JuJu to Wagner

At the end of my four-month working experience in Ghana, West Africa, Armahfio, and my adopted family invited me to spend my final evening as their guest. Dinner was their staple batter of cassava called fu-fu and a non-spiced portion of fish for me. It was served on a leaf and scooped with your hands. All of the children were familiar, but this was the first time I had seen them together. I turned to Armahfio’s father and asked how many children he had. He swelled with pride and said, “I start breeding in 1942, and child number twenty-two is in the belly of the third wife.” After dinner, the children gathered to make ‘happy JuJu, ’ which consisted of dancing and singing for me. JuJu is their magic, which has many forms. The serious stuff requires a sacrificial chicken and a witch doctor, but anyone can make happy JuJu. I brought a fifth of Bombay Gin as a gift for the father. He opened it, and within an hour, it was half gone. By then, most of the children were sleeping here and there on the floor. Being a rich and influential member of the community, they had a guest room with a mattress for me in a dwelling crafted from clay bricks and a thatched roof.

At sunrise, I said my goodbyes and then rushed off to finish packing and catch a late afternoon flight to Frankfurt, Germany. A month earlier, I had sent messages via telegraph routed to our US office for them to contact my friend Christel in Germany about my travel schedule. To my amazement, it worked, and she picked me up at the airport with another couple. They explained we had tickets for a Wagnerian Concert at Neuschwanstein Castle in Bavaria for the following evening. As we sipped champagne during intermission of the Hungarian Philharmonic performance, no one but I could fathom the transition, forty-eight hours can make. My privilege was to be there, but I was more honored by my African friends.