of the airport in Accra, what hits me faster and harder than the torrid sun are the loud taxi drivers boiling
in anger
who try
to seize
my suitcase while arguing like boxers in a ring.
Lucky me, I choose the taxi driver with no AC
who listens to Garth Brooks.
On the way to the village, we pass
gas stations and malls and condos and fancy cars and junksters and traffic lights and traffic and car horns and road rage and more traffic and homeless and women carrying kids on their backs and tubs
on their heads filled with plantain chips, coat hangers, pillows, and everything you could possibly ever need to buy.
Conversation with Taxi Driver
My brother from America? he asks, in an almost-British accent.
Yes.
Trump country.
. . . .
Is America great again, he says, more like a joke than a question.
How far is the drive?
Can’t drive too fast on these roads.
How much is the fare to Konko, sir?
Not too much.
Apparently, Ghanaians don’t answer questions.
First time in Ghana?
Yes.
What’s in the east?
I’m going to see family.
Right. That’s a good thing.
. . . .
We have rainy season now, boss.
That’ll be good, ’cause it’s crazy hot.
Sorry no AC. I can get it fixed. You need a driver while you’re here, then Mr. Easy is your guy, he says, handling me a card.
I think I’m good.
This is your American music. Like it?
I’m more of a rock and roll fan.
Kendrick Lamar! Yeah, I like him too.
Not exactly, but cool.
LeBron James.
What?
You know LeBron James?
Nah, you’re funny. Hey, do you happen to have an iPhone charger?
I don’t, but she does, he says, pulling over to the side of the road, almost hitting a girl with a dozen chargers strung over her shoulder.
Like I said,
everything
you could possibly
ever need
to buy.
Texts from Storm
1:25 pm
You make it okay?
What time is it there?
Are you awake?
1:25 pm
Dad’s doing better.
He woke me up EARLY
to record. Believe that!
1:25 pm
I think we got a
future hit, Blade.
Hope you like it!
1:26 pm
Lyrics are sad, but
I think it may be THE ONE.
He says it’s perfect 1:26 pm
because there’s real motion in the emotion.
Chapel caught Van
1:26 pm
with Cammie. Karma
is a beast. Miss you, little brother. How’s Africa?
Texts to Storm
1:31 pm
This place is
beautiful and dirty.
Sorta like us.
1:31 pm
Kind of a mix
between New York and Mississippi.
1:31 pm
Crowded and sparse at the same time. Desolate, but not neglected. Anyway, 1:32 pm
I’m headed to a village called Konko to find Lucy. Not sure if this 1:32 pm
is all going to work out.
Not even sure I’m gonna make it to the 1:32 pm
village. These roads are BADDDDDD! and the taxi drivers are worse.
1:33 pm
HELPPPPPP!
BTW, good luck
with the song!
Junction
After two hours of winding
cratered roads in a beat-up Honda with no shock absorbers
to absorb
the shock
of forty-seven miles of unpaved roads with scattered potholes, the taxi driver finally stops.
Konko, he says, and points to a long road on the right of the junction.
Thank you. Mr. Easy, I respond. How far of a walk?
Not far. Maybe four. Maybe five.
Minutes?
Kilometers.
. . . .
The Morrisons
have fast cars and drivers and sometimes we don’t even walk from the main house to the tennis court.
That’s what golf carts are for.
But today, beneath copper sun I walk
past skinny pigeons and skinnier goats for what seems like weeks
down a long, hot, red dirt road that scalds through my memories and seems to never ever
end.
Two Hours Later
The girl
getting water
has a smile
that glows
and flows
like the waterfall
her midnight arms
pump
into pails.
Hello, I say.
Hello, she replies
not looking up,
with an accent
so thick
and smooth
it rolls
off her tongue
like butter.
Conversation
Hi, do you speak English?
Yes, boss.
I’m looking for Konko.
Well, you have found it.
Cool.
I am Joy. Welcome.
That’s your name, Joy?
It is. And you are?
Blade.
Blade, like the American movie with Wesley Snipes?
That’s it.
Are you a superhero?
Not at all.
Well, it is nice to meet you, Mr. Blade.
Nice to meet you, Joy. Are you from England?
Why do you say that?
Your accent, there’s, like, hints of British. The taxi guy too.
Hmmm. Colonization. Blame it on the queen.
Right.
You could use some water, it seems.
That was a very, very long walk.
Only if you’ve never done it.
You’ve done it?
Twice a week. Some of my students, twice a day.
. . . .
Down the road, over there is a shop. We can get some bottled water there.
I don’t mind drinking the well water.
Even with your American malaria pills, this water is not safe.
Well, can I help you with the water?
No, Mr. Blade, I can handle it.
Three buckets of water and two arms—are you sure?
I have been carrying buckets since I was three. I am sure.
If you say so.
So tell me, Mr. Blade, what are you doing here?
Looking for someone.
Detective Blade.
Not like that. I think my mother is here.
There are no other missionaries here but you, I’m afraid.
I’m not a missionary.
All Americans who come here are on a mission.
I am on a mission, but it’s just to find my birth mother.
Interesting. You are not here to save us?
I got enough problems of my own, trust me. I’m here to close a chapter.
I see. Well, what is your mother’s name?
Lucy. Lucy November.
Lucy November is your mother?
I think so. So you know her?
Yes, I do. Lucy November is my auntie.
So, we’re cousins?
Not exactly.
I don’t understand.
It is a sign of respect, in Ghana, for women who take responsibility for nurturing and protecting, who look out for the children in their lives like Ms. Lucy does. It is protocol to say Auntie.
So, can you take me to her?
I can’t, but I know who can, Blade. Come, I will explain.
Joy walks
like
she could balance Venus on her head.
Not a drop of water spills
from the two medium pails on each hand
or the large bucket centered
on her head.
How is that possible?
She doesn’t trip on a stone
or tree root, or look to find her steps.
She just knows the way
of the sun
and her hips
sway like a wave keeping time.
She stops,
turns around, fluid
like the water, and looks at me.
Are you staring, Mr. Blade?
I’m not staring. But you can at least let me take one.
I am fine. Medase!
That means thank you, right?
It does. And I do thank you. But, I’ve got this.
Akwaaba!
I am welcome?
You said, Thank you, I was saying, You’re welcome.
Ahhh! Yennaase is “you’re welcome.”
Oh, sorry about that.
It’s okay, Blade, you’re trying. Most American’s don’t.
Joy, how far are we walking?
Not too far—we’re close.
. . . .