues and I gatecrashed the wedding and oh we got those looks. Those “ what are you doing here and how did you get here” looks which I took to my humorous senses and drowned in my pool of “carefreeness”. After all, if you won’t be bold enough to ask me, then I don’t care either to tell!

In Queensland, I drank less tea than I thought I should, because before arriving, I imagined the Brits had tea for breakfast, lunch and supper. I heard “cheers” so often that I forgot it only meant, “bye”, because in my motherland, cheers was followed by clinking of glasses!   I fulfilled a teenage fantasy of crushing on a Black-British guy. May I just add that, the whole time this guy spoke, I stared at his face remembering how I always thought that was the sexiest accent on earth! On two occasions this friend of mine at the bar offered me free drinks and I thought; “I must be the luckiest girl on earth, at least for two nights”!

Travel more, see more, and broaden your horizon. The world is bigger than you will ever know. Should my fiscal state experience a miracle, I will definitely be aboard some flight for my next nomadic adventure! An alternative title to this piece is; “Okuraseni as3m y3mobo!” (ask any Ghanaian to explain that to you for a good weekend laugh)

Every now and then, it’s ok to laugh at yourself just a little bit!

PS. They called that brown paste, sauce, so I guess my reaction was just as fitting. If there’s something I will miss about "Queensland" it will definitely be the food. My “Fante” side definitely adores a good meal and questions any unfamiliar idea of what purports to be.  Yet, I was in Rome, so….

“Nos vemos el proximo mes” – That’s Spanish for “See you next month”…and no I don’t speak Spanish. Credit - Google!

We Call it Home.....

WE ARE AFRICA!  We are black, white, brown and mixed. We are rich, poor and middle-class. We are not all sick! We are not all emaciated!  We are inundated with a dearth of bold leadership, diseases and hunger whilst being oppressed and maligned by systems and the powers that be. Yet, we are the future! You may read this with the subtlest of concurrence or with sheer cynicism, but though I may not live to see it, like MLK, I have a dream, that not only are we rising, that someday, my kids or their kids, would rewrite this piece, not futuristically but in the now!

I am not propounding unrealistic goals, but I see the hunger and thirst for success in the face of the African youth! I see the desire for change and that is the catalyst for change!  The societal nuances that characterize the African society are varied. People who were raised here or with African values, because mind you; it doesn’t take living in Africa to be African, would attest to this. Like my cousins in London remarked: “these outskirts is London, once you close that door, this is Ghana”! Our societal values bother on family, unity, love, faith and maybe sometimes to a fault, community. My mission here today is rather mundane, to let you in on some maybe funny, startling or infuriating societal happenings in the motherland.

Let’s start off with one of the means of public transportation in the motherland. A fancy term has been coined for it, “Trotro”. Unless you choose to live in a 5-star hotel or try to set up your own Beverly Hills in Ghana, something, some foreigners try to do whilst they live there which not only fascinates me but irks me in the same breath, you will have to sit in a trotro to discover that a 30 minute ride can either change your life for the better or the worse. You may adopt a rich and famous life in the motherland by resorting to boarding taxis, but you should at least try to discover this life of the ordinary African. Once you struggle to get in one, the stench from the conductor, affectionately called “mate” could reawaken your nasal senses to such a degree that your day’s frustrations would immediately lose its significance (not all of them though!). The “mate” whose sole role is to collect the fare from the passengers can sometimes fraternize with passengers to an extent that if you are like me, who sometimes felt her mannerism did not meet the definition of the term; “layman" even though considering the fact that my frugality which dictated my hostility to taxis with the silly excuse that it wasn’t safe qualified me as a “laywoman", these mates could come across to you as the most crude people on the surface of the earth. When someone sits next to you, 7 out of 10 times, they would start a random conversation with you. The topic comes in various hues; politics, religion, personal matters. The latter you might wonder why, but this one is tricky. This fellow trotro-boarder can begin telling you stories that may seem to the person on the next row that you both came from the same woman’s womb! It gets even weirder when they start the conversation and begin a lamentation. It's as if in that moment, you were their hero; that somehow, by letting you know what they have been through, your very ability to listen even though they may have lost you the moment their minds conceptualized this idea of sudden acquintance by virtue of having a shared commonality of the very lack of financial resources to buy a car and hence resorting to public transport, you could be the panacea to their exalted problems. 

Should you not empathize with their situation, you would be perceived rude. Nobody cares what you have been through during the day! This is a societal burden, which you have been given the august presence of aiding a fainting heart. Being African, you cannot be too busy to help a fellow African! We all sign a ‘continental treaty' every year in Addis Ababa to help each other, especially when we manage to escape our beloved home to the diaspora! That is barbaric and no being educated doesn’t excuse you either! At worst, the lay-man expects that your degree has the answer to his/her problems. And oh may I add, the women take it to a whole new level. Should you encounter a woman who starts the conversation with; "hmm,hmm" you can be sure her grievances would either be about a cheating husband or an insubordinate child! If its your first time in Africa, get off  at the next stop! You would have to agree with her on everything or else, you are her husbands ally! 

Restaurants are too regal for certain foods! Even if they have earned a Ph.D from Harvard or Cambridge, eating waakye in a restaurant is an anomaly. We like our local foods not only local by preparation, but by their site of sale! Like one of my bosses recounted in the past and don’t cringe because you are always served with cheesy smiles from waiters who do it half-of-the time for good tips, the best waakyes are those sold by the gutters! See, people with double masters, queue to get the best waakye and don’t worry, they will be back next week even after a bad bout of stomach upset! Paradoxic? I guess...

We are religious; maybe overly religious! On Sundays, I am sure the angels in heaven responsible for attending to the saints prayers are about 100,000 times more in African churches than those in Western countries. See, with all that is plaguing us, you can’t blame us for having 6 services in a day! Don’t look surprised! After all, God said he never slumbers nor sleeps! If christians in the West would give him a “resting period”, not us! We will call him till his schedule for the day is over! 

We may be poor, but not when you attend our funerals and weddings! Don’t get it twisted, we came to mourn, but to eat as well. Occasionally I would get confused as to what exactly the dancing was about; dancing with the ghost of the departed person to usher them to the other side or just seizing the opportunity to have a good time? You can be sure that even if we are in debt, we do not leave these important ceremonies with any mark less than a touch of gold! Whether that gold was bought, stolen or borrowed.

I type this piece with a smirk on my face. A smirk modeled by a dual sense of longing for what has been left behind and an anticipation of the unfamiliar grounds I am yet to tread. Isn’t it funny? How you appreciate the things you once had better when they are gone?

Then again, Africa would always be home!

See you next month!

Conceived Misconceptions

There is a global-social strata. On this strata and believe it or don’t but it exists, being African places you at the base of the pyramid. Whether you live in a 6-bedroom house in Egypt or you drive a 4x4 wheel drive in Ghana, who cares? To the rest of the world, your everyday living is synonymous to the hungry child from ‘Africa’ who is in almost every commercial on Aid in Western TV commercials.

To everyone else, as long as you reside in that continent, you must be hungry! And when you arrive in the West, possibly, you didn’t board a plane to get here. I do wonder how people think we get here though…oh i get it! Voodoo!
We probably chant all night and by the next morning, without passports or visas, we find ourselves 24hours-or-more away from the beloved and yet mysterious continent!

I thought ignorance was bliss but certainly, such overt and obvious admission of cluelessness, sometimes baffles me and other times, robes me in an ambassadorial garment, ready to educate my foreign comrades on the ‘Dark continent of Africa’, at least for the most part, that is what they know!

I realized I didn’t have to explain anymore! Being African and a passionate one at that, I am always tempted to launch into a “that-is-not-what-it -is-sessions”!  But who am I, to dissuade that woman at church who once reminded her teenage daughter one Sunday that I was from Africa and yet spoke “such good English” that, yes I have been learning English from kindergarten! Not only would her daughter begin to doubt all her mother may have told her about Africa, which would  certainly make her out to be a liar, but it would also mean that CNN and BBC her most trusted TV channels for world news were equally a bunch of ‘people' putting out false knowledge.

 No, I would take the high road and smile upon hearing her admission of my flawless expression in the Queen’s language in the country Columbus discovered and walk away. At least after singing some songs of worship from Australia, I would not feel that bad when I notice people wonder where I learned these songs. At least, they don't ask! But the incredulous look on their faces is enough to construct in plain language  exactly what their thought processes are that instant.

Till next time, I will be walking along and telling you about the adventures of a nomadic African!