After Baby got well from his last cold, I decided it was time to tackle my own health.  I knew the key to getting grounded, focused and able to manifest – starts with cleansing.  I had been in a funk for days before starting this detox.  And I just did not want to feel that way anymore.  After I gathered the last of my fasting herbs, (yerba mate for energy on days its difficult to get out of bed and pau’d'arco to release yeast from the body) I wrote down my goals for fasting.

1. To come alive

2. For more energy

3. To make plans

4.To attract abundance

5. Most of all, for joy

I have not been happy for a long time.  I know in this state, no blessings can reach me.  It’s time to raise my vibration and shift my energy.  Husband takes Baby out for the day, so I am completely focused.  I allow myself to lay in bed a moment more.  It’s ok to rest, I tell myself.  I roll my limbs to the edge and set my feet on the floor.  Give thanks, I say.  I move into the living room and turn on my mantras.  The tones of Indian singing invigorate my senses.  Sage is lit, oil burner on.  I gather my lemons and slice one – bursts of citrus revive me.  A few sips of the combo and I’m ready for yoga.  Then breathing.  I chant, meditate and bathe.  I feel awesome.

Prayers are potent in state of sacrifice.  I sacrificed eating to get tapped in to the Almighty, and to get clear my next steps.  Its easy to get swamped in whats wrong.  But to orientate oneself to the betterment of this life experience, yields powerful results.  Everyday gets better and better.  I’m working on projects I’ve been putting off, and generating great energy around new endeavors.  Best yet, joy is growing.  Its a noticeable difference from when I was eating improperly.  I see the direct connection between diet and mood.  Live foods give energy, and energy manifests great things.

As I ease off of fasting, I resume eating with a raw diet.  My first dish is a seaweed soup made with avocado, cucumber, dulse, kelp, olive oil and sea salt, whipped until warm.  Besides the relief of eating again, I’m fascinated and excited that such amazing meals exist.  I have got to learn!  I can potentially stay in this mentally joyful, spiritually centered space by continuing my prayer regimen and eating raw.

I have been interested in raw food preparation for awhile, and even began the pursuit of school, but was discouraged by the price of classes.  In the midst of my manifesting cleanse, I get a call offering a scholarship to one such class.  This is real!  Fasting and prayer – makes things happen. My mind  begins to race with possibilities.  Ways I will use these skills to heal myself, my family, my community, and be a divine vessel for the Creator.  Thankful and motivated, I confidently continue the journey.

A few hours later we are on the way to pick up the meds.  I usually don’t like to give my son medicine unless its absolutely necessary.  This was one of those times, but I knew the problem was bigger than a bad cold we couldn’t kick.  My son doesn’t eat enough fruits and veggies.  And even though I advocate healthy eating, I haven’t developed enough creative ways to get him to eat right.  We are, for the most part, pescatarian. But we’ve gotten in the habit of primarily enjoying different kinds of fish, in a vegetable stew, with a starch. We get our veggies in the stew, but Baby picks out the meat and eats the starch.  I settled into having him drink his veggies, by making his staple drink a store bought green smoothie.  Besides the fact that its bottled and not as fresh as homemade, its has loads of sugar.  Pour baby was inundated with meat, starch and sugar.  A recipe for mucus.

How could I let this happen.  Me, who is so into healthy lifestyles.  Or am I?  Perhaps I’m not as healthy as I thought.  My skin is in shambles, dry and coarse with eczema.  I have headaches and sharp pains in my womb.  Whats going on?  Whatever it is I gotta figure it out, and not just for me, but for my son.

My husband leaves on business and I’m left alone to the thoughts in my head.  I start making my shopping list.  I gotta get some chamomile for my tummy so it will chill out.  No more sugary bottled juice for baby, I’m gonna make it fresh.  Gotta get a blender.  I better do a master cleanse to clear out my system, so I need lemons and syrup.  Accessing my health always inspires me, and Baby’s cold totally motivated me.  I get right on it.

I blend  a mango, berry, ginger and spinach smoothie.  Baby sucks it down effortlessly.  His body knows what he needs.  The next drink I make, I add garlic.  Stinky but naturally medicinal.  He drinks and drinks.  I’m so excited he’s finally taking in vital nutrients.  This is not the first time.  He was grown in the womb on greens and I even pureed kale for him when he began eating solids.  But now at 2 years old, he’s become picky, and apparently diseased.  And I let him.  But not anymore.  I felt like a super hero.  Magic-Mom found a way to heal the baby with raw blended fruits and veggies.

I am by no means an expert at this.  And I’m not completely where I want to be. But health, wellness and spiritual elevation has always been a passion.  And I know the key to being my best self is by having the best health.  So this will be a journey to self.  A trip you are welcome to join me on.  I hope my journey is motivating and comforting to you, wherever you may be on your path to your best self.

After I get in and rest a bit, I begin considering taking the next bus at noon.  My friends won’t be able to go with me so the real debate is whether I want to brave the journey alone.  I reorganize myself and decide to give it another shot.  I head out again and catch a Tro Tro easily since rush hour is over.  I climb in the rickety old van, the seat slightly rocking from loose screws, the next row of seats begins where my knees end and I’m squished between two broad shouldered women. The journey begins to feel miserable.  How can I travel like this?  And when I get to my stop, how will know the bus station without the guidance of a friend?  I give up and get out.  I’ll have to do Cape Coast another time.  Frustrated with the discomfort of Tro Tros, I decide to walk home.  I figure it will be less trouble.  My backpack is full with a weekend worth of stuff.  The pavement is unrelenting, and dust from the side of the road is swirling around as cars zoom past.  The sun, the smog, the heat.  I start hearing my song Only Temporary echo in my head, as if an angel is singing it to me.  I’m determined to keep going.  A car pulls over and stops.  I don’t notice it until the driver says, “Akua!” Its an acquaintance I met at my last show.  What are the odds?  The day couldn’t have been more difficult but it ended with a major blessing, at the perfect time.  I climb in and ride home in cool AC and a comfy seat.  When I text my girl Linda about my 2 failed attempts at going to Cape Coast, she writes back, if you still want to go, I’ll go with you.

I spend the night at Linda’s house, to ensure early arrival at the station.  We wake at 4:30am and we’re out the door by 5:30.  We reach the station intending to catch the 8am bus but find out there’s one leaving at 6, so we hop on.  This is perfect, we won’t have to wait and we’ll make it out of town before traffic.  The ride is smooth and the countryside is rustic bush, green and untamed.  2 hours later, the ocean appears on the horizon.  We have arrived. Some friends from the States recommended a resort called One Africa Wellness Center, owned by a repatriated African American woman.  We reach the place.  The landscape is well manicured, the buildings boast of bright red, black and green colors.  We are checked in by the owner’s son, whose thick Brooklyn accent feels familiar to me.  He leads us to our chalet, a round little hut with a straw roof.  We pass a great outdoor dining area and hammocks strung to trees.  The ocean is footsteps away.  The waves here are so strong, their continuous crashing onto the rocks sounds like rumbling thunder.  Each chalet is named after a hero, ours is Queen Mother Moore, and pictures of her decorate the walls. We squeal with delight, drop our bags and head straight for the ocean view.  The water looks like a deep blue blanket, stretched across the sea.  Milk white frothy waves bubble over a cappuccino black stony shore.   The sun still newly risen, looks on from the east.  It is a technicolor fantasy, sensory seduction, absolute heaven to my spirit.  We stand for a long time on the cliff overlooking this vision.  It’s like a painting it’s so perfect.

Two older ladies from the States are also staying at the resort as well.  We meet and instantly vibe with them, so we arrange to tour the slave castle together.  We are like giddy girls in the cab, getting to know each other, chatting, finding similarities and sharing stories of our Ghanaian experience. Suddenly we pull up to the castle and stop.  Guys selling tourist goods surround the car.  Linda cautions me to keep my purse close, for pick pocketing is common here.  We have a nice lunch and brace ourselves to enter the castle.  We all take deep breaths and start walking into the enormous stone structure, solemn and serious.

The bricks are rigid beneath our feet, they lead down into a deep dungeon.  We carefully descend into darkness, into an open room, where a small hole allows only one ray of light in.  The tour guide tells a tale of distant traders who came and built this thing. They sought out easily persuaded chiefs with whom they could exchange guns and liquor for human beings. The scent is smoky, fleshy, bloody.  We walk farther into another room, where hundreds of men were packed in.  The tour guide points to a line on the wall, as high as his knee.  He says the entire room was filled this high with fecal matter.  People wading in their own waste, with no air or light, skin to skin, no room to move.  I feel them.  I feel the presence of so many hundreds of human beings.  They were here in this place, so long ago, right where I stood.  My chest tightens.  Energy envelopes me, like arms around me.  A heavy layer of pain and sorrow permeates every inch of my being.  The guide leads us to the next room where there is an ancestral shrine.  He mentions that traditional spirituality has been replaced by religion.  I move to the shrine, as it is a familiar place for my method of spiritual practice, and fall to my knees.  I weep at the feet of my ancestors, in the dust and clay of their remains.  My tears falling where their blood spilled ages ago.  I open my hands in surrender, and honor their passage through this place as a sacrifice for my own life.  The Spirit was indescribably powerful.  I mourn loudly, touch my head to the ground, fully prostrate before It.  Again and again I submit and praise and cry.  All my struggles as of late, pale in comparison to the holocaust of my people, and so I am humbled and grateful.  I rise, unable to see, my face completely drenched.   I leave a small offering and stagger into Linda’s arms.

We ascend to daylight and the comforting sound of water.  Our older lady friends have now become surrogate aunties.  One of them is a priestess and she suggests I take a moment, after all the energy I just encountered.  I do and decide I’ll in fact sit out the rest of the tour.  Once you’ve seen one dungeon, you get the idea.  I let Linda tell me about the rest.  She said the “cell for the defiant” was where she had to stop.  This is where the most resistant African men were placed, 50 in a small room,  and left until the last one died.  The walls still have the their scratch marks.  We are all raw and quiet.  Introspectively looking out into the ocean, impacted in our own way from what we just saw.  We slowly gather ourselves and give thanks but pray to leave the weight of the world behind.  Shedding our burdens, we gently depart the place, reverently, respectfully.  Forever changed.

Back at the resort, we cleanse from the experience and meet at the dining area.  We have been bonded by the tour and are subsequently still enjoying each other.  We order drinks and dinner, and get into great conversation.  It’s a scene from How Stella Got Her Groove Back.  Our aunties schooling us to life and men and womanhood.  Our laughter carries on into the late night, as we kick back among the palm trees, the moonlight and the sweet rolling waves of the sea.

My first show in Africa started off on the wrong note but I adjusted and sang anyway.  Quite characteristic of this entire experience.  Things are far from perfect here but people adapt and keep it moving.  They endure far greater challenges than any human being should, but persevere without much complaint.  I have been struggling to do the same, but fall short at times.  I get to the venue early to sound check with Baby in tow.  Everything sounds great, just the way we rehearsed the day before.  I’m a little disenchanted because the guitarist could know my music better.  But my attitude is, make do with what I have, so I’m don a cheerful countenance and hope for the best.  Slowly people start to filter in, then a steady stream of folks fill the spot.  This is a “talk party” where people gather to discuss a particular subject based on the film being shown.  “A Good Day to Be Black and Sexy” is the film of choice and starts the night off right.  The conversation that follows is spicy and thought provoking, covering everything from homosexuality in Ghana to infidelity.  I’m feeling comfortable among the crowd, which by now is standing room only and spilling outside.  The night air is cool, the people are chill, the vibe is cosy.  I’m almost lulled to sleep.  Suddenly the curator comes over and says I’ll be singing next. I peel myself from the back of the room where I’ve inconspicuously blended with the masses.  I grab my water, and begin scanning the room for my guitarist.  He’s there and ready.  The mic is moved to the center.  There’s a camera crew posted on the side of the room and others have gathered next to them with their phones to record me.  The curator introduces me and the dj plays a tune while I setup a plant next to the mic.  I give him a nod that I’m ready and turn on the mic.  “Peace everybody,” I say as my standard way of mic-checking and starting my show.  No response.  “Peace everybody,” I say again.  A few people say, “peace.”  I say it again and everyone is with me.  “This is my first time in Africa, first time in Ghana, first time in Accra, so I’m very excited and thankful to be here.  I’m gonna start with libation to thank the ancestors for bringing me home.  Is there anyone who doesn’t know libation.”  Duuhh Akua, this is only the birthplace of libation and all things ancestral.  Someone responds simply “we know.”  So I proceed and pour out a little water giving thanks for reaching Africa safely.  Instant responses, yelps, agreement.  Now I can begin.  Baby is sitting front and center, rocking out hard, bobbing his body.  Sisters are Rollin’ with me.  The entire crowd learns Approve and sings the chorus in unison.  Just Tryin to Live ends the set and I’m off.  The cheers feel like a warm receiving blanket.  On the way home, I pop in my cd for family to hear the full production of the songs I just sang.  They like Reach Higher and everyone is humming along.  Introspectively, I celebrate a successful infiltration of my music into the Ghanaian scene.

The next morning, Mami dresses early and leaves out to fuel up the car.  She returns with all kinds of treats; chocolate, my favourite soda, cake, yogurt, and Fan Milk which is ice cream in a pouch.  We are preparing for a day trip to Aburi, a small town nestled in the mountains known for its botanical garden.  We begin our journey and weave through several neighborhoods until we reach a more open road, now the mountains in plain sight.  Before we make our ascension, Mami turns off the main road and onto an undeveloped plot of land.  This is the land Husband will own one day.  I try to imagine myself here too.  I get out and take pictures. It’s open field now, but some have began building their houses in the distance.  We resume working our way up the steep incline to Aburi.  The road is smooth, new and modern.  My ears pop as I overlook a beautiful view of Accra getting smaller and smaller.  We pass Peduase Lodge, built by Kwame Nkrumah, which is used as a retreat haven for presidents.  Up and up into the hills, now getting into town, onto a more narrow street lined with house upon house.  We reach the garden and Mami knows the director so we are waved in.  The entrance is pillars of palm trees along a path.  We ride in, passing tons of people who have also come to relax.  We get out of the car and the air is fresh and crisp.  The director comes out to greet us and begins to lead us around.  He shows us sweet nutmeg trees, real cocoa beans, fresh shea nuts, and a spice garden. He also takes us off campus to show us Mami’s plot of land nearby.   The road to the plot is unpaved and we’re driving through thick bush.  The truck is practically mowing the grass it’s so untamed.  I’m worried we may get stuck but Mami patiently plows through.  We reach the plot and it is breathtakingly beautiful.  The most lush green hills, overlooking one side of the mountain, and a deep valley.  Mami walks her land and picks fresh greens for us to have for dinner.  There’s a stake in the ground with the family name carved in it.  This signifies the land is paid in full and ready to be built on.  Once she settles a bit of business, we climb back in the truck and head out.  On the main road, I spot palm wine, so we pull over and inquire.  I’ve never had it but I wanted to sample.  The reused bottle had bits of the plant caked up around the rim, so I was a bit turned off but I tried it anyway.  The smell is pungent to say the least, I wanted to hold my nose but I didn’t. The taste is a cross between beer and wine.  But the stank kept me from having another taste.  Mami rides a bit farther and stops to pick peppers from one stand, palm nuts from another.  People just pull up to the side of the road and make purchases here.  Vendors give the goods through the window and you’re on your way.  Our last stop is a corn seller.  She’s boiling ears of corn in a big cauldron.  She dips in with her bare hand and grabs several pieces for us.  This is real corn, not genetically modified.  It’s almost white yellow, and the kernels are firm and tough.  Later when I eat it, it’s not as soft as I’m used to.  But I appreciate that it’s real corn.  In general, it’s special the see raw materials and how they are made into everyday things. Along the road, woodworkers are making furniture and contractors are building houses with brick and cement.  In the States, things are rarely made hand anymore, everything is industrialized, machine processed.  Here, one really get a sense of the earth’s resources, bare bones, basic and simple.

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.

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.