Return of the Kings

The Old Time African Gospel Hour woke us with all its singsong volume at about 5:00 am, wake up time at the equator, an hour ahead of the sun. The Christian reggae blared half a day before we realized that our guesthouse was next to a stereo store. Most of the guests stayed in the village houses but we were given a place of honour amongst the hired musicians and organizers at the outskirts in a room with bath and sweet running water. The gracious Edward, owner of the house we were staying at in Accra, husband of Lydia, Director of the Ghana Water Company, has no running water in his big city home, so this was a sweet luxury.

Having met the elders after our night of chaos tradition demanded that we report to the chief 's clay palace immediately after measurements for our funeral wear. David had made arrangements for a flat of Cokes and Fantas to be delivered to the Chief, his Sub-Chiefs, his Linguist, and the Queen mother. He gratefully accepted but, being unable to drink the entire flat himself, invited us to join him in a swig. We were given the great honour of receiving the "last drop," we were told, though I'm still not sure what that means. Much was said about us, that we had been places like Venezuala and India, raising money for the poor, spreading cash and wisdom around, all through our new friend Ahmed on our side and the Chief's linguist on royalty's side. Ahmed translated everything from Twi to English for us as we were welcomed into the family, the clan, and the community. They were so grateful for our presence at this difficult yet celebratory occasion. Through Ahmed we gave humble thanks and offered recipricol hospitality in Canada should they ever visit.

We were heroes in the village, swarmed everywhere by men, women, children and flies, all teaching us Twi and inviting us to take pictures. We were given an hand-held shopping tour (it being market day) by Dacosta and one of many Kojos (men born on Monday, like me) and given gifts of oranges and fried bread balls. Paying for anything ourselves was a hard-faught struggle, and the ladies cooking all of our meals over wood-fueled clay-contained fires smiled and waved away all offers of help. We met Dacosta's pasteur, who dislikes his current assignment because it means his kids will not receive the same quality education that they would in the city, but he was happy for our visit. And we passed the afternoon talking banking: loans are available at prohibitive interest rates so those few who have any spare money often invest it into building a house, bit by bit when they have the cash over many years. The landscape is filled with in-progress concrete houses. The village itself is not rich, many children (especially girls) don't go to school, and there is a hierarchy separating them from the ones who do attend. There is a pharmacy but when a woman cut her leg chopping vegetables the remedy was diced cassava. But people take care of each other, all are fed and all are housed. David is investing some of his Canadian-earned money into a centre for scholarships for girls and other assistance. We learned all this and more in a day.

Then the ambulence came with the body, brought it into David's courtyard, which fills the space between the two houses he just had built (one for his deceased mother and one for Hannah). We all sat around shaking hands, as tradition demands, waving to children, and finally, most joyously for us, welcoming Sir Henry back from the land of the living dead. He had a puffy head, a black eye and a giant smile.