Ghana The Gateway

Ghana is the 8th African country I have visited but to say that is only to show off as in each instance I have experienced but a small slice of life in tiny corners of vast countries that comprise the African continent. However, I am very much at home here for this fortnight of return to my vine and fig tree, as I am struck by the similarities that I have now come to associate with being in West Africa.

As with my visits to Benin in 1999 and Nigeria in 2003, I am thankful for the three years in Jamaica that helped to bring a sense of familiarity when with the family at home. I am also quite thankful to those Jamaicans and others from the West who recognised the importance of returning home by any means necessary and so have not waited for the critical mass of repatriation. This week our hosts are Ras Jah Wayne and Empress Renee who have opened up their huge mountainside home to the visiting Empresses of Zion who chose Ghana as the host country for its 6th annual celebration of the birthday of Empress Menen, the wife of Emperor Haile Selassie I.
The warm colours of African Liberation embrace as we enter the airport terminal to greetings of Akwaaba from everyone. I am still struggling to remember the feminine form of the response I am supposed to make but despite the cacaphony of languages around us, everyone understands thank you. If a preponderance of flags is synonymous with patriotism then Ghanaians are the most patriotic of all as the national flag is flown everywhere. The colours are the same red, gold and green of Ethiopia’s but with the red at the top and a black star in the middle that represents the influence of Jamaica’s Marcus Garvey on Ghana’s independence struggle. I came armed with my Bobo Shanti flag all the way from Anguilla as this the same order used by that Mansion of Rastafari known as the Ethiopia Africa Black International Congress (EABIC). I learned long ago not to be upset by those for whom the Caribbean in synonymous with Jamaica but I am making a mental note to supply a few world maps to the school adopted by the Empress of Zion Collective so that students can look for the tiny island named Anguilla at the top of the island chain.

As you may know by now, I am choosing my spot and I am truly enjoying the musical notes of all the mother tongues being spoken around me. Everything sounds like a song but a good cuss with all the accompanying gestures is also not to be missed. Here, the dreaded and feared matutu of Kenya is the cho cho and once again I swear that all the minibus drivers in the world, graduated from the same training school. But this is the life of the common people and I am revelling in it, haggling with elders in the markets as if I already live here. I’m just letting them know that I am coming, just as I’m letting you know that one day Heartically Yours will be replaced by something else in The Anguillian.

Accra, like other African cities, is characterised by the hustle and bustle of any city but enriched with the spirit of Africa, dressed in striking colours of Africa and laced with a rhythm all its own.
This is definitely not where I will be. We are staying in hilly town of Mamfe in the Eastern Region and from there have travelled to neighbouring towns such as Somanya (with emphasis on the So), Kofordua (the dua seems common) and Akropong. Everywhere there are reminders of the Maroons of the Caribbean Region and one cannot forget in this land, the Mother from whence we came. Jah Wayne and Empress Renee have been here for ten years and have fought and won the now expected battles between those who never left and those of us destined to return. Their three princesses are students at the school that the Empress of Zion Collective has adopted and where their mother volunteers three days a week. My big discovery is how many Rastafari sisters and brothers that I thought were still in the Caribbean, have come ahead of me. Among them is Ras Iwin, now called More Fiyah, who is still chanting his strong Nyahbinghi chants but who will never lose his Bajan accent. Then there is Black Madonna, last seen somewhere in the hills of Jamaica. The best surprise of all is Ras Aswad, I knew him over twenty years ago as Mervin Palmer and those of you who like the late Peter Tosh’s music, will know him as the artist who gave us that brilliant record cover for the album Mama Africa. The man has not aged at all. Another good reason to put Ghana on my list of possible places to live.

In the last few days of travelling back and forth, I have come to the conclusion that death is big business here. You have to stop yourself from thinking that you want one of those shiny, elaborate caskets along the way. Hugo Rey and Allister Richardson will have to come here and see for themselves that in comparison, the ones they offer look like they belong to paupers. It seems like Fridays and Saturdays are big funeral days here and it is obvious that a lot of money is put into the business of putting away the dear departed. I have heard stories of real impoverishment after a family funeral. Last Friday, I thought it was a motorcade when the truck and car loads travelled joyfully down the road but then I noticed that everyone was dressed in black and red so I thought it must have been some kind of a football victory. Wrong again. It was a funeral and many yards along the way were seen decked out in the red and black that signalled a death in the family. The large tents, chairs and general busy-ness signalled a big thing indeed. But lest I get carried away (literally), I give thanks for my speedy recovery from something that ached my bones so much I want to investigate whether mosquito is the only means of transmitting malaria. Thanks to Jah Wayne, I was treated with a variety of bitter concoctions, some familiar, some not, but all gladly consumed. It was probably the flu contracted in New York but the fevery aches and pains prevented me from taking the overnight tour of Winneba, Elmina Castle and the Cape Coast. I had looked forward to discussing a possible collaboration with the Rastafari Sister who owns and operates the small Rock Top Hotel there. I was however, thankful for the rest and was happy to continue feasting of the fruit of my brother’s labour. All the food eaten at the house was grown by this brother’s hands and it is difficult to be homesick when I look out the backdoor down the slope as far as the eye can see to behold breadfruit, ackee, all kinds of other fruits, vegetables and seasonings. Yams of every kind abound. I think only rice and sugar have been bought.

This time, I have to return but today I am in Accra on my Rastafari diplomatic mission to strengthen the lobby for direct Rastafari representation in the African Union and CARICOM. The world is a small place. You’ll see me soon.