RTW -- 8-9 Oct 2008
I worked in Ghana for four months in 1976. During that time, a thirteen-year-old boy, Armahfio Tawiah, volunteered to be my guide and interpreter through some very primitive fishing villages at Ada Foah. Those events were the most fulfilling cultural experiences of my life. Other than two short letters in the months following my visit, I have had no contact with the family of a father, his three wives, and twenty-two children. After thirty-two years, it was time to return. I was armed with a dozen photos of the family and memories of a few landmarks on the old sand road leading to his village.
I landed in Accra at dawn, found a more convenient hotel near the airport, and by nine, I had negotiated with a driver to get me to Ada Foah. My how things had changed, along with my faded memory, I was at the mercy of the driver. The old sand road from Tema no longer existed due to a major oil refinery. It was now a long forty km drive before we got to the Ada area. I was intent on getting to the post office to see if there was a record of his name. In front were a few people so I asked if anyone knew the small village of Otrokper, showing the printout I had carried. A young man on a motorbike said he would lead the way. Anxiety set in. Ten minutes away, he stopped where four young fellows were sitting under a grass-roofed shelter. They seemed too young for my inquiry, but I broke out my pictures. At the sight of the photograph of Armahfio’s father, “That my father!” came fond remorse from one man. He embraced my hand in shouts of joy called out, “Roger!” “Yes!” I said with a sigh. He had obviously heard of me. Another pointed and cried, “That my grandfather.” I shuffled through for the sibling photos asking the first if his picture was there. He acknowledged only sisters and brothers. He called Armahfio on his cell phone and then sent a car to pick him up. The father had died in 1988 at the age of ninety-four. Others from the village gathered to see the pictures. Many were related, and all were excited to see the images. Armahfio
arrived. It was indeed a joyous occasion. At forty-six, the character and expression of a person never change. From that thirteen-year-old boy till now, there is a joy in living that is never dampened. He is unemployed with a sweet wife and three lovely daughters of eighteen, twenty, and twenty-two. They have a roadside shop selling necessities, his wife and younger daughter maintain. Armahfio had a house under construction but was without enough funds to complete the interior. Ten or twenty minutes might pass before good thoughts of our past would cause broad smiles and a hearty handshake. Their village of Otrokper had all but been eroded by the Atlantic Ocean. I was trying to understand the lay of the land from the pictures I had. The entire Tawiah compound had washed away, and the village preceded it. Six buildings remained of what thirty years before held three hundred people in about a hundred huts. Gone are the fertile fields of cassava where they had three growing seasons a year. Chatting on cell phones took priority over the essentials of living. My host said to send my driver back to Accra, and they would take me back later.
We went to a local restaurant. I tried to order a simple appetizer, but nothing was available, so I conceded to take whatever they had – chicken with a mound of fried rice. As it turned out, I was the only one eating. It was apparent that I was the guest and could not pay for anything. Mission accomplished. They drove me back to my hotel in Accra. Along the way, I asked the younger sibling that first acknowledged ‘That my father,’ what year he was born – 1976. Of course, back then, I had asked the father about his family, he said, “I start breeding in 1942, and child number twenty-two is in the belly of my third wife.” This young man, Isaac, was the one.
A bigger element for Armahfio’s and his people of Otrokper that washed away with the tide was adopting a Christian name. Frederick. Juju was the mark of pagan history and he made a pointed query into my faith. Everyone had a cell phone – probably the biggest expense for most. There were still many thatch-roof mud huts. I expect such a form of shelter to vanish for a rectangular brick structure with corrugated steel roofing. The agrarian life was all but gone. I had remembered continuous growing seasons of cassava, tomatoes, and protected fruit growths. The pottery had given way to plastic. Cars were rare but everyone needed to know someone with a vehicle.
With my success in Ada Foah, I felt no need to linger. My old memories were dearer than anything I could gain here in the next two days. After leaning on the receptionist at His Majesties Hotel, I was able to locate Royal Air Maroc and bump my flight to leave early.
I worked in Ghana for four months in 1976. During that time, a thirteen-year-old boy, Armahfio Tawiah, volunteered to be my guide and interpreter through some very primitive fishing villages at Ada Foah. Those events were the most fulfilling cultural experiences of my life. Other than two short letters in the months following my visit, I have had no contact with the family of a father, his three wives, and twenty-two children. After thirty-two years, it was time to return. I was armed with a dozen photos of the family and memories of a few landmarks on the old sand road leading to his village.
I landed in Accra at dawn, found a more convenient hotel near the airport, and by nine, I had negotiated with a driver to get me to Ada Foah. My how things had changed, along with my faded memory, I was at the mercy of the driver. The old sand road from Tema no longer existed due to a major oil refinery. It was now a long forty km drive before we got to the Ada area. I was intent on getting to the post office to see if there was a record of his name. In front were a few people so I asked if anyone knew the small village of Otrokper, showing the printout I had carried. A young man on a motorbike said he would lead the way. Anxiety set in. Ten minutes away, he stopped where four young fellows were sitting under a grass-roofed shelter. They seemed too young for my inquiry, but I broke out my pictures. At the sight of the photograph of Armahfio’s father, “That my father!” came fond remorse from one man. He embraced my hand in shouts of joy called out, “Roger!” “Yes!” I said with a sigh. He had obviously heard of me. Another pointed and cried, “That my grandfather.” I shuffled through for the sibling photos asking the first if his picture was there. He acknowledged only sisters and brothers. He called Armahfio on his cell phone and then sent a car to pick him up. The father had died in 1988 at the age of ninety-four. Others from the village gathered to see the pictures. Many were related, and all were excited to see the images. Armahfio
arrived. It was indeed a joyous occasion. At forty-six, the character and expression of a person never change. From that thirteen-year-old boy till now, there is a joy in living that is never dampened. He is unemployed with a sweet wife and three lovely daughters of eighteen, twenty, and twenty-two. They have a roadside shop selling necessities, his wife and younger daughter maintain. Armahfio had a house under construction but was without enough funds to complete the interior. Ten or twenty minutes might pass before good thoughts of our past would cause broad smiles and a hearty handshake. Their village of Otrokper had all but been eroded by the Atlantic Ocean. I was trying to understand the lay of the land from the pictures I had. The entire Tawiah compound had washed away, and the village preceded it. Six buildings remained of what thirty years before held three hundred people in about a hundred huts. Gone are the fertile fields of cassava where they had three growing seasons a year. Chatting on cell phones took priority over the essentials of living. My host said to send my driver back to Accra, and they would take me back later.We went to a local restaurant. I tried to order a simple appetizer, but nothing was available, so I conceded to take whatever they had – chicken with a mound of fried rice. As it turned out, I was the only one eating. It was apparent that I was the guest and could not pay for anything. Mission accomplished. They drove me back to my hotel in Accra. Along the way, I asked the younger sibling that first acknowledged ‘That my father,’ what year he was born – 1976. Of course, back then, I had asked the father about his family, he said, “I start breeding in 1942, and child number twenty-two is in the belly of my third wife.” This young man, Isaac, was the one.
A bigger element for Armahfio’s and his people of Otrokper that washed away with the tide was adopting a Christian name. Frederick. Juju was the mark of pagan history and he made a pointed query into my faith. Everyone had a cell phone – probably the biggest expense for most. There were still many thatch-roof mud huts. I expect such a form of shelter to vanish for a rectangular brick structure with corrugated steel roofing. The agrarian life was all but gone. I had remembered continuous growing seasons of cassava, tomatoes, and protected fruit growths. The pottery had given way to plastic. Cars were rare but everyone needed to know someone with a vehicle.
With my success in Ada Foah, I felt no need to linger. My old memories were dearer than anything I could gain here in the next two days. After leaning on the receptionist at His Majesties Hotel, I was able to locate Royal Air Maroc and bump my flight to leave early.
2 comments:
Incredible. Absolutely and completely incredible. I am so thrilled it was a success!
Hi there!
What an amazing story!!
Thanks for sharing!
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