Baby Whisperers

The Fresh Fish Ladies outside of the Abbra market (My favorite photo so far!)

Before coming to Ghana, I predicted that Elle, because of her young age and fresh, open mind, would have the easiest time adjusting. Now that we’re here, I have to admit that I was wrong. In fact, of the four of us, she may be having the hardest time with the culture change. Indeed, she’s experienced the most invasive of culture shock.

In Ghana, Elle is the greatest of curiosities to all people, young and old, male and female. Within days of arriving in Africa, she was swept up into the arms of so many strangers. Her uniqueness coupled with a Ghanaian view of children as community property has led to some sweet, shocking, and sometimes disquieting situations.

On the three hour drive from Accra to Cape Coast, Elle spent the last half hour crying and screaming. She was tired and hot and thirsty and homesick. The driver of the University vehicle seemed unphased by the racket, or by our obvious, resulting stress. When we finally pulled into the University of Cape Coast international studies office lot, Scott and I nearly launched out of the SUV to escape the screaming. The driver, a young man in his late twenties, immediately strode around to Elle’s door and scooped her into his arms. He held her on his hip, stroking her back with his free hand. He nuzzled into her neck, whispering calming coos into her ear. Without even a look my way, he carried Elle into the office as we followed behind. He had no inkling that we may not have wanted him to take her. It’s just not part of the mentality. A child needed comforting and he believed he could do it.

As the secretary of international studies welcomed us, the driver paced with Elle in the adjacent room. I saw him slowly cross back and forth in front of the open door, always with his mouth close to Elle’s ear. She had stopped screaming by now, but tears still streaked her dusty cheeks and she whimpered exhausted. On one of his passes in front of the door I saw that Elle had relaxed her head against his and I imagined his warm breath on her neck and the soothing vibration of his low voice in her ear. She stopped whimpering. The tears stopped. She was at peace in his arms, a picture of tranquility. I nudged Scott and nodded my head toward the driver and Elle. She saw us, but didn’t reach for us. She didn’t even move as comfortable and serene as she was in the young man’s arms. Scott was equally amazed by the site of a pacified Elle. Just moments before she was a terror, at risk of my throwing her out the window of a moving vehicle. Now she was a little angel floating on a cloud. “The Baby Whisperer,” I whispered to Scott. When the driver handed her limp body back to me, we jokingly asked if he would come back to our house to take care of Elle.

It turned out that our driver’s magic with Elle was not abnormal or special. Ghanaians in general have this innate baby-whisperer gene. On Dakota’s first day of school, Scott, Elle and I went to speak with the headmistress and school counselor concerning curriculum. Again, Elle was whiney and crying. She was sweaty, and dirty, and weary from the 20 minute walk from our house. After hugging her and bouncing her and singing to her and kissing her and whispering loving sweets in her ear, she was still squirming and screaming. I set her down on a shaded step in front of the main office, and stepped about 10 feet away. She buried her little face, wet with sweat and tears into her dirty hands as she sat alone on the steps.

Within minutes, a tall man approached her. He squatted in front her, his head level with her covered face. He placed a finger under her chin and met her big, overflowing eyes. I heard him ask, “Ooh baby girl, What’s wrong, why do you cry?” As I expected she pulled her chin back to her chest and continued crying. The man didn’t give up. Regardless of where he was headed, his immediate priority had become comforting this upset child. He didn’t ask permission or even make eye contact. I don’t think it really mattered what I thought. He gathered Elle up to his chest and encouraged her to speak to him. To my amazement, I heard her high, expressive voice explaining to him why she cried. I couldn’t make out what she told him, but her hiccoughing, gulping voice repeated, “My Mommy…My Mommy won’t My mommy won’t let me…” Soon, she was calm and the man carried her over to the circle of adults with whom I sat. But he didn’t hand her to me. Instead, the counselor opened her arms and the man gently placed a composed Elle on her lap. Elle snuggled her head between the counselor’s soft chest. Within moments, the sweaty little dust ball Elle, was fast asleep. A bit chagrined, my mouth fell open, “Baby Whisperers!” I mouthed incredulously.

Not all of Elle’s encounters with adults were comforting to her, though. One day, as Elle and I walked through the cramped market, she stopped and threw up her hands, calling, “Get me. Get me.” I heaved her onto my hip and continued walking toward a stack of tomatoes I saw on a wooden stand ahead. Women in the market called to us in Fanti, holding out their arms. I passed by, unsure what else to do and stopped before the vegetable stand, where the woman beamed at Elle. She must’ve seen some confusion on my face because she pointed back to the women we had passed, explaining, “They are asking to hold the baby.” Elle scrunched into a ball against my shoulder, trying to hide in my armpit. Some of the women didn’t call out to me at all. Instead, they walked up and simply reached under Elle’s arms to pull her to them. At some points, I had to physically pull back, to keep her secure in my arms as she stiffened, and in a panicked whimper begged, “No No No.”

Most women recognized her fear and would give Elle distance. They laughed when I said, “She’s shy.” One woman expressed her understanding by guessing, “She’s afraid because I am black.”

Horrified, I shook my head, “No, No, she’s not afraid because you are black. She’s afraid because she doesn’t know you. When she knows you better, she’ll come to you.” Men also approached Elle, but they were content with shaking her hand. They held out their long, brown fingers to her, beckoning. When she squeezed into me, they would reach in to palm her tiny, pale hand in their own.

A GVSU student rescues panicked Elle

The only time I felt Elle’s fear was when older children approached. They didn’t respond to Elle’s distress like the adults did. Instead they would sweep their hands across her arms or pet her hair whispering, “Smoooooth.” Curiosity preempted Elle or my polite protests, and some little boys pinched her arms or squeezed her neck to compare to their own.

The most bizarre situation occurred in a restaurant on the university campus. Scott, Elle, Dakota and I were eating our lunch when Elle climbed down from her chair and walked toward a wooden door at the back of the room. She yelled over her shoulder, very independently, “I have to go potty.” The door was closed and I was in the middle of a bite so I didn’t rush to get up. When I finished swallowing, I stood and turned to catch up with her just in time to see our waitress open the door and follow Elle into the back hallway. I rushed to them, “That’s ok,” I stammered, “I’ll take her.” The waitress didn’t stop. She shadowed Elle to the toilet, pulled down her panties, hiked up her dress and sat her on the toilet. Elle looked up at me questioningly as the waitress squatted down to Elle’s level, thumbs in her armpits to balance her on the seat. I just stood in the doorway, willing Elle to stay calm. Conflicted, I smiled and encouraged her, trying to make her believe that it was ok for this stranger to have pulled down her pants and plopped her on the toilet. The waitress waited patiently. Elle never relaxed enough to go potty. She just stared up at me, scared and confused. I remained in the doorway, shifting my weight from one leg to the other, unsure what to do next. I wasn’t comfortable, but I didn’t want to offend the caring waitress. The woman was just doing what was natural in her culture. A child needed help, so she was helping the child.

All of this grabbing, and touching and strangers taking her from me weighed on Elle’s nerves. She became increasingly clingy and wouldn’t fall asleep unless I was physically holding her. “Momma, cuddle me, cuddle me.” She began wetting her panties 2,3 and 4 times per day. She suffered from diarrhea and didn’t try to make it to the toilet anymore. “Are you mad, momma? I’m sorry, momma.” Her anxiety became dangerous when she had finally had enough. Understandably, she had lost trust in me. She didn’t depend on me to keep her from these scary strangers’ grasps.

Three plump women in huge straw hats are poised daily behind spirals of fresh fish at the opening of the market in Abbra. When they saw Elle walking beside me, one reached out her hands in a gesture that Elle now recognized. She didn’t cling to me this time. She had lost hope in my protection. Instead she darted away, screaming, running right in the path of a taxi turning into the dirt lot. Thankfully, another woman stepped in front of the hurried cab, causing it to halt before reaching Elle. Elle did the same when a woman from Sassakawa restaurant recognized us passing on the road. The woman in her long, cloth dress ran across the lawn to greet Elle excitedly, arms open to scoop her up. Elle turned on her heal and shot across the dusty road. A motorbike swerved to miss her. I scurried into the street to grab her. “Elle,” I pleaded, “You can’t run away from me like that. You’ll get squished by a car. Why did you run away like that?”

She verbalized her reason very clearly. I read disdain in her big eyes, “I don’t want that lady to hold me!”

When I told Scott about it, he agreed we had to do something to ease her fears, “We have to stop letting everyone touch her and hold her. It’s scaring her to death.”

Elle understood what he had said and stammered her reply, “When those kids touch me, they pulled my hair. I don’t like that.”

So I am more possessive of Elle. I still worry about offending the enthusiastic people, who mean no harm. I know it’s just part of their love of children and openness with every child. I never feel that anyone would purposely harm Elle. In fact, because of her, I feel safer, knowing the people here would do anything to protect my little girl from harm’s way. But Elle doesn’t understand. In America, she’s never experienced anything like the physical attention she gets here. Because she cannot reason through the differences between Ghanaian people and American people, it’s just confusing and frightening to her. When we walk in public, she follows close at my legs or I bundle her in my arms. When people approach, I smile and pull her closer. I laugh and say, “She’s shy” over and over before they have a chance to touch her.

Big John playing catch with Elle in our driveway

           

               Elle warmed up quickly to those who haven’t pressured her. When Big John rattles up the driveway in his red and yellow taxi, Elle runs to open the door, announcing in an excited yelp, “BIG JOHN’S HERE! BIG JOHN’S HERE!” His whole face lights up in a grin when he kneels down with his arms open and she jumps in. She can’t wait to tell him stories about her other home. She perches on the backseat, leaning up to Big John, “I have a friend at my other home. Kendall. Her runs away and I chase her then my mommy and her mommy chased us at the park when we ran away.”

Big John watches her expressive face and hand gestures as she babbles on to him. He nods and giggles and says, “That’s Wonderful!” over and over. “She’s clever. She’s not afraid to talk to Big John!” He brags.

Elle loves squeezes from Hakim

Hakim, another driver we call on often, never forced Elle to come to him either. But as soon as she began warming up to him, he lit up. One day, after a long day at the beach, he pulled into our driveway and helped me unload our towels and bags. Then he scooped Elle from the backseat and flipped her over his neck, nuzzling his face under her chin. She giggled and laughed delightedly as he snuffed under her neck and tickled her squirming belly.

Beatrice, the cook at Sassakawa took her time wooing Elle as well. Soon, she could take Elle in her arms and carry her off to the kitchen. She once prepared all 8 meals for our full table with Elle balanced on her hip.

Elle's captivated audience

If children gather around her in town or at the beach, she will stand amidst them when they don’t reach for her. One day at the beach, she captivated a group of school children when she animatedly told them a story about the five friends at her birthday party. The children hung by us for at least a half an hour, waving, listening to and laughing with Elle. None of them tried to touch her so she was delighted with the company. One threw a little nut to her feet. She reached down and tossed it back, starting a game of catch. When they continued their trek home from school, they all walked backwards, waving and waving and calling together, “Bye Bye Elle! Bye Bye Elle,” until they turned off the beach.

Likewise, when Elle and I walk through campus, you’d swear a dignitary was parading through. In just a ten minute walk from Scott’s office to our bungalow, countless excited greetings to Elle escort us home. We hear “ELLE ELLE ELLE” yelled from windows and doors. Women and men literally run out to the street from their yard, restaurant or school building waving to little Elle, “How’s my girl! Hello Baby Elle! “Elle, How are you?” To their delight, she waves back and grins.

On one such parading, waving and smiling march home amidst yells to “ELLE, OBRUNI, BABY GIRL HOW ARE YOU?” Beatrice burst through the restaurant door and crossed the grass for a quick squeeze, Stephanie from the campus chalets rushed into the street after we passed to call and wave, Aunty Pat from the church school beckoned us for greetings and waves from all the school children crowded at the gate, and a maintenance man who had worked in our bungalow the first week jogged to us on the path to wave to Elle. Elle, hanging on my hip, pulled my chin to face her. She grinned ear-to-ear, lifted one hand for emphasis and said, “Momma, everybody here LOVES me! They just LOVE kids here!”

One evening, at the newly-opened, and coolly air-conditioned staff house, I talked to a native Ghanaian professor named Devilara about how much the people here love children. He laughed at my surprise when I told him the story about a man in line at Melcolm who scratched Elle’s back. “Of course the man scratched her back. She said it needed scratching. In Ghana,” he explained, “Children are treated like a gift from God. Everyone takes care of them and loves them.” He reciprocated with a story of his own. He told me about a time when he visited the United States with a Ghanaian friend. Devilara was familiar with America by then, for he attended University of South Florida for his PhD. He said, “When my friend first rode in the car in America, he looked out the window and asked, ‘Where are all the children? Why aren’t there children out playing in the streets?’ He was disappointed and saddened. I told him, ‘They are inside, at home, where they can be protected.’”