WARNING: Strong content. Not intended to offend.

Cultural differences continue to plague me; trouble adjusting at times breeds loneliness.  The fact that I am American in Africa is a concept too big for my brain to process.  We’ve heard our history all our lives but when one comes face to face with the reality of its aftermath, its startling.  At some point, my ancestors were taken from this place in the most brutal of holocausts.  Given my skin complexion, I venture to say my fore-mothers were raped by their European captors and thus mulatto generations were born, without knowledge of their culture, language, customs, traditions, or heritage.  And hundreds of years later, one daughter returns to fetch her stolen legacy, and finds herself estranged, uncomfortable, foreign.  Because I’ve been away so long, I don’t act like my people, speak like my people, are these my people?  Who am I again?  God!  What a horrible institution slavery and colonialism is.  We are all affected.  The struggle of the African American in Africa is psychologically and emotionally difficult, just like the struggle of the African who seeks life anew in America.  Exploration of the differences and reasons why we struggle is enough to fill a doctoral thesis.

The rain sounds like liquid torpedoes, as if the sky is the top of a mountain and from it waterfalls are pouring down on us.  Thunder is exploding overhead and lightning illuminates the neighborhood.  I wake up and find puddles on the floor, go out to the hall and there’s more water at my feet.  No one else is up, apparently it no big deal, but I’ve never heard rain so strong so I can’t rest.  I get a bucket to catch one of the leaks; the water is dripping from a light fixture.  A drop lands on my hand and burns, it must be carrying an electrical current.  I wasn’t completely electrocuted so I decided I’d take my good grace and go back to bed.

The next day, Brother and I are in a Tro Tro headed into town.  The radio is blasting with people’s shrill voices, giving long soliloquies I don’t understand.  Brother translates and says “the rain caused a lot of damage.”  The person on the air told a story of how a family of five lost power during the storm, and lit candles.  The house caught fire and only one person got out alive.

We pull into what looks like a huge parking lot for Tro Tros.  Brother gets out, makes sure I’m behind him, and starts walking.  Now, I’ve been here for or nearly a month, and we’ve always walked at a very relaxed pace.  But Brother undoubtedly understood something about our destination that I didn’t, because we moved through there so fast I had to switch on my New York legs to keep up.  This is Accra Central.  Downtown. It is a sea of people selling everything, congested into one place.  Tunnels of tents with clothes, meats, soap, shoes, jewelery, gifts, tools.  I don’t get a good look at the items because I’m keeping one eye on Brother and the other eye on my steps. The ground is a narrow path weaving through this market, and in some areas, the concrete is broken up.  Every other step, I’m hurdling rocks or wooden boards covering potholes.

We make it out of the parking lot tent city to the main street.  These are storefronts, independent vendors on foot, sellers with product laid out on the sidewalk.  I’m sticking with Brother like a pro.  He’s not talking, just walking, fast, focused on getting through.  Vendors reach for my arm as I pass, some try to pull me over to their goods.  Others hiss to get my attention.  “Jeans! Jeans! I’ll give you a nice price!”  “My sister, come, see what I have.”  One of the things I came for was a watch.  We find a little shop and I make my purchase.  As we leave, I ask Brother if something goes wrong, can I return it.  He says “probably not.”  It seems to be a phenomenon here; once your money is spent, it’s gone, and if the item malfunctions, you most likely can not get your money back or get a replacement.  You’ll just be out of luck.  There is no commitment to quality, no customer service to call, no guarantee.  I’m reminded of Husband telling me about contractors commissioned to build roads. Sometimes, the contractor will walk away with the money and the road never gets paved.  It happens all the time.

Brother and I prepare to part ways.  He puts me in a Tro Tro and tells the driver where to let me off. My first time riding alone.  It’s no problem; it’s still daytime, and it’s not rush hour.  But my family has been extremely careful about me traveling on my own.  I still don’t entirely know my way around, and there have been stories of cab drivers going off the beaten path with foreigners in tow.  I’ve been restless lately because in heeding the caution, and being a bit spooked from the stories, I don’t venture out as much as I would like.  But today I’ve been trusted with an independent journey and I’m loving it.

I make it to my rendezvous with a friend.  She is producing one of the shows I’m singing for in Accra, and is an American who relocated to Ghana about a year ago.  Like me, her husband is Ghanaian so we have much in common.  I vent my stir-craziness, fears of getting around, irritation with the fact that light skin equals wealth, and she understands it all.  I have always identified myself as African more than American, so its troubling to feel- not African.  Of course I’m thankful for the learning experience that this is.  But it’s also an adjustment in identity, and a rude awakening to things I thought were true.  I know one has to be safe everywhere one goes.  But for some reason I thought I would be most safe among my people.  My people.  My people who don’t consider me one of them.  I didn’t think I would have to worry about a cab driver overcharging me.  I didn’t think I would have to hold my bag extra close because of pickpocketing.  Perhaps my ideas of Africa were unrealistic.  This ultra righteous Motherland, where all of man kind began, and the first contributions to civilization were birthed.  This can’t be a place where lights go off regularly, and running water is a rarity.  Surely this place of rich culture and heritage would have fire hydrants in every neighborhood, so that a family trapped in their burning house would get out alive.  And those contracted to pave roads would actually do the work.  Like a virgin who is told how great sex will be but finds out that it actually hurts, I am bleeding disillusion.

But I’m optimistic the lovin’ will get better.

A place doesn’t change, your perception of it does.  I’m getting to know my way around better and better everyday.  Suddenly a place that seemed so difficult to navigate is becoming more familiar.

Evenings are cool and comfortable.  A welcomed reprieve from an equatorial sun that almost stings you if you stand in one place too long.  The house is hotter than the night air, so Auntie and Niece lay outside in the evenings.  Baby and I join them.  Off in the distance, people are yelling strong, long cries to God.  They are having church, singing beautiful harmonies over deep rhythmic drum thuds.  It’s so lively, I want to go, but I just enjoy it sitting with Auntie, Niece and Baby on our pallet under the stars, behind the home stone wall compound.

One night I pull out a language book Mami sent me awhile back.  The family speaks mostly Sisala, a language from Northern Ghana.  Niece helps me through a few lessons by the dim light over the drive way.  Outside the house, Twi seems to be the primary language in the neighborhood.  But apart from Twi, most youth speak Pidgin English.  This is what I really want to learn, because Pidgin is how the common man speaks.  So it feels like I’m learning 3 different languages at once.  I’m listening closely to all of it, but I haven’t become brave enough to try and speak myself.

Husband is getting ready to go on tour again.  On his last day, we don’t take Baby to school,  we hang out all together.  This day we also declare Baby will not use diapers anymore, we graduate him to big boy underwear and venture out with several changes of clothes for him.  We reach the beach and find a table to park our things.  The ocean is an instant tranquilizer, the white waves competing to reach shore first.  We sink our toes into the sand and marvel at the majestic West Coast of Africa.  A friend of Husband’s is walking his horse up and down the beach and offers to take Baby and I for a ride.  We mount the brown stallion and enjoy the ocean view from a higher vantage point.  It’s a hot hot ride, so as soon we stop, I jump down and run into the water.  The ultimate chill.  I float and coast for just a moment and its time to go so we can beat traffic.  Just a few more hours before Husband leaves for 2 months.

Back home, we’re all helping Husband prepare to travel.  Baby and I will stay with our new family for the duration of his tour, and enjoy their company while he’s away.  He packs, eats and is ready.  I’ve grown accustomed to his long periods away, but goodbye is never easy.  Baby doesn’t want to let him go.  In his sweetest miniature voice, Baby says, “whyyyy…….. pleeeeease.”  We don’t go to the airport, so as not to prolong the parting.  We wave as he rides off, wondering how we will fare in Ghana without him, but so proud of his success.  Bitter sweet.

I immediately begin working on my first show in Ghana.  A group called “Accra [dot] Alt” has a monthly Talk Party and  I’ve been invited to sing at the next gathering.  I’m connected with a guitarist and plans are set to rehearse.  I’m also connected with a choreographer at the University of Legon so  I may be able to take dance classes while I’m here.

Yesterday I got up, needing an adventure of some kind.  I ask Brother if I can tag along with him for the day.  We walk the neighborhood, in a direction I haven’t been yet.  The red clay road is like a maze, with paths that weave between houses.  The homes vary in size and quality.  Most are small and square with flat metal roofing.  Others are set off the road a bit, behind tall walls with electrical fence on top.  Businesses, billboards, and advertisements tied to electric poles are peppered in.  Its always bustling.  We stop on the side of the road, where a few others are gathered.  There is no sign to indicate, but everyone knows this is the Tro Tro stop.

A Tro Tro is a large van packed with as many passengers as it can carry.  It reminds me of the dollar van in Brooklyn.  One guy hangs out the side window beckoning people to ride, shouting the destination repeatedly.  “Circle, circle, circle,” or Kwame Nkrumah Circle is the final stop for this Tro Tro.  The ride is only 70 pesewa, which is like 35 cents.  A cab ride to the same place would be at least 12 cedi, or around 6 dollars.  I really appreciated the ride because I got to see how the neighborhoods connect.  I got my barrings.  Being packed in wasn’t the most comfortable but I didn’t mind.  Brother says just don’t get caught in a Tro Tro during rush hour.  I’ll take his word for it.

There’s a large tour group here from Brooklyn, along with the French singing duo Les Nubian.  These ladies were the soundtrack for my matriculation at Fisk University; their songs were like a diary I went to on a rainy day.  I go to the hotel where everyone is staying, to greet the first Americans I’ve seen in awhile.  I’m eager to welcome them and relate to some familiar folks; sad but true.  Celia, one half of Les Nubian, is sitting pool side with her computer and a drink.  We recognize each other from various shared encounters with Husband.  We chat awhile and exchange stories of our children.  And so follows the most insightful conversation I’ve had in a long time.  Celia reflects on being a performing artist and a mother.  She speaks on challenges I thought only I experienced, and she encourages me to continue the artist walk.  I get my own glass of spirits and we toast to simultaneous success in music and mothering.

The city is buzzing with anticipation of its native son returning.  Husband has been doing interviews all week, several per day.  He is running on fumes, working under extreme constraints, but is energized by the very purpose of this moment; his first show at home in 10 years.  Its gotta be right, everything has to be perfect.  I get on board to help insure this.   Days of leaving out early and returning late, fluttering between rehearsal, hotel and venue.  Stuck in traffic, baking in the car like buns in an oven.  But hours before the show, everything is looking good.

Backstage, I’m managing musicians, security and food like a grandfather clock.  Husband’s show has to be on point, tonight I’m playing no games.  I’m wearing a strapless, figure-hugging original dress by Chay the Great, my long hairdo flowing down my back.  The host is in place and the show is on.  I peak at the packed crowd, which is still growing.  Les Nubian serenades us sweetly, and then its time for Blitz.  I’m pushing the band on stage, when it starts raining.  Downpour!  Everyone is scrambling, getting equipment out of harms way.  The audience finds covering in their cars and backstage, but no one leaves.  Husband is devastated, he’s sure no one will stay, but they do.  The rain only lasts a moment, and seems more symbolic than damaging.  We’re back on and all are ready to go.  The host recaptures our attention, the band begins.  The crowd stands as the one they’ve been waiting on makes his entrance.  They receive him with a roar of Kingly respect.  Its the homecoming Husband has been dreaming of- manifest.  His family, community, classmates and fans welcome him home like a champion who just won the World Cup.  And Blitz doens’t disappoint, he rocks for 2 hours.  He comes off stage, both eyes completely blood shot, walking with a humble, reverent glide.  He gives me and Baby sweet kisses and goes to greets his people.  Mission accomplished.

Auntie and Niece are boiling cassava.  Outside the mortar, pistol and stool have been set out.  The cooked root vegetables are drained of water and zoomed out the door.  Auntie squats low to where the stool greets her and begins sifting through the pot for a few prime pieces.  She picks off any stray peels and tosses the cassava into the mortar.  Niece gives it a pound with the pistol.  Auntie adds more and Niece gives it a pound.  Auntie scoops pounded pieces from the edge of the mortar bowl and moves them to the middle for more pounding.  She adds a little water.  The rhythm ensues; Auntie scoops cassava to the middle, Niece pounds.  Scoop, pound, scoop, pound.  Water. Faster and faster until the cassava is like fluffy dough.  The ancient tradition of pounding Fufu is masterful and special to watch.  How does Auntie know the exact moment to move her hand before getting pounded herself?  Mami emerges and forms the fluff into perfectly portioned balls.  She’s been cooking a spicy palm nut stew all day and it’s served with the Fufu.  We each sit with a big bowl, the Fufu in the middle drowning in a sea of stew.  We scoop some and slurp.

Every outing is an adventure.  It never goes quite the way you expect.  The traffic is most unbearable,  yet the sights along the way are a privilege to see.  A herd of baby goats, chickens crossing the road, lizards racing past.  An endless row of stands line the street, people roasting plantain on open hot coals, hanging dresses dance in the coastal breeze.  My eyes meet curious stares from people as I pass.  I accept my complexion, what can I do about it?  My skin is my skin, like my arms are my arms.  The more I let my limbs hang they way they are, the more I feel at home.  In my minds eye, I am as sun-kissed as my African fellowman.  But it’s obvious I am a foreigner.  I struggle to learn Twi, but I don’t speak it yet, so my tongue is tied.  I’m mostly just quiet and listening, observing everything pop and sizzle around me.

We went to greet in-laws; a regular pleasantry Africans do more than Americans.  We travelled across town, arriving unannounced but welcomed.

Mami and I got our hair done at a local salon.  I was amazed at the way children, apprentices and girlfriends of the stylist gave a helping hand at some point.

We stumbled upon an area of beach that we enjoyed almost to ourselves near Independence Square, where parades are held.

We visited Mami’s school where she is Head Teacher, in an area struggling with poverty.  The children call me “Oburoni” which is white or foreigner or American.  They giggle to each other and some say hi.

There is etiquette of politeness the entire society practices.  I’m still trying to identify the dos and don’ts.  I was raised with similar values but I am still careful to conduct myself as properly as possible.  This becomes tiring at times, coupled with difficulty understanding the language.  But the one thing that always gives comfort is a phrase everyone says upon greeting; “you are welcome.”

Mami tells Husband I might want to change my shoes.  Husband comes and gives me the suggestion and I look down at the worn out black flip flops I’ve been wearing since I got here.  I dig for creme flats and go to show Mami my improved selection.  She approves and says “you are going into town…..”  so you want to look good, in other words.  Later Husband tells me flip flops are considered not so classy “in town.”  He thought I looked fine but I appreciate Mami making sure I was presentable.

Town is an area called Osu.  Its lots of shops and restaurants along one main road;  Oxford street.  People are selling from their stands next to stores like Pierre Cardin. We walked for awhile when I was halted by a big eyed Chadian boy’s open palm on my belly.  I raised my arms to allow him to pass me but instead he fully attached himself and was walking with me.  I was speechless and to dig in my wallet would have made us vulnerable so I kept walking. Brother took him by the ear and escorted him away, crying.  I felt so bad.  I knew I would see him again so when it was safe, I prepared a 50 pesewa coin in my hand.  Sure enough we passed the boy again, this time accompanied by his sister and mom.  The mom seemed to denounce me in her language but I still made my donation.

Today we walked to a school where Baby will attend while we’re here.  It’s only a few blocks away but after several strides, Baby wanted to ride in the stroller. We must have looked so silly pushing this big boy, who is fully able to walk, in a stroller, on a dirt road.  Every other baby is riding his mother’s back, which I did until mine was too heavy to carry.  The boy better grow some walking legs.

I realized we look very American.  It seems the red earth has dusted everything, including people’s clothes.  Except for those going “into town” who are undoubtedly crisp with new threads, the clothing of everyday people is a bit faded and worn.  Yet here we are; Baby’s bright white shirt, Daddy’s fresh Nikes, my vibrant shirt and skirt – walking down the road with a stroller. Ha!  A woman passed us, balancing products for sale on her head, and took several glances at us seemingly laughing at the sight.

The school is brand new and better than anything I’ve seen in New York.  It is the childhood house of the director, which she turned into a state of the art educational facility.  There is a music room, where Baby promptly picked up a guitar and started playing, an open front yard with a large trampoline, multi-purpose room where they do karate, and a play beauty salon.

Back home, every night we have to spray our rooms with Raid.  I’m a little concerned about the toxicity of this ritual but apparently it works to keep mosquitoes away.

Niece is a very sweet young girl.  She is the youngest so she does most of the chores.  She opens the gate for us when we drive up and locks it back when we’re in.  She sets and clears the table.  Anything Mami needs, she does.  Our first day here, I thought she was “the help,”  because everyone tells her what to do.  Servant is the word that keeps tormenting my mind, but it bothers me to think of her as such.  Husband says everybody had to do what she does as some point.  When he was the youngest, he did most of the chores too.  But additionally, Mami has been taking in family children for years.  She houses and puts them through school.  So in fact Niece is not the help; she is family, paying her dues as her predecessors have.  And this system produces the most well mannered, throughly skilled youth you’ve ever seen.

We sleep off the jet lag, so glad baby is in the care of the family.  In the house is Mami, Brother, Auntie and Niece so we are being completely spoiled.  There is a custom of the guest sitting to eat first, then everyone else eats.  I first experienced this in Cuba.  I felt so alone eating at the table by myself but it was a gesture of honor, making sure the guest gets their fill.

Yesterday I made the mistake of trying to tip someone when a tip was not necessary.  This is considered slightly insulting when someone is looking out for you.  I had to use the restroom and there wasn’t one in our internet cafe so we ventured out.  The sun was beating down, cars were rumbling past, dust was flying up, people were bustling about.  We step into a little cafe, the lady says there is toilet in back.  We walk outside the building to a little side door, she unlocks it, goes in and tells me to wait while she goes to get something to straighten up the room.  She returns and cleans it, asks me if I have toilet roll and I don’t so she runs to get that as well.  She made several trips to accommodate me so I got out one cedi to give her when she gave me the tissue.  “Oh don’t do that,” she says sweetly and pushes the cedi and tissue into my hands.  Later Husband says “pay them for what they do, she doesn’t run a toilet business, she runs a cafe, which is why I bought drinks while you used the restroom.”  Lesson learned.

So many of the things I thought about being here turned out not to be true.  Like the open sewers.  I envisioned wide gutters on the side of the road and I wondered how people got across.  But in fact they are narrow,  deep, and barely noticeable.  I thought because of the open sewers, it would be really smelly.  But what I smell more than anything is gasoline and car fumes.  I was really scared of mosquitoes and malaria.  The only real threat is at night, and putting on some repellent has kept me pretty bite-free.  My mental mantra is “we are well and healthy,” because who really knows how or when one gets sick.  But a mindset of well-being the best prevention.

I am awakening to the joy that is my life.  For the past few years, I have been moving so fast.  Being here at a more easy-going pace is allowing all the choices I have made to catch up to me, and I realize I am in an awesome place.  I appreciate my mate so much now that I see where he’s from.  How a girl from Milwaukee and a boy from Ghana found each other in New York City is beyond me.  I feel so blessed to be here in his homeland with his family.  It still hasn’t completely hit me that I am in Africa.  I was raised with a profound respect of the continent, so for me coming here is like Muslims finally reaching Mecca.  The hard shell I have constructed around my heart is slowly being chiseled away.

Ghana is growing fast.  There is so much development but yet still great inefficiencies.  If I compare it to the West, I would have several complaints.  But I’m taking Accra at face value, as its own entity, and for what it is, Accra is doing well.  This is a black country that has its own television stations,  grows it’s own food and nearly everyone has his/her own business of some kind.  I’m not mad at it.  In fact,  I’m so proud and the way people can do anything with very little is amazing.  There are not as many systems in place, so I say this as a vacationer.  If I needed to do something in a timely manner, I may be disappointed.  We have been waiting on the cable guy for 3 days – lol!  Electricity is back on now, but why does a country with 52 percent of the world’s mineral resources have power outages?  Husband frequently questions the challenges people face here.  And for me, growing up in the West, I definitely see a need for basic infrastructure and more accountability.  But I’m accepting what it is, perhaps the people have just accepted what it is too.

My son fell asleep as soon as we took off.  The flight was unbelievably smooth and it did not feel like 9 hours at all.  I watched “Jumping The Broom” and twisted my hair into bantu knots.  Gazing at the flight progress on the next passenger’s screen, my stomach fluttered a bit as the image showed us nearing the west coast of Africa.  In my mind, I was trying to imagine what this place would be like, this place my parents have told me so much about.  Now here I am, about to land in Ghana with my husband and son.  The feeling was and continues to be ease, comfort, security.  My eyes water as we touch down, everyone cheers.  We’re here.

We step off the plane and husband says its blow dryer hot – quite the accurate description.  Above the entry door is  “akwaaba” in large red, gold, green and black letters.  There are so many Chinese as we come through customs, apparently business is booming for them here.  At every step, someone wants to help with bags, I’m so glad husband knows how to navigate this.  Mami pulls up and we’re ready to roll.  She has ground nuts for us to munch as we ride.  Everything is sold on the street, which is red clay road unpaved.  People have fruits, dresses, key-chains, toilet tissue, and even gym equipment.  We stop at a girl selling fresh tilapia.  She goes back behind her stand and scoops out several frozen fish.   Mami bargains professionally and comes away with a big bag full.  The girl cuts the fins and tail with scissors.  Husband gets 3 coconuts for us and we drink the water out directly.  All are back in the car and we’re off.

We reach home, lights are off.  It happens often but it’s been awhile since the last outage.  Brother puts on the generator and fans are turning.  Water is served and gifts are given.  We relax.  The fresh fish is grilled to perfection and we feast – soooo good.  Grandmommy bathes baby so sweetly, he totally enjoys it.  I bathe with bucket for the first time since Hurricane Katrina.  That was the only other time I’ve been without water, but no running water is regular here.  Wow what an adjustment.  I do like everyone else does and its ok.

The call for prayer wakes us.  Then the roosters try to bring up the sun.  I’ve only heard this in movies.  The school children are having assembly next door with drums and singing.  This is all amazing and wonderful.  Thankful!!