Domestic Duties (Day 8)

Today was a relatively chill day. I promised my hosts and a friend that I would fix them a typical Ghanaian meal:Nkati3 wonu. Groundnut Soup. It’s a marriage between a satay and a curry. Slightly thicker than the curry but looser than a satay, although similar texture to both. I bought all the ingredients last…

On the Business of Choosing Dears

It started when she claimed me as her Dear from among the entire first year class. I was excited. Her reputation preceded her. I knew who she was because all the lower formers had been talking about Sister Avery. She was tall, standing at 6’2” a head and half taller than most of her classmates, and weighed in…

A Woman’s Lot In Life?

Would his wife be willing to meet me? Find a baby-sitter for the kids and join us for dinner? The two bigger issues that remained undiscussed were the fact that 1) I could go out and stay out late because I was single and had no children and 2) our Ghanaian society makes it pretty darn clear on who stays home. It’s lenient such that married men can stay out late if they like and rarely have to answer to anyone. And no one thinks ill of them for socializing with other women while their wives stay home. My “going-dutch on everything” feminist self went out the door as I graciously accepted the spread before me and ate my way through a 150 cedi meal with my ex and his best friend, a fellow classmate, also married I should add. Throughout the meal, I wondered whether he splurge like this on his wife? Whether he would he still ask to hang out with me if I was married? Was it easy because I had no one to answer to? Would this change if I did?

Kokrobite (Part II)

“Hi. I’m Kuukua and this is my sister May.” I said, choosing to use Etornam’s English name. I knew mine was already complicated enough. “I’m Mary. What did you say your name was?” A nod here, a barely acknowledged glance there. I repeated my name several more times. I kept my polite Ghanaian smile up….

Kokrobite (Part I)

I had never been to Kokrobite. Rumors had it that was where the pot-heads hung out. It was where Rasta and beach-bums and their “cool” wannabes went. Where the local women went to snag white men and vice-versa. Where locals knew to leave well enough alone.  My respectable-catholic-school-girl-gig didn’t go such places even when I…

Kaneshie Overhead (Part II)

After another fifteen minutes of waiting, I decided I’d be safer up on the Overhead, out of the flow of traffic and a potential mugging. I clutched my overnight bag, regretting having packed my laptop and digital camera. Once I made it to the first landing of the bridge, some of my anxiety eased up….

Kaneshie Overhead (Part I)

I arrived at the bus depot at the bottom of the Kaneshie Overhead with a few minutes to spare. We had arranged to meet at 2pm to catch a bus to T’di and from there take one of the trotros to Busua. I hopped into the front cabin of one of the vans in the…