Eat more Kenkey

That was the doctor’s advice. Eat more traditional dishes and maybe I won’t get sick. Well, I only have myself to blame because I didn’t take heed and I have another cellulitis attack.

The day I noticed the infection I was planning a trip to Togo, Benin & Niger – alone. I’ve been upset at missing so many travel opportunities with friends, so I stubbornly decided to head out alone. The main concern is that these are French speaking countries, and the extent of my French – ‘there’s a little stream with little fish’ and ‘I’m American’ – probably won’t get me very far.

So I was upset when sickness foiled my plans once again, but I received two bits of motherly advice that provided necessary clarity. What is it with Moms? How do they know exactly what to say? How do they know my internal battles? Why did I ever think I knew myself better than the woman who birthed me?

First I received a package from my mom with a little note “Don’t beat yourself up if the outcome isn’t what you expected.”
After choking up on the phone with Mamaw (grandma) she sent me an e-mail “Tears are a way of cleaning out your eyes to see things differently.”
That trip would’ve been foolish – what’s the point of traveling if it bears little more than frustration?

I woke up the next morning with a clearer vision and a smile. Immediately I knew what to do with my free weekend and within the hour I was headed to the beach. Kokrobite is a favorite weekend spot for Ghanaians and volunteers. It’s not as peaceful as Axim but boasts a different beauty. It doesn’t drive out the surrounding culture. I spent the weekend with other stray travelers, Rastafarians and pick-pocket-in-training children. For breakfast each day I had banana pancakes (more like crepes) with lime zest and watched the fisherman push out the boats and pull in the nets (I'll watch this time).

At night I watched the horizon disappear as sea and sky blended darkness. Occasionally what seemed like a lone star would reveal the edgeof the earth. Its disappearing act – dipping below sight behind a wave, slipping down the curve of the earth, or silenced by the breeze – revealed it as the candlelight of a fishing boat. Each time it disappeared I had a rush of anxiety, wondering if it had been taken by the means of its life, and I was the only witness of the end.

It was a nice way to recognize Easter.