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26/7/05
6:56 pm
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Editor’s Thoughts:
Day Trip To Ghana
o here I am in Ghana, in the middle of the night, with no one to meet me because
the London Heathrow to Accra flight is twelve hours late. “Irie, Rasta man!” says
the tallest of the taxi drivers trying to handle my luggage outside the gates of
Katoka International Airport. “We Ghanaians love Jamaicans second only to Reggae,” says
another. “Not surprising,” says his smiling friend – squeezing my hand and snapping
fingers. “Our ancestors were taken there many years ago. Assalamu ‘Alalikum You are
welcome!.”
S
Three hours later, and still reeling from culture shock, I’ve given up searching in the
darkness of night for the road to the house of my old friend Kwesi with whom I have come
to stay. I can’t help thinking that if I had been riding in a taxi in the middle of the night
in England, Jamaica or America, I would probably have been robbed of my luggage, camera
equipment and travellers’ cheques by now. Instead, I’m counting the stars in the yard of
the bar at the Ebony Hotel, Pig Farm, as recommended by my friendly taxi driver, Amadu.
The night is hot and the stars are many. One especially bright is hovering above the head
of a man sitting on a stone in the corner of my vision. He is slim, tall, and blacker than
the night, with a face old and wise as the ground beneath his slipperless feet. He wears a
silver-blue gown of a material that makes him sparkle like the moon in the darkened sky.
Resting on a prayer mat at his feet is a shirtless man of equal blackness, fanning himself
from the enveloping heat, and the kiss of mosquitoes. I have a sudden urge to read the
Bible, then on second thoughts; perhaps the Qu’ran would make more sense here.
Two men beside me are talking very loudly, but I don’t understand what they’re saying.
Not even enough to know if they’re talking about me. Another man has joined. They are
definitely not talking about me – at east not now. They seem not even to notice my
presence. Am I a ghost, a mere shadow of my former self? Children enter with two barking
dogs. The atmosphere changes: “Good evening,” they say one by one. “Good evening,” I
smile. Then as quickly as they entered, they leave, the dogs follow. Two of the three men
are still talking actively. A forth man joins them as a fifth man enters to sit alone. “You are
welcome!” they all nod to him in unison. “Madasi!” he replies, and orders a beer.