GHANAIANS: You've Got to Love Them

I love Ghana, this steamy tropical country on the west coast of Africa. I love the easy laughter, the warmth of the people, the cheery highlife music, the tight, colorful dresses of the women when they’re decked out for a party. Ghanaians are hospitable and generous. They invite you to their home village and feed you groundnut soup with goat meat, show you their vegetable plot and stuff the back of your car with produce when you leave–enormous yams, cassava, sugar cane, paw paws, a hand of plantain.

But before you depart, you have to take their picture. In front of your car. With shades on. They will strike a pose, lean nonchalantly on the hood and look cool. This snapshot will be shown around the village for many years, the image of your forty-year-old gardener or cook or office janitor pretending to own your car.

My husband works on a business-development project and we’ve lived in the capital, Accra, for several years now. I spend my days writing romance novels and playing food-goddess in the kitchen. This is not as hard as it sounds – Ghana, luckily, is rich in love and seafood.

Ghanaians are cheerful people, even the toll collector at the beginning of the big new road to the harbor town of Tema. Ever come across a cheerful toll collector? Come to Ghana!

“How are you?” he will ask as he takes your money.

“I am fine, and you?”

“I am very fine,” he says, outdoing you with a grin. “By His grace!”

Or you ask someone how to get to the beach and he gestures enthusiastically down the road, smiling broadly, delighted to be of help. “Go straight, the road is curving!” he instructs obscurely. “Don’t branch to anywhere!”

You find the beach, but you’re not always so lucky. One day you ask for directions and the smiling old man standing by the road tells you, oh yes, it’s to the left and down the road, on the right side, that’s where it is, just as you’re thinking. You cruise around in circles without finding the place, but you do find again the friendly man, still standing in the same place by the road, staring into space.

“It’s not there!” you say, irritated, swallowing muggy air pouring in through the rolled-down car window. “Why did you tell me it’s to the left when it isn’t!”

He looks at you, crestfallen. “Oh, Madame,” he says sorrowfully, “I did not want to disappoint you!”

One early morning I take my man to the office so I can have the car to do my grocery shopping later. A young woman standing by the side of the dusty road catches my eye. She's gorgeous and tall, wearing a black velvet party dress, a long, slim-fitting number with a plunging neckline fit for a fancy night club. She has teamed this with lime-green flip-flops and an aluminum head-pan full of water-baggies that sell for a penny a piece. Head held regally high, she's smiling at the world. She's queen of the morning, ready for work.

Later that day, as I drive around doing my shopping, I see another example of imaginative Ghanaian dressing. This particular person is a young male, a handsome dude strutting his stuff with great flair. He's got massive shoulders which are visible because he's conveniently wearing a white singlet undershirt. He has carefully teamed this with loose, wide trousers made of lacy baby-pink eyelet fabric. Clothes make the man, as they say. Next morning, Ali, our gardener, comes to work in a new shirt, a cheery floral print of many colors, an English flower garden in full bloom. Nontropical roses and daisies and crocuses and pansies and gardenias spring forth from the cloth in glorious abandon, a profusion of blooms tempting to be picked. The print with all its sweet blossomy detail reminds me of a summer dress my mother used to wear in the fifties, sleeveless, with a gathered skirt and a wide belt, cheered further with a necklace of round pink beads.

Of course, being a man, Ali does not wear a pink necklace.

He wears pink sneakers.

Ghanaians, in keeping with their character, favor bright colors, ruffles, lace, and sparkles. When not wearing traditional clothing of exotic African fabric and design, they wear garments of western origin, which are easily procured at Obruni Wao Market, otherwise known as Dead White Man Market. Every imaginable type of clothing from the West can be found here, discarded not necessarily by the relatives of dead people, but more likely by people making room for new fashions. Along with skirts and pants and blouses, you'll find queen-size bras, ski hats and ball gowns. A fishmonger in the market might be seen wearing an American purple mother-of-the-bride dress while cleaning shrimp. Another might wear an oversized sleeping shirt with woolly lambs chasing across her bouncy breasts. Women love mixing and matching patterns and colors. What's wrong with a red-and-blue flowered skirt teamed with a green-and-white striped blouse? Aren't they both pretty and cheerful?

Go for it, is what I say. What's wrong with a little happiness?

One day my mate comes home with the sad news that Kofi, one of the Ghanaian office drivers, has lost his wife. She died, apparently unexpectedly, in the night. A few days later I see Kofi at the office and go up to him in to offer him my condolences--not a happy job.

“Good morning, Kofi.”

“Good morning, Madame,” he replies, and smiles at me.

The title Madame is one I will never get used to, but in Ghana that is what I am, wearing short skirts and sandals notwithstanding.

I extend my hand. “I am so sorry to hear about your wife.”

“Yes, yes, she has expired,” he says shaking my hand, still smiling. Kofi is always smiling so maybe he has no idea how to turn it off.

“I’m very sorry,” I say again.

“It’s no problem,” says Kofi and waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. “God has taken her.” It sounds as if he is happy to be rid of her.

“She is in a good place,” I offer.

“Yes,” says Kofi, ever smiling.

“I wish you strength,” I tell him and take my leave, driving home.

I have no idea what to make of this.

About two months later he drives me to downtown Accra, to a place I’d never find on my own, to run an errand.

“I have to remarry,” Kofi tells me as he snakes his way through the chaotic traffic. “I am too young to stay like this forever.” His tone indicates that he does not enjoy ‘this.’

“You will find someone,” I say. And why not. Kofi is a nice man, cheerful, always smiling, even smiling when saying his wife has ‘expired.’

“Yes,” he agrees. “I will find someone. Someone reasonable, who gives me no trouble at home. God-fearing, at least.”

We all have our wish list.

God is everywhere in Ghana. You can tell by the way people speak. They’re a grateful lot, tacking on “Thank God!” to every positive or hopeful comment they utter. Every time you have a problem, small or big, even strangers promise they’ll pray for you. You can tell God is alive and well by all the hundreds of little evangelical churches everywhere and the joyous hymn-singing that issues forth every Sunday morning. You can tell by the muezzin chanting the call to prayer from the nearby mosque five times every day, and your gardener on his knees on a flattened cardboard box in the garage. You can tell by the painted names adorning the rickety shops and roadside stalls and various less-decrepit enterprises. There’s the HOLY TRINITY MARMALADE FACTORY, the BLESSED ASSURANCE AUTO REPAIR SHOP, JESUS THE MANNA ENTERPRISES, SEEK CHRIST PLUMBING WORKS.

I ask you, how can you not love a place like this?