Change

I am going to miss this school.
Walking down the corridors and remembering a time gone by...17 years ago.
My four year old daughter with tiny pompoms in her hair, yellow t shirt under flowered overall shorts. Her little hand gripping mine tightly; wondering about this new school.
The pretty classrooms lined up in a long U, with rounded, terra cotta coloured roofs. The large well-laid, green basketball court in front of the classrooms, separated from a sandy playground by a line of low trees.

I remember taking her to the little petting zoo tucked in the corner of the bend between grades 2 and 3,  to see the tortoise, the rabbit and the guinea pig, just to settle her anxieties.
In no time she got to love the school. (How could she not?) Even more, when it became my school too.

 One summer, the petting zoo gave way to a new classroom...my own. I remember my first day as a teacher. I was confident, nervous, excited and worried. All at once.
My first class of students. I remember every one of them. The little girl who cried everyday until she learned to speak English. The little boy who had a habit of chewing a piece of his notebook the minute my back was turned. The one who brought little lizards into the classroom after recess;  the one who looked like she'd burst into tears whenever it was time for number work...

I remember the wonderful community of teachers...so many of them have come and gone, and every group has been special. There have been numerous changes over the years; too many to count, but we are on the verge of experiencing the biggest yet. The quaint classrooms with their rounded terracotta colored roofs will soon give way to a massive state of the art high-rise school block. It is an exciting change for all, but today, I feel sad. Bereft.

Anja

Anja is from Kosovo. She just joined the class a month ago in the second semester of the year. She speaks no English, but appears to have some learning difficulties too.

Initially, the girls in the class took her under their wing, but all that has changed. They discover Anja is different. She looks, speaks and acts differently. Plus she let on that she was older than most of them...two years older. The fifth graders do not know how to embrace all that uniqueness. For sometime Anja did not realize they had lost interest in hanging out with her, so she followed them everywhere. It became obvious even to her at some point, yet that didn't stop her from seeking their friendship...though not quite so enthusiastically.

Through it all, Anja carried herself admirably. She always had a smile on her face, and got on with the business of school without complaint...or so it appeared. At the next parent meeting her mother informed the teacher sadly that her daughter was not happy in school. She thought the other girls didn't like her because she was so much older. The teachers are amazed. Anja announces her age at the least opportunity, with her ubiquitous smile. The very next day in a small group activity, the subject of age comes up as the students discuss a story character, and sure enough Anja pipes up. "I am 12 years old!"
This time the teacher looks more closely, and she sees it.  Face smiling yet fearful. Eyes beseeching acceptance. Trepidation masked by a stoic sense of self. "I am 12 years old!"

Anja was more than she appeared. She could barely speak English, but she spoke for us all...and in point of fact, she spoke better than most.

Brief

Achy feet.
Sore calves.
Stiff back.
Grainy eyes.
Migraine.
Jumbled thoughts - yet I must slice.
Even if its a sliver of a slice.
Perdóname (I'm learning Spanish), this is going to be brief.
It's been a tough day.

At the Market

The Baatsona market on Saturday morning offers a complete assault on the senses.
The marketplace in Ghana is one of the last vestiges of traditional and cultural practices that resist any movement into modernity. It never ceases to amaze me. From the randomly, haphazardly organized stalls, to the communal existence apparent in the human interactions, it is as though time froze here, and a visitor from the 1940s would have no problem fitting right in.

The vast array of red tomatoes, white garden eggs, green okra, blackened smoked fish, orange peppers and silver salted fishes are enough to leave you crosseyed. I head for my favourite crab lady first. She has large orange-hued moon crabs and delicious flat blue ones of all sizes. She 'mistakenly' gives me double what I ask for, and tries to convince me to buy it all. I sweetly refuse, and she sweetly acquiesces, prattling non-stop about her delicious crabs.

A table piled high with smooth, round shiny red tomatoes catches my eyes. Of course, the vendor caught me looking and wasn't about to let me go. "Oh mummy, please come!", she cried plaintively. (nevermind the fact there was NO way I could be her mother). Nevertheless, I liked the look of her tomatoes enough to comply.
 As I stood there, the insistent cries of a little girl nearby caught my attention, and I wondered why no one else seemed bothered by it. It was the tomato seller's daughter,  being chided severely by a woman at the next table. The mother finally intervened, and I wondered if a quarrel was about to break out between the women, but no, not at all.
 "You must listen to Auntie Esi when she asks you to stop," she said to her daughter.
I recognized it immediately from way back when I was little....the child-rearing style among females. Our mother's friends had every right to tell us off if for some reason she wasn't there to do it herself. We knew it, our mothers expected it, and the whole community valued it. It just isn't much in evidence among most modern parents today.

After a few more purchases my time in the market was done. Just as I turned to leave I remembered I hadn't bought okra. I stopped to get some but realized I had run out of money.
"Don't worry, you can have it," the okra seller said to me. "If you come next time you can pay me."
I couldn't believe it. This lady most certainly made a fraction of what I earned in a month, yet she was willing to give money away to a perfect stranger with no guarantee of ever getting it back. My heart was glad. Old fashioned values are still very much alive...even if only in the marketplace.

What's in a name?

My nephew's first name is Sir Garnet. A black African boy born to Ghanaian parents living in Ghana, West Africa. Why?

My grandmother's grandfather, Chief Kweku Andoh was one of the few educated elders in Elmina during the 1800s. He was the Chief of Elmina's foremost advisor at the time the British took over the then Gold Coast colony from the Dutch. On the Chief's expulsion from the country by the British, Chief Andoh was appointed regent in his place. He became firm friends with the British, whom he believed were more trustworthy than the Dutch, and became a lieutenant in the army. He developed a  friendship with Sir Garnet Wolseley, British governor in the Gold Coast, and major troubleshooter for the British empire.

 It is to our endless mortification, that my great, great grandfather joined Wolseley in his punitive expedition against the great empire of Ashanti. It was on this expedition that news arrived of his son's birth. Wolseley, grateful for the support of Chief Andoh, requested that his newborn son be named after him. Chief Andoh was happy to comply. Since traditionally names are passed down from father to son, the name 'Sir Garnet' has remained in my family to this day.

Strangely, our present day 'Sir Gee' as we call him, is as militant as they come....starkly different from his significantly more amenable siblings. What's in a name, I say?

Plodding Along

Gosh, sometimes it is so hard to find inspiration to write. To be honest, I am totally struggling to keep this going, but I will persevere...(I think.) Somedays I'm on fire, and many others.....nothing. I have attempted two posts which I discarded. This is the third. Maybe I shouldn't be thinking so hard. My initial ideas are always personal...a little too personal and abstract to post here. Like I say to my friends, I very much prefer to write for my eyes only, so this is a real challenge!

I will plod along, however. I'm just thankful that even this is good enough!

As Without, So Within

On a whim, I stepped out of my hot kitchen into the balmy night for some air. It isn't something I usually do, and as I wondered why, the response came right on the tail of the thought...mosquitoes.
What a shame. There's so much I've missed.

I stared at my house, taking in the familiar yet strangely alien view enveloped in darkness. The soft glow of indoor lights, shadows playing peekaboo...here one minute, gone the next. In the darkness,  my garden looks larger, older, wiser. I sit there for a while taking in the cricket calls, the whispering leaves and the tiny darting insects flirting with the glowing lamp. I tried to shut my noisy mind down and open my soul up to feel like they do, wondering about the people that dwell within the walls. After a while, we all blend in beautifully. There really is no separateness. As without, so within.

Rejuvenated, I wandered back into my hot kitchen.

Being, not Doing

Today has been quiet. A gem of a day. I’ve had myself and my thoughts only because I had no power for several hours on account of a fault on the main line. So no music, no TV, no laptop and phone (which I did not charge overnight) and horror of horrors; no internet service! So what did I do today, the first day of our spring break? I read; and dozed; and cooked, and baked and stared at lizards and the blue sky. I listened to twittering birds, counted 100 breaths and daydreamed. 

Best of all, I did all of this with my fourteen year old son who had no idea what to do with himself. The daydreaming part was hilarious because he kept asking what I was doing, and I told him to just stare with me. I told him we had to learn how to just ‘be’. He thought I’d lost my mind.

All in all, we had a magical day of not really doing anything.

Common Destiny

Sitting in the waiting room at the oncology clinic with my mother always leaves me marveling at human nature.
Sick people suffering with dignity. Some in wheelchairs, walking sticks, leaning on others or trying hard to walk on their own.

Busy and not so busy helpers. Some sad looking, others distracted; yet others carrying on like everything is normal, or trying hard to pretend that wheeling a loved one at the oncology clinic is like walking down the aisle in a grocery store. Some are downright detached...like the young lady who sat right behind me. She had disappeared into her phone, while her old lady sitting on the bench next to me moaned and wept softly.
"Are you in pain, ma'am? Can I get you something?" I asked. I noticed she had called the nurse a little earlier to ask when it would be her turn to see the doctor...Those nurses.

Receptionist nurse. Busy hands. Dolled up, apologetic, warm manner.
Cashier nurse. Encased in a wood-paneled booth with a gaping opening like a mouth, out of which her hand shoots to take the money. "If you don't have enough money, you can't see the doctor!"  Unbelievably emotionless.
Vitals Nurse. Drill sergeant spitting out names of patients, forgetting it takes them a lot longer to lift themselves and all the energy they can muster to respond. I glared at her and held up my hand to stop her from calling out my mother's name for the 4th time. Really?

So I walk up to drill sergeant and ask her when the weeping lady will be seen to. "Her folder is the next one, we will call her soon." I go back and reassure the lady, wondering aloud why she is on her own.
"My daughter is behind you", she responds. I prod the young woman who lifts herself hurriedly and goes to tend to her mother. She hands her a bottle of water but doesn't soothe or touch her. The lady calms down and I turn around thinking....she wept harder when I spoke to her with compassion and showed I cared. Her daughter pretty much ignores her distress, and her tears dry up. Isn't that something?
My heart aches for sick people. hopeful one minute. hopeless the next.
But then we forget we share a common destiny.

Death's ladder is climbed by all.

Poverty in Riches

In conversation with a friend, I discovered again the truth of the paradox of poverty in richness....and vice versa.
We recalled the bad behavior of a family member; a bully of a man who expects to be treated with deference by the people closest to him. He is a man of some means, and loves to show it off by spreading it around; but be warned; accepting his largesse comes at a cost, as hewhomustbeobeyed will tolerate nothing but your groveling affirmations and undying fealty. He does not realize that his obsession with such unhealthy loyalty reveals the extent of his insecurity.

Curiously,  even this sad soul has a side to him that I don't think he realizes. Given the nature of his business, he goes through times when his money dwindles, and it is at times like these that his nasty side takes a back seat to a sweetness you'd never believe he possesses. He spends more time with his family, laughs a lot more, is kind to his wife and is generally just a much nicer person to be with.

Clearly, his riches aren't riches at all; yet without it to lose, would his beautiful side have a chance to be expressed? He reminds me of why I love my country Ghana. In the midst of abject poverty, people can show a generosity that is a rare commodity among so-called wealthy people.

No wonder our wise elders had a proverb which they named after a beautiful wax print design..."Asetena pa ma awirefi' (Good living breeds forgetfulness).

Treasure!

I've been waiting for the slice of life challenge to come by again...surprisingly, considering that I was on the verge of quitting when I began last year. Somehow through the stress and angst and pressure of having to churn out piece after piece, day after day, I found a beautiful treasure...and it was myself!

I look forward to wringing water out of stone, finding beauty in plainness, digging deep and finding gold...in other words, finding me again.

Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

Name of wax print -
I dug the earth and found treasure