A man stopped to pray over our tro-tro. Respectful of his prayer, I couldn’t help but think Jinx.
The few times I managed to balance myself against the lurches of the tro and fall asleep I was jolted forward into the nape of the man ahead. The first near crash was with a runaway cart of coconut shells. The horn was barely audible over the grinding brakes, but held constant as if to scream at the young boys, panting in the ditch, who had lost control of their cart.
The other abrupt stops were to avoid collision with the halted vehicles lined up behind the less successful ‘near misses’.
Despite the jarring trip back to Accra, I was not happy to be back at the hostel. Adelaide is a well-meaning woman at the front desk, but I just didn’t want to deal with her questions about the condition of my face. The swelling was reduced to above my cheekbone, but difficult to hide even under sunglasses.
I’m not embarrassed by the appearance so much as not having a cool story to tell. Couldn’t I have been hit in the face with the butt of a rifle for refusing to pay a police officer? Couldn’t it at least be a result of clumsiness? No, my face exploded just exploded while I was sleeping.
“Hi Adelaide,” I said rushing past, trying to seem involved in what was on the television so she couldn’t see my face.
“Kaaaci,” she cooed, “How was Cote D’Ivo… ohh what happened?”
“Just a bite, I have medicine.” I said, “I’m going to bed so it will go away.”
“Oh sorry,” the Ghanaian response when something is really terrible, “Be sure to take your medicine.”
Yeah, got it. I set my alarm to take all of the 11 pills/day at the exact hour they should be taken. It actually got worse over night, but not as bad as two days ago. Like in Larabanga, there comes a time when all you can do is be thankful for the terrible things that haven’t happened:
I don’t have a yeast infection from the medicine (yet).
The power is on, and so is my $50 fan.
I don’t feel bad for hiding in my room all day.
I get to take my malaria medicine today, and have really trippy dreams tonight.
The few times I managed to balance myself against the lurches of the tro and fall asleep I was jolted forward into the nape of the man ahead. The first near crash was with a runaway cart of coconut shells. The horn was barely audible over the grinding brakes, but held constant as if to scream at the young boys, panting in the ditch, who had lost control of their cart.
The other abrupt stops were to avoid collision with the halted vehicles lined up behind the less successful ‘near misses’.
Despite the jarring trip back to Accra, I was not happy to be back at the hostel. Adelaide is a well-meaning woman at the front desk, but I just didn’t want to deal with her questions about the condition of my face. The swelling was reduced to above my cheekbone, but difficult to hide even under sunglasses.
I’m not embarrassed by the appearance so much as not having a cool story to tell. Couldn’t I have been hit in the face with the butt of a rifle for refusing to pay a police officer? Couldn’t it at least be a result of clumsiness? No, my face exploded just exploded while I was sleeping.
“Hi Adelaide,” I said rushing past, trying to seem involved in what was on the television so she couldn’t see my face.
“Kaaaci,” she cooed, “How was Cote D’Ivo… ohh what happened?”
“Just a bite, I have medicine.” I said, “I’m going to bed so it will go away.”
“Oh sorry,” the Ghanaian response when something is really terrible, “Be sure to take your medicine.”
Yeah, got it. I set my alarm to take all of the 11 pills/day at the exact hour they should be taken. It actually got worse over night, but not as bad as two days ago. Like in Larabanga, there comes a time when all you can do is be thankful for the terrible things that haven’t happened:
I don’t have a yeast infection from the medicine (yet).
The power is on, and so is my $50 fan.
I don’t feel bad for hiding in my room all day.
I get to take my malaria medicine today, and have really trippy dreams tonight.
You do have a way with words. No surprise here. Simply because you appear to listen to yourself, above all things. That's the mark of great writing. The mark of the truly great person, on the other hand, is to listen as well to their own heartbeat and to learn to distinguish it from disturbances from the outside.
ReplyDeleteLife is indeed a paradox. Every situation has its pros and cons. The important thing to do is to learn to define things for yourself. You say Thoreau was an idealist. Did he feel so? Or was it others who felt so? Ah... see there is the difference. If you allow others and society at large to define your world you would no longer be living life on your terms. You would be living as somebody else, not as yourself. Thoreau would be Thoreau no matter where he was placed. It is that impregnable center that would distinguish your specialness and make you always be you, irrespective of where you are.
So keep on searching and I hope you don't mind my peeping in now and then to check on you as you wander around the neighborhood that was the backdrop to my early life.