A proverb a day...

The Twi-speaking people of Ghana, Cote D’Ivoire and Benin, use proverbs to adorn the speech and make it rich. Among the Akans (twi-speaking people), the skillful use of proverbs is a sign of good breeding. Here’s a proverb that spoke to me recently:

‘εreba, εreba’ na eye hu, na enya ba a εnyε hu bio.

“It’s coming, it’s coming” is what is frightful, but once it arrives, it’s no longer scary.

In other words, news of an impending event is more dreadful than the event itself. Isn’t that the truth? So we are to stop fearing for the future or what lies ahead. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

Keeping Secrets

I keep wondering why it's so difficult for me to blog sometimes. I get these ideas floating inside my head, but when I sit down to write, I freeze. I think the reason is cultural and generational.

In Ghana, you don't go on Oprah and pour out your secrets. Your relatives are liable to berate you and your friends shun you. In the history of Ghana, only one writer, Francis Selormey, has written a coming of age memoir and that was when I was in elementary school. He writes about growing up with a rather enigmatic and harsh father. The book was beautifully written though, and we came to see the father's love, even if we didn't understand him. Oh, people have written personal essays here and there, but not a full, tell-all memoir. Indeed, Meri Nana Ama Danquah, a Ghanaian writer, has written a memoir about a black woman's journey through depression. But Nana Ama grew up in America and has learned to be open about her feelings. And now, I've written a coming of age memoir. I even talk about sexual discovery; heaven help me! Hopefully, I can hide behind the fact that hardly anyone will know me or bump into me.

Matters of Grammar

Validation for my grammatical errors, hooray!

When I was in Wesley Girls' High School, the worst crime you could commit was make a grammatical mistake while speaking. It was not your teachers that made you miserable. It was your classmates.

An error in grammar was like firing a shot. You make a mistake and someone yells out "Bullet!" Girls duck under tables and yell "Well dodged!" so loudly that the cry is taken up in neighboring classes and everyone wants to know who this terrible person is. Such is the passion when the colonial language becomes sacred. St Peter might very well deny you entry into heaven if you make a mistake. And woe unto you if you're a teacher. You'll have a memorial long after you've gone.

My typing teacher once slipped and said:

"Let the paper faces you!"

Really.

She was doomed. From that point on, if we saw her coming, we yelled "Let the paper faces you!" We ran into hiding, laughing.

Another teacher said, "One, two...three; both of you, follow me." Ai!

The interesting thing is that some of this comes from our own language. For instance, I speak Fanti, and in Fanti, there's no gender in pronouns. So if I want to say "He is coming", I'll say, "O reba."  (Actually, the letter is a C turned backwards, but I can't get it here)

'O' stands for 'he'. I'd say the same thing for "she." So when I'm speaking English, I tend to mix the two up. Not because I don't know the difference but because, psychologically, I think of he and she as one. I can't get rid of it. I've tried. It happens more frequently when I speak, though rarely when I write. My American-born children laugh at me when I tell a story. I get interrupted with "Mummy, I thought it was the man, now you're saying she", whereupon I snap, "You know what I mean!" Sometimes, the poor sods are genuinely confused.

So I find myself making a deliberate effort to think about gender. But when I'm excited, all bets are off. He/she bullets fly out of my mouth. Hearer beware. But yesterday, I felt so good when, at a Ghanaian church, the pastor did it:

"When the woman came to me, I looked at him and.." I looked at my daughter. We giggled. Now, the pastor was Ashanti, a people known for interchanging the "l" and "r" sounds in their dialect. The younger generation manages very well, but the older ones trip now and again. Without warning, he said:

"Let me erabolate my point further".

I knew I was in God's house and it wasn't his fault for saying erabolate when he meant to say elaborate, but I couldn't help laughing.  With affection, of course.

Shiboleth, Siboleth; who cares?

In Ghana, you can be buried in a shoe...

If you don't believe me, check out these pictures:

Or a snake, an eagle, a turkey...

You can go as a missile, a pepper or a rooster...

Or even a crab.

Just ask the coffin makers, they'll do it for you.

,

Our TEACH expedition in Ghana

Dedicated to Orlando Holness

The main artery of the University of Ghana

(click on pictures)

As I mentioned  before,  in August 2004, I led a team of US science educators to Ghana on an expedition. What I could not have forseened was that one of them would die an untimely death four years later. The gentleman in the foreground, with rasta hair, Orlando Holness, passed away recently. He suffered from rhumatoid athritis and probably died of drug complications. He was a close friend who invited me twice to speak at his school, Lansing Residential Center for girls in Ithaca, New York.

Thanks to his efforts, I mentored two girls who became dear to me. Orlando was so committed to his vocation that he would not quit despite the special challenges he faced daily. He displayed my art work in his classroom and would always take me to the dinner and then to the airport. The last time I saw him was when I waved good bye to him after going through security. Standing there looking long at him, I had an urge to run back to him and hug him.

I wish I had.

And now, let me take us through what we did in Ghana. We had a blast!  When we first got to Accra, we stayed at Erata Hotel (can't find the picture). Our flight from the U.S. was long, eight hours to London and six and half hours to Accra. If we had flown direct, it would have been only about 9 hours. The Prime Meridian passes through both London and Accra, so Accra is about the same distance from New York. as London is.  Our first day was a day for resting and touring parts of Accra.

I figured I might as well tackle death in one post:) This is the mausoleum where President Kwame Nkruamah is  buried. He led Ghana to independence in 1957. The sides of the monument are curved to represent the sword resting, a symbol of peaceful leadership. Ghana has been blessed not to have any civil war in its history.

This is a common sight in Ghana, and a tame one at that. At any traffic light, you're bound to see peddlars selling anything from drinks to, ahem, condoms. They lean at your windows and try to tempt you to buy grilled fowl, toys or doughnuts, anything at all. In this picture, the vendor in the foreground is selling "PK", chewing gum. The lady at the back is carrying plastic bags of plantain chips.

Beautiful Ghana!

Time to share some pictures with you! This is Commonwealth Hall of residence from my alma mater, the University of Ghana, Legon, the oldest in Ghana. When it was established, the intention was to follow the pattern of the London system with schools like the London School of Business, etc. However, in time, it became a complete university though it has retained the original name. Out of the different schools sprouted other universites. There are now many universities in Ghana, but naturally, I think mine is the finest!

This picture was taken in 2004 when I visited Ghana as an International Affairs Specialist. I was accompanied by several U.S. educators featured in this picture. Stay tuned :)

Ghosts of Ghana, Arise!

Ghost of Ghana, Arise!

Remember the poem, Old Roger? In case you don’t, allow me to paraphrase: Old Roger died and went to his grave. They planted an apple tree over his head. The apples grew ripe and were ready to drop. Then came an old woman to pick them all up, but furious, Old Roger got up from his grave and gave her such a knock that it made her hop painfully away. Now, that is what I wish would happen at Osu Cemetery, and for that matter every cemetery in Ghana.

Osu Cemetery is the national memorial where dignitaries and fallen heroes are buried, as well as some elders who own plots there. However, thanks to some ruffians, those who have passed away are doing anything but resting in peace. One Sunday on my way to Accra Ridge Church, the taxi driver happened to drive by the cemetery. I had to blink twice to make sure that I was not hallucinating. Young men were playing soccer right there on the tombs of the dearly departed. I was so astonished that I asked the driver to pull over.

Bare-chested men, sweat glistening on their torsos, dribbled and headed their ball over graves, using spaces between two tombs on opposite sides as goal posts. The goalies dived down and somehow managed not to scrape their knees. While the players jumped and dashed after the ball, others cheered, jumping up and down on more graves. Still others, feeling drowsy in the late morning heat, sprawled across cool concrete tombs under the shade and dozed off, their legs hanging over the edges.

As I watched with open mouth, three friends laughingly made their way to the shady wall and fumbled with the buttons in front of their trousers, and soon, fountains in varying shades of yellow sprang from their organs, spraying nearby graves. The taxi driver assured me that this was regular practice, especially on weekends. Evidently I had lived outside Ghana for far too long.

There was a time when Ghanaians were deathly afraid of ghosts. People believed that the mere mention of the dead would rouse ghosts who would drag us down with them into the netherworld. Anytime someone died, I slept with my sisters, huddled under a blanket, eyes shut tightly. I had to have the lights on because in the dark, the furniture in the room would develop arms and legs and start marching towards me. Okay, that was unhealthy, and I am glad we are not as superstitious as we used to be. However, we have gone too far.

Yes, the dead do not feel, so playing soccer on their tombs does not hurt them, but it is still an affront. Osu Cemetery is the equivalent of the Arlington National Cemetery in the U.S., and it is unimaginable that people would play soccer there, much less urinate. Because Arlington Cemetery is revered and guarded, tourists flock to the site to pay respects to fallen heroes, or merely visit out of curiosity.

Perhaps the Ghana Tourist Board could be persuaded to spruce up Osu Cemetery, get the military to patrol it or do something that will lend it some dignity. I know it will take some persuasion for the government to act, what with the petrol crisis, budget deficits and all, but for goodness sake, let’s do something. Surely, for a people that make such a fuss over funerals with lengthy rituals, this is not too much to ask.

Until then, now would be a good time for ghosts to make us believe they exist. Therefore, I call on all you folks lying beneath the concrete slabs; arise and knock down the footballers!