Twenty minutes later
we arrive
at a house—
if you can call it that— made out of
red dirt
and slabs of wood.
Just put your bag down over there, she says, pointing to a pile of rocks and a pot.
So, where can I find Lucy?
Konko is a big place. There are almost a thousand people spread throughout it. Most are here, but there are some in a neighboring community, and a small group in a remote settlement. Auntie Lucy is visiting there.
In the settlement. Why?
They do not have a lot up there. Even less than we have. She goes to help. With school. With medicine. With food.
How far is it?
Not—
Yeah, not far, I know. How many miles?
Twenty-five kilometers, but you will need a guide.
A guide?
It’s on the other side of mountain and rainforest. You can drive for a quarter of the way. The rest is walking, and you will need a guide.
And where might I find the guide?
He goes up once a week.
When is the next time he’s leaving?
He left this morning.
Can we call her?
No Reception
Of course,
there are no
working cell phones
in that remote
settlement
because there are no
cell towers
on the other side
of mountain
and rainforest.
Perhaps we can send
an African pigeon
with a note,
I want to say
in frustration.
But, of course,
I don’t.
It is impolite
to turn down a dinner invitation, she says, handing me a bottle of Volvic water.
How much do I owe you?
Three cedis.
I haven’t exchanged my money yet. How much is that?
Oh, sixty dollars.
Very funny.
My treat, she says, pounding flour and water
in a bowl
along with several other women
in the village, while they speak in a language
I can’t understand, though I can tell they are talking about me
by the laughter and the stares.
Her Village
is bustling and bursting with children chasing goats and soccer balls, while their mothers cook, wash, laugh, and dance
all at the same time, to what sounds like James Brown, only faster, with heavy drums and lots of chants.
The energy here is familial, jovial even.
It rivals Hollywood Boulevard, only less glitz more raw
and real.
The men are off cutting timber growing cocoa farming
all day
for their families.
Each person I pass
waves
like they know me or they want to.
It is a good feeling not to be recognized and still noticed.
Track 8: Zombie
ROCKER: FELA KUTI / ALBUM: ZOMBIE / LABEL: COCONUT RECORDS RECORDING DATE: 1975 STUDIO: NIGERIA The music they’re dancing to, what is it?
Fela. FELA KUTI! Rabble-rouser.
Sounds like funk jazz rock dance music all mixed up.
The king of Afrobeat.
This song is long. It’s been playing forever.
Epic songs. Some are ten, some are twenty minutes long.
He’s Ghanaian?
From Nigeria, but all of Africa loves Fela.
Where is the music coming from?
There is a boom box and big speakers in a truck down the way. DJ Enoch entertains us.
A boom box? Wow! Haven’t seen one of those in a while.
The song is called “Zombie.” But, not your American zombies. It’s about soldiers who don’t think for themselves, they just follow orders. The song got him into a lot of trouble.
Like what?
Ironically, he was banned from Ghana. And because of the song, the very soldiers he spoke out against were ordered to kill his mother.
Did they?
The zombies did.
For a song? That’s crazy.
Music is powerful, Blade.
Fufu
For dinner,
I hesitantly eat
what looks like
dough
and tastes
like nothing good
until
I dip it in a bowl
of peanut soup
and eat every last
piece.
And when it’s gone
I try to eat
what lingers
on my fingers.
Conversation
Where will you stay tonight?
Do you have hotels?
There are plenty back in Accra. A few near the junction.
You mean back up the long hike?
Taxis will come, but they are random in the evening. More in the mornings.
Seriously?
There’s always tomorrow.
Medase.
I hear sarcasm.
. . . .
There is a bed in the school. You can sleep there.
What about a shower? Anywhere around here to do that?
What do you think the water was for, boss?
Of course.
On the way
to the school
something runs
in front of us,
and when I ask
Joy what it is,
she smiles, and says,
If we’re lucky,
tomorrow’s soup.
Conversation
That’s not funny at all.
It most certainly isn’t.
Where I come from, that was a rat. A big ole rat.
Grasscutter is a delicacy.
I’ll pass.
So what brings you here to talk to your mom, Lucy? You know, I had no idea she had a son.
I just found out that I was adopted.
And who are your adoptive parents now?
My mother died when I was eight.
Koo se. I am sorry.
My father and sister are back home.
They must miss you, yes?
It’s complicated.
Is it?
Where is your family?
They live in Volta region.
How far is that?
A long way.
So, why are you here?
I came to take care of my uncle. He is old and doesn’t see.
I’m sorry.
You are sorry a lot. It’s life, Mr. Blade.
Please just call me Blade.
These are your quarters, Blade.
This is your school?
This is it.
Oh.
Home
We are
in a building, if you can call it that, smaller than my Hollywood bedroom.
It has three rooms no doors
no windows.
We stand in the largest.
I can see
the stars
through holes in the roof held up
by four logs shooting up from a dirt floor with rows
and rows
of chairs
and a cross, which lets me know this is also a church.
God help me.
Conversation
We will make a pallet over there, she says, pointing to a wooden contraption with a few blankets on top.
Wait, is this a church? I thought you said I’d be sleeping in the school.
This building is, indeed, the church, Blade. And the community center. And the library. And the school. It’s not complete, but we are working on it.
I see. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it, but I’m happy to pay for a bed, in a house or something.
All the extra space we have is occupied by children who have lost their parents.
Lost their parents?
Yes, many have left to find work, or have fallen sick.
Millions here are affected by malaria. Parents die or are too sick to take care of their sick children. We have twenty thousand children die each year from it. The mosquitoes are treacherous.
. . . .
Don’t worry, Blade, we have mosquito nets. Plus, your American pills are potent.
I’m sorry, Joy.
Don’t be. It is not your fault . . .
What happens to the orphans?
Orphans
The word seems sad when you say it.
An orphan
is like a soul bulb waiting
to be planted in just
the right place.
When you’re an orphan, you no longer belong, but a child is a child of everyone, they belong