Half a Yam in a Storm

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I wake up late, wondering how I managed to sleep through the pre-dawn whirlwind of getting the kids ready and off to school. My body is heavy with the dreams I’m still partly dreaming but I pull myself out of bed so that the house girl, Modda (“Mother” in a Ghanian accent), won’t think of me as the princess Becky insists that I be. As I eat the remaining half of a bread roll for breakfast, my friend Daniel, who is a rising musician signed by a big recording company, calls me to say that his manager says I should write a story for the newspaper on our “humanitarian” visit to the military hospital yesterday (I guess anyone can be a reporter here?). I had gone with him to spread cheer in the children’s ward and take pictures for the label’s website. It was amazing how many babies he got to stop crying the moment he began to sing and play guitar. The mothers graciously clapped their hands along to familiar gospel songs and the nurses, passing through in their old-fashioned paper hats, paused and gathered ‘round to listen. Even the sickest kids weakly turned their heads toward the music... It was pretty wonderful.

So today that is my task. Write an article, make the journey to campus, deliver a pen drive to Daniel, say hi to friends and get home before dark. I also had a tentative plan to meet Becky in Accra and go to the market for necessary household provisions, but plans and Ghana do not mix well. As soon as I start margining off the day in my head, our neighbor Kofi bangs on the front door. He has a message from Becky to remind Modda to make me something to eat. I’m hungry but I don’t have the heart to wake her from a well-deserved nap. I could wait until I go out, but looking at the dark clouds overhead, it seems like that may not happen.

“Think it’s gonna rain?” I ask Kofi.
“Somehow,” he says, and disappears around the corner. Thirty seconds later, a storm hits.

Nothing like being in the middle of a tropical storm, sheltered under a tin roofed house! It’s as loud as the white noise of a bad TV station turned on high. Rain slams the zinc and sputters down the sides, dripping and splashing into puddles. Behind the blurred glass slates of the windows I watch the trees blow sideways, take a deep breath and smile: I am stuck. Now my only task is to relax, remember that I am not in control, and remain present in this unexpected gift.

Except it may only be a gift to me... A pang of guilt rises in my stomach as I remember what rainy days do to 90%!o(MISSING)f small businesses in Ghana, and imagine all the hardworking market women huddling together inside their little shacks of goods, knowing there probably won’t be many jangling coins in their pockets on the tro-tro ride home. Through the design blocks that enclose the porch kitchen I also see men continue to chop tall grass with their machetes, despite the colossal downpour on their backs.

To combat the laziness I feel, I decide to prepare a meal on my own-- something they have never let me do since I came. The fridge is empty, like always, except for my medicine and a few bags of pure water. But I find what looks to be a yam under the table and start chipping off its thick bark with a broken-handled knife. As I begin to pry it into smaller pieces, Modda catches me in the act, smiling and shaking her head.
“You want to fry yam?”
I nod.
“This one is cassava” She takes it from my hand and pulls out another piece that looks exactly the same, unpeeled. “ This,” she says gently, “is yam.”

Defeatedly I step back and watch her carve the correct root into clean chunks; her graceful touch has them crackling in oil within a minute.

“You go, I will do it,” she tells me. So I take the walk of shame back to my royal quarters and try to enjoy a day “in the house”, as they say.

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Photos

Daniel singing in the Children's Ward
(The nurse in the background will soon be me!)

Before the Storm
Tro-Tro traffic on the way to town

Comments

[Adam Whitfield]

Very good
Very nice! sounds like a nice nice day