Champions

It being the last weekend before Halloween, there were several parties from which to choose. I'd spent the day opening, sorting, arranging and emptying boxes, since my sea freight from overseas arrived Friday afternoon after a two-month voyage -- my books, pictures, useless boxes of old files, that sort of thing. A nap and a light supper, and I was read for some music.

A colleague hired a DJ and entertained the neighborhood with lively dance music plus an open bar. I stopped by early, dressed in an old Dagomba smock I'd picked up 20 years ago, plus my leather Indiana Jones hat, and billed my costume the Dagomba Gaucho, sufficient for entrance at least.

After depositing my chips and dip, I chatted with a Swiss couple, accompanied by their two young daughters dressed with face paint, dog ears and whiskers, mostly about how life used to be quite wonderful in Ivory Coast before the current turmoil. The husband is a rep for an international food processing company, and they're now more or less refugees in Ghana waiting for the situation in Ivory Coast to sort itself out. I suspect much of the current economic boom in Ghana can be attributed to the troubles next door. He wondered if the boom in Ghana can possibly last if Ivory Coast eventually settles down, given what he characterized as the interminable delays and costs of doing business at Tema, Ghana's principal seaport.

After about an hour, I hopped in my car and headed out to the Next Door, a bar on the ocean about a 15-minute drive from Central Accra. Great local live band, good food, surf pounding just a few feet away. Another colleague had invited out-of-towners attending a conference to join him there for dinner and dancing. The conference dealt with the sustainable production of cacao, so there were representatives around the table from the big chocolate multinationals as well as local commodity brokerage houses and farmers organizations, and a smattering of donor staff and U.N. Many of the aid staff had popped over from Liberia and Sierra Leone on one of the U.N. cargo flights.

All munched on grilled red snapper and kelewele, shouting ourselves hoarse over the music. A donor staffer from Freetown shared stories about friends lost, or at least lost track of, during the war, and efforts to reconnect with them.

On the way back to town, and feeling the need for a bit less noise, I stopped by La Palm, which has a quite fabulous garden restaurant and bar, one of my favorite spots in and around Accra, though quite a bit upscale and therefore quite pricey. The high prices include barstools located no more than 10 meters from an escarpment overlooking the pounding surf of the Gulf of Guinea.

I ordered a drink, and while the barkeep was mixing, I wandered over to the rail and contemplated the sea. It was a clear night, with the usual string of lights offshore from vessels waiting their turn at Tema a few miles to the east. When I returned, my drink was waiting, along with another drink two barstools over beside a shiny black purse that I'm sure had not been there moments earlier. A woman sensibly dressed in the local version of smart casual eventually joined the drink and the purse, and after a few sips greeted me.

Knowing the drill, I nonetheless engaged her in a discussion about her day job at an Osu hair salon (or saloon, as they call them here). Turns out her saloon only cuts women's hair. She didn't seem to know the ladies who cut mine out at the Golden Tulip saloon.

I paid for my drink as well as hers and stood to depart. She wished me well, and extended a hand to say goodbye, but in the process inadvertently dropped what she'd been holding-- a couple of Champions. I smiled, reached down, and handed them back to her. During the exchange, she rubbed the nail of her middle index finger in my palm, lightly scratching.

"Good night," I said, not accepting the offer.

"Good night to you, too," she smiled reluctantly.

On the way home I stopped back by the Halloween party, still going strong at 11:30. Of course, most Ghanaians don't really seem to get started until about midnight-- a friend once took me to a club that was practically empty at 10pm, but assured me it would be one of the liveliest spots in town just a few hours later. Perhaps the Halloween crowd would be moving on soon to their next phase.

I made the rounds, running into a few more acquaintances, including one of the local staff from the office who'd clearly had a few. Out in the garden I plopped down next to a couple of friends who are regulars at the Champs Quiz Night on Thursday nights. We plotted our next effort to claim the grand prize, and I headed home to bed.

For a Change

In Washington there was nothing I liked better than a good evening at the theater. Studio, Woolly Mammoth, Round House, Theatre J, the Kennedy Center, Clarice Smith Performing Arts Center.

A vibrant theater scene is not immediately apparent in and around Accra, though I expect there's more here than meets the eye. Telenovelas, performed in local languages, are as popular in West Africa as anywhere, of course, and are perhaps the most accessible form of drama, at least insofar as my limited experience here to date has indicated. My experience in Sierra Leone in the '80s suggests Ghanaian drama will not look like European or American theater, which of course should not be surprising to anyone.




I was rather surprised to come across something completely unexpected this week. Theatre for a Change uses interactive theater "to promote young people's rights to lead healthy lives free from abuse, and to explore and transform patterns of behavior that put young people at risk." Sarah Easby, a masters student from the U.K. writes a fascinating account of one of their performances.

HIV/AIDS is central to many of the performances, a difficult subject for discussion under any circumstances, and equally so in Ghana. I look forward to learning more about the program.

Murtala Muhammed

On my first ever trip to Africa a quarter century ago, I touched down at Nigeria's international airport in Ikeja, near Lagos, on my way to Ghana.

In those days...

"What are you doing in Nigeria?" the immigration officer demanded.

"I'm sorry," I humbly replied. "As I explained to your colleague a few minutes ago, I am just in transit, and it seems I needed to collect my bags and check them in at the Sabena counter. That required me to pass through immigration to baggage claim, and so your colleague told me it would be ok. Now I'm returning to catch my flight."

"Which colleague told you to pass through? Where is he?"

"Hmm," I looked around. "He doesn't seem to be here now."

"Then where is your visa? You have no visa for Nigeria in your passport!"

"Well, I was only in Nigeria for about 15 minutes to collect my bags."

"But you have no visa! You are in Nigeria illegally! Come with me!"

I subsequently was parked in a very small room. Every fifteen minutes or so, a police officer would enter and inform me that I was in very deep trouble, and then depart shaking his head. After about two hours, they released me with a warning that I should always obtain a visa before entering Nigeria.



It's a bit different now...

I caught a flight this morning on Virgin Nigeria from Abuja via Lagos to Accra, and passed through Murtala Muhammed International Airport once again. Named for the Sandhurst-educated army officer who briefly led Nigeria before himself being assasinated in 1976, the terminal that was new 25 years ago is a bit faded now, certainly ready for a face lift, but clean, with well stocked food carts and cafes. A corner of the terminal has in fact been nicely renovated by Virgin, complete with a special waiting area with new seats and flat screen televisions on the walls.

Out in the main terminal areas, a police officer checked to make sure I had a boarding pass before waving me on to the immigration desk. He reminded me to complete a departure card, noting that I did not seem to have one. "Wait just a moment," he said, and then dashed off, returning with one of the long blue cards in hand.

"How was your stay in Nigeria?" asked the immigration officer as he looked over my card and passport while making notations in his computer.

"Very nice, thank you. I'm in transit from Abuja."

"Oh yes," said the immigration officer, "Abuja is our capital. How did you find it?"

"It was lovely," I replied. "I stayed at a wonderful hotel, and I was very impressed with the wide streets and all of the construction in the city. It seems there are many new buildings being constructed."

"Oh yes," said the immigration officer, stamping my passport. "Abuja is a very active city. I am happy you found it well, and I hope you will come again."

"I certainly will."

How de Body?

I finished a good read today, How de Body? by Teun Voeten, which I highly recommend.

It reminded me of a little story I wrote under a pen name back in 1995, which I reproduce here. The old friend in the story (Alusine is not his real name) recently popped up on my radar screen. I hear he's playing football again, and was on a team that traveled overseas -- Brazil maybe.


Amputee Football In Sierra Leone

Photo copyright by Adam Nadel, used with permission.



LETTER FROM AFRICA
c. May 3, 1995 by Alistair Coker

Alusine is an old friend. I first met him quite by chance, or so
it seemed to me at the time. I was walking down a dusty road in a
rural village, chatting with a colleague about some work we were
undertaking there, when a young man simply walked up and introduced
himself to me. He asked if we needed any assistance in reaching
wherever it was that we were going, and he offered to take us
there, no matter where 'there' was.

Since I needed assistance for a variety of small tasks, and since
Alusine seemed eager to please, I employed him for a nominal sum.
For some reason I decided I liked him. He was outgoing and
unassuming. When he didn't know something, he told me so. He was
also quite frank about money. I seemed to have more of it than he,
and he was determined through hard work in my employ to achieve a
more balanced state of affairs.

Some time later I learned that Alusine had quite a number of
diverse interests. We encountered each other in Freetown one day,
where he promptly invited me to witness a football match in which
he was the goal keeper. I was impressed with his performance and
told him so. He thanked me, whereupon he removed his shoes, showed
me where holes had worn through the soles, and explained that he
was in dire need of this most essential of equipment.

I did some quick thinking. The man definitely had potential. I
had visions of myself escorting him to World Cup matches in faraway
lands. We walked to a shop by PZ and purchased a new pair of
superb football shoes.

Alusine's football championship hopes were not to be fulfilled,
unfortunately. His team failed to win a number of key matches, and
he lost his job with the team's sponsor.

Several months ago Alusine again appeared at my doorstep. He was in
full military uniform, and cut a quite spectacular figure. Had I
been a rebel, I'm sure I would have immediately turned and
scampered off.

Like so many impoverished young men in Freetown, Alusine had joined
the military in search of a better life, a bit of cash, and,
perhaps most importantly, a bit of respect. He had achieved most of
these things. From the stories he told me about life at the front,
he clearly was having the time of his life. It was exciting. It
was adventure. Important people in large cars stopped whenever he
asked. Young children marveled at him.

I must say I enjoyed simply being with him. He was confident and
as outgoing and unassuming as ever, but he had learned to use his
uniform to advantage. We had a pleasant visit, discussed his
recent marriage and the birth of his daughter, and talked about the
earlier glory of his football days.

And then he was off, back to the provinces, back to the war. He
left a picture with me, posing with comrades, AK-47s at the ready,
a semi-circle of young smiling village boys gathered round. I have
the picture in my parlour.

Yesterday I was informed by messenger that Alusine had sent for me
from the hospital at Wilberforce. He has had one leg amputated. I
will try to visit him on the weekend.

Pounding rain

My home is actually about a mile from Kokomlemle, the neighborhood in Accra with the really nice name. If you have trouble getting your mouth around it, try this pronunciation guide:

KO-ko-meh-LAY-meh-LAY

Say it fast, as it really sounds like this:

KO-ko-m'LAY-m'LAY

Peace...