Thursday, September 30, 2010

Don't Mind Your Wife

No body is free - might as well drink!

This is a fairly typical "drinking spot" in Ghana. "Spot" is the word used for bar/tavern/pub. Some names you might see are:

All Is Well Spot,

Be Bold Drinking Spot,

Strawberry Spot,

and my personal favorite, Don't Mind Your Wife Drinking Spot, where "mind" is used in the British sense - meaning Don't Pay Any Heed to Your Wife.
XO

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Mystery

I was sitting on the top step drinking my coffee, minding my own business and watching the neighbors head off to their daily pursuits. Below near the breezeway between our building and the bank next door I saw Precious’ mother, Mary, speaking animatedly and gesturing wildly. The woman to whom she spoke immediately began to speak loudly with an upset tone to her voice and I thought they were having a neighborhood squabble. When they finished, Mary saw me, waved and started my way.

She marched up the stairs like a woman with a mission and, again wrongly, I thought she was going to share with me the cause of the spat so that I could, of course, take her side and lament about “people these days”. Instead, she told me there were three dead girls in the church down the street. She was speaking rapidly and couldn’t get the news out fast enough so it was all I could do to gather that three girls from the same family had died and were laid in state nearby.

As always, my immediate questions were “How?” and “Why?” – to which, after two years I should learn, the answer was “No one knows.” Finally, frustrated that I kept asking questions she couldn’t answer, she said, “Let’s go.” I said, “Go where?” and she said, “Go see.” I protested that I wasn’t, in my standard Capri and sleeveless top uniform, dressed for a funeral. She reassured me that it was fine and that she had gone over in what she had on – a plaid skirt with a side zipper, unfastened at the top from a missing button, and a hangin’-around-the-house blouse.

So, feeling like Grandma Mazur in a Stephanie Plum mystery (I ♥ Janet Evanovich!), I went inside to change, at the very least, from my house flip flops to my going out sandals and away we went. Here is the “news” article describing the situation. I could link to it, but it’s short and I’ll attribute it to the Ghana Chronicle and put it in quotes and all that – so they shouldn’t mind.

“The Eastern regional capital, Koforidua, became a scene of great grief yesterday when the bodies of three sisters from Aburi, who died mysteriously three weeks after returning from a youth camp, were transported to the town for burial. The Apostolic Church of Ghana, where the three young ladies worshipped, was literally shaken to its foundation as the entire leadership of the church, which was overawed by the event, trooped to the Eastern regional assembly in Koforidua for the burial service.

The bodies of the three sisters, aged between 17 and 20, were brought to Koforidua for burial following a 40-day ban on drumming, noise-making and funeral at Aburi that normally precedes the Odwira festival in the town. The festival is expected to take place in the middle of next month.

The circumstances leading to the mysterious death of the sisters, including a set of twins, spread like a wildfire in the Koforidua municipality, drawing a huge crowd from all corners of the town to the premises of the church where they had all been laid in state for the burial service. Two of the sisters died on the same day while the other died five days earlier. Sympathisers including some pastors could not hold back their tears when they saw the three sisters lying in state. When the caskets containing their mortal remains were being carried to the cemetery, the roof of the church nearly came down, with spontaneous wailing from the church members.

The only living sister of the three deceased, who is about 14 years old, had to be heavily protected and comforted. It was however visible that she was very terrified and traumatized during the entire burial service of her sisters. Both parents of the deceased, who are in their late forties, are natives of Aburi, where they live with their children. The 17-year-old twins, Juliana Opoku Nsiah and Juliet Opoku Nsiah, attended SDA Senior High School at Ashanti Agona while their 20-year-old elder sister, Josephine Opoku Nsiah, was about to enter the Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology (KNUST) in Kumasi after completing Adonten Senior High School at Aburi. The father, Oliver Kwame Nsiah, is a driver at the Accra office of KNUST while the mother sells second-hand clothing at Aburi.

The mysterious deaths sparked a series of speculations trying to explain the deaths which occurred in less than a week. Some alleged that it could be a spell on the family while others said the children were bewitched. Juliet Opoku Nsiah, the younger of the twins, was said to have complained about pains all over the body after 'something' allegedly struck her neck like somebody had hit her with a stick.

The sickness got serious and she was taken to the Tetteh Quarshie Memorial Hospital at Mampong-Akuapem, from where she was later referred to the regional hospital at Koforidua. She died on September 4, a few days after admission. Five days after Juliet's death, the elder sister, Josephine complained of a similar ailment and died on the same day when she was taken to Tetteh Quarshie Hospital. About two hours after the death of Josephine, Juliana was said to have collapsed but was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital on the same day.”

As with Patrick, my small boy who died in late August, there was no follow-up about the causes of death. No autopsy results. No reassurances to parents who may worry about a contagious epidemic. Nothing to refute the wild speculations of witchcraft. And finally, no closure for the family – no explanation of an unfathomable parental nightmare.

The church was like a parade with a steady stream of people, including small children, walking up the center aisle to where the three bodies lay side by side on three identical platforms, in three identical white dresses. All were instructed to circle round the bodies to the right and then proceed back up the center aisle and out the doors in the back of the church. A three piece ensemble played music as family members and friends sat in the church pews (actually rows of chairs) throughout the day.

We saw many of the neighbors there, all out of curiosity alone. No one in our neighborhood, nor in most of Koforidua, knew this family, but everyone turned up to gaze at the bodies. Those who didn't go inside were crowded 5 deep around every window in the church building. It was perhaps the single greatest moment of cultural divide I have experienced in these two years. And the front page full color newspaper photo of the girls laid out at the church was the second.
XO

Friday, September 10, 2010

Akos and Kwabena

Two of the children in the neighborhood are brother and sister. The girl, Akos, is 12 and the boy, Kwabena, is 10. He is a little slow and probably a lot ADD. He doesn’t go to school because I am sure there is no path for him there. I’m told he did go at one time, but they “sent him home”. The children always call Kwabena a “dirty boy” because they hardly ever bathe him and he wears the same clothes for days in a row until the dirt is so ground in that it doesn’t come out. In a country where people bathe twice a day, even the 4-year olds begin to look with disdain on anyone who has not bathed. Further, because of his wild nature and the general opinion about his cleanliness, he had become the whipping boy of the neighborhood. Anytime something happened all the other children needed to do was point at Kwabena and he would be slapped, beaten, or caned, no questions asked.

Akos is very active and bright, but skinny and always dressed in what I would call rags. Despite being bright, when I first arrived two years ago she was 10 and in Grade 2. She was then held back to Grade 2 for another year because she could not read. I assumed her family was just very poor and barely getting by and I began giving these two a few more things than the others. On this last return I brought them both clothes which I gave them a little at a time.

Recently, on the top step over my morning coffee, the children were teasing Kwabena about not having a bath that morning. I asked why he hadn’t bathed and one of the children translated for me. He said they had no water. In the compound, when the cistern in the courtyard is dry people have to go across the street and buy water by the bucket. I assumed they couldn’t afford it. So, I put out my hand and Kwabena came inside with me. I put him in the shower and gave him a soapy bath sponge. He was amazed that I could make the water warm just by turning a knob. He scrubbed himself all over with vigor and excitement, beaming like a halogen light. Afterward, I put him in a new set of clothes and put the filthy ones in a bag. When he came back outside, the other children cheered as he continued to beam.

Imagine my surprise when a man came to the door, speaking perfect English, introduced himself as these children’s father and asked for a job. His story was that he had had a job in Accra but now he needed another one and needed to be home to care for his family. I asked what job he had in Accra and he said he worked for Metro Mass. Metro Mass is the large city-to-city bus company – and I think no one working there would leave voluntarily in a country with such high unemployment. I did ask why he left and he said it was because he didn’t have a place to stay in Accra. Are you kidding me? Anybody can find a place to stay. If you really want to take care of your family, you don’t quit a good job. And if he had a good steady job, why were his children dressed in rags – and why were they so poorly educated and his daughter barely reading, when his English was nearly perfect. I assume that if he actually did work for Metro Mass, he lost that job and was telling me a tale. I told him we didn’t have any openings, which was true.

Then a few days ago, I realized I hadn’t seen Akos for a few days, so I asked about her. Her mother had come to visit and Akos had essentially run away with her. It was Sunday and she was wearing the new dress I got her – brown with white polka dots, and a ribbon that tied in the back. When she returned from church, she sneaked in the house to get a bag of her rag clothes that she had quietly packed away. But her evil stepmother had discovered her plot and locked the bag of clothes in another room. Akos and her mother begged the stepmother to give her the bag and finally Akos said, “I’ll just go with what I have on,” and they left.

It was the other girls, Akos’s friends, who were telling me this story. They said the stepmother only wanted her to stay because she makes her do all the work. They said, “Auntie Jan, almost everything you give Akos, her stepmother takes and sends to her grandchildren.” It was a very sad story, but I had to quietly cheer for Akos. I hope she finds the love and care she deserves. And, Kwabena, when he’s not poking, pinching, or prodding, likes to just sit quietly and lean against me.
XO

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Where is the outrage?

Upon my return from Europe, I was rapidly informed that one of “my kids” was dead. He was three years old. I couldn’t wrap my head around it and the questions “why?” and “how?” had no answers.

The details are still sketchy and the mother still has not returned (as of 27 Sept) from the Volta Region where the boy died and was buried. The grapevine version says that on the Monday after I left to Europe, the boy and his sister (12) traveled with their mother to the Volta Region to visit family. He was fine and had not been sick. On Thursday, he complained of feeling cold and they took him to the hospital. However, he died in the car on the way.

That’s it.

Having watched far too much Law & Order and experienced blessedly little pre-mature death, in a land striving for healthcare for all – I had a lot of questions. What did the doctor say once they reached the hospital? (Nothing – they had no idea why he died) Did they do an autopsy? (Unknown, but unlikely) Was there any sort of investigation? (Unknown, but unlikely) and so on… None was answered satisfactorily.

On Law & Order, they would first determine a cause of death – I don’t know of any disease, even in Ghana, where the only symptom is feeling cold and that results in death before any other symptoms manifest, so why not at least a hypothesis and some tests. Then, sad to say, the first place they would look (the L&O detectives) would be at the parents. In this family, the daughter, when I first arrived here, knew and talked far too much about sex, including describing a variety of acts of molestation she claimed one 8-year old boy was perpetrating on smaller children. I wondered and agonized later whether what she was describing were more likely personal experiences outwardly projected. The mother, who’s chest and arms show a pattern of what appear to be ritual burns, was beaten badly one night. The next morning, when Whit and Max pointed to the huge “Stop Domestic Violence” billboard on the corner and asked her why she didn’t report it, she laughed and said that billboard was just a way for the government to spend grants they had been given by NGOs. The police would do nothing.

So, I began to wonder, in a family where violence seems to be the norm – and the outward signs of child abuse, say, shaken baby syndrome, can be virtually non-existent – in a country where the police and justice system do little or nothing to protect everyday people from violence and crime – where death is commonplace and accepted with a “tragic-but-what-can-we-do” attitude and people do show up at the hospital dead of malaria and yellow fever and typhoid and meningitis and various other undiagnosed illnesses - it would be very easy to rush a dead child to the hospital, knowing there would be no real questions.

I’m not saying what it was or it wasn’t – only that I cannot get my head or my heart around this senseless loss of a child who had only recently made the transition that every mother of boys knows well – from baby to small boy, with a tiny swagger, and a mischievous smile. And I realize the only picture I have of him is a grainy, cropped-from-a-group photo a year and a half old. Is his existence already a memory as life in Ghana goes on? Where is the outrage?
XO