Answered Prayers

God sent Agnes to me. It’s a funny thing for me to say. Only two days ago, I was talking with Dakota while we walked home from dinner. It was dark and we hugged the side of the road to avoid the oncoming cars whizzing by. We heard music, singing and prayer in the distance. The sound of praise and prayer and preaching seemed to belong to the evening air. From all directions, every night, full voices and rythmic beats spilled from homes, churches and open fields, worshiping. “Cody, doesn’t it seem like we’re always hearing praying or singing wherever we go here?”

“Yeah?” He answered, tonally asking, What’s your point?

 “Well, it just makes me wonder about God,” I continued.

“Why?”

 “Well, with all the praying going on here, wouldn’t it seem that if God answered prayers, He would give these people easier lives?” I had seen how every aspect of life here, down to the smallest convenience I had taken for granted, took time and planning and constant physical effort. “They have to work so hard for everything here.”

I thought of one of my neighbors for three days strait, laboriously laying corn out on a big green tarp that covered her driveway, then waiting in the scorching sun for the corn to dry. Sometimes she’d sleep in her red dirt driveway. She lay on her side, her back pushed against the house where the sun was shaded.  I suspected she had to stay with the corn to shoo away hungry chickens scavenging around in the brush. Cars drove by, kicking dirt from the rode into the air around her tarp. Throughout the day, she rotated the corn on the tarp. She funneled the dry corn into a huge, metal basin, then heaved it above her head. She stood with the basin held in the air, waiting for the right moment. Instants before a small breeze began, as if she had sensed it coming, she began pouring the dried corn into an identical container standing at her feet. The corn cascaded to its place below her, dust puffing away from the stream of falling corn before hitting the metal of the other bin. Countless times during her corn vigil, she patiently completed the steps. Over and over I heard the echoing, ssssssssshhhhhhh as the corn fell into the metal pots. After watching her science over and over, day after day, the sssssshhhhhhh sound softened as the dried corn had disintegrated into some kind of flour or cornmeal.

Dakota turned my question about God and prayers over in his head for a moment then responded, “Not really. If you think of all the prayers in the whole world from the beginning of time – because there were Christians praying even before Jesus was born, ya know? – you can imagine how many tons of prayers God hears. He answers some, but the odds of a single prayer being answered must be small.”

Fishermen and awaiting vendors

He had more faith than I did. I continued, “Just seeing this place, and how hard people have to work just to survive here, and how those kids in the market live, I have a hard time believing there even is a God out there.

Children in Abbra market, their dwellings behind them

Look at Big John. He’s so genuinely faithful, and believes so strongly and lives his life for God, but he doesn’t even have a stove or refrigerator, or running water. What does he eat?”

Dakota had gone to church with Big John the previous Sunday so my mention of Big John and praying launched Cody into one of his flawless impersonations, “In church, there was about ten minutes when everyone just prayed out loud. I closed my eyes and put my head down, but I could hear Big John, ‘I wan to shank you God for breengin ush, shafe to church…I wan to shank you God for bein weeth me when I wake und the shun eez wahm…” We both burst out laughing and our deep spiritual conversation was over. We giggled together the rest of the way home as Dakota continued his perfect imitation of sweet Big John.

So, that afternoon when I discovered myself thanking God for Agnes, it surprised me. Less than 48 hours earlier, I was sure there was no God, and now I was 100% sure that God sent Agnes as an answer to a prayer I hadn’t even addressed to Him.

Agnes is the wife of Sam, a history professor with whom Scott works. They met yesterday and found that we lived just across the street from each other. Scott arranged for us to visit their home so I could meet his wife. I know he must’ve still been feeling helpless from when I told him I was lonely for a female friend. True, Sam and Agnes are probably older than my parents, but it didn’t make a difference to me.

We arrived at their home, set down a small hill across the paved road intersecting ours. Two  white-washed wood bungalows- one L-shaped and the other a smaller rectangle- made up their property. A rust-colored stain seeped up the sides of the aged walls from a cement foundation. Corrugated metal rooves slanted atop each long, narrow structure. Grey, cinder blocked walls extended between both sides of the two dwellings, creating a courtyard between the main house and extra sleeping quarters. Two slatted wooden doors served as an entrance gate.

A young man in his 20s, wearing an African cloth shirt, sat reading at a desk outside the gate. When we approached, we saw Sam standing beside him. Sam is a petite man, with salt and pepper shaved hair and watery eyes, dark brown but with a bluish film reflecting in them. He wore a colorfully-printed button-up shirt and dress pants. He shook our hands and gestured to the seated figure, “This is a boy staying with us.” In our subsequent visit, we deduced that the young man was their houseboy. He did household work in exchange for a place to stay and a monthly salary in hopes of paying for school. At this point, he was on trial employment, and Sam whispered, “He’s trying to show how clever he is by reading a book.” If the trial period was successful, Sam and Agnes would grant him a place to stay and financially help him complete his education.

Sam pushed at a stick budged in the doors’ slats, a make-shift latch, sliding it to the side and allowing the right side of the gate to swing open. On our left stood the extra rooms unattached to the house. White undershirts hung from a clothesline draped from it to the main house.  We followed the length of the clothesline through the courtyard on a narrow cobble path shaded by an eave above. A half-dozen small goats bleated in a pen under the swinging shirts.

Agnes greeted us at the door and showed us in. She led us past a dining table to the living room and offered us a seat in one of eight wood-framed chairs with sagging cushions, creating a cozy visiting area. Eight-by-ten framed snapshots hung scattered around the paneled walls. A wood bookshelf with ceramic knickknacks stood on one wall, and a T.V. stand with a heavy, box TV stood on the opposite. Yellowed linoleum with a 1980’s design covered all the visible floors. Sam sat with us and explained as Agnes disappeared into the kitchen, “It’s tradition to serve guests water before you begin any business of your visit.” On cue, Agnes returned, balancing a tray holding four glasses in one hand, then stopping to pour bottled water into each glass before us.

Agnes sat with her own glass of water, “Now days, you may not be offered water first, but we thought you’d like to learn that tradition. “We small-talked with Sam and Agnes for about a half-hour. Both spoke perfect English, as they are both highly educated. We found out that Agnes had once been the headmistress at the school Cody now attended. She also told us she sits on the board of the church preschool where we hoped to enroll Elle. Delightedly, I found that Agnes spoke her mind as well.  She was an intelligent, strong and funny lady.

The first chance I got, when the men stepped away to make a phone call, I hopped over to the chair beside Agnes and leaned toward her. “Agnes, could I ask you a woman question? I haven’t had a chance to speak with another woman since we got here and I have a concern a man wouldn’t understand.”

She smirked knowingly and leaned forward conspiratorially, “Of course, what is your question?”

“Well, a man does our laundry and we send it out once a week. But this week I have my…I’m menstruating. So, do I send my underpants out if they have blood on them?”

She had already started swinging her head, “No, you should do your own underthings. All the time. Some men don’t respect women and when they see your underthings, they…” she mimed a man pinching an imaginary pair of panties between finger and thumb, pushing it away from her face and swinging it back and forth, then turning her nose in the air, “they won’t wash them properly. I never send my underthings out to be washed. You can send the kids’ and Scott’s but you should wash your own.” She concluded by qualifying, “Of course, I may be conservative and old-fashioned, but that’s what I do.”

I appreciated her candid advice, and continued my query. I asked her anything I had been unsure of (which was basically everything) since arriving in Cape Coast, including which shops in town I could find what, if she had a regular vegetable stand she used, where to find chicken that didn’t look like it had been sitting in the sun amidst buzzing flies all afternoon, standard prices I should pay for everyday expenses, how to know if I was being cheated, where to buy a cheap table and chairs for our empty dining area, how to find someone I can trust to help with Elle a few days per week, and on and on. She answered every question patiently, clearly and animatedly then suggested, “Let me take you with me to the market tomorrow. I can do any shopping you need to do with you, and I can show you where to find whatever you will need.”

She picked me up in a shiny, silver sedan and waited while I strapped Elle in a seatbelt in the backseat. She asked me what I wanted to find and told me she also had some errands in town. On the way, she tsked tsked the crazy, honking traffic around her. She’d honk and point and predict, “Now watch this driver, he will pull out in front of me…Look at this man, he’ll turn in front of that other car…Now look at this car, he is blocking the whole road.” I laughed when each vehicle did exactly as she said they would. Then I laughed some more when Agnes proceeded to complete the exact maneuvers she had criticized the other drivers for doing. There weren’t any clear guidelines or signs to follow. I couldn’t ascertain which car had the right of way. There were no lights or speed limits. Honks and nods from driver to driver seemed to be the only thing conducting the heavy traffic. Somehow a honk from one car could have meant, “You go ahead of me,” while an exact honk a moment later could have meant, “Watch out. I’m coming through!” Only the drivers understood. The inadequacy of the international driver’s license I’d gotten from AAA in the United States crossed my mind. I wouldn’t be driving here. That’s for sure!

When we arrived in town, Agnes parallel parked near a crowded hovel of shops situated behind the main street. The stands and shacks stood so close to one another that their tin roofs overlapped creating a labyrinth of enclosed tunnels. Agnes walked through an entry path into the dark, narrow passage. She glanced protectively over her shoulder, “Follow close.” Then she shot off. On a mission, she navigated through the people and over any protruding baskets of goods. She turned at random intersections, left then right, then right again, deeper and deeper into the maze. The heat of the sun was blocked, but crowded bodies, human breath and sweet, baking, rotting fruit and fish hung in the thick air. I couldn’t swallow a full breath, for fear of gagging. I hauled Elle on my hip and a backpack hung on my shoulders. I tried to keep Agnes in sight as she scurried knowingly ahead. I would turn a corner just in time to see Agnes disappear behind the next turn. The thought of losing her tensed my abdominals as I shifted and bent and tiptoed to avoid knocking anything over. Stands balanced with dried fish, vegetables and globular fruit crowded either side of me, and oncoming shoppers had to lean around us, so I couldn’t shift or rotate thoughtlessly. Finally, we turned onto a relatively empty dead end. I felt like we had spiraled in and around until we landed in the dead center of the mass. This was the vegetable stand Agnes was recommending. On the way out, we took the same journey, this time a bit slower. At each turn, Agnes stopped and pointed behind us, “See you turn right at that fabric hanging…See, we turned left at those dried fish…Remember to go straight past the palm oil bottles.” The cavernous market spit us out in front of Agnes’s car. Agnes nodded to me, mission accomplished. “Now, next time you come, you’ll know how to get to the best stand.”

She had more faith than I did.

Next we stopped at a fabric store. Agnes explained she had to pick out some fabric for a shirt she wanted made. We would go to her seamstress’s shop after this. She added, “Then when you are ready to find cloth and a seamstress, you’ll know where to go.” I heard the diplomatic suggestion in her words. In fact, it wasn’t surprising. Nearly everyone on the UCC campus I’d met had offered a seamstress’s name. Agnes just had the ingenuity to actually stage a trip to the seamstress. I had no excuses for my immodest tank tops and shorty shorts anymore. I chose two prints I liked, and I asked how many yards I should buy in order to make a simple, sleeveless dress. 3 yards was the answer. I bought 6 yards total; 3 of a swirly red cotton cloth and 3 of a jagged striped blue and green print, a total of  40 cedis.

Agnes’s seamstress was named Lucy. Her shop was tucked in on a narrow, side street, near the girls’ school in Kotokraba market. The two-story stone buildings butted right against the road. No curb, no sidewalk; just the stone buildings, edging the street. Arched openings here and there announced entry into small, recessed courtyards shaded by the high stone walls. From here, one could access the wooden doorways into several one-room dwellings. We walked through an archway and down two stone steps. Two ancient, wrinkled women sat on the dusty cement ledge perimeter of the square courtyard dipping and scrubbing and dunking clothes in washtubs. Their curious, rheumy gaze followed me into an open door on my left, which was Lucy’s shop.

I wasn’t sure how this process worked. I supposed I should look at some sort of catalogue or pictures of dress styles then I would point to what I wanted. There was one poster on the wall displaying a dozen, extremely ornate, floor length skirts and dresses. None of them appealed to me. They looked old fashioned, too long and very hot. Without any other reference, I simply described to Lucy what I wanted. I pointed to the plain cotton, sleeveless shirt I wore. I had bought it premade in the market the week before. “I want two dresses that are plain like this shirt. I want them to come to my knees.” Lucy nodded then bent forward, marking a spot at my knee with an outstretched hand. I marked a spot a few inches above hers, and Agnes tsked tsked, jokingly.

“Hey!” I laughed, “It’s only a little above the knee.”

Agnes placed a hand on my shoulder, “Oh Molly, I am just having fun with you.”

My new red dress

Next I placed my hands around my waist, motioning with my shirt a cinching-in of fabric. “I want the dress to come in at the waist. I have a skinny waist so I want to see it in the dress.” Lucy understood.

Agnes  very animatedly stood tall, pushing out her chest and placing her hands proudly on her hips. “When I was younger, I measured 36,” She framed her breasts with her hands, “26,” she traced them to her waist, “36,” she posed, arms akimbo.

I threw my head back, guffawing, “ME TOO! EXACTLY!...WHEN I WAS 22!”

            Our last stop was the University farm. Agnes explained, “This is where you’ll find the freshest chicken and pork. It may be a little more expensive than at the market, but it’s more healthy and you know it hasn’t been sitting out anywhere.” I soon discovered that by fresh, Agnes meant alive! After introducing me to the head man on the farm, Agnes spoke in Fanti to him explaining what I wanted. We passed a large fenced-in area toward a wide white barn. Another tall, skinny man emerged. A thin cord of some kind dangled from one hand, and a live chicken hung from the other. The man grasped what I would describe as the chicken’s armpits, forcing its wings behind its neck. Its body hung passively and his white head turned side-to-side, its beady eyes oblivious to its fate. Elle was beside me and a panicked vision popped in my head. My eyes snapped wide open, I grabbed Elle’s hand and hurriedly repeated three or four times, “I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to see it. We can’t see it. Do you understand, I CAN NOT see it!” Each protest became louder, more panicked.

            The three Ghanaians all bent over in hysterics. The chicken hung at the man’s hip twitching its head back and forth. “No Molly,” Agnes soothingly insured once she gained her composure, “He will dress it for us in the back. It will be about ten minutes.” Her voice was deep, warm, smooth, motherly. During the wait, Agnes explained “broilers” versus “layers” to me. Broilers were young chickens, about 6 months old, larger and more tender than layers. Layers were older and tougher but had better flavor, “especially if you like to suck the bones like I do.” The broilers cost 15 cedis, while the smaller layers cost 7. I took Agnes’s advice and bought one broiler and three layers. We waited for the four live, clucking chickens to become four plucked, dressed, raw chickens.

Agnes chopping the chicken

            Agnes drove me home and taught me to cut the whole chicken into pieces. Over the sink, she cut through a band of fat sealing the chicken’s chest cavity. Out dumped two puckered chicken feet, a twisted sinewy curved neck and a red ball of a heart. “You should chop the feet in pieces to use to make a stock. Some people eat the heart, some don’t. You can cook the neck in a stew.” Agnes continued narrating as she cut each leg, and wing. She held the chicken by one leg and cut around it’s bulging hip. Then she put down the knife, grasped the hip in one hand and the body in the other hand. In a swift jerk, the chicken’s joint inverted with a sickening crack. Agnes found my expression hilarious and explained, “Now you can see the joint you need to cut around. Here hold this.” I gingerly held the end of the drumstick as she expertly sawed around the bulbous, white joint, “This is how I learned to cut a chicken, holding it for my mom as she cut.”

            “You will do the next chicken,” Agnes informed me. With Agnes reminding me of each step, I cut off the legs and wings, breaking back the bones to reveal joints. Agnes held the legs and wings for me as I sliced through the fat and sinew. I was so worried about cutting her, but she said, “You are fine. You won’t cut me.” She had more faith than I did.

I had to use all my strength to cut and wrestle apart the body cavity, separating back from breasts. “It’s tradition to save the back for the woman to eat.” With the multitude of tiny ribs and narrow strips of flesh, I opted to put the back in the stock pile with the feet, neck and heart. To separate the breasts, I had to balance the curved chicken chest on the counter, line up the knife with the breast bone, then swing the base of the knife down onto the chicken like a hatchet. THWACKs and CRACKs resounded as I chopped away like some crazed far-sighted butcher, until the now ragged breast meat separated in two. I grinned with pride, holding up my handiwork for Agnes to appraise. She laughed uproariously and praised me as a good teacher would. “Molly, that is good. You will be able to cut the other two on your own.”

We separated edible meat and stock cuts into piles and Agnes bagged three of the four chickens to store in her freezer. I, of course appreciated the convenience of freezing the excess chicken. But more comforting, I liked the built-in excuse I now had to visit her if I needed a woman’s company and guidance. I thanked Agnes for all her help and advice. She replied, “That’s o.k., Molly. I don’t want to you to seem green when you go do your shopping.” I walked her to her car.

After placing the plastic bags of chicken in her backseat, I asked, “Agnes, can I give you a hug?” I had missed physical contact from my sister and mother, and my impromptu request clarified that void in me.

“Of course, Molly” She tilted her head to one side and opened her arms. I moved into her embrace, melting in her motherly arms. The tenseness and loneliness I had felt for days drifted away in the hot, gritty air. I held her for a moment longer just to bask in the security of the moment. That is the moment that I knew, God had sent Agnes.

The spontaneous spiritual thought shocked me and I reflected on my sudden shift in belief when Agnes was gone. How had I, in just 48 hours gone from believing God could not exist in the midst of this poverty-stricken place, to thanking Him for blessing me with Agnes’s company, guidance and warm touch?

Sitting on my magic porch in the cool evening air, I thought maybe I understood for a moment. I had spent days wishing for a woman with whom I could connect. I felt helpless and alone. Worse yet, I began to feel hopeless as the days passed and I was no more secure, no more knowledgeable and still hadn’t met one woman to trust. That desperation, that hopelessness, that insecurity were impossible to quell within myself. I had to be vulnerable and faithful and open myself to the charitable heart of another. What did Agnes have to gain by spending her day with me? Nothing, really. Her presence then, must have been a gift.

Elle with her banana

I thought of other moments of clarity during our stay in Ghana, moments when the presence of God was clear. When the unforgiving heat of the sun was suddenly relieved by cloud cover. When I bit into the soft, ripe flesh of a freshly sliced mango, or banana. When first overcome by the soulful voices of faithful praise.

Then why are the people here forced to live such difficult lives? Why doesn’t God answer their prayers?

The prayers I had heard from Ghanaians came back to me then. In church, the pastor prayed for a forgiving spirit when dealing with those who had hurt him. The ladies at the church women’s ministry prayed for power to fulfill the scriptures and desire to follow the commandments. The dancers in the drumming group at Oasis dedicated their songs and dances to God.  I remembered Big John thanking God for being with him when he woke and the sun was warm. He told me that to celebrate his birthday, he testified in church, “If nothing bad has happened to you throughout the year, you thank God for his many blessings that kept you safe.”  Another time, Big John told me he had prayed that morning to be a hard worker and not to be lazy. It occurred to me that God was answering the prayers of his Ghanaian people. Befuddled I thought to myself, maybe they are just praying for the wrong things.

Just then, the small girl from the market in Abbra flashed through my mind. She balanced a white five-gallon bucket of water upon her child’s head and slim neck. But this time, I remembered something more than just how heavy that bucket must have been, or how far she had to walk. I suddenly remembered her peaceful face, secure in her role. I remembered the pride in her eyes for fulfilling her part in her family’s daily struggles. The emotions and memories of the happy people in Ghana flashed before my eyes. Their smiles, their greetings, their helpfulness and generosity, their full singing and chanting voices echoing in the night sky, their loud laughter. I looked out of my magic porch. Across the dirt road, I could picture the neighbor lady laying out her corn to dry. I could see her raising her metal bin over her head. I could hear the gentle ssssshhhhhh as that corn streamed through the air. I could feel the cool breeze blowing dusty puffs through the falling corn. I imagined her face placid and peaceful within her choreographed, methodical movements. Her body bending and reaching gracefully became like a dance. The amount of time, work, dedication and care the woman put into the task became an art form.

Then I envisioned myself in my car, driving 10 minutes to the pristine grocery store, tossing cornmeal in my shopping cart, and somehow, I felt cheated.

Perhaps the people here aren’t praying for the wrong things. Maybe I am.