Our Daily Bread

In Ghana, dancing days were my best days. I scheduled my first dance lesson for a Tuesday morning. Yahaya told me I could meet the head dancer of Korye Dance Theatre group, Filomina, at Oasis bar at 11 o’clock. He said he would come as well. Scott was home that morning so he could watch Elle. Dakota, of course was in school. So this was my first outing to Kotokraba on my own. I had been to the market several times by now with Scott, and I’d already broken in  Oasis bar, so I felt only a little bit anxious about the solo excursion. What I felt most nervous about, as always, was the unknown.

I had no idea what to expect from the dance lesson. Where in Oasis Bar would I be dancing? What should I wear? Would I be outside, dancing in the hot midday sun? Could my body hold up in the heat? To what music would I dance? Would Yahaya drum while Filo taught me the steps? What dance would they teach me? Would the dance be a fast one or a slow one? Would I look like an idiot? Or some old white lady with no rhythm? Could I even do this?

I knew Filo was an expert dancer. I had watched her that first night at Oasis, tirelessly hitting every step. She and the other dancers remained in sync throughout every jump, stomp, arm wave, hip thrust, chest pop and head bob. Routine after routine, with not a moment’s rest in between, I watched the athlete’s energy, body control and stamina with awe. All of the dances were packed with choreography and, simultaneously each part of their bodies mirrored the various, thunderous drumbeats.

I also knew that I was not a dancer by any other standard than buzzed-up bar freaking and Zumba classes at the YMCA. I fretted the one-on-one private lesson. Alongside Filo and Yahaya, I would undoubtedly look ridiculously clueless. There was no way around it. I wished, if there were only a few other people taking the lesson, there would at least be one dancer who would look dumber than I did. The thought of their eyes examining my every attempted step egged on my negative inner voice. You can’t do this. You’ll look like a fool. What makes you think you can move like them? They’ll laugh at you behind your back. You’re no athlete. You’re too old. You’re too white. I had confidence in one thing. That was my desire. I wanted to do this, as much to broaden my mind and learn some Ghanaian culture, as to prove to myself that I was strong, able, courageous and independent. I dressed for my first dance class reminding myself, it wasn’t about being an amazing dancer, learning all of the steps without fail. It was about having the balls to try it.

I decided to treat the lesson like I would an aerobics class at the gym. I wore my running shorts, a jogging bra and a tank top. I knew I’d be dancing barefoot so sandals were fine for footwear. I pulled my hair up in a ponytail and smeared only sunscreen on my face.

Big John drove along the seaside road, overlooking miles of deserted beachfront, interrupted only by staggered palm trees and fishing canoes. Every so often we passed a large group of dark men in a line facing the water. They heaved a rope in time, swaying as one, back and forth. Between each pull they each lifted one arm, swung it back then forward again to grip the rope. They chanted as they rocked, and their arms waved simultaneously before they rocked forward and back again. Big John told me the men were pulling in their fishing nets. “They have a song they all sing while they pull. They sing together so they know when to pull. It’s like they are dancing together,” he commented.

“I’d like to come to the beach sometime with Elle and watch the fisherman someday. Do you think you could bring us here to do that one day?”

“Why not?,” he assured. “What I will do is stop and talk to some of the men and ask which day will be best to come.”

Big John dropped me off at Oasis and Filomena arrived only a few minutes later. After the standard, “How are you? I’m fine, thank you. And you?” She pointed up to a pavilion-like second floor above the bar. “We will do our lesson upstairs.” I followed as Filo climbed the spiral stairs, wooden and staggered. Nerves had loosened my knees and it took extra concentration to guide them up each wide step. At the top, there stood a circular area with a linoleum tile floor, empty besides two wooden benches and a white dog snoozing beneath one. Wind from the ocean swept through the rectangular open window frames and swirled through the shaded pavilion.

Filomena posing in front of our "dance studio" view

Filo slipped off her flip flops and I did the same. She stood in the center of the room. She said, “I am going to teach you a dance called opatempa (I’m spelling it phonetically). It is a traditional welcome dance of the Fanti tribe.”

I didn’t see any sort of music player, and Yahaya had not come. Filo beckoned me to stand behind her. “I will do the steps for you and you follow.” The only sound was that of the ocean waves crashing on the shore below. Filo slapped both hands on her thighs then began singing. Her voice was high and soft, melodic and sweet, “Yabbay brah nah nah yabbay. Yabbay brah nah nah yabbah.” She lifted her left leg twice, then her right twice, leaning forward and swaying her hips side to side. “Coryen ketay see yah brah nah nah yabbay. Coryen mbrentay yah brah nah nah yabbay.” At the same time her hands slapped her thighs twice, then she clapped once followed by two, right-handed beats to her chest. “Yabbay brah nah nah yabbay. Yo bizee gur ah cher un.”

“Now you follow.” She urged. I honestly saw no connection between the rhythm of her legs and her arms. I heard no obvious beat conducting either movement. But somehow her song and her choreography matched. She began singing the first verse of the song again. I attempted the thigh slaps, clap, chest beats at the same time as I lifted each foot twice. I felt no guidance from the music and her body flowed so naturally with her singing that I couldn’t mark a concrete time when each foot should move, or when each slap or clap should connect. I couldn’t even attempt the swaying hips yet.

“Let’s try the legs first,” she suggested. She began singing the first verse again, stomping each foot twice. She had slowed the tempo of the melody to emphasize each step. I followed with no problem. I saw, heard and felt the beat leading my feet. “That’s good. Now let’s try just the hands.” This time when she began singing, her feet stayed planted and she slapped her thighs twice, clapped once then beat her chest with her right hand twice. Throughout the first verse she repeated the pattern. Again, I saw, heard and felt the beat. Easily, I picked up the clapping combination and continued to mimic her. “That’s good. That’s right. Now let’s put the legs and the arms together.” She began singing. The rhythms I had mastered individually didn’t overlap. I urged my legs and arms to move to two different beats. With no music, the rhythms I was supposed to follow were abstract to me at this point. Filomena was patient and positive as I bumbled my way through the first verse.

“Let’s try the next part.” Thankfully, the next combination had my whole body moving to the same beat, as did each new section she taught me. But between the combinations, we returned to the enigmatic routine from the first verse. It was the connecting thread that wove through the dance. Filomena remained positive. She high-fived me and praised me between each combination and encouraged me when I stumbled awkwardly through the basic beat. “You’ll get it. It will come. With practice, a woman becomes perfect.”

After an hour, during which I had to stop several times to rehydrate and sop up my sweat with a washcloth, the lesson was over. Filo generously told me, “You are a good dancer. You learn fast.” I didn’t care that her words were probably flattery. I was proud of myself for trying. I inwardly celebrated the courage and strength it took for me, on my own, to pursue this personal goal. She agreed to meet me for my next lesson on Thursday morning. I left her feeling energized and confident, unstoppable. The hour of dancing fed my soul.

Agnes and I had planned for her to pick me up. She said she would be in town shopping so she’d pick me up from Oasis and take me to the seamstress where my dresses were ready. I called her to tell her the lesson was over. She told me, “I’m coming. I’ll flash you when I get there.”

I walked down the spiral stairs. My tank top was drenched. Every strand of hair dripped. I sat at a wooden table balanced on a rocky ledge beside the restaurant, overlooking the shore. I collapsed in the chair. When the ocean wind hit my sweaty skin, the cool sensation was a relief. I ordered a cold pineapple juice and caught my breath.

I still hadn’t heard from Agnes. I reached for my cell phone to dial her again only to find that my phone was dead. I thought I should head out to the front of Oasis to meet her. She said she was coming, so I figured it shouldn’t be long now. This was my first lesson in a phenomenon called “Africa Time,” or “Ghana Time.”

I waited and waited and waited, helplessly. With no phone I couldn’t check on Agnes’s whereabouts. In my sweaty work-out clothes I paced the dusty parking lot, melting in the sun. Oasis’s entrance was recessed from the main road and I worried that perhaps Agnes had stopped at the Oasis sign near the street rather than pulling all the way down the steep declining dirt path. Maybe she’d come for me already, waited at the sign, attempted to call me and left when the phone was dead. I climbed the sandy lot toward the street, weighing my options. I could risk standing Agnes up and go home now. Of course, I couldn’t call Big John so I’d have to go to the street and hail a taxi. Or I could wait.

Smarty Pants and Shoeless Joe

Two boys sidled up to me as I walked. One boy was 10 years old, the other 6 or 7. Their dark brown skin carried a layer of lighter dust. The small one wore a school uniform shirt that had been orange at one time. Now it was closer to dingy tan, darkening sharply at the seams. The older one was enthusiastic to share his English. “Hello, How are you?” he recited.

“Fine, how are you?” I replied, smiling to welcome their company.

“I’m fine. Thank you. What is your name?” He continued proudly.

“My name is Molly.”

“Where are you from?”

“I am from the U.S..” I answered, wondering how many more questions the boy knew.

“The United States of America?” he displayed his knowledge.

“Yes. Good job! You are clever.” I told him, using words I’d heard from other Ghanaians.

“Thank you.” I realized the boy really knew English; he wasn’t just reciting.

I pointed to a large stone mansion across the street. It didn’t fit in with the shack-like dwellings and shops around it. It was three stories tall and took up the space of the entire block. It was painted a cleaner white than any other building I’d seen here. A wide stone staircase twisted behind the white stone partition surrounding the property. Shiny golden lions guarded the entrance on either side of the gate. I asked the boy, “What is that big building?”

The king's palace on the left

“That’s the king’s palace. You should go see it.” I knew Ghana had a president. This must be a tribal king, I guessed.

I doubted someone could just knock on the door of this impressive building. “You can go in and see the palace?” I asked, unsure what to believe.

“No, I can’t. But you can. You are white. White people can visit inside. You should go in and see a lot of beautiful things inside.” 

I was immediately infuriated by the injustice of it. Not only because the boy believed he didn’t deserve the honor; only white people could enter the king’s palace, but because this selfish, uncaring leader could reside lavishly in a huge, pristine mansion. Meanwhile his people struggled to survive in the overcrowded streets, lucky if they slept on the stone floor of some shanty, shack or hut. I imagined this king draped in ceremonial cloth and gold jewelry, stuffing his mouth with mounds of food piled across a gold-trimmed table, while children in the street begged. I could see him sitting on his royal stool with servants wiping his cuticles clean while his people squatted in the dirt, licking fish stew from between their grubby fingers. I didn’t want to see his beautiful possessions, worthless and meaningless to me, compared to the suffering their monetary equivalent could have eased outside of his ivory tower. At the same time, these two little boys from his tribe wandered the town aimlessly.

“Why aren’t you in school?” I asked the boys, pointing to the patch on the younger boy’s shirt.

The older boy spoke for both of them, “We can’t go to school today because we don’t have shoes.”

I looked down at their feet. The 10-year old had flip flops. The younger boy wore one bedraggled running shoe. The shoe was at last three sizes too big for his foot. It had once been light blue, a girl’s shoe, but now it was a grayish-red dust color. His right foot was covered by only a filthy sock. I noticed that his socks matched, each with faded British flags bordering his ankles. The older boy apologized for his friend’s grimy shirt, “When he goes to school, he will wash his shirt so it looks lovely.”

“When will you get your shoes?” I asked.

His face lit up hopefully, “You will buy me my shoes?!”

My heart sank. “I can’t today. I have 5 cedis to get a taxi home.”

He moved on to another subject, talking and asking questions. He really was a smart little guy. “Come,” he started walking to the street. “Come sit over by the tree in the shade.”

I followed him toward a concrete half-wall bordering the roadside gutter. As we walked, a man called for him and he turned to go. “My brother is calling. He has a shop by the castle. You should come.” He jogged a few yards away then turned and came back, “When you come back here, will you bring me some bread? I like to eat bread. Tomorrow when you come back will you bring some bread for me?”

“Next time I come, I’ll bring some bread in case I see you.” He smiled, waved and ran off.

I sat on the half wall watching the traffic pass. It had been an hour and a half since I spoke to Agnes and I hadn’t yet devised a new plan. So I waited. The small boy had followed me and pulled himself up to sit beside me. He hadn’t yet gotten in a word. Now that his friend was gone, he took the chance. He placed his little hand out, palm up, then used his other index finger to touch the outstretched fingers one by one. Each time he touched a finger he recited a word. “Tree.” “Goat.” “Car.” “Sea.” “Gutter.” He started over, counting off each finger with a new word, “Sun.” “Moon.” “Star.” “Boat.” “Water.”

I didn’t know what else to do so I placed my hand out to him, palm up. I smiled and touched my index finger, “Medasi  (Thank you).” His eyes brightened. I touched my middle finger, “Ensu (Water).” He smiled, nodding his encouragement. I touched my ring finger, “Et-te-den (How are you?).” The old woman sitting beside him joined him as he laughed gleefully. I touched my pinky, “Boko (Good).” They nodded and giggled. I touched my thumb. “Wo fro en den (What is your name?).” We clapped happily for each other. How quickly I could fall in love with these children!

"WELCOME" Billboard entering Cape Coast

My focus shifted back to the passing cars. Just up the road from where we sat was the famous slave castle. Tourists didn’t leave Cape Coast without seeing it. Barack Obama had visited it when he was in Ghana a few years before. Whenever a taxi filled with white people whizzed by, the little boy would tap my arm and point. “Friend?” he wondered. Of course every white person in Ghana must be my friend, right?

I laughed and shook my head each time he pointed excitedly. “Friend?”

“No. no. Not my friends.”

He pointed, “Friend?”

“No. Not my friend.” Every time he pointed I laughed and told him no, but each time he pointed he was just as sure as the time before that those white faces must be my friends.

He pointed, “Friend?”

I laughed, throwing my head back. I wasn’t even looking at the faces anymore, “No. No…wait…” I snapped my head back to focus into the front passenger seat where Scott’s arm hung out the window. I jumped down from the wall shouting, “SCOTT! SCOTT!” The taxi, driven by Big John, u-turned and pulled into the drive leading to Oasis. My little friend followed me to the car, where Scott, along with three American students piled out. They were on their way to the castle.

I used Scott’s cell phone to call Agnes. “I’m coming,” she said. I was pretty sure I understood “Ghana Time” now.

I told Agnes not to come because I was tired and heading home with Big John. She understood. No problem. Scott and the students walked the last few blocks to the castle. I waved to my one-shoed companion and he called, “Bye Bye. Bye Bye.” Later that evening, Agnes stopped by. She had picked up my dresses from the seamstress for me since we weren’t able to meet. Before I went to bed that night, I eyed the half loaf of bread resting atop our mini-fridge. I made a mental note to put it in my backpack before my next dance lesson.