In memory of Richard
Today the people of Kasapin are all dressed in red and black. They have gathered to remember one of the most vital life forces of the village, Richard, who died one week ago today.
Panyin and Kakra is what they called the twins Richard and Francis in the village, Twi for the Elder and the Younger of a set of twins. Together they built up the Twinsco building company, with it’s small army of builders and apprentices, and the mark of their drive to create and develop, and their craftsmanship, could be seen everywhere you went in Kasapin- from building my flash private school with its beautiful gates, to the serene and lovely spaces in our Twinsco guesthouse that hold so many memories for us. They were real entrepreneurs who knew the value of technology and innovation- Francis bought a knitting/ overlocking machine in Kumasi for his wife’s business which meant she had all the seamstresses and tailors in town coming to her to finish their garments.
Without their endless generosity and patience in hosting us Platform 2 volunteers, we would never have come to Kasapin- Richard and Francis campaigned for our presence and offered more than any of us realise to guarantee our work would continue. It seemed the village gave up on us after the community centre project stalled but the twins would not allow things to rest and all our collective efforts to be wasted. We may have been troublemakers who broke their chairs and doors but they never lost faith in us.
Despite all this tireless work Richard wore his responsibilities lightly and we would rarely see him without a huge grin, greeting us with high pitched imitations of our efforts in Twi. He would always laugh when I spoke and at first he called me Rabia because I reminded him of a previous volunteer, but then it changed to “Aso mu nni nkwanta” (The ears have one road to the drum ie, I can’t hear two people at once) because I said it to him once and he couldn’t get over my knowing an Akan proverb he hadn’t heard before. So every time he saw me he would shout “Aso mu nni nkwanta!” and laugh.
Richard, Me, Mavis and Alima at the guesthouse on the last day
For all of us who studied the two for the subtle differences between them- Francis’ had a lighter tone to his voice, Richard was more exuberant and excitable, the slight differences in the tribal scarring on their cheeks, Richard always testing his dodgy motorbike, Francis cheerfully rolling by on his bike with his head covered with cloth- it’s impossible to imagine one without the other. While we were there Francis was just building another house to finally live separately from the house they shared with their young families (which also housed the local radio station/ information centre)
I don’t know where the great plans and hopes they shared will go from here but I pray that they will be fulfilled and will honour the man who never stopped to rest but invested all his thought and energy towards the future.
بسم الله الرحمن الرحيم
By the passing of time
Indeed, mankind is in loss,
Except for those who have believed and done righteous deeds
and advised each other to truth and advised each other to patience.
(Surah Al-Asr)
Rooftop Reunions
Last weekend more than half of our Kasapin crew and the beautiful pseudo-Kasapin girls, Rosie and Helen, met at Mahta’s friend’s house. We are all hopelessly attached to each other and the two weeks that had passed since we last met at express seemed interminably long. We watched Wanted which I could hardly follow at all- it was full of random jumping on trains and flipping cars and gun-toting action with no explanation. After that we watched the sub-Pixar animation Planet 51 which you might expect to be even less challenging but no! It was a crazy, next level US propaganda movie aimed at catching the kids when their minds are young and accepting- sinister in the extreme for what was written between the lines. You have to see it to believe it. Granted my view may have been coloured by reading about Europeans arriving to West Africa and the terrible enslavement and colonialism that followed but I bet if they showed the follow up movie to this one it would be far more Avatar-like capitalist envoy from Earth than the innocently stupid American stooge sent in this movie’s first mission. Reviews on Rotten Tomatoes are equally unforgiving although they don’t take quite the conspiracy-theory view of it that I did 🙂
Before I arrived at Mahta’s friend’s house I stopped at a Fish Shop that was being gutted and on it’s way to becoming a studio and gallery for my amazing photojournalist friend Olivia Arthur. Her work is incredible- going from the inner world of women in Jeddah to the observing the castes of India. It never feels intrusive or judgemental and I really like the way she understands and respects those who allow her to take their picture- I think often photographers feel entitled to use images as they like because they now have ownership and the object no longer has any power, legal or otherwise over it. Especially with conservative communities like Muslim women in Saudi Arabia- perhaps no one they know personally will see that picture of them without their headscarves on, and they may even give permission, but if you decide to show that online or in a gallery in New York or London without considering how they would respond to what is so private in their world being shared so publicly then to me it feels like you may be taking unfair advantage and losing an important moral sensitivity. If portraying a world honestly is your object then trust and sensitivity will get you more emotional truth then simply shooting for glory.. It’s part of the reason why so many Ghanaians were distrustful of photo-taking and would react angrily to those who snapped without asking permission- they didn’t want to be exploited in postcards or calendars by strangers.
Technically I’d only known Olivia for two days- from one day about 3 years ago at a Living Islam camp and then 6 months later when she stopped by at my house for Eid, on her way from Paris to London to Spain, and snapped photos as we trooped from one house to another eating and playing non-haram poker. Anyway she didn’t find it strange that after 2 years I turned up to climb her scaffolding and share stories and drink ginger beer on the rooftop with her with the sunlight streaming through all the London chimney pots.
Alas we had no Mary Poppins to help us jump from chimney to chimney. On the other hand we did have vandals ripping up lead sheet from the neighbour's roof..
She had also been to Ghana recently with Christian Aid- taking pictures of a project that was educating people in Tamale about their rights in connection to the Debt Relief Initiative so that they could push their leaders to deliver on their promises. She said there was a group among them who were deaf and not able to follow the presentations so the facilitator learned sign language in order to communicate the message. She wanted to use that image as a representation of how the project was giving people a voice and empowering them but it didn’t make quite blunt enough a statement for the organisation to use in the end.
'Bionic' Laura: she made me neapolitan toast for breakfast- one stripe each of redcurrant, apricot and strawberry jam to make my day complete
The next morning I also spent on the roof top at Mahta’s friend’s (I asked many people in turn whose house I was in and the only reply I received was It’s Mahta’s Friend’s House) until we were curtly told to get down by the neighbours who found our skipping about over their heads snapping photos and singing P Square a little intrusive. Luke commented that I’m often in trouble for standing on roofs and I realised that that is more true than he realises. The first time I defied the supervisors was when I laid my mat on the roof of our broken-down trotro and settled into some stargazing while Perpetual pushed her authority to the limit in trying to pull me down from the roof- although I never asked anyone else to join me, they did it of their own accord but if I gave in to Pep’s demands and came down meekly then would have had to follow suit. Instead, as I told Knox when I arrived at school on DC’s new motorbike, I simply explained that I had assessed the risks and they didn’t need to worry for me- there was little danger. Even at Tajdid2003 when I spent many sunsets, nights and beautiful dawns overlooking Nottingham on the very wide but very high ledge on top of the school roof my supervisors would try to forbid me.
They all give up eventually.
I was always a stubborn child but alhamdulillah I never actually died..
Loving the Hiplife
Not everyone was feeling the Ghana Hiplife but my girl Efia Kyrie and I were all about the Sarkodie and Obrafour and anyone else we could pick up. It was difficult to catch at first- we’d listen to songs in a trotro or taxi and request the name of the artist but after many patient repetitions and efforts to commit it to memory we knew we’d got it all wrong and nobody in the music store would understand our mangled pronunciations.
So instead we trawled the phone shops that blasted music down the streets of Kasapin and any other computers around and plundered their well-stocked music folders. Now I have youtube and the internet I can finally find out where these artists come from and what they’re talking about when they rap in Twi. It’s got a completely unique energy and fresh sound- and not simply copying some tired US hip hop formula. My P2 buddies who were involved in the UK music scene tried to reject it outright as being headachy and unacceptably uncool music- and granted much of it was simply feel-good party songs about love and stuff- but in the end they gave up fighting it (and us two indomitable Efias) Now we just need to work on the rest of our UK folk..
Music is such an immediate connection with a culture and although I couldn’t follow the pidgin English or Twi without help, it seemed to me that a lot of the Ghanaian and Nigerian music we were exposed to was adventurous and inventive, with a lot of humour, originality and wit. Not to mention the awesome beat.
The same could not be said for the movies I saw- I noticed very few that I could really appreciate and enjoy. Mostly they were following the same hackneyed storyline about adulterous women and the scripts were very much about sitting at a table and explaining the whole story rather than acting out a scene. Though to be fair, it could have been the fault of my friend’s dvd collection.
I know there was a traditional theatre in the village and I met a theatre student in Accra who was telling me about their heritage of storytelling and drama that used to be part of everyday culture but was now being lost. At any rate I’m glad there’s still plenty for me to discover if and when I return.
[edited to add- for a description of the film-scene and community theatre that’s less sweeping-dismissal and more considered analysis check out the blog of my chance-met Canadian film-maker buddy who is documenting projects in Tamale, in the Northern Region of Ghana, at the moment. He was just waiting to collect his delayed baggage at Heathrow and asked a simple question about the airport phone innocently unaware that he had fallen into the hands of an expert interrogator who would find out his mission in life and force him to learn Ghanaian languages ]
This article was a great breakdown of this track:
“Borga is a name given to Ghanaians who are abroad or who’ve returned on holidays or for a short time. Since these people are usually held in high esteem, it’s a nice title to have. Many families in Ghana look forward to Borgas’ remittances. In fact, so far as you are a Borga, you are expected to release cash every now and then to folks back home. It matters not how or when or if you get the cash. Like the chorus of the song says, Borgas try to survive with the pay or salaries they get, working extra hours to make it some day. For some Borgas, the day never comes. They end up staying at one job for a lifetime and never return home as planned. Money is power, it can cloud your judgment and revise your dreams.
Because Borgas are held in high esteem, they sometimes seem to lord their esteem over Ghanaians back home, whether they are in Ghana or still at their bases. When proper research is done, one will find that many Borgas are indeed ‘suffering’ at thier bases. They are clutching at straws to maintain ‘flashy’ lifestyles or be the breadwinners for their families. Here’s where Sarkodie’s song takes root. He asks, “Bɔga, bɔga ɛna ɛyɛɛ dɛn!” This is loosely translated as “You are a Borga, and so what?” The following part of the chorus describes a little conversation between Borgas. “Masa, na wobaa year bɛn; Me, mebaayɛ nkyɛɛyɛ, afei na mabɛdu nti obi nsoa me o na me kɔn mu rebu” – Master, which year did you come? Me, I haven’t been here long, I just got here so someone should help me with this burden because it is too heavy”.
Sarkodie describes different situations some Borgas are in. He states that someone may be in Canada and has to beg for what he eats. He goes on say, “You live and work in Ghana, at the very least, you have somewhere to sleep. You’ve collected money to get a visa, you want to travel to America just to suffer”. And it’s true. Go to the American embassy to see. It’s called the African dream. The African dream is to seek greener (or pink) pastures abroad. It’s not just in this common case of people using all they have just to get a taste of America, but you can also see it in the ‘brain drain’, seeking medical help abroad and other cases. “Aburokyire tumi ma ɔsɔfo nom jot; Ɔpɛ sɛ ɔtwitwa n’adwendwen so short” – Living abroad can make a pastor take up smoking; wanting to cut short his worries”.
“Dɛn na ɛyɛ fɛ sɛ makɔdi holidays; na maba fie na mente obiaa case” A lot of Ghanaian students travel to the US, UK and other places during vacations. Many have the same goal, find a job, make some money, come back home and spend it. Or spend the money there, come back and let everyone know there have been changes in one’s lifestyle. There is always a difference between the student who has ‘borgaed’ and the one who hasn’t. The Borgas have this air around them. As for Sarkodie, he is not enthralled by the features of ‘Aburokyire’. He rates fried rice over ‘superghetti’.
Sarkodie’s song has sparked various responses, mostly from Ghanaian artists based abroad who seem to argue that they are better off than Sarkodie, who is living in Ghana. One response from Fada & San is a direct remix to Sarkodie’s Borga, pretty much calling his song, “boila” or rubbish. They state that they don’t like the Ghana Cedi, but they like the dollar. “when you reach Miami, you will see that Accra is a village”. They diss an Honourable Minister for becoming a photographer upon seeing Obama. They argue that toothpicks are not even made in Ghana. This line has been used for a long time, someone should please tell me why someone in Ghana is making toothpicks in Ghana today. Fada & San chorus, “If you don’t have money, shut up. We haven’t been around for too long, but we see our riches and possessions, you will be shocked.” Except these things are probably on credit and there are outstanding bills to pay. Hey, fada & San have an admirable remix, but I’m sticking with Sarko on this one. 🙂
Doing menial jobs abroad are ends to a means. Some people use the opportunity of traveling to set themselves up for better jobs and better standards of living for them and their families. You can’t exactly walk into a well-paying and lucrative job in someone else’s land. Even in Ghana, things are changing. Many Borgas are returning to Ghana for good. This is partly because of the economic crisis in the developed countries and the many lucrative and comfortable job opportunities being created in Ghana. Look around for the most successful, entrepreneurial and popular Ghanaians today, most of them live in Ghana. Granted, some of them may have lived abroad at some point, but many of them are really making their names by their exploits back home.
Sarkodie ends the song with a word of advice. “Nya ntoboaseɛ ma wo nnwom na ɛbɛben” – Have patience with your music and it shall be well. It’s not all rosy abroad. We can all make it Ghana or wherever in Africa we find ourselves. We don’t have to give up the little luxuries we enjoy to suffer in someone else’s land before we ‘can make it’. Sarkodie doesn’t argue against travelling, he supports it. I agree with him. It’s my wish many of us get the chance to travel and experience other cultures and places, it opens our eyes to different possibilities, ideas, attitudes and mannerisms. Being second-class citizens is not one of the wishes.”
I would always caution all those who would say their dream was to make it in the UK. In the village it always seemed to be those who would have the least chance of making it- the labourers and boys who had a limited grasp of English. At least in Ghana there is work for the able- hard work for little money but enough to live a free life in your community. For many their quality of life would be so much better if they stayed than struggling and searching for work alongside thousands of unqualified foreigners like them in a world of strangers who look down on you as a poor immigrant if they notice you at all.
I realize they can see all they could contribute to their families if they had a chance to make it abroad but I just don’t know if they’ve really pictured the reality and how lonely and pressured it would be. On the other hand it’s great for them and for Ghana if there are those who learn and gain a lot from the experience of travelling and then return to invest in their country’s future.
Tony would help at the barber's shop but all his ambition was focussed on the UK. Young, quick and ready to work, with good English- he would have a better chance than many. But there are surely more chances for him within Ghana itself..
On the other hand- and I’ll try to make this a quick point- many I spoke to were ambivalent at best towards returnees. According to them, some come back all flash and above their company- a superior attitude disdainful of Ghana compared to the fabulous world they’ve just left. To which my elegant airport staff friend responded indignantly that they should just go back if it’s so wonderful there.
As far as these farm boys are concerned though Kyrie was more hopeful and always a motivator to dive straight into your dreams. However for me these were exactly the kind of people who I was teaching last year- healthy and energetic and slowly despairing as they spend month after month collecting their jobseekers allowance and get rejected from factories, cleaning jobs, restaurants and anywhere that would give them some security beyond cash-in-hand pittance.
Even Dacosta had some plan to arrange for his second son- a tiling apprentice with little English- to be sent to the UK. He could sort it out with money sent to the right people but without real support to get the kid through the various skills and health tests he’d need I don’t know how he would manage. His older son, the more academic teacher trainee Steven, would have a much better chance of making it here but he has no such ambitions. However if he had gone to nursing school as he hoped to it’s likely he would have followed the rest of his peers to Canada or Germany or the UK as most of the nurses in the Berekum training hospital did.
But brain drain is a subject for another day. Thankyou and goodnight 🙂
*disclaimers as always about my limited knowledge and understanding. It’s very likely much of what I’ve said is unfair so feel free to comment or criticize.
The Danak Pack
sauntering home from school, Slim Shaggy leading the pack
KG, LoveG, Slim Shaggy aka Political Thinker, Atom… These guys, along with my girls Maame Salah and Juliet, ruled the school, or at least Class 2 Danak, and they knew it. Their hip hop names and gangster swagger aside, this crew were sure they were going places. Smart and ambitious, they had a plan and were working towards it:
Slim Shaggy (my quietly cool 12 year-old host brother Samuel) would have evening classes every night after school and was confidently on his way to a career in medicine, secure in the support of a father who would invest everything to make it a reality.
Samuel and his teacher were close friends and studied far beyond the Danak curriculum
LoveG first came to me as Ben- celebrating his 14th birthday and enthusiastically asking questions about Tower Bridge, explaining that he wanted to be an engineer because that was what would make Ghana strong (he’s not wrong). I invited him to become my Ghana Bridge team’s protege but the timing never quite worked out for a proper introduction. On the other hand he did get a birthday slice of my apple pie that took nearly ten hours of toil to produce. He told me that a previous volunteer was sponsoring his education which meant he was able to thrive at the expensive private school in the village, Danak Experimental, which had a plentiful supply of textbooks, a roomful of actual computers, talented, if untrained, teachers and many other rare luxuries.
the students were relentlessly hounding us to give to their '1 Cedi for Haiti' campaign
The boys had a curious obsession with Tower Bridge- I don’t know where it sprang from but they had an old postcard of the bridge which the waved before my face eager to know if I had seen it and knew anything of the mechanics. The answers to which were yes and no. I took a video on the bus last night as I crossed over the bridge and I’ll get hold of a book on bridges so they can get more adequate answers to their questions next time.
One Collins in their class would join them in all that they did but he was always a step behind and though would try to make jokes by saying the wrong answer or diverting our French lessons into nonsense he would be promptly labelled a fool. Samuel was the youngest of the group but he could be stern and authoritative and would be quick to call the poor boy to order and tell him to “stop fooling!”
Collins- his hip hop nickname didn't quite stick. There was another name to do with hippopotamuses but I'm not sure how it went or if he wanted it..
If I was curious about anything I’d ask this crew to show me- one day Ben lead me to the recently built traditional theatre where a mock palace court was fashioned out of clay and the girls, who were Kasapin actors and dancers, would tell me when they were going to perform in a local film or drama. When the rain came crashing down suddenly Atom or KG would appear to usher me and Efia Kyrie into Stamford Bridge, a dark hall where they would play video games using a tv positioned precariously under the dripping ceiling. In dryer days you would often see small children peeking through the slats of the wooden building trying to glimpse whatever football match was being screened.
Inside Stamford Bridge: playing football with the games console while KG dances away freely, unseen by the camera
And the Danak Pack could Dance. In the evenings my crew took to storming the guesthouse in search of French lessons, Chinese lessons, while they in turn taught me Twi (far better than I taught them) and when the electricity went out and the winds blew cold I’d play music from my phone and watch in appreciation as they bust their expert moves. Or they would parade about, prancing in the scarves and shawls I brought to keep them warm, pretending to be Madam Zee when I wasn’t looking.
Juliet and Maame Salah: studious and smart yet these girls had some serious style
The last night in Kasapin we volunteers all mutinied against curfew and decided to stay out in the village all night. All that know me are aware that I’m a wanderer but that night my young crew followed me through all my endless errands. We went from the radio station to pick up gifts from the guesthouse- they snatched up my wind-up torches to inspect the mechanics and promptly broke one to pieces in the process. Then on to pass gifts round town and to Samuel’s house to drop a pile of books for the fledgling library and then to my good tailor friend Abu, who put aside everything to make me a full dress on the last day- the shop was shut up when we arrived and I was at a loss but my boys launched into action. KG shone his new torch across the surrounding walls until he found Abu’s phone number while Atom scrabbled around the ground collecting stubs of chalk so I could write a message on the wall.
Atom: cheerful and charming but clearly in charge. They said he was so tiny you need a microscope to see him, hence the name Atom.
I had just written “I met your absence call Zeenat:” when one of the tailor’s apprentices came riding to the rescue before I added my number on the wall. However I have a strong suspicion that young Atom, who spent much of the evening committing my uk number to memory and spreading the word, may have completed my unfinished handiwork and is therefore to blame for the high volume of calls I get from Kasapin folk I never met. We finished at the radio station again- where we met with Eric and my P2 ppl and they had some kind of dance-off where my young crew gave way good-humouredly to the older folk doing their deluded dad-style dancing. That was also my last night as DJ- I gave up my Michael Jackson phone that night and suffered without my songs for the rest of my long journey home.
Last day in Kasapin, KG in my hat. I only wore this pineapple sari once (a gift from my (host) dad Dacosta but the few photos I took with my friends were all at that time.
Samson, Frank and Kwadwo
by Mahta
You could quite easily split the kids of Kasapin into two distinct groups. Those who are in better education and will leave the village one day to embark on the faster pace of city life. Those who exude the perfect level of coolness and intelligence. You talk to this group of kids and you can imagine the options that their future holds. You smile at the thought.
Then there are those whose futures don’t seem to look too different from their present day lives. They will stay in Kasapin. They might get jobs but even then they’ll be limited to the very few options available to them. They’ll drift through primary and secondary school. They won’t be able to afford higher education.
Samson, Frank and Kwadwo are the first to come to mind when making this distinction. They appeared in the early days of our arrival, full of life, mischief and street smarts. Three brothers from a large family – by the end of our time in Kasapin, I still hadn’t managed to determine just how many other siblings they had.
There was never a day where all three brothers and their subtle but ever-present sense of protection over each other went unseen. Their inappropriateness was just as apparent but endearing in the most hilarious of ways. Their frustrations shone through in different ways.
Samson, the eldest of the three, with his moments of blatant disrespect. Frank with his casual aggression and the morose mood that would follow. And little Kwadwo whose offerings of unripe oranges and big toothy grins showed how much he wanted to be favoured by the obronis.
young Kwadwo flexing his muscles
And favoured they were. Not through pity at the thought of them remaining in Kasapin for the foreseeable future but for their roguish manner, determined presence and immediate warmth. Our three street-wise jokers of Kasapin.
Happy Collins:
Usually bounding about eagerly, dancing and performing outrageously accurate caricatures for the volunteers’ entertainment, but at the same time he knew he was on the outside looking in.
Waiting for the future sometimes with heartbreaking hope, other times raging with impotent fury at his family’s refusal to prioritise his education.
A razor sharp mind that would pick up on everything around him and use it in his comedic antics to wicked and hilarious effect. Desperate to go to school but forced to act the fool. We wish him the best.
An Obroni Abroad 