I AM ME?

[A TRIP TO THE EASTERN REGION]

The road snaked up and around the mountains. I had taken that route too many times as part of my work with the International Programs Office of my university, yet that very journey felt brand new. I was wide awake, taking in the awesomeness of nature that spread ahead in a wide expanse. An unusual wave of sadness flooded my heart and a sob threatened to escape from the base of my tight throat. I held it back just in time.
I was on a bus full of white and African-American students my age. My presence felt loud and pronounced. I kept my eyes out the window, observing life whisk past me as we drove on. I knew I was going on a heavy journey. I felt it in my soul.

I looked back into the bus, allowed my gaze to fall on each blond, brunette, black, auburn head and smiled slightly. They are good people, all of them, I thought, and looked back out the window just in time to see them wave at us; a group of middle-aged men waved frantically at us. I wanted to shrink away, or turn invisible. Why did they wave? a voice in me asked and my heartbeat turned uncomfortably irregular. I closed my eyes. Why did they wave? the voice got louder and the lump in my even tighter throat began to swell. I closed my eyes and imagined myself anywhere but there. It all started coming to me then, not an answer, but more questions. They had always been out there – children, the young men and women, even the elderly. They had always been out there, waiting to see another of ‘heaven’s chariots’ pass, with the light it carried, so they could stand up and wave. It was as if that would bring them luck for the rest of the year or change their entire destinies. Why? The voice came back.

Stepping into the cocoa farm we had visited was a refreshing change from the air-conditioned bus we had stepped out from. The air was laced with earth, fallen leaves, trees and other fresh plants. It tasted like freedom on my lips.

“Ghana’s cocoa is the best ever, in terms of quality,”

the tour guide said, and a warm envelope of subtle pride settled over me. The sweetness of the pulp around the seeds I sucked on reminded me of French-kissing. An immediate eruption of bile filled my mouth and I spat out the seeds. I felt angry and guilty.
I averted my eyes from the heap of pods and away from the pale, tanned, bronze, milk-chocolate bodies.

I walked off back to the entrance of the farm and allowed the air to vacuum-clean my mind. I wanted to forget all those times I borrowed what was not mine.

Who are you, anyway? The voice asked again as the bus backed out from the entrance of the farm and I shuddered. I looked back sharply, wanting to scream out to the bus driver to stop so I go fetch myself back from the heart of the cocoa pods we split. I kept my mouth shut and looked ahead. It was too painful to look back. Besides, they were out there still, all of them, waving at heaven pass by. I was in heaven too. I definitely wasn’t me.

What would have happened if ships had never been invented? Africa would have been a different story, don’t you think?
We had got to the botanical gardens and the air had brought the questions back.
Well, they would have invented the airplane eventually, another part of me responded. It was meant to happen. I kicked at the leaves and sighed. Was it? I didn’t want to believe it. I tried to imagine another Africa. I struggled to think up a different story and I failed. I began to tremble visibly. It wasn’t from the hunger I felt. I needed more air. I needed to sit. A sob finally escaped and the trembling ceased. What would our story have been if the ships had not arrived on our shores? My colonized existence had no answer. I felt like an ‘Uncle Tom’.

Who are you, anyway? I was still hungry, but I had no appetite. Lunch was ready and plates were being emptied into stomachs around me. I had lost appetite somewhere in the middle of trying to figure out who I actually was. It was a desperate search that burned in my eyes, making them water.

Three women held up the whole continent, Africa – it was a beautiful carving. We were in the wood-carving village. I stood still, watching a young man, carve series of lines into red wood with precise hand movements. Who are they doing all this for? It was so much work making those beautiful carvings to portray Africa, but they all stood there in wait of the passing ‘mini-heavens’. The angels were the market. I passed my hand over the divisions in Africa and tried to imagine one big village without the boundaries. In my village, a long time ago, there were no boundaries. One child belonged to the entire village and so it was not uncommon to find that child being spanked by any elder at all in the village. Child discipline was everyone’s responsibility. There were no boundaries.
The divisions carved intricately into the outline of the continent felt alien. I wanted to cry again.
“How much is this?”

I asked the owner of the goods and regretted immediately that I hadn’t asked him in Twi. He responded in an accent that I couldn’t place. A weird almost-American accent. It sounded forced and it made my skin crawl. I feared my heart will stop. I couldn’t take it anymore. I walked back towards the bus, all the way knowing, that they were wondering in their heads whether I was one of them or not. Stepping back into ‘heaven’ made it all clear to them. She must be one of the lucky ones, I could sense them think.

You know if another of those slave ships docks at Tema Harbor right now, people will kill each other just to get on? They will give themselves up willingly. I wanted to scream at the voice in my head but I knew it would be baseless. They’d pack themselves tighter than sardines. It sounded like it was taunting me but what it said was true. It hit me hard and I lay back in my seat. One American Negro Spiritual came to mind.
Swing low, Sweet Chariot
Coming for to carry me home…

I looked over Jordan and what did I see…
Coming for to carry me home
A band of angels coming after me…
Coming for to carry me home

Swing low…
The melody soothed me as the bus snaked back down the mountains, and again, they waved. They waved at us – at me and at them. Their eyes said they wished they were in my place. My eyes held nothing. I didn’t know if I wanted to be in there in heaven with them or not. All I knew was that they waved. And it made me realize, as my throat slowly closed up completely and choked me into darkness, that I am me…and I am them.

SARDINE TRAUMA

Feature it in stew, or leave traces in some rich salad….fine I will eat but seeing them whole, in oil, in the tin, is something I cannot handle. Sardines!

Oh once I was a sardine lover. So deep and strong was my love for this rather common fish that I craved it all the time and cried for it. Leave some sardines in the fridge and you’d be sure to come find it half-eaten.

This irritated my mom so much, she would sometimes attempt to whip “the foolishness” out of me. That lasted a few hours to a day, and then my insatiable craving would return. It was getting out of hand.

One day, I woke up wanting some sardines and so I proceeded to go wake my mom up with it. I whined almost all morning. refusing breakfast because there were no sardines involved. My mom snapped in reverse (she suddenly turned stone silent). She called one of my sisters and asked her to buy five tins of sardine from a nearby shop.

In those days, the tins had up to four sardines in there so five tins meant, well, a lot of sardines. My sister brought them and mom then opened them all up, dumped them in a bowl, almost 30 pieces of fish in oil and placed it on the table.

“Mmmhmm, now eat!”

I was so excited! I sat, dipped my hand in and the feast began. One sardine, then another, then another…then I became very aware of the oil and suddenly I wished there was pepper in there….one sardine, then another, and i wanted to stop and catch my breath, probably store the rest so I could finish up later…I had only eaten about 5 sardines, more was there to go.

“I will beat you to death if you don’t finish the sardines”

My mom threatened, while standing over me, breathing down my neck. We all know what that “beating to death” threat means right. If you don’t know it means “I will beat you till you wish you were dead but you won’t die and that will be the worst part of the beating – that you are still alive, feeling all the pain” trust me, with that threat, you’d wish she had said “I will kill you” because that, in most Ghanaian homes, is subtler.

So after this threat, poor, tiny me, with mom towering over me, the bowl of sardines before me, my hands limp and oily, I dipped my hand in and continued. One sardine, then another, then another. My chewing slowed, my swallowing became hard and torturous and my stomach had started a rebellion. It was pushing up violently.

“If you vomit, I will beat you!”

God! that woman was of steel that day!!! So I grabbed my tummy with my free hand, closed my eyes tight and continued. One sardine, another, then another. Then I started feeling dizzy. The room was spinning, and it had become hot, I was sweating, and burping, and breathing heavily and tears filled my eyes. I sniffled.

“Hurry up!”

Then I started to cry.

“You can cry blood! Just finish the fish!”

So through my violent sobs, I continued. One sardine, then another, then a third, with a touch of salty tears. my stomach couldn’t take it anymore so it pushed up hard one last time.

I threw up into the bowl of sardines and with my heart pounding, waited for the beating of my life.

“Will you eat again?”

She asked and I replied with a heart-wrenching “No”.

I was trembling and my whole body was soaked in tears and sweat. my  mom picked up the bowl and just left. I was there, on my seat. Flashes of images – of that bowl of sardine, taunted me and my tummy overturn again. I got off the seat and had to stand for a while because my knees were shaking. Then I found my way to the bathroom to rinse my mouth out. For weeks, I had sardine dreams – bad ones of course. And that was the end for me.

The trauma had left me with a strong dislike for sardines; Sardine trauma, thanks to mom.

TWO SCARS FOR CHASKELE

Out of all my childhood friends, there’s one guy I would love to see. I miss him!

Adade!

Adade and I were close buddies with very different tastes. Haha! While I walked around in an over-sized faded t-shirt over jersey shorts, he would be in a rather too clean polo shirt, neatly tucked into his khaki shorts. It annoyed me greatly.

“Wop3 tuck-in koraa dodo!”

I always retorted when we met to go play with the other kids in the area. And so I was fond of pulling his shirt out of his shorts and running off giggling.

I tell you, from Pampanaa to Chaskele, this boy’s shirt will still be tucked in!! Eii.

Now to why I really want to see him. It was Christmas season, and all the kids in the area were hyper. A game of Chaskele, with me and Adadzewa being the only girls, had begun. With sweat running down my face as my tiny self boyish self ran all over the red-soiled earth, I did not see it coming – the crunched up tomato paste can. All i saw was red – blood flowing down my knee. It was Adade who had hit the can straight to my knee! I sat on the floor and sobbed, all the time pointing an accusing finger at Adade. I felt it had been intentional. Before the game started that afternoon, i had tampered with his shirt, and so I was sure, he had intentionally hit me with the can as payback!

The day ended with my knee bandaged, and a limp in my step.

The next morning, my cousins helped me build my own “buronyadan” with palm branches. It was big enough to fit three of me in there. I was sp proud of it I couldn’t wait to show it off. I then proceeded to go pick a fight with Adade for hurting my knee.

It soon got pretty violent and Adade ripped off a quarter of my roof (the buronyadan). CHRIST!  All hell broke loose!

We fought like professionals till we got parted and we each got spanked by our parents respectively.

The war had just begun!

Dawn of New Year… we had all come back from church, and all the kids in the area were out “throwing knock-outs” Adade was there too, with his shirt neatly tucked in. I had my own pack of knock-outs in my hand, and he was just loitering before me, his back turned. You see the temptation?!!

For the love of me, I have no idea what came into me when I struck that knock-out  against the match and stuck it in his shirt. But God have mercy, by the time he realized what was going on, his tucked in shirt couldn’t save him. The knock-out went off, and my bare feet just found their way home at top speed. My heart was pounding!!

A few minutes later, the other kids were chanting “Eheeeeh, Eheeeh” towards my house, and Adade had already been rushed off to the hospital. Seeing my dad roll his belt around his left hand was a sign of the end time. Y’all can imagine how mercilessly i was whipped.

What happened after, was between the two families. My parents had to take care of his hospital bills, I learned later.

It took sometime before we started playing again, although we had both been warned to stay away from each other…Adade no longer wore polo shirts. Just loose singlets that he couldn’t tuck in even if he wanted to. We soon moved out to our new place.

Now the thing is, I really want to see Adade, see and touch his scar.

I got one scar from that game of Chaskele on my right knee and he has his entire back scarred, for that same game of Chaskele.

I want to touch that scar and say “I’m sorry”….

Again.