Empowered

            This week I feel empowered. The personal growth I had hoped to gain while in Ghana is coming trifold. I feel it. I wanted to appreciate my life more. I wanted to gain confidence and independence. I wanted to become secure in my self-efficacy. I wanted to know that I am strong and that I am happy with who I am. This week I feel all those things, plus more, growing in my bones, in my heart and in my soul. With each experience I collect, I know it more and more. I am confident. I am strong. I am independent. I am happy. I am good. I am worthy. Why? Only because I am me.

            On Monday, it rained. It was the first real rain in Cape Coast since we arrived in January. We had had two other days when the sky lowered and thickened dark with storm clouds. We’d had evening thunder and flashes of dry lightning. But it had never rained beyond a few minutes of sprinkling. On Monday, this was a true rain. It was a downpour of cool, fat drops that filled the stone gutter around the house and puddled in the back yard within minutes. As soon as I heard the steady cascade of water sheets on the roof and trees and dry ground cover, Elle and I went out on the magic porch to be closer to the wonder of it.

            I beckoned Robert, the security guard posted outside our bungalow, onto the porch. He carried up his wooden chair. I pulled our baby tortoise, Achachtra from his bowl and set him on the cement floor, and the four of us spent the day on the porch watching the first rain.

            The heavy clouds blocked the sun’s blazing heat and a wet wind whipped around the porch. Elle and I were comfortable wearing our long sleeping t-shirts. Heat would have usually forced us out of the heavy cotton and into a thinner tank top by 10 a.m., but today I elected to stay in our pajamas. Why?  Simply, because we could.

Achachtra crawled on his tiny wrinkled legs to the edge of the porch where water droplets splashed across his serrated shell. Robert and I took turns retrieving him from the edge, setting him back by our feet then watching him wobble back to the misty splashes. Elle tiptoed behind him, hunched forward to watch his every footstep. She reached out her hand as if she would pick him up, then snatched her hand away and turn to us desperately. “Catch him, before he falls off the edge!”

Big, black frogs, bigger than my open hand, hopped and plopped through the puddled backyard. Elle and I squealed and pointed at each splash they created, while Robert laughed at our surprise. The terra cotta dirt road behind our bungalow turned bright red with the rain. Divots from tire tracks created a canvas for potential beauty. Streams of lighter, tan water rushed in rivulets down the slope of the road, creating a two-toned watercolor masterpiece. Soon the air around the porch became full of fluttering, white wings. Robert told me the local name, and explained that the insects’ home was in the ground, so when it rains, they come out and fly until the rain stops. Every inch of space beyond the porch was filled with them. Their flapping wings, iridescent against the rain, looked like some weightless confetti suspended in the air, celebrating the rain.

Because of the natural coolness that came with the storm, I was finally able to turn off all of the ceiling fans in the house. My ears swelled in gratitude for the silence when that never-ending whir and rattle of the fans arrested. In the afternoon, Elle and I cuddled under a sheet in my bed and napped, hearing only the peaceful pouring rain outside. Those few hours, drifting in and out of hypnotic, storm-sleep were pure relief. The coolness, the silence, the comfort, such lovely, simple pleasures that I embraced and appreciated in the very moment. Monday was a beautiful day.

Tuesday I was on my own for the whole day. I packed Elle a lunch; a boiled egg, a banana, a slice of cheese and a cookie. I packed her pink princess back pack with two juice boxes, a plate and fork, her spare blue-checkered uniform and extra panties. Scott and I walked her to school, where she gave us each a kiss and hug then walked up the path by herself to the cement porch of the school. No crying or reaching out to us. Just a cool, calm, “Bye Bye,” and she was on her way to find her teacher, Aunty Pat.

It was a far cry from the first few weeks when she screamed and cried and desperately grasped at our arms like someone drowning when we dropped her off. Two or three teachers would surround us trying to offer comfort by yelling out Elle’s name and ordering her to “Stop Crying!” And “Come!” Ultimately, Aunty Pat would have to pry her from the death grip she had around us. The first time we left her, poor Scott dry-heaved on the side of the road on the way home. The anxiety of Elle’s own fear overwhelmed him to the point of nausea. He stayed home with his cell-phone within reach her whole first day of school.

But when we picked her up that first day, we snuck to the barred window and spied her sitting on a blue, plastic chair with our neighbor boy, Joseph, happily helping him count his fingers. That first day, and every other school day that followed, Elle left school with her shoulders pulled back and her chin up. She swished as she strutted and she glowed with confidence and fulfillment. On those days, we could visibly see her pride shooting out of her pores, and out of her fingertips at the end of her swinging arms. Although she continued to cry each morning when we left her at school, she always declared when we picked her up, “I only cried for 5 minutes!” I asked her day after day, “Do you want to come back to school tomorrow?” and she always assured me, breathlessly exclaiming, “Yes, I have ten friends today!” or “Yes, I have six friends today!”

On Tuesday, Elle didn’t cry one peep. In fact, she didn’t even look back at us as she swung the porch gate open and walked in. She proudly announced when I picked her up later, “I didn’t cry all day long!”

With a mind free of worry, I trekked to the school on the hill. It was exam time for the students in Ghana, and the headmaster asked me to give two English exams. I gave one to the senior students (class 5 and 6) and one to the junior students (class 3 and 4). I hadn’t seen the reading and picture books since our moms had donated them, so while the students worked I whispered to Mr. Martin, “Can we get out the books we donated so when the students finish their exams, they can choose a book to read?”

One by one, as they finished, I handed them a book. It didn’t take long for the students to recognize the reward for finishing their exams. The volume in the rooms rose as they completed their work then held up their papers, “Madam Molly, Madam Molly. I’m finished! I’m finished!” Their eyes sparkled and they grabbed in pure delight at the colorful books I spread out before them. They flipped through the pages, elbowing the classmate beside them to enjoy the pictures with them. Soon, all the students had a book in hand. As they finished one book, they held it up for me to trade them for another. Their appetite for more picture books was insatiable. I felt helpless but exhilarated when I ran out of new books to show them. I announced, “When you finish a book, you can trade with a classmate.” They soon were up and moving around the room, perusing the available books, enthusiastically trading with one another. I encouraged them, “Read the words. It’s good practice for your English to read all the words on the pages!” The room got quiet as their little index fingers pushed along the pages, making sense of the stories. My heart overflowed as I witnessed their appreciation of this simple pleasure.

By noon, I was on my way to Oasis, where I was supposed to meet Kokonut. He had texted me early that morning, “Good Morning. How r u? Today there will be a boat trip @ 1pm. In case you may like to be part. Kokonut.”

I met Kokonut a few weeks earlier at Oasis. He is a 20-something, local fisherman who smartly realized the profit potential of taking tourists on sea trips in a fishing canoe. He offered a two hour trip on the ocean beginning at the Cape Coast Slave Castle, looping to the Elmina Slave Castle then back to Cape Coast. I immediately organized a canoe trip for Scott and me, along with three international students (two from GVSU) and two local friends, Joseph and his girlfriend, Anastasia. The beauty and adventure of that trip hooked me for life. I asked Kokonut to call me anytime he took tourists out to sea, because I needed to go again! And so he did.

Tall, spectacled Kokonut greeted me with the local handshake ending in a snap. He pointed to the group of tourists going on the canoe trip. I ordered a beer and headed over to their table by the sea to find out their stories. Two blond college students from the Netherlands were finishing a three month stay where they volunteered at an orphanage, two young women from Germany had only visited for 2 weeks, during which time they worked at a primary school and on their tans, and an older, plump African American woman from Harlem was wrapping up her 6^th stay in Ghana where she stops in every 6 months to check on a village school she’s adopted (she pays their electricity and internet bills). Besides the 6 of us, the canoe held our guide, Kokonut, a “captain” who stood on the back bench, a motorman who steered us into the waves, and a blind man titled “the bailer”, who squatted in the hull of the canoe with his bucket.

My nerves had worked themselves out on my first trip with Kokonut, so on this voyage, I could find a secure grip on my bench in preparation for the canoe’s rocking and just enjoy the unprecedented beauty of it.  In Ghana, Tuesday is the goddess of the sea’s day so if a man goes out fishing, he will be cursed with bad luck and misfortune. Because of this, the whole of the waterscape belonged to only us. We were alone in the huge expanse, just gliding over the rolling waves. We followed the virgin coastline, unspoiled by fancy hotels or millionaires’ homes, just sand and palm trees for miles. Above us the light blue sky was clear and open, no airplanes or helicopters.  It was like we were in some untouched world, pioneers.  Other than a few squeals from us when the canoe’s tilt passed 45 degrees, the only sounds were the wind and the waves.

We floated into the Elmina fisherman’s wharf an hour after leaving Cape Coast. All the fisherman who were not on the ocean were here. All sizes and colors of canoes packed in the docks, creating a floating island capped with colored flags flapping above. Bare chested men, whose torso’s could be used to teach all the muscles in an anatomy lesson, climbed from boat to boat, their skin black and glistening. They stopped their preparations for future trips to sea to stand and wave to us as we bumped our way against the other boats, trying to squeeze into a space beside the fish market. “Hey Obrunis!” they yelled to us. Some laughed at our screams as the motorman steered us directly into the sides of other boats, apparently shifting them over to create a path through the narrow waterway for ourselves. We had to reach out and push away from the other canoes. Some fishermen warned us, yelling “REMOVE YOUR HANDS!” before two giant canoes sandwiched us, then one by one slid past us.

I had arranged with Kokonut earlier that I would disembark in Elmina rather than riding the round trip. The Elmina fisherman’s wharf has become my favorite place. The colorful, chaotic frenzy of the place, fisherman and vendors and boats everywhere, the noise and smell, the overstimulation of every sense, epitomizes Ghana for me. Whenever we pass over the bridge by car, I ask the driver to stop just so I can get out and feel the energy buzz around me. I’d since found a restaurant poised right in the midst of the action. Its cobblestone beer garden is a perfect haven, shaded from the sun and separated just enough from the hubbub so that I can observe every crab cleaned by a squatting old woman, I can count the abdominals on the fisherman untangling his nets, I can listen to the loud argument between a woman with fish spiraled across the tray on her head and a short bald man in sagging, ragged shorts and I can hear the children giggle and whisper, pointing at the Obruni lady feeding the lizards scurrying around her feet.

This is the place where I spent my Tuesday afternoon. As usual, no other customers were within the half wall of the patio; just me with a half dozen lizards running across the stones. A security guard stands at the gate to the street, uniformed in shades of greens. I ordered my food then leaned against the half wall. Locals, leaning on the other side of the same half wall, asked me where I am from. They were delighted to hear about the length of my stay. “How do you find Ghana?” one man wearing a blue and red soccer shirt asked.

 “I love it! I wish I could stay longer!” Some children came over curiously eyeing my drink. When they began to beg for a sip, the security guard walked over and leaned beside me, shooing the kids off with a wave of his hand. Until my grilled chicken and jollof rice was served, I exchanged travel stories with the guard. After lunch, a meal any mother will appreciate with envy as not being interrupted by any children or spouse, I finished my drink just as Big John sidled up with a grin, “Sista Molly! How was the big sea?”

Rose had picked Elle up from school at noon, and she was napping when I arrived home. Rose is a 20-something local girl who comes to the bungalow one or two afternoons a week to help out with Elle and to give me Ghanaian cooking lessons. That evening, we cooked yam balls and fried chicken. Some of the recipes she teaches me, I’ll continue making in the United States. Unless I can come up with a substitute for the main ingredient, this one I wouldn’t. The vegetable they call yam here is nothing like ours in the U.S.. It’s a long, heavy root-looking monstrosity that takes two hands to carry. The skin is basically a stringy, black bark and when we cut into it, a hard white meat is inside. Rose modeled how to peel and chop the thick tuber. We boiled it then mashed it with shredded carrots, onions and green peppers. We rolled the mixture into golf-ball sized balls, dipped them in egg white then rolled them in bread crumbs. We finished by deep-frying the little balls in vegetable oil.

While we cooked, Kwabena (Samuel) walked through the front door. Samuel is a small preteen who had been coming over to the house looking for odd jobs, so we made sure to save small jobs around the house for him to earn money that he could bring home to his grandmother. Before we realized the cultural gap in the saying, “Come on in!” we’d invited Samuel to “Come on in” on his first visit. To him, this meant that on all subsequent visits, he was welcome to walk in the house at any time.

I asked him to clean out the tortoise’s bowl and refill it with water, rocks and leaves. By the time he finished, dinner was done. I paid Rose 15 cedis for the day along with half of the yam balls, and summoned Samuel into Elle’s room to pick out a book. We sat on the edge of her bed and he proudly sounded out each word in “Polar Bear, Polar Bear, What do you Hear?”

On the magic porch, he read another book to Scott when he arrived home from work. While Samuel read, Big John returned from driving and entered the porch. Then we all ate. Kwabena enthusiastically took the small drumstick I offered him but only ate half of it. Big John translated his explanation that he planned to take the rest home to his grandmother. Scott asked Big John if he’d drive Kwabena home since at precisely 6:20 p.m. the sun would set in a blink and Kwabena would be left walking home in the dark. Scott accompanied them and returned shortly to tell me about his visit.

It was dark by the time they got to Kwabena’s home. Scott said it was a compound made up of a few rectangular cement houses. Samuel led Scott and Big John to his door and his grandmother welcomed them in. She wore a plain burlap-like cloth wrapped around her like a bath sheet. Scott couldn’t see into the room far because there was no electricity. Big John acted as interpreter and told Scott that Kwabena’s grandmother was very excited to meet him. She said Kwabena had told her of a white man’s house where he worked and had given her the money he earned. She said she had been asking Kwabena to bring her to see the white man, but it was even better that the white man had come to see her. While she animatedly spoke, her cloth came lose and fell to her belly, exposing her breasts. Scott said either she didn’t notice or she really didn’t care because they continued the entire conversation that way until he and Big John left.

After walking Elle to school on Wednesday morning, I planned to escape to a beach resort called Coconut Grove. It’s situated right on the ocean and has a deck with lounging chairs, umbrellas, two swimming pools, a bar and a restaurant. For 5 cedis, I could spend the day at the pool even though I wasn’t a guest of the hotel. On that day, I was the absolute ONLY person at the pool. There were no other guests at the restaurant or the bar, either. So I lounged in the sun, read my book and waved to the awaiting bartender, waiter or lifeguard when I wanted Fanta or French fries or a beach umbrella. I just soaked up my privilege and loved every minute of it.

Thursday was my dance lesson. For some reason, Oasis Bar’s upper pavilion wasn’t available for our lessons anymore so Mary invited me to her home instead. She talked to Big John on the phone to describe to him where she lived (there is no such thing as an address system here). He took me and Regina (one of the GVSU students here who’d started taking lessons with me) to the center of town and dropped us in front of a cement apartment building painted yellow. We jumped the gutter and followed Mary to a squat stone structure beside the apartments. Her home was a cement room, 8ft by 10ft, bare except for a single foam mattress pushed against the side wall. I knew she had a toddler son so I asked, “Does Prince sleep with you in your bed?”

“No,” she explained. “This is his bed. He moves around too much so I just sleep on the floor.”

I looked to the floor. Bare cement with one thin, flat runner beside Prince’s bed. There was one tiny screened window high in the front wall and two flapping doors; the one where we entered, and one leading to a back courtyard shared with the larger apartment building. The doors reminded me of the swinging bar doors in old western movies. Mary had pushed cloth at the base, presumably to prevent critters from coming in. The room was neat and obviously cared for. The floor was swept and in each corner, Mary and her son’s belongings were stacked. There was one electrical outlet on the front wall but nothing was plugged into it. On the side of the bed was a neat row of Prince’s shoes and against the front wall Mary had thrown a sheet over a pile of her and her son’s clothes.

Mary was teaching us a new dance. She imitated the drum rhythms with her mouth, signaling changes in the choreography. This dance was much, much faster than the traditional dance I had learned before. In the still cement room, I sweat and panted through the moves. After each combination we mastered, she’d high five us and yell, “SUPAH!” She’d add it to the last combination, then announce, “From the top,” patting the top of her head. I sighed with relief when she finally suggested, “Let’s take a two minute break.” I grabbed my sweat rag to mop up my face, neck, and chest. I grabbed my water bottle and gulped at the cool liquid as I pushed out the door. The sun was glaring on the concrete entryway but at least the air was moving outside. By the time the lesson was finished, we had learned at least half the dance. I was soaked head to toe in sweat. Even my knee caps were dripping. AND IT FELT GREAT! I was energized and ready to take on the world…until I got home and collapsed on the bed where I slept soundly in my sweaty clothes until I had to walk over and pick up Elle from school.

Regina had suggested that we go watch the drumming and dance group, Korye, rehearse that afternoon. They practiced every day at 4 o’clock in a recessed cobblestone patio behind the Castle Restaurant. Scott wouldn’t be home from work until 6 and Elle was napping by then so I asked Rose to stay at the house with Elle until Scott returned.

We carried some of the restaurant’s plastic chairs down to the patio beside the ocean and got a large Club beer to share. The loud, primal rhythms of the drummers drew a crowd, who watched the dancers from the sidewalk above. Regina and I chattered over the music and toasted our hard work at our lesson. Before we knew it, we were on our second large beer, and the drummers began a familiar beat. Our heads snapped toward eachother as our eyes met in mutual recognition. Mary waved her hand, beckoning us to the practice “stage.” Before we could even feel nervous, we both kicked off our sandals and raced behind Mary who was beginning the entrance steps of our dance. The actual drums were so much faster than our lesson so I frantically moved to catch up to the beat. Within a few steps I felt the music and fell into step beside Mary and Regina. Without even thinking, I moved to the next combination, then the next and the next. The crowd reacted immediately when Regina and I joined in the dance. They pointed and yelled their approval. Within minutes, half the song was done and we ran out of routine. The drummers stopped, the crowd and group clapped and Mary gave us high fives. Catching our breath, sweaty and invigorated, we strutted to our plastic chairs and grinned at our accomplishment. We toasted our small success and enjoyed the rest of Korye’s rehearsal.

By the time Korye’s rehearsal ended, three other international students from University of Cape Coast had joined us, Jessica, Abby and Colleen. I called Scott and let him know that for the first time in three months, I was having a much-needed girls’ night out! The five of us ate dinner at the Castle Restaurant then walked through town stopping at the college girls’ favorite night spots. We drank and danced and joked and laughed. One bar opened right onto the coast. Music from the bar boomed as we danced on the wet sand. Local children came to join us in our impromptu beach party and they squealed and twirled with us under the stars.

On Friday, Scott didn’t have to go to work, so he, Elle and I packed up a backpack and headed to Coconut Grove for another day of utter paradise. The three of us held hands and played ring around the rosy in the pool. Elle giggled and splashed. She held her breath and plunged under water then opened her eyes to exchange under-water waves with Scott and me. We lounged in the sun and shared a big plate of French fries with ketchup. I couldn’t imagine a better finish to such a wonderful week.

When Elle lay asleep under her towel on the lounge chair, Scott read his book and I put my head back and closed my eyes. The warmth of the sun and the fullness of my heart brought a private smile to my lips. I reflected on my week and reveled in the happiness and confidence I was feeling. It was then that I realized this change that was happening within me. I knew I was strong. I knew I was independent and I knew I appreciated my life. I felt empowered.

I reviewed the time in Ghana, trying to pinpoint where this sense of power within myself had begun. I remembered the traumas we had endured for three solid weeks in March and was amazed how I had sprung back from such hardships. I remembered the number of helpless tears I had shed when Dakota ran away, when Scott got news about his sick father, when I watched a drowning victim hauled out of an emergency room on a metal cart, when I watched children fighting for scraps of my leftovers, when I rubbed Dakota’s back as he puked on the cement floor of a dilapidated hospital, when I held a screaming, struggling Elle down as two doctors stitched up her gashed forehead, when both Scott and Elle lay sick in bed throwing up, when a pock-marked dark face pressed into our window and demanded money. I recalled an afternoon when I went by myself to sit at the seaside. I felt beaten and victimized. I felt helpless and out of control. I just sat by myself and looked out at the sea and cried.

I wasn’t crying for fear and I wasn’t crying for frustration. I was mourning. I was mourning a loss. The loss of the control that I always imagined I had. If I watched the clock, if I checked the fire alarms, if I bought the approved car seat, if I locked the doors, if I read the labels, if I put the caps on the markers, if I bought extra batteries, if I had electricity and running water, if I was a good mother, if I was a good daughter, if I took my vitamins…nothing bad could happen. Somehow, if I did everything right, fate could not do me wrong. I was living to control what could happen, what might happen, and I was scared to death of losing that control.

And that was the moment. The moment I let go of the fantasy of any type of control over life and fate, and what the world could throw at me. I had witnessed, experienced, endured and overcome more uncertainty, shock and fear in those three weeks than I had in my whole life combined. Regardless of my own efforts, I could control none of them. My only choice was to control how I reacted to them. What I had done or hadn’t done hadn’t caused or prevented the hardships we faced in those three weeks.

Once I realized that I really have no control over anything that MIGHT happen to me, once I resigned to the fact that life is unpredictable and anything could happen, once I admitted that the only thing I can really count on is faith; faith in God, in the world, in the goodness of people and in myself, once I was aware of my ability to cope with life’s hardships and move on, once I gave up control, I was empowered. I wasn’t afraid anymore. I could live life, experience the world, appreciate and celebrate my existence without trying to control what might, could, should happen.

And that’s what I had done this week. I had simply let go of the imagined control I had tried to grip so fiercely, and experienced life. Without insecurity or fear or self-consciousness or paranoia or guilt or worry. I lived this week with the only sure thing I have, faith.

Once in a Lifetime (This Moment)

Once in a lifetime experience.” The words are beginning to weigh on me as time passes. Ever since we hit the halfway point of our trip, the idea of leaving has hidden behind the corner of every moment, taunting me that it will jump out and snatch me away from this. My Fuji camera forever-strapped around my neck is the only tiny comfort for the anxiety of forgetting my life here.

It blows my mind, really. How malleable, adaptable and resilient the mind is. I distinctly remember the 2^nd week here sincerely wondering why anyone would CHOOSE to come here. And when I met return visitors who said they couldn’t wait to come back, I was genuinely baffled. I questioned whether I could even believe in a God after seeing the standard of living here. Every sight and smell and sound alerted my senses, straitened my back and stretched my neck. When Dakota ran away and Elle split her forehead open, I cursed my mothering skills. When other traumas occurred (traumas that, for my worried, loved ones’ sakes, I won’t share until I am back in the States), I lost faith in the kindness of strangers.

Now I sit here in the windy shade of a palm tree, amongst the people tumbling in the surf and kicking a soccer ball in the sea foam. I buy two bags of plantain chips from a young girl’s head without a second thought. I admire Elle sitting on her towel in the distance, answering standard questions from the circle of local children crouched around her. “How are you? What’s your name? Where are you from? What’s your mother’s name? What’s your father’s name?” I can’t hear her over the rumble and crash of the giant waves, but I see her animated mouth forming the words. She answers with confidence and clarity, and the children laugh with each other, repeating her answers amongst themselves. It feels like a paradise now. In only these few short months, my trust in people, my faith in God and confidence in my inner-strength have exponentially grown, more sure than ever before.

I try to snap a picture of it, but it’s a futile gesture. The camera frame is too small. The shadows and light are all wrong. The wind is lost. The energy and joy is absent. The fullness of my confidence and simple love of life is not recorded. And so that dark thought of leaving lurks behind the palm tree beside me. It touches my shoulder and whispers in the wind, “Once in a lifetime…”

Every day I have one of those experiences. One that I know is a “This Moment” for only a fleeting second before it becomes a “That Moment,” gone, never to be recaptured no matter what technology I carry around my neck.

Yesterday, “This Moment” became “That Moment” in a jungle in the Eastern Region of Ghana. Scott, Elle and I left our bungalow at 5 a.m. in a small bus carrying 26 people. Our destination was Akosombo, home of the Volta Dam and Lake Volta, the biggest man-made lake in the world. We would make a few stops along the way, including to Accra Mall in the capital of Ghana, Shai Hills animal reserve in the Eastern Region and Adome Bridge over the Volta river.  Papa and Josephine left their four children home for the day to join us on our journey. Big John came with us as well, which isn’t a surprise as he’s truly become part of our family. He even stays in Dakota’s old room now. He told us his pastor jokes with him, saying John is a white man now, because his family is white.

Besides the driver, the rest of the passengers were Scotts’ students from the University of Cape Coast. We were the last to board the bus, and Big John took the last seat, leaving Bernard to stand on the stairs near the door. Scott asked him, “Bernard, there aren’t any more seats. Where will you sit.” (I purposely remove the question mark because for some reason Scott doesn’t raise his voice at the end of his questions when he talks to Ghanaians. When I tease him about it, he says he doesn’t notice the difference and can’t hear a code-switch in his intonation).

Bernard happily replies, “I’d love to stand, epitomizing the positive attitude and whine-free fortitude of the people here. As the bus pulled away from the house, Bernard began introducing everyone in the bus. He started with Scott, “the honorable prof.” He prefaced my introduction, “And we know that behind every great man is…”

“BESIDE!!” I yelled out to be sure everyone in the bus heard me. “BESIDE!!” I repeated after a second of confused silence.

The girls in the bus yelled to Bernard “BESIDE!” and the students laughed approvingly.

Laughing good-naturedly, Bernard continued, “Pardon me, BESIDE every great man, is a great woman! This is prof’s wife, Molly. You are welcome, Madame.” He continued introducing every other person on the bus, giving them each the title, “the honorable…” and adding some tidbit of information about them. The fact that this was quite a dynamic young man was clear.

Along the roadside in the early morning hours, lines of women and children carrying buckets and plastic containers filled with water filed from village centers toward their own compounds. The distance of their walks was unclear but oftentimes, we saw no sign of homes after travelling several miles from the water source.

Bernard didn't make the photo but Josephine is in the white T.

In the bus, I fell in love with sharp Bernard. I told Scott that I would hire him as a teacher on the spot if I could. He led the college students on the bus through a series of discussions, subtly satirizing their common educational experience in the British school systems. “We will start by sharing our objectives for our journey today.”

The other students joined in the discussion enthusiastically taking turns. Each answer, depending on if it was heartfelt or satirical, brought forth approval or laughter from their classmates. Some other “topics of discussion” were a memory from practice teaching experience, one new innovation they plan to bring to their future classrooms, and what they will give back to their university in ten years when they’ve established themselves financially.” Bernard ended each discussion by praising his classmates for their genius, reminding them of their intelligence and destiny of success. He never forgot to include some faux essay assignment due to him by the next morning answering the discussion topic.

Soon, another student, Sam was standing. He leaned on the seat in front of him and joined in on Bernard’s emceeing. He explained, “In ten years, when I am a rich man. I don’t plan on giving to the university. It is well-established already. I plan on giving back to my secondary school. They will need my help more than the university.”

For the most part, the students spoke English, but occasionally they slipped back into Twi. At those times, Scott would gruffly yell behind him, “ENGLISH ONLY! ENGLISH ONLY!” The students erupted when Bernard jumped to Scott’s side, waving an imaginary stick, “ENGLISH ONLY! ENGLISH ONLY! If I hear you speaking Twi, you will be caned then pushed off the bus to walk back to the university!”

Sam replied in pigeon English, claiming that he had just begun to learn English. This led to a whole repertoire of students speaking pigeon English, making fun of those Ghanaians’ speech who don’t speak proper English.

Their next act (it really did seem as if we were watching some planned entertainment) was music. Bernard and Sam would begin singing some Christian spiritual together and the other students would pick it up, adding rhythmic clapping and echoing. Their voices raised together sounded full and joyous. They invited solos from the bus. Two students and Josephine each sang a Christian song, followed by congratulatory clapping and praising.

The hours in the bus slipped away easily with such fun around us. I couldn’t help but imagine a similar bus trip in America. I concluded that these kids didn’t depend on personal gadgets like Ipods and PSPs to entertain them. They grew up knowing that if they wanted to pass the time with fun, they had to make it for themselves. They had no qualms about laughing at themselves and they encouraged each other to share their talents despite their faults in order to entertain each other. They were clever and quick-witted, intelligent and thoughtful, snarky and hilarious. I couldn’t take a picture of that.

            At our different destinations, we filed off the bus and enjoyed our tours. At around 1 o’clock, the student task master announced we had one hour to eat and walk the Adume bridge. The bus pulled up into a roadside village and a hoard of vendors swarmed the bus. The women had plantain chips, ground nuts (peanuts), and boiled eggs on their heads. Some carried loaves of bread or held dozens of snail kabobs in each fist. Some balanced metal basins on their heads filled with small plastic bags of tiny fried fish the locals called, “One man, A Thousand” fish. I saw a glass display case stacked with tasty fried chicken on a woman’s head. When I walked toward her Scott called me back. He reminded me of a recent cholera outbreak and the warning we’d received about eating from the street. Disappointed, I settled for white rice and spicy tomato gravy at a roadside restaurant in a cement, basement-like room.   

            The bridge rose over the Volta river. The students pointed to workmen carrying bags of cement on their heads across the bridge They explained that the bridge is over fifty years old and it bounces when the big trucks go over so they are fixing it now. Sure enough, our knees gave up and down as the largest trucks passed by. When we walked back to the bus, a little girl pointed to me and announced, “Obruni.” I leaned toward her and pointed to myself, “Obruni,” I agreed. Then, to her surprise, I pointed back at her. “Bebini,” I said. The old men seated around lost it. They turned to each other relating my words and laughing raucously. I was delighted I was understood.

I’d recently been picking up on Fanti. What had always sounded like gibberish was now beginning to make sense to me. First, I could pick up common words and phrases. Then, as if some light was turned on, I realized patterns and could formulate simple rules. I picked up the continuous verb prefix of “ara” and the past tense prefix of “a.” It occurred to me one day how the negative was formed by adding “me n-“ before the verb. I discovered the pronouns “you” and “I.” So, by memorizing common verbs, I could at least attempt to communicate in Fanti. Big John was always willing to repeat verbs over and over to me until I got the pronunciation right, or at least close to right. When my courage was up, I’d experiment with groups of Ghanaians. I usually had to repeat myself three or four times before one person’s eyes would pop then he would turn to his friends and repeat what I had said using their familiar intonation. Praise was never short when I tried.

Volta Dam was another stop. The cement structure was massive and the smooth surface of the lake it created was expansive. The giant boulders in the foggy distance looked like a secret entrance to some sci-fi/fantasy world, or some obstacle through which Odysseus had to pass.

The “This Moment” occurred at the Shai Hills animal reserve. First, we saw a half dozen long-armed baboons begging at the roadside as we entered. One female toted a baby around her gut. We saw gazelles grazing as we drove through the reserve path. When we stopped and disembarked, we hiked into the jungle and emerged beside a monstrous boulder. Walking around it felt just like walking beside some huge hull of a titanic ship. We ducked between a small crevice and entered the squealing dampness of a bat cave. Upside down lines of bats hung on the ledges above us. Some shot here and there through one stream of sunlight beaming through a fissure above. The deeper we went, the darker it got and I noticed too late that my hands were planted in a thick layer of bat droppings covering the rocks I climbed.

Next, we planned to hike to the highest point of the reserve. We escaped the scorching sun beneath the canopy of jungle green as a group, but as the rocky forest floor got rougher and steeper, the group naturally separated, leaving Elle, Scott, Josephine, Papa, Big John and I behind. Each turn of the path led to a steeper and rockier terrain. We each took turns holding Elle’s hand. Soon, her little feet couldn’t navigate the sharp, rocky path so we carried her, one by one. Around the next bend, the grade of the mountain got so steep, we couldn’t even carry her. One of us would climb a few feet and reach back. Another positioned below would hand Elle off. Another would climb a few more feet and turn for another hand off. Josephine piped up as we struggled up the mountain, “We can do all things…” Giving up and turning back was not even discussed. That is, until we came upon the last peak of the mountain.

The jungle floor disappeared. All that remained were massive boulders stacked atop one another. Vines climbed the jagged edges. This was not a hiking path anymore. It was a vertical climb. The only way to make it would be to use fjssures in the rock as foot holds and grip the vines to pull ourselves up. Sizing up the obstacle, Big John turned to me, “Give me Elle.”

 I hesitated. “I don’t know, Big John, what if you fall?”

“I won’t fall. I can do it. Elle will be okay with me.”

“How can you do it? You need both hands to hold the vines.”

“Give her to me. We can do it.”

He seemed so sure about it I handed her to him. I stayed right at his heels as he began his assent. Elle was in his left hand and he grasped the vines with his right. I heard him tell her over and over to hold him tight. She did. I scrambled up one rock at a time, pulling my weight up by gripping the vines. Josephine and Scott followed. Papa stayed behind. The hike to that point had left him dizzy and tired.

Big John is in the back and Josephine is up top.

            When I emerged from the shade of the jungle, my breath caught. Over the rounded surface of the boulder I saw the savannah spread out before me forever. I crawled across the hot surface, took Elle in my arms and sat beside Scott. We sat in awe, and gazed and gawked and inhaled and exhaled. I swear the score from The Lion King blew through the wind. That image of Africa I had had in my mind; the one from the Discovery channel, with the British voice narrating the savage attack of the graceful gazelle by the ferocious lion…this was it. And I was here.

I handed Elle to Scott. I stood on the boulder jutting the furthest out into the African sky and just stared out at the vastness of it. I looked out over the savannah and recognized the moment for what it was, a once in a lifetime moment, a “This Moment” and then a “That Moment.”

            Josephine took Elle down. I’m honestly not sure how she did it. But she did. “We can do all things…” All the students, Papa and Big John were out of site as Scott and I made our way down. My sandals were worn on the bottom so the steep grade of the rocky path, covered in dead leaves made for a slippery descent. I calculated each step, making sure I had a branch or vine to stabilize myself when my sandals slipped from beneath me. The students yelled up to us, tracking our progress. I whistled back each time they called. Within a few yards, I realized my shoes were a hindrance. I took off the sandals and continued the hike barefoot.

            That “once in a lifetime” feeling overwhelmed me again and I yelled back to Scott, “Can you believe I am hiking barefoot through an African jungle?”

Scott called out, “I know! This is that once in a lifetime thing we’ve been talking about!”

I tried to convince myself, “I AM hiking barefoot through an African jungle!”

I curled my toes around the jagged rocks, descending the mountain. The hot surface and sharpness of the stone burned the soles of my feet. Thick green foliage and rustling leaves filled my senses. I yelled, “I’M HIKING BAREFOOT THROUGH AN AFRICAN JUNGLE!” I yelled it again, “I’M HIKING BAREFOOT THROUGH AN AFRICAN JUNGLE!” It somehow made this extraordinary experience more believable. I would never, ever, in a million fantasies about my life, have envisioned this moment. “I’M HIKING BAREFOOT THROUGH AN AFRICAN JUNGLE!” I repeated it over and over with each step, laughing at the wonder of this moment, then laughing at the sound of my laughing at the wonder of this moment! “I’M HIKING BAREFOOT THROUGH AN AFRICAN JUNGLE!”

Scott called out again, “This is something your son should be experiencing!”

Then “This Moment” became “That Moment.”

The path evened out and I pushed my feet into my sandals. We walked out of the shade into the open savannah sand and scorching sun. We travelled to a shady spot with benches and Scott posed for pictures with his students. They crowded around him and I snapped a photo. I captured their smiling faces, but I could never capture the pride I felt for him in that moment. In that moment, I could never fit into the frame the overflowing gratitude I felt for the so many “Once in a Lifetime” moments he’s given me!

Calling

 I want to actively experience my time in Africa, not indirectly through Scott or Dakota’s upkeep, or passively through entertaining Elle. I want to dive in myself and become part of life. I want my own identity here, an identity that will leave some type of mark when I leave. Scott urges me on as well. “You can make a difference here,” he cheers, “Change the world, Molly!” In every direction, needy people struggle. At every turn, organizations and businesses flounder. Potential projects in all fields imaginable call for leaders and sponsorship.

It didn’t take long to learn that living in Ghana is hard. It takes mental, emotional and physical strength just to get through each day. Strength I doubted I naturally possessed. In order to find and maintain the energy and drive to get through our 5-month stay, I knew I would need to find my personal motivation; a passion intense enough to withstand, and embrace the daily hardships in order to satisfy it. I searched for it wherever I went in Cape Coast.

People who know me would have surely gritted their teeth in frustration observing my search in the first few weeks. I can imagine them cupping their hands around their mouths and calling from the sidelines, “Molly, you know your passion! Hello, you already know your calling. WAKE UP!”

Within a month in Africa, I recognized that to find my calling had nothing to do with looking around Cape Coast for needy foundations. My passion was sitting right there inside of me, legs crossed, fingernails patiently tapping, checking the clock. It was just hanging out, waiting for me to simply glance within myself. It was confident, sure of itself. It knew it was so obvious, so grand a passion, if I took only one second to search within, the answer would be clear.

No matter where you drop me on this planet, whether it’s in the inner-city or a farming community, or a fishing village in Africa, that calling forever dwells within. I am a teacher.

John Sackey Primary School sits atop a rocky cliff overhanging the seashore. It’s not accessible by car. To get to it, I have to walk through a dirt-pathed fishing village and up a steep hillside. The sandy coast, lined with wooden canoes is on my right. Rickety wooden shanties line the path on my left. In the morning, I see the residents preparing for the day beside their little one-room shacks. A woman crouches beside a pot perched atop a small wood-fire. Bare-chested fishermen spread out their nets. A dusty-clad child hauls a basin of water on his head toward his bare-bottomed brother awaiting a bath. Three men and one old woman sit on benches shaded by a rigged awning, a distinct herbal aroma wafting from their circle. Children wave to me. Some approach to shake my hand. The men and women yell out, “Obruni, How are you?” One asks if I am going to teach at the school. Another asks me to take him as a friend.

As I begin ascending the hill to the school, the path narrows and the shacks stop. Trash blows across the rocky terrain. Grubby pigs wander around me, pushing their snouts through the villagers’ waste. I tread carefully to avoid slipping on loose rocks or stepping in pig shit. The filthiness at my feet and in my nose fades from my senses when I turn to my right. There I see the blue ocean and sky spread out forever. The whitecaps rolling toward a now rocky shore push strong, cool wind across my face. As I climb, the view widens and becomes more powerful. At the peak, the refreshing gusts of ocean air penetrate my sweat-slicked limbs. Long, thin canoes in the distance, gracefully, noiselessly, glide across the water. Huge waves crashe against giant black rocks islanded in the sea, white foam splashing all around. Beauty easily overpowers ugliness here.

The path turns to the left where the hill crests and the school comes into view. The children spy me first and they begin to shout and cheer, waving and running toward me in their little matching purple uniforms. The adults turn their attention in my direction. There are Martin and Kingsley, the upper elementary teachers. They are well dressed young men, slim and tall, late twenties, in khakis or pressed jeans and short-sleeved button up shirts. The woman who teaches the tiny kids is in her late thirties. She wears a more traditional cloth dress with a busy print. Martin is my host. His English is smooth and he comprehends my American accent the best. He stands beside me and points at a man sitting on a cement block in the shade of a tree. The man has dusty, bare feet, a bare back and thin whitening hair. He leans over a pile of broken cement blocks, choosing one and examining it then tossing it into another pile.

“That’s the headmaster,” Martin says. As if he hears his title mentioned, he springs up and hurries toward me on short, muscular legs, hand outstretched. The toughness of his tight mahogany skin contrasts with the soft, tenderness in his glistening brown-blue eyes and huge cheery smile. Despite his old age, his physique remains young, with defined abdominals and tiny curls of hair traversing his pectoral muscles. “You are welcome! You are welcome!” He repeats, nodding and smiling. His excitement seems to overwhelm his English vocabulary so he shuffles beside us nodding and smiling as Martin speaks.

I hear a hand bell clanging and the children split up. The smaller ones climb three cement stairs into the front side of the school. The older ones walk in groups to the back of the school where there are two more classroom entrances.

 There are five rooms in the school, separated by cement half walls. Each room has small wooden desks teetering on rocky, uneven floors. The children sit two to a desk on narrow wooden benches. The school lists with the grade of the hilltop so the chair where I sit leans forward. I mop my sweaty face with a washcloth. The first few days, I observe the oldest students, class 6 and class 5 combine into 15 students. Kingsley teaches English. His students listen only to his lesson, despite the clearly audible voice of Mr. Martin lecturing behind us, and the small children reciting numbers beside us. I listen to their tiny high-pitched words, “Zay-ro. Z-E-R-O. Oon. O-N-E. Too. T-W-O. The-ree. T-H-R-E-E. Fo. F-O-U-R…” They recite one through ten over and over, spelling each number. If I stand, I can peek over the wall. The numerals are written in white chalk on an external wall painted black. I would call it a blackboard, even though there is no board really. A small girl in her purple dress points a strait stick pointer at each number as the students complete their choral recitation. The girl passes the cane to a different student, who begins the round again. They repeat and repeat and repeat the number lesson for at least 20 minutes, the student leader changing each round.

On the opposite wall, the teacher leads another group of small students in a lesson. I try to make sense of the vocabulary on the black-painted wall. She has drawn two pots on the board. One pot is large and has five small marbles pictured within it. The other is a small pot with the same number of marbles inside. The word “few” and the word “small” are written beside the pots. The teacher points to one of the pots and asks, “Is this few or small?” One child raises his hand. The teacher calls on him and he stands, stating, “Few.” The other students wait silently until the teacher smiles, “Yes, that’s correct. Clap for him.” All the children clap a pattern of 6 rhythmic claps together and the student sits back down.

Kingsley has written the definition of “preposition” on the board. He writes the words “between” and “among.” Then he copies six sentences from the class’s one grammar book, leaving a blank line within each sentence. The students sit silently waiting for him to finish his writing. The air in the room is still except for a thin breeze sneaking through two square openings in the wall on either side of the “blackboard.” I would call them windows but there is no glass, no screen. The students examine me curiously while their teacher’s back is turned. They smile shyly and turn back to the front of the room when I smile at them. He turns from the board and points to the sentences with the cane in his hand. “Fill in the dash with the preposition, “among” or “between” so that the sentence expresses the proper meaning.” Their heads go down as they begin copying down the directions and the sentences. Kingsley returns to his desk. My instinct is to stroll around the classroom, looking over the kids’ shoulders for progress, but the room is cramped. I can only manage to squeeze between the two rows of desks, then spin 180 degrees and walk back to the front of the room, stopping to squint at the flimsy composition books of those students seated closest to me.

While they finish their work I focus on the lesson Mr. Martin is teaching to the class 2 and class 3 students behind us. He’s describing a mouse. A mouse? I hear him describe a monitor, then a keyboard. It occurs to me, he’s explaining a computer. It’s computer class. My curiosity gets the best of me and I peek over the back wall. There is not a computer. There isn’t even a picture of a computer. He’s holding a book about computers and describing what he sees and reads. The children write the key words he’s written on the bIack board into their composition books. I have to physically stop myself from knocking myself in the forehead with the heel of my hand. Of course they don’t have a computer Molly, they don’t have electricity! But they have computer class!

Break time comes at 10 a.m.. The prefect, the most clever student in the class, takes the bell from the teacher’s desk. Francisca walks out what I would call the door, except for there really is no door, just an opening with a raised cement threshold she has to step over. She rings the bell. The students don’t react how I expected. They stay in their seats working, until Kingsley stands and listens to the sentences they have completed. He calls on a student. The student stands and reads his or her sentence. Kingsley says “No, sit down,” or he says, “Yes, Clap for him,” and the class claps the same six-beat rhythm together. As far as I can tell, the students don’t necessarily understand why “between” or “among” is the more appropriate answer. Frankly, I’m not quite sure myself why one word works better than the other in the sentences. What I can deduce for sure is that these students are geniuses at reading nonverbal cues and subtle intonations in their teachers’ questioning.

Not until every sentence is recited does Kingsley dismiss the students for break. Mr. Martin and Kingsley each take a plastic chair and walk to the front of the school where they sit in one shady spot beneath a tree. Mr. Martin barks to one of his girls who happily runs off to bring me a plastic chair as well. It’s her privilege to have been chosen for the task.

The boys and girls split up into their own games. This isn’t a school yard with a playground or basketball court, just one dirt clearing in front of the school. There are no jump ropes or balls. The girls sing songs and play jumping or clapping games. The boys chase and wrestle. One boy uses a stick to skillfully push a plastic spool along the bumpy ground. Two other boys race, pushing old tires toward an imaginary finish line as the other boys cheer.

One large old woman, with straitened hair sticking out in all directions works beside us. She’s wearing a ribbed tank top tucked under massive breasts. Her brown belly hangs over a long cloth wrapped around her waist. She leans into a wooden stand holding two silver pots. She’s stirring and dipping a spoon into the pots then dumping fish stew, with bones and heads into tiny bowls. Balls of whitish dough sit in the bottom of the bowls. She passes them off tiny hands reaching up to her with silver coins. The kids take their bowls and squat in the shade beneath the wooden stand, using their fingers to scoop the stew up to their mouths. Martin explains, “If a student brings small, small money, they can get some stew at break time.”

Other kids wait gathered around a woman sitting on a low stool beside a large silver basin filled with oranges. Their 10 pesewa coin tinks into a smaller silver bowl beside her. She cuts the tough green peelings from the oranges one by one, slits the top third off then hands them to awaiting hands. The kids squeeze the orange with both hands and stick the cut top between puckered lips to suck out the juice.

Kingsley, Martin and the Fish Stew Lady

When I stand up to get a better view of the fish stew woman’s food, she turns and begins yelling to me in Fanti. Her lips are pursed out and her index finger wags at me as she yells in deep, raspy incomprehensible words. I turn to Martin for guidance. He and Kingsley just smirk and shrug their shoulders. Fish stew lady yells and yells in Fanti, one hand on her hip. Her eyes twinkle with amusement and I realize she’s actually repeating the same phrase. I understand only the number “twenty thousand.” She repeats her phrase over and over and I nod and smile, totally confused. Then her phrase changes. She repeats it slower and slower each time, separating each word, and points to me over and over.  She wants me to recite it back to her. I struggle with each word. The kids laugh at my effort. When I finished the sentence, the fish stew lady laughs and pats my should. Martin and Kingsley giggle between themselves, wagging their heads. In hindsight, I’m pretty sure I told her I’d give her money, because every time I go to break time from that day on, she yells at me in Fanti, demanding the money I promised her. Her mischievous, teasing eyes give her away, though. Later, I find out that she is the headmaster's wife.

 

I can’t sit for long at break time. The little girls sing and dance in their circle. I must join them, which delights them and me. I mimic their choreographed movements with each song. Sometimes, the headmaster enters the middle of the circle and calls out the name of different songs then the children sing it and watch as I struggle to match their movements. Sometimes a class 6 boy named Oscar sits on a stool in the middle and plays a drum for us. All the adults and children smile and laugh in the hot sun. The joy of it all is so wonderful! The lower elementary teacher calls from outside of the circle, “You teach us a song, Madame Molly!” I teach them Hokey Pokey. They erupt in hysterics when we get to “Put your backside in. Put your backside out. Put your backside in. And shake it all about!” Every break time they request the hokey pokey. Soon the oldest girls are singing the chorus with me. Although my job at John Sackey School is to teach English and grammar, I really just want them to sing the whole hokey pokey with me by the time I leave!

 

The tiniest student at the school is Loratia. She is the sweetest little two-year old with cropped hair and gold earrings. Her purple uniform dress hangs on her tiny frame. After only a few days, she’s come to look forward to break time when I pick her up and carry her. Sometimes, she can’t wait and will wander from her classroom in the front of the school all the way around to my classroom and stand at the door waiting for me to see her. “My baby, Loratia” I announce to the giggling students and swing her into my arms. I tell them I want to take Loratia home with me. A class 6 girl named Victoria gives me permission, “I asked her aunty and she said Loratia can go to your house with you.” Loratia talks Fanti to me, and the older girls tell me what she’s trying to say. She examines my face intently and touches my nose and lips with her tiny exploring fingers. I can see the wonder at my strangeness in her eyes. When I’m not holding her, she follows close behind, her little bare feet scurrying across the dirt. She holds my hand and stares at it curiously, spinning the shiny silver wedding band.

I’m only expected at the school one day per week to teach English, but I can’t keep myself away for so long. I bring Elle up to spend break time with the children on some days. Some days I go up the hill with school supplies sent in care packages from friends in America. I’ve never really wished for tons of money in life, but now I find myself wishing that I had millions, so I could give them more.

 

When my moms visit from America, they bring loads of school supplies and books to donate. Once organized, the gifts fill every pocket in a full size suitcase. My mom and I stand at the base of the hill wondering how we can possibly haul the packed, heavy bag up the rocky path. I call Martin and ask him to come down to help. He comes, along with Kingsley and Francisca. The two men pull the suitcase from Big John’s taxi and place it on top of Francisca’s head. She balances the heavy load on her head and walks effortlessly up the steep hill, four empty-handed adults following her. As we trudge up, Kingsley leans toward me and quietly says, “Your mother is so young!” He doesn’t want to say it too loudly. It’s not a compliment here. With age comes respect and honor, so unlike us, the women prefer to be considered older than they are.

The headmaster tours my mother around the school while I lead a lesson on personal pronouns. He’s dressed in a colorful African shirt and pressed pants in honor of her visit (so did his wife). He presents the different class rooms. The students stand and recite, “Good. Morning, Madame. You are welcome.” He’s most excited to show her the future of his school. He proudly flourishes his arm over an area dug out for the foundation of the junior secondary school. The location of the interior and exterior walls are mapped out by the furrows dug in the dirt.

One Friday morning, Elle and I walk through the fishing village and climb the hill to find the teachers, children and headmaster in work clothes, building the walls of their new school. The smaller kids play in the school yard while the older kids create a system of hauling huge, rectangular cinder blocks from the bottom of the hill. Two boys struggle to lift the block over the head of a third boy. They carefully balance it atop a cloth rag circled on his head to protect his scalp. The boy climbs to the top of the hill where two other boys heave it off his head and add it to the existing pile of blocks. Martin, Kingsley and the headmaster work in the dirt furrows, laying the cinderblocks and cement. Their dark skin glistens in the sun. They stop occasionally to wipe a sweaty rag over their wet faces, heads and necks. The progress on the building is evident; the walls are coming up layer by layer.

 

My first inclination is that the hard labor is horrible for these kids but, of course, as I watch them work, my opinion changes. Their sweat and pride are part of the mortar holding up these cinder block walls. How can they not love their school when they’ve built it with their own hands.

The headmaster climbs up to ground level to stand beside me. I feel the rough skin of his hand wrap around mine. We look down at the future school, holding hands. The sea breeze tempers the burning sun. The children gather, and Martin and Kingsley stop their work to look up at us. He says, “Madame Molly, We are so grateful for all the help you are giving to our school. I would like to name this new school for you. When it’s finished I would like to have your name on this school. And the day we open it, we will have an opening ceremony. I would like you to be here for the opening.” I am shocked. I am incredulous. I am overwhelmed. I am humbled. I am honored.

I don’t deserve this, I know. The joy and love and fulfillment I gain on top of this hill is so many millions of times more than I can ever give back in my short time here. In that moment I hope with all my heart to be in this spot on the day the new school opens. I feel doubtful because there’s no way the project will be complete by our departure date, and the expense to return is more than Scott and I can afford any time soon. I tell Scott about the headmaster’s plans. His face brightens. He beams. There’s no question in his eyes. “Well, I guess you’re coming back to Ghana!” He wags his head, grinning with pride and praise. “I told you…Change the world, Molly.”

"I don't know about changing the world," I say, "but I know a group of African schoolkids on a hill who will know how to do the Hokey Pokey!"