Conversations Over Street Food: Religion, Virginity and Love

I set the alarm on my phone for 2:30 a.m. I would have to recruit a taxi driver from the roadside to pick me up at 3 a.m. from my guesthouse. Hopefully I wouldn’t oversleep and hopefully he wouldn’t be late – I didn’t want to miss the bus to Tamale and be stuck in Kumasi another day.

It was almost 4 p.m. With strained effort I got up from the guesthouse’s soft mattress. My body and mind ached for a nap but I knew I should find some dinner instead and head to bed soon after that.

I left the guesthouse and wandered down the street. Bantama is a suburb of Kumasi, the second largest city in Ghana. This street and the ones branching off it were laden with men. Staring and talking at me in Twi, then laughing to each other about it. I was used to friendlier strangers and felt more like a zoo animal rather than a celebrity, a status I had grown accustomed to (but was still skeptical about) in the past 10 months. From the way they were acting I could’ve assumed I had suddenly grown a ghastly tumor on my face.

I turned right at an intersection in hope of finding Ghanaians who wouldn’t stare, jeer, laugh and point at the obroni. And to find a taxi driver for tomorrow morning. And to buy juice – I was feeling fruit-deprived.

Shortly after the turn I found myself on Bantama’s main drag. Loud music blared from every fifth shop, trinkets from the outdoor market crept from the building to the sidewalk, leaving a walkway wide enough for only two people to pass each other. I maneuvered around the neatly stacked displays of shoes, jewelry, purses, black wigs, fabrics, football (soccer) gear and clothes. I turned into a corner shop and bought a box of pineapple juice.

Then I stood on the side of the road and waved an empty taxi car to my side. Without a word, I got inside. I greeted him and and told him I needed a driver to “pick me” from my guesthouse at 3 a.m. I asked if he would do it and he agreed.

“Where to?”
“Metro Mass Station.”
“You mean the station this way or this way?” he asked, pointing forward and then behind him.
“This way. Metro Mass Station,” I said, pointing behind us. I felt a surge of gratefulness for Isaac, the taxi driver who drove me from the Metro Mass Station to the guesthouse and showed me how close it was.
“Oh, ok,” he said. “And please, where is the guesthouse?”
“I will show you. Drive forward and pass right here.”

I directed him to the guesthouse which was around the corner from where I had gotten into his car. We negotiated a price for the morning fare. He tried charging me 10 cedis but I knew the distance was more deserving of three. He laughed when I called him out on it and agreed to three cedis. We took each other’s names and numbers and parted ways.

Now back at the front of my guesthouse, I continued down the street again in search of a rice stand. I found one past the intersection that initially I had turned onto. Spacious enough for two to work inside, the stall had countertops on each side and plastic windows to keep the flies out.

I said "good afternoon" to one of the two women working inside the stall, the woman nearest to the front cage screen. She looked up from scooping rice into a plastic bag for another customer's takeaway and smiled. She spoke in Twi to the other woman but maintained eye contact with me. All I understood was “obroni” and then they both laughed.

She scooped red spicy sauce called "gravy" or "stew" into a plastic bag, then scooped the rice on top of the sauce. I asked for 30 pesewas of salad (coleslaw), an egg (available at rice stands in hardboiled form) and stew (spicy and sometimes fishy reddish brown sauce). She added those bits, wrapped the plastic bag in newspaper and put it inside another black plastic bag. I paid and left before remembering to ask for a plate and utensils. I was in a hurry to leave - I felt unwanted and disrespected as a foreigner there, with the woman talking about me, at me but in another language which she knew I didn't understand, to everyone around.

About 20 paces down the street back toward the guesthouse, I approached a teenage girl as she was walking through the side door of a rice stand. We exchanged greetings. I asked if I could use a plate and utensils. She shook her head quickly and said, “No.”

The next business that was open was another rice stand a few meters from the entrance of my guesthouse. I had walked by earlier but no one was around except a woman sprawled on a bench behind the stand sleeping. As I walked by again I saw she was still laying on the bench but was awake and staring at me. I went over to her behind the stall, greeted her and asked if I could use a plate.

“O, yes, come,” she said, sitting up abruptly. “What food is it?” she asked, moving into the stall. Her hand hesitated between a bowl and a plate.

I told her it was rice and she looked a little disappointed. I explained I had come by her rice stand earlier but she was sleeping and I didn’t want to wake her.

“O! It is fine!” she replied. She rinsed a bowl in a tub of water, shook the water droplets off and handed it to me. I removed my food from the outer bag and newspaper, pulled apart the plastic and dumped the food into the bowl.

“Will you eat with a spoon or your hands?” the woman asked.
“Normally I would eat with my hands but I don’t want to today.” I wanted her to know that I do like to learn and practice her culture.

She washed a spoon and handed it to me. She sat on the bench next to me and leaned back against the white wall. We talked about our Ghanaian names, our ages, why I’m in Ghana, where I’m from, who she knows in the states, if I go to church, what religion I practice, which church, etc. Her name is Adjowa, she is 37 years and she has four children ages six to 13. She is married. She met her husband in their church's choir practices. She is a Baptist. Her rice stand has been on this street corner for five years and she is from this town, Bantama.

“So, do you want me to be your pal?” Adjowa asked.
“Yes, of course!”
“I will be your senior sister, and you will be my junior sister.”
“I would like that very much.”
“Do you have a driver for tomorrow when you leave early in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know him?”
I knew his name, his number and that he’s a driver in Kumasi. “Yes.”
“Is he a good driver?”
“He is.”
“So will you wait for him here?” Adjowa pointed around me to the front entrance of the guesthouse, where I had told her I was staying.
“Yes.”
“Ok,” Adjowa nodded. Her eyes moved left to right over the street. “Where do you live? Does your place of work have a living quarters?”
“No, I live in a different part of town than where my office is.”
“Do you rent space?”
“Yes, the organization I work for rents it for me and my roommate.”
“How many rooms? Do you have three rooms?”
“Yes!”
“Do you have a hallway?”
“No, we have three separate rooms, each with doors. We have a self-contained kitchen, and it is connected to another room that has our shower and toilet,” I responded.
“Are you a virgin?”

WOW...did she seriously just ask that? I stifled a laugh. I nodded slowly and said "yes," remembering from our conversation earlier that she is a very religious woman. The judgmental type, I suspected. A woman who goes to church Sundays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays – sometimes twice a day – would not like hearing that I wasn’t a virgin if I am not married. But, wait a minute. How is my sex life related to where I live?!

“Thank God!” Adjowa exclaimed. Please, laughter, stay inside. “Thank God you have kept yourself. Because men will take you and then dump you, you know that?”
“Yes,” I responded solemnly.

I was more a spectator in this conversation than an active participant. I could’ve shared what I really thought, but I didn’t want disharmony – especially not while I was eating.

Yet, out of desire for more amusement, I blurted a Ghanaian phrase that took the middle road between my polite answers catered for strangers and my real thoughts. “But it’s hard-o.”
“Yes, but thank God you have kept yourself.” Adjowa continued, “You said you are not married and do not have a fiancé – do you have someone in mind?”
“For me, there is almost always someone in mind. I never start that serious though.”
“Then is your fiancé white or black?”
“I don’t have a fiancé.”
“You said you have someone you want to marry.”

I wanted to explain that crushing is different than dating, dating for fun is different than dating someone you could marry, and most people who are in a relationship don't know for at least a year or two and sometimes longer if they want to marry that person.

Instead I said, “Oh, I don’t want to marry anyone right now. In the states, usually being attracted to someone just makes you want to get to know the other person. Then, if you become friends, you might want to date more seriously and eventually become fiancés. Those feelings take time to grow.”

I noticed Adjowa had stopped listening and was staring intently at my bare arms beaded in sweat. “Where is your handkerchief?” she asked. I pointed to my bag. “You are too wet! I will get your handkerchief for you.”
I laughed. “Yes, I am always wet in Ghana. Eating hot food makes me even more wet.” In Ghana people say "hot" when they mean "spicy."
Adjowa reached into my bag and placed my purple and orange plaid handkerchief in my lap next to my half-eaten bowl of rice. “Finish your food. Keep the houseflies away and then you can use your handkerchief.”

I smiled to myself as I spooned more bites into my mouth.

“Do you want a white or black husband?” Adjowa asked.
“You can’t choose who you fall in love with.”
Adjowa was clearly fishing for a juicier answer. “Do you want to marry a rich man? Or…would you rather marry a rich man or a God-fearing man?”
I paused. “Neither. I want to marry someone I’m compatible with and who loves me for who I am and who challenges me to be a better person.”

Blank stare and silence.

“But you wouldn’t want to marry a God-fearing man?” she pressed. “You wouldn’t want to marry a man who fears God?”
“No.”
Adjowa’s jaw dropped. I continued, “I don’t like the word ‘fear’ in this context. I would rather have him embrace God, however he understands God.”

I finished my water sachet in silence and glanced sideways at her. Her stare was fixed on the street where half a dozen children were playing tag.

“I must go,” I told her. “I need to sleep.”
We both stood. “You won’t bathe before you sleep?” she asked with concern.
“Oh, you’re right. I should bathe tonight.”

I handed Adjowa my dish, uttered medaase and hiked my bag over my shoulder.

Adjowa grabbed my shoulders and squared them so I was facing her. "You said you are Christian," she said gravely. "Are you a good one?"
"Sometimes. I try."
"You must try harder."
"I will," I assured her.
Adjowa smiled and squeezed my shoulders and stroked my arms. “Safe journey to Tamale tomorrow.”
“Thank you, medaase. We will meet again, Adjowa.”
“Yoo, goodbye, sistah Ekua.”

I walked through the children’s game to my guesthouse, marginally oblivious to their obroni calls, wishing I could've shared that conversation and experience with a friend.

Expecting Things in Return (And Not)

As our 22-seater van pulled into the Kejetia lorry station, I asked the man sitting next to me if he knew Kumasi well.

“Yes, please, I am from Kumasi,” he said.
“Do you know how much a taxi from Kejetia station to the STC station should be?”

He pondered a few seconds and said it should cost me three cedis. I thanked him. He pulled my bag out from under the seat in front and brought it off the van for me. I thanked him again and scanned the scene for a taxi driver. I didn’t have to try hard – three men engulfed me as soon as I set foot on ground. “Where are you going?” “Need a taxi?” “White woman, need a ride?”

I took my bag from the man and walked away from the crowd to a taxi driver leaning against the hood of his car. I asked him to take me to the STC station.

“OK, let’s go,” he said, moving toward the driver’s seat.
“How much?” I pressed.
He rested his folded arms on the top of the ajar door and gazed across the Kejetia market, the largest open market in West Africa. “You give me 15 cedis.”
“Fifteen?!” I laughed. I turned to walk away and saw the man from the van standing close by, smiling and shaking his head.
The taxi driver followed me. “The traffic is too much at this time of day.”
“The traffic is always too much – this is Kumasi!” I retorted.

I shouldn’t have expected to get a fair price at the lorry station anyway. The lorry stations in Ghana’s bigger cities are known for overcharging drop taxi passengers – foreigners and Ghanaians alike. The Van Man and I walked away from the station along the main Kejetia road. The taxi driver did not follow.

“You will get a taxi for three cedis, don’t worry,” he promised me. I find it amusing that when Ghanaians want to help me they find it necessary to promise that everything will be alright and not to worry. Both men and women do this to foreigners, I’ve noticed. Very peculiar – more on that later though.

We spotted a taxi driver with no passengers inching along the road in traffic. Van Man lowered his head and spoke in Twi to the driver. I was perfectly capable of getting my own taxi but let him help anyway. He looked back up to me, smiled and proudly said, “Three cedis.” I chuckled and thanked him. Before I shut the car door, Van Man asked, “How can I reach you?” I laughed softly to myself – I had felt that one coming. “Next time I’m in Kumasi, maybe I will see you.” I shut the door and waved goodbye.

The lady at the STC bus station was not nearly as helpful. Extracting information from people is one of my duties as an INGO Project Coordinator – I didn’t want to work on my holiday. After a painful question-and-answer session, I finally found out that the STC bus from Kumasi to Tamale this day and the next were already full. I had some wildlife to see – I wasn’t about to lounge around Kumasi for two days before getting a bus, only to take another bus to my final destination. I opted for my next option, the Metro Mass bus, which was positioned inconveniently on the other side of the city. I walked outside to the drop taxi station and asked a driver if he could take me to the Metro Mass station.

This man was a hospitable driver, transportation system informant and tour guide. When we got to the Metro Mass station I asked him to wait for me while I checked to see if I could buy a ticket to Tamale. There wasn’t a line to the Tamale booth, so I walked up to the ticket lady and asked how much a ticket to Tamale would be. “Eight cedis,” she replied. She stood up and began fiddling with the money trays in the money box. I fished eight cedis out of my bag, dropping one bill on the ground. As a frequent dropper of items, I've learned that most Ghanaians will jump to help you clean a mess you've accidentally created but won't assist you in picking up your valuables. I'm wondering if not touching another's possessions stems back to the highly competitive and untrusting nature many Ghanaians associate with their working class.

I slid the money through the open window. The ticket lady clicked the money box shut, then looked at the money and back at me.
“O!” she exclaimed and picked up her purse from the ground and moved to the booth’s exit.
“O, madam. You are leaving?” I asked.
She turned around and said, “Yes.”
“So, no more tickets can be bought for the Tamale bus today?”
“Oh, please, no,” she responded.
My heart sank. “If-only thoughts” tried invading my mind (if only I hadn't gone to the STC station, if only the van from Cape Coast hadn't taken two hours to fill, etc.), but if I gave these thoughts a swift boot out. She turned to leave again. I called after her. “When will you start selling tickets to the next Tamale bus?”
“Four a.m. tomorrow,” she called over her shoulder.

I need to be back here earlier than 4 a.m., I thought. I asked a man nearby when lines form for the 4 a.m. buses. He told me 3:30 a.m. I thanked him and walked over to my waiting taxi, knowing I should be at the station before three.

I got back inside the taxi and sounded out to the driver my last two options. I could either pay another five (ish) cedis to have him drive me to the Tamale tro-tro station, get to Tamale by nightfall, spend the night in Tamale and board the Mole bus the next afternoon, or I could overnight in Kumasi near the Metro Mass station, get a Tamale bus in the morning and try to get to Mole in one day. It was a five-hour ride to Tamale via bus, so that meant it was maybe an eight- or nine-hour drive via tro, not including a potential breakdown along the way. I figured the safer and more relaxing option would be to stay a night in Kumasi.

I asked the driver if he knew any guesthouses nearby. He did but didn’t know the names of them or how much they cost. I took out my Bradt guidebook from my bag and flipped to the Kumasi guesthouse pages. I gave him the book and asked if he knew where each of the cheaper guesthouses were. One by one, he said told me which part of Kumasi the guesthouses were located and whether it was far from the station. They were all far away. “How about you drive me to the closest guesthouse you know?” I asked. “Yes, it isn’t in the guidebook," he said. "I will take you there.”

As he drove from the Metro Mass station, I felt a powerful wave of gratefulness for his willingness to help. And I didn't even know his name! Normally I ask taxi drivers their name as soon as I get in their car, but this time I had forgotten.

"Please, what is your name?" I asked.
"I am Isaac."
"Isaac, very nice to meet you. Thank you for going out of your way to help me."

He beamed and said it was his duty to help obronis like me. Then he explained that we were in Bantama, a suburb of Kumasi, and pointed out recognizable buildings in case I wanted to walk to the station. I wouldn’t, though, because it would be in the middle of the night, but the gesture was sweet anyway. We parked in front of a tall brick building with a white gated patio. The sign on the bricks said it was a café, but the sign on the wall read “Restaurant and Guesthouse.”

The cheapest room was double the price I was looking for (22 cedis per night for a double bed with a fan), but the location was ideal for my early morning, and I had already spent money to get there anyway – asking Isaac to drive me to another guesthouse to compare prices would cost more. I took the room.

After I made the decision to stay, Isaac turned from the front desk lady to me. He looked satisfied that he had properly seen me off.

“So. Your name is?” Isaac asked.
“Michaela.” I took his hand in mine and shook it the Ghanaian way.
"Michaela," he repeated. "It sounds Ghanaian."
"Thank you," I smiled.
“Safe journey tomorrow.” He bowed his head and raised his hand to indicate "goodbye." Spinning on his heels, he walked out the door.
“Medaase.”

It was intriguing that he didn’t try to give me his number and tell me that I should call him to pick me up in the morning. Usually when the conversation between taxi driver and passenger flows well, the drivers try to give you their number and suggest that you call them for a drop taxi ride. Isaac had mentioned that he lives on the other side of town - if he had come to pick me up in the morning, it would’ve cost me more because he would have to drive farther to get to me. It was either very thoughtful of him to not push that on me, or he just didn't want to get up in the middle of the night to drive me around.

I paid for the accommodation and followed the caretaker woman to my room up the stairs and around the corner. The building was open-air - opposite my door was the kitchen. Water running, women singing, pots clanging, but at least it smelled good. I followed the caretaker into my room, set my bags down and walked to the bathroom to turn on the faucet to make sure the water was running. It was. I thanked the woman and sat down on my bed as she left the room. The mattress was a lot softer than mine at home in Cape Coast. I leaned back across the bed and closed my eyes, thinking about how the next day was going to come early and end late. In like a lion and out like a lion.

Word to the Wise: Defriend Business Partners & Co-workers on April Fools' Day

Woke up this morning, got my run in, greeted the day watchman, showered, sliced a pineapple for breakfast, checked my e-mails, Facebook... wait, what is this?

Emmanuel, one of our project partners in Ghana, had written this as his Facebook status: "Omg its so cold here in Canada...will be in Ghana in two weeks time. Am sorry to all my friends whom i didnt tell i was leaving Ghana…"

What?! His NGO is getting one of our volunteers on Monday, and she will be working on his project for two weeks! He can’t leave – he is the backbone of his NGO. And I need him to submit a completed project itinerary for a university group working with him in May – I can’t continue preparing for that program until he turns it in. He wouldn't just up and leave like this. He wouldn’t do that to us…would he?

He had met Kirsty at our house yesterday afternoon to collect the remaining balance from a fund our NGO had owed his NGO – why hadn’t he mentioned his trip to her then? Or during the meeting I had had with him earlier this week?

I sent him a message, fighting back the urge to title it “Breach of Trust” and instead opted for the more even-tempered “Canada?” and said something to the effect of: “Couldn't help but notice that you are in Canada. WTF?”

My boss Kirsty and I shared a drop taxi to work because Lawrence was at the office early, and by early I mean on time (Kirsty and I were late), and he needed some help running a meeting.

After our usual morning catch-up on each other’s lives from the 12 hours we spent apart (sleeping and getting ready for work), I told Kirsty about Emmanuel gallivanting in Canada.

"He knows he needs to tell us these things," Kirsty exclaimed. "And what about his volunteer? She arrives tomorrow!”
“Exactly. And I’m wondering why he didn’t tell you yesterday when he saw you. What time did you see him?”
“About noon.”
“So that still would have given him enough time to get to Accra and board a plane! And the timing makes sense too, you know, because Canada is back in time several hours.”
“He couldn’t have gone through an American airline because of the layover time difference,” Kirsty thought aloud. “He might have gone through Lufthansa or KLM because Lufthansa’s international departing flights are in the evening and – ”
“ – I can’t believe he just left.” I gazed out the window. “He's so reliable - it just doesn't seem like him. Karen starts working with him Monday, and she’s only here two weeks. What, is he just not going to meet her at all? He knew since last month that she was coming! Plus, I need him to complete that project itinerary for the university group coming in May too – I can’t continue planning for the project without that itinerary.”

I wished this fiasco would've at least happened during our slow season when our nerves aren't running off the wall. Kirsty told me to call Ben, Emmanuel's project partner, to make sure it wasn’t a joke. (Funny that we had suspected it could have been a joke, but thought, Who posts jokes like that on their Facebook page? Clearly, both of us had forgotten it was April Fools' Day.)

When we got to the office, I plowed through two meetings and then called Ben. His phone was off. Then, doubtful I’d get an answer, I called Emmanuel. It rang, but no answer. The day went on, and Kirsty and I were talking in my office while my phone rang.

“EEEeee… ssshhh! It’s Emmanuel!” I was anxious to put this mystery at rest.

Kirsty inched closer to my desk, and Fati, a project partner and friend of Emmanuel’s who was hanging out at the office after our meeting, came around the corner into my office. Kirsty had informed Fati of Emmanuel’s great two-week escape to Canada.

“Hello, Emmanuel?”
“Yes, Michaela.” He sounded too calm. How?
For some reason I started laughing at the situation. “So, are you in Ghana or are you in Canada?”
Fati came over to me and squeezed my hand. On Emmanuel's end of the phone I heard a manic honk. My heart raced - it was definitely a Ghana car honk.
“O I am in Ghana! April Fools! April Fools! April Fools!”

After laughing with Emmanuel, Kirsty and Fati to the point of tears of relief, he told me not to say anything about it on Facebook so he could “get” some other people.

Moral of the story is... Do not be Facebook friends with business partners and coworkers; or if you must, defriend them on April Fools' Day.

Love At First Sight...Of Skin Color

A few months ago I read an article in The Ghanaian Times about a young Ghanaian woman, Obaa Yaa, who vowed to commit suicide if Black Stars and Sunderland striker Asamoah Gyan didn’t marry her by Christmas. This woman from Accra claimed she fell in love with Gyan “because of his footballing prowess, his rapping ability and his dancing skill.” Yaa used a local radio station as a platform for her plea: “Brother Asamoah, please I want to tell you that I want to marry you by this December. If you don’t marry me I will kill myself.” She stated, “I like his hair style, the colour of his skin make me fall in love with him. I am having sleepless nights over this so I want him to rescue me by this December.”

If only love was that simple.

But no! How horrible that would be! What a mess we’d be in if people fell in love for superficial reasons such as one’s hair or skin color or physical abilities! What if we had billions of romantically deranged people like this Accra woman running around searching for husbands and wives?

The skin color thing bothers me most. Ghanaians have told me on numerous occasions that I am beautiful. As a foreign female, I am used to it, but it literally staggers me when they say my skin color is the reason. My skin color makes me beautiful? I've heard the same thing being told to other white foreigners, so I know it's not my particular skin tone - it truly is my color that they are referring to. On top of that, a few women have told me wearing earrings makes a woman beautiful! What is going on, here?! Forget the push for self-worth/identity workshops and campaigns in America – bring them to Ghana, bring them to Africa!

To no surprise of visitors of developing nations, most Ghanaians (usually men) are appalled to learn that I am unmarried at age 24. “No husband? Why!” To which I respond, “Marriage is not on my mind right now.” When they ask why, I remind them (or possibly teach them?) that you have to be in love with someone in order to marry, and I am not in love with anyone.

“Then I will marry you!”
“But you don’t even know my name!”

When I tell them I have no children, well, it’s the most outrageous thing they’ve ever heard. When I make small talk, I usually ask if the person has a family (most tend to light up at this question). A majority of the people I've asked has children but no spouse. I’ve learned it is very important to Ghanaians to have a child to carry on their personal legacies. If a Ghanaian dies and has no children to speak of, it is viewed as an especially unfortunate death.

“I can give you child!”
“I don’t want one right now and…I don’t know who you are, but thanks?”

Not too long ago a kid less than 10 years old barefoot in torn clothes sitting on top of an abandoned bus across the street yelled at me, “HEY! WHITE LADY! I LIKE YOUR HAIR COLOR! WILL YOU MARRY ME?”

Hair color.. hm. I'll take that over skin color any day.

Can't Be Bothered (Morning and Afternoon Episode)

Waking in my hotel room in Accra was probably one of the few mornings in Ghana I haven’t risen to brooms sweeping, roosters crowing, dogs barking, goats “merrhhing,” drummers drumming, the sun blinding, heat invading, neighbors quarreling, colleagues knocking, radios blaring or mosques “AHHUUUUMMMMNNNNAAAA” -ing. This morning, my only waking force was my measly cell phone alarm.

A group from New York University, comprised of 13 graduate and undergraduate students and one professor, had been volunteering with a HIV/AIDS outreach project in Cape Coast through our NGO for two weeks. They were ending their trip with a tour of Accra, the capital. Tettey, a guide from a tour agency to which we outsourced, was in charge of them and I was along for the ride to make sure their transition from Accra to home went smoothly. All went well until the group’s last night in Accra. Upon return from our day tour, one of the volunteers discovered $80 had been taken from her room. (For a dramatic buildup, read my previous post.)

The volunteer group was scheduled to leave the hotel the next day at 5 a.m. for the airport, and the stolen money mystery hadn’t been resolved yet. Therefore, I offered to continue trying to get to the bottom of the case on Yvonne’s behalf. Not my mandate, but I would want someone to do the same for me. Tettey and I rode with the group in the bus to the airport. After saying goodbye to the group, I collected Yvonne’s contact information in case it was needed for the police report. I told her we would wire the money to her account if we recovered it.

The bus driver dropped Tettey and I off at Lake Botsumtwi Hotel. We had a few hours until the owner said he would come to the hotel to sort out the stolen money issue, so I went back to my room and Tettey went into a volunteer’s room and we slept. We had agreed to meet at 8:30 a.m. at the outdoor patio for breakfast. Tettey wasn't there yet so I found a table under the shade and watched the football game across the street.

"I am leaving," a voice said from behind me.

It was Gracie, the receptionist Yvonne and I had talked to for hours the previous night. She had given me a strange vibe for being immoderately loose-lipped about why she thought it was Naomi, the cleaning lady, who stole the money.

"You are finished for the day?" I asked.
"No, I work again tonight." She was standing on the other side of the patio fence.
"Ah, the morning and night shifts, I see."
"You will call me when you figure out everything? I want to know how things turn out for your friend," she said.
"Sure, I can do that." No reason not to. "What's your number?"

She gave me her number and wished me luck, then crossed the street to the nearest fruit vendor. I watched her for a few minutes, pondering the possibility of her being the one who stole Yvonne's money and how heavy her conscious would be after making friends with both Yvonne and me. Tettey interrupted my thoughts when he brushed by my shoulder and sat in the opposite chair.

When we finished eating, Tettey called his boss, an African-American woman based in Accra, to explain the situation. He hung up and shook his head and chuckled in a low tone.

“She said I should have called her last night and she would have come to the hotel with half the money and you could have gotten the other half and we both could have given it to the volunteer. That way the volunteer wouldn’t have left for the U.S. without her money.”

“But we can’t guarantee we’re getting back her money. What if we can’t get it back and we had done what your boss said? We both would’ve been giving money away when we shouldn’t have,” I said. “Not to mention that our NGO is not liable for any theft that happens to our volunteers. I’m not sure if your company would be.. or should be liable either.”

Tettey didn’t say anything. That was pretty presumptuous, I thought, of Tettey’s boss to think I would pay half of Yvonne’s stolen money, let alone to assume I even had 56 extra cedis on me. (80 USD = 112 GHC)

Finally, the owner arrived. Tettey said, “You see? He drives a nice car. He has extra money to give to us.” We can’t just ask for 112 cedis...but I think Yvonne and Tettey expect me to, I thought. I was advised by my boss and Gracie, the hotel front desk receptionist, that I should threaten to file a police report. They both believed the owner wouldn’t want to go through the humiliation of a public complaint of a police report, which would make him more willing to cough up the money. I just needed to act like I was going to ruffle his hair.

When I met Mr. Charles, the owner, I quickly learned there was no hair to ruffle. One, he is bald. And two, he was completely fine with filing a police report. More than fine, in fact.

“We will find out who did this and make them pay the consequences. Believe me, whoever did this will be locked away. They will not see the light of day again.”

Damn, really? I didn’t want anyone going to jail over this. I didn't think Yvonne wanted that either. All I was hoping for was to get the money back and whoever stole the money to never work at a hotel again.

“Mr. Charles, is there any way your hotel staff can be held responsible for this instead of the police?” I was getting frustrated with the prospect of the matter changing hands yet again. “Maybe a portion of the 112 cedis can be subtracted from the salaries of the three staff members who had access to the rooms? You could do this over a couple months until one of them confides?” I asked.

“Oh, are you now sure it was one of my staff who stole the money?” his voice boomed in the narrow and long, heavily-air-conditioned room. I looked at Tettey, sitting on the couch opposite my sofa chair, next to the manager who was working the night before. He looked vastly uncomfortable. By the manager’s furtive glances from the floor to me whenever I spoke, I gathered he didn’t want to be in the room either, although his arm draped over the back of the couch indicated differently. “Let me tell you something,” the owner continued.

It seemed he had sniffed out my indirect request for money. Several minutes dragged on as he ambushed our eardrums about how he would be out of business if he compensated each guest who complained of theft. Tettey was hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his fingers interlaced on the back of his neck. I guess he isn’t a fan of getting yelled at by a massive and violently passionate Ghanaian man either. The owner did not seem like the same man I spoke to on the phone the night before, fumbling and bumbling, "Madam, please, I apologize for the inconvience of this situation."

Tettey and I had to ask the owner to calm down several times throughout his rant. Not able to hide my surging anger about his rudeness any longer, I shouted over him, “WHY ARE YOU YELLING?” I hoped my blunt "challenge" made him realize how unprofessional it was to yell at a guest - an upset one, at that.

“You. You are American, hmm?” the owner asked me in a slightly lowered voice.

Not normally being pegged as an American upon first glance, I assumed the manager had briefed the owner, having remembered that detail about me when we first met.

“Yes,” I replied evenly.

He slammed his fist on his desk; sending Tettey and I out of our skins. “Then you know! You know a hotel is not liable to cover the stolen items of its guests! Any hotel in America is like that. You must know that. You should be ashamed of yourself for even suggesting that we would give you money just because it went missing.”

“Look,” I said plainly, putting both my hands up in defense. “I'm sorry for suggesting that your hotel give me 112 cedis. I understand you are handling this situation to the best of your ability, and I appreciate you taking time to help us out. I have worked in the hotel industry before, which gives me even more reason to have known better. You're right, in the U.S. hotels do not hand out money whenever something goes missing. However - " pausing briefly, " - many hotels do give some other form of compensation for the inconvenience. Now, I don't know what we could come up with as compensation in this case, since all the room arrangements were prepaid. But, my point is that I was simply trying. I was trying to get something back for our volunteer. Because she has already left for America, I was given the task to fight for her. So that is what I am doing." The owner's face had softened and he nodded while muttering "okay" repeatedly when I had finished.

"Yes, I know you are just doing your job," he said in a normal voice.
I decided to push my luck with his calmed state. "Also, my volunteer said she did not appreciate how the issue was handled last night."
"Last night? That means she was not happy with him," the owner said, smiling and pointing to the manager on the couch.
"That's right," I said. The owner laughed. I looked at the manager, "She said it didn't seem like you were very concerned at all."

There was nothing we could do about that now, though. I knew the manager didn't care about this complaint, I knew he wouldn't take it into consideration the next time he had to handle a guest's problem, and I knew the owner didn't care about this complaint either. To be honest, I didn't agree with Yvonne's complaint anyway. The manager did what he was supposed to - he called in the cleaning lady to testify. (In retrospect, he should have also asked the female receptionist Gracie to testify as well as the daytime boy receptionist.) The manager was required to take action; he was not required to act like he cared. Ha! Maybe I've been in Ghana too long. Regardless, this is the first and major learning component of Ghanaian management.

"Okay, you will go to the police now?" the owner asked me. "I've called in Naomi, the cleaning lady, she is in the lobby waiting to go to the police station with you."
"Just Naomi?" I asked.
"Yes. Is there someone else who could have done it?"
"Well, Gracie, your receptionist was working yesterday. I thought it was very strange that she was so willing to tell me and Yvonne such secretive things about Naomi, as if she was trying to get her into trouble."
"What things?" asked the owner, his brows furrowed.

Gracie had asked me not to mention to the owner or manager that she had spoken about Naomi. "She asked me not to say anything..." I drifted off, smiling at the owner and then Tettey out of discomfort.

"Maame," Tettey said softly.

I decided I didn't owe anything to Gracie, especially considering the possibility that she was the guilty one.

"Okay, she said Naomi has stolen from guests before and the manager, you, Kwame," I looked at his habitually bored face, "you knew about it but never did anything about it because you and Naomi are friends."

The owner and manager smirked. I paused, waiting for an actual response. I didn't hear any.

"Then she said she and the boy receptionist couldn't have possibly taken the money because as a front desk clerk, you must never leave the front desk, so how could she or he have had time to go into each room and look through everyone's bags for money?"

All three men burst out in various exclamations and readjusted their sitting positions. I looked at Tettey, who I had noticed the previous night was scanning Gracie and shaking his head whenever she made an interjection. It seemed he thought what I had said confirmed his suspicions.

"My dear, the receptionists go into every room!" said the owner, leaning forward in his chair. "It is part of their job to personally check each room that has been cleaned."

I was stunned. How did I not think of this? I knew I should have trusted my gut instinct when she gave me that bullshit excuse for why it couldn't have been the receptionist! I was annoyed at myself for not realizing the check-and-balance system ensuring clean hotel rooms could have been different at a smaller hotel.

"Kwame, tell Joseph to get Gracie on the line. Tell her to come to the hotel immediately," the owner said to the manager.

Turns out Gracie's phone was off. Had she been suspecting that her bosses would eventually realize she was equally as guilty as Naomi? The owner told the boy receptionist to keep calling Gracie until she answered. Meanwhile, Kwame, his brother who is also a manager and has an unfortunate stuttering problem in both English and Ga, scowl-faced Naomi, Tettey and I all squeezed into Kwame's car and drove a few minutes down the road to the Osu Police Station. I don't know why we didn't think to take the boy receptionist with us, but it all shook out in the end.

The entire ride I was tickled with amusement that the accuser (Yvonne via me) was wedged arm-to-arm with the accused (Naomi). Reminded me of the time when about 20 minutes into a tro-tro ride I looked to my left and noticed the guy next to me was a police officer and the guy next to him was in handcuffs. It's funny to think of all the things I see on a daily basis in Ghana that would never fly in the U.S.
 
We parked outside the station and walked inside the lobby. The male and female jail cells were about 15 feet behind the front desk! Both cells were small, maybe about a five by six yard box. The floors were cement and the bars provided a two by seven yard window to the station's lobby. The male cell was on the left, packed with seven hooting and hollering 20- to 30-somethings, the loudest only wearing white boxers adorned with red and green Christmas trees. They were all barefoot and wearing what appeared to be their own clothes. The female cell seemed to be empty. I moved to the right for a (hopefully inconspicuous) better look inside. A body was curled on the floor in the front left corner, her feet bare. Above the male cell a white sheet of regular printing paper stuck to the pale yellow wall, bearing "MALE CELL" bubble letters colored in crayon. Not a single letter was the same color. I squinted my eyes - no, that can't be - op, yep, that is definitely a pencil-traced line underneath the bubble letters. Gotta keep the letters straight.

"Yes?" asked the man in a police uniform stationed at the front desk.
"Hello, we want to file a police report and turn in a suspect."
The man whipped a paper from his desk onto the countertop. Noticing someone had written on the top already, he drew a line through it and instructed me to write the date, my name, nationality, phone number and purpose of my visit. When I finished, Tettey, who had been watching me, reminded me to indicate that it was not to me the crime had happened. I nodded and made a note, then smiled at him, appreciating he was there with me.

"Just another Monday on the job, isn't it, Tettey?"
He laughed.
"Bet you've never thought your job would take you to the police station, did you?"
"Oh ho, please, no!" he replied, still laughing and shaking his head.

"Oye! Charlie! You-who! Charlie! Over here!"
I turned from Tettey to the male cell. In Ghana, "Charlie" (pronounced Chah-lay) means "friend."
The man who had been shouting was looking at me.
"You give me five cedi for when I get out, okay? Okay, Charlie?"
I smiled. "Sorry, I don't have that much myself." It was true. I had spent all but three cedis of my personal money - I just had my organization's money to use to get home.
"Oh, Charlie!"

The man at the front desk took the paper and then asked Naomi to step behind the counter and sit on the bench against the wall, where two other accused suspects were sitting. She hadn't looked at me since the previous night; I didn't dare look at her while she could have seen me either. The guy who asked me for five cedis asked Naomi in Ga what she had done. I couldn't understand her but watched her face. She had lost her angry "this isn't fair" face and now looked sad. And scared. I kept telling myself, it wasn't you who insisted on the police report. It was the hotel owner. It wasn't you who accused her. It was Yvonne. Sort of. Ugh. I felt awful. Whatever, I am just here for Yvonne, I had nothing to do with this. So why, then, do I feel responsible for something that feels wrong? I wished Gracie, the other suspect, was there with Naomi.

Twenty minutes later, the five of us were summoned into the chief's office across from the lobby. We filed a police report with the chief, who was very old and I don't think felt comfortable speaking in English. Kwame explained the chief had instructed us to go to a woman outside, around the corner and down the hall to file some other report, but she was on her lunch break. We waited for over half an hour outside when suddenly a woman who looks like Loretta Devine approached me with a slim and modest-looking man probably in his late-20s but looked no more than 20 years old (typical of Ghanaians).

"I am here for my sister, Naomi," the woman told me flatly. Naomi must have texted her sister - she still had her phone. I envisioned her sister asking Naomi, "How will I know which lady it is?" I was, after all, the only white person at the station. Tettey, Kwame and his brother, their arms folded across each of their chests, walked over to me. It seemed that the off-duty officers roaming the outdoor hall also noticed the pot was about to be stirred. They crowded around us.

"Oh, hello. What can we do for you?" (Ugh, sorry about your sister... what else was I supposed to say?)
"How much money was stolen?" she asked.
"It was 80 U.S. dollars, which is 112 Ghana cedis," I told her. "Why?"
"One thousand twelve Ghana cedis?"
"No, 112 Ghana cedis."
"Oh!" she laughed. "I wish to pay it," she said, fishing through her purse. I stood in front of her, stunned for the second time that day.
"You...want to pay it," I sounded it out to her. To myself. "Why?"
The man spoke up softly and calmly. "Because that is our sister in there. She should not be in jail, we can't let her be in jail. It would be embarrassing to our family." His older sister nodded, pulling her wallet out of her purse.

I imagined her summoning her brother to accompany her to the bank, not knowing how much money was at stake, therefore withdrawing as much money as possible from her account, and driving to the Osu Police Station to save their younger sister. It made me miss my younger brother and sister in a deeper way than before. If I ever needed to save either of them like that, I couldn't.

My gaze drifted from the sister, in her expensive-looking outfit and pearls, nose held high and wallet clutched tight, to the brother, with his puppy dog eyes and sweet disposition. My voice came out softer than it had in what felt like months, "But why would you do this if you don't know if your sister took the money?"

She made the common sucking noise with the sides of her mouth and she and her brother started walking toward the lobby. "Oh! In Ghana, sometimes you must do things even if you don't think..."  I stopped listening. I couldn't pretend to not mind being patronized. This was too beautiful a moment - an "I believe in the good of humanity" moment that has revisited me countless times while living in Ghana. Maybe I am immune to noticing these moments back in the states, or maybe they don't happen as often as they do here. The thing is, people in Ghana see each other. Truly see each other. There's hardly ever a missed "Good morning, how are you?" or a genuine smile or energizing eye contact. Complete strangers feel more familiar than neighbors back home. They push each other to improve. They take care of each other. Ghana is a pulsating family, expanding and contracting with vigorous rhythm.

Can't Be Bothered (Evening Episode)

After an enjoyable day tour of Accra, Ghana with 14 graduate and undergraduate students from New York University, our bus driver dropped us off at Lake Botsumtwi Hotel in touristy Osu. I trudged up the stairs to my single bedroom, unlocked the door, threw my purse and shopping bag on the chair in the corner and fell horizontally across my bed like an axed-down tree. The University of Missouri group had left that evening, and the NYU group was leaving the next morning. The exhaustion had officially set in. It’s difficult to be “on” 24/7 for over two weeks straight. (“It’s not easy being green…”) Ten minutes later, nose still pressed into the moldy scratchy blanket, I heard a knock.

It was Yvonne, one of the student-volunteers. She explained in an eerily calm voice, sounding pleasant but pissed off, that 80 dollars was stolen from her suitcase. She had told their professor/leader but she had redirected her to me.

My heart fell as I processed the information. “No…” I said in disbelief, leaning against the open door. Then, straightening, “Okay, let’s go to your room and you can show me how you found this out.” I put on my sandals, locked my door and followed her to her room a few doors down the hall.

We had been shopping all day; I assumed Yvonne had two wallets – one with Ghanaian cedis, which she had in her purse all day, and one with her American money and credit cards. Yvonne explained she had wanted to change into comfortable clothes before going into the hotel conference room for the group’s nightly discussions they call “Reflection Time.” She mimicked what she did when she had first entered the room and replayed her thought process aloud for me. She opened her suitcase and picked up her wallet lying on top of her clothes. She said at that moment she knew someone had been fiddling with her things because she remembered putting her wallet in the suitcase’s interior netted pocket. She opened her wallet and her suspicion was confirmed by the folded dollar bills – apparently she never folds her money. She counted $80 less than her total $200.

“I have a lock on the zipper to the compartment on the front,” Yvonne said while showing me the front of her suitcase, “and the silly thing is that I keep my passport in here, but for some reason didn’t think to put my wallet in here too. It was the one time these whole two weeks that I didn’t put my wallet in the locked pocket,” she said with heavy remorse.

I knew there was nothing we could do about the missing money besides point fingers and hope a guilty conscious would give in. We had no proof that she had $200 in her wallet when she left the hotel in the morning, and the only way the hotel staff could be held liable for the theft is if the money had been put in a safe.

But I knew I couldn’t say these things to Yvonne right then. I tried assuaging her self-blame by suggesting that we talk to the hotel manager about who had access to the keys.

As we walked down the stairs to the front desk I pondered why Yvonne had not mentioned the possibility of the money being taken from her wallet before she had left her hotel room. What if her roommate took the money? I immediately declined the notion. She and Nanci are good friends – they’re even taking a girls’ trip to Puerto Rico together this summer. I knew her roommate could not be dismissed as a suspect on the basis that they had become besties over the past two weeks, but it seemed an unlikely case in comparison to the other potential leads.

As we approached the front desk I reminded myself to keep an open mind to every possibility. I trusted Yvonne to not jump to any conclusions but still hoped she would let me do most of the talking. Working with Ghanaians through critical junctures is the flesh and bones of my job.

The receptionist was the same lady we had given our keys to in the morning. She had also worked the previous night shift, which I remembered because after checking into my room I had gone past the front desk to buy a bag of sachet waters from a shop on the street to accompany the group’s dinner. As I smiled walking past her, she proudly announced, “Room nine.” Now, with Yvonne at my side, I studied her briefly. What if she had memorized each of our room numbers? But then how would she have known Yvonne had all that accessible money. Still, though… I asked her politely but sternly where we could find the manager. Her eyes flickered, as if she sensed something was wrong. “He is outside on the patio. In the back.”

We thanked her and went outside through the propped-open front doors. The patio curved in a lax C-shape, cupping the hotel perimeter and facing the neighborhood street. The first table we passed, the only one occupied, sat two male Ghanaians. Probably guests. The manager was sitting alone at the end of the curve smoking a cigarette under a tall thick tree that would’ve provided ample shade had it been daytime. He was leaning back in his white wired chair with one leg over the other on the table. It seemed a peaceful hiding place for a man who didn’t like being bothered.

As we drew nearer, I recognized his face. He had been on the patio the previous night when our group arrived. He had asked me if I was the “boss lady.” I replied that I was and we exchanged local names (mine in Fante, his in Ga).

“Hello, good evening, Kwame.” I said as Yvonne and I stood at his side.

“Ekua, how is it?” he smiled, leaning farther back.

“It’s no good. We have a problem. While we were touring the city today, someone stole 80 dollars from one of our volunteer’s suitcases.” I waited for a reaction. Nothing.

“We were wondering if you could help us find out who had access to room twelve during the day.”

His eyes moved slowly from us to the quiet street. He took a drag on his cigarette, held it, then exhaled toward the looming leaves. Feet still on the table, he pulled his cell phone from his shirt pocket and studied it. We waited while he talked to someone on the phone in Ga. When he hung up he said, “That was the cleaning lady. I told her to come to the hotel so you can ask her if she took the money.” Drag, exhale, feet still on table.

Was he serious? If this girl had taken the money, how likely was it that she’d confess? Especially in front of us? In front her boss? It seemed as if the manager knew calling her in wasn’t going to solve the problem, but he couldn’t be bothered to think of another solution. I couldn’t bear to look at Yvonne. For only being in Ghana for two weeks, I figured this was probably her first encounter with the Ghanaian style of management. Welcome to our world, honey. It’s humorous at first till you realize it’s serious shit. CBB (Can’t Be Bothered) should be the new TIA (This Is Africa).

The satisfied look on the manager’s face hinted that he had done his part and wanted to finish his cigarette.

“Well, I guess we’ll wait for her at the front desk,” I said. Yvonne stifled an incredulous laugh. I remembered the group was scheduled to leave the hotel at 5 a.m. for their flight home. “To be honest,” I said to Yvonne as we walked through the patio, “I don’t think we’ll get the money back tonight. I will keep trying tomorrow after you've left. If I do happen to get your $80 back, there are ways we can get it to you so don’t worry about the bad timing.” She nodded.

“Did you find the manager?” the receptionist asked eagerly. She seemed to have caught on that something was wrong.

We told her “yes” and explained the situation. Her reaction gave me a funny vibe – it seemed a bit theatrical. (Huge gasp, “What? Oh! Sor-ry,” interspersed with throaty scoffs and tsks, which in Ghana signifies disapproval.) This would be a normal reaction from a Ghanaian if the timing between each exclamation didn’t feel so unnatural. I’m not at an expert at detecting liars - I want to give everyone the benefit of the doubt - but her reaction somehow did not seem genuine.

“…and then your manager Kwame called the cleaning lady to tell her to come to the hotel,” I finished.

The receptionist’s eyes grew. “You know,” her voice had lowered, “she’s going to deny the entire thing. Why would she admit to something like that?”

“Wait,” I couldn’t believe she was ratting out her colleague right in front of us. “You think she took the money?”

The receptionist shrugged and smiled. “Who goes into the rooms all day? She does.”

“Well, if she’s not going to admit to it then what should we do?” asked Yvonne.

“You should file a police report."

"Yes, we will in the morning," I said.

The receptionist continued, "Oh – and you should call the owner! He won’t come tonight, but he will come tomorrow. You call him and tell him about this and he will fix it.”

“That would be good because the manager was not very helpful. He didn’t seem to care about it all,” I said to Yvonne. She shook her head.

Just then, we heard a taxi pull up near the front doors. It was Tettey, our tour guide.

“Tettey! What are you doing here?”

Tettey is an infectiously smiley, tall and gangly man of about 30. Then again, guessing Ghanaians' ages with accuracy is really hit-and-miss. “I forgot to get money from one of your volunteers. She owes me five cedis,” he said. He would see the volunteers in the morning but maybe needed five cedis before then.

“Oh. They are in the middle of their ‘Reflection Time’ still, but I can go interrupt real quick. Which one owes you money?” I asked.

Tettey looked up to the ceiling and threw his hands out as if to describe the volunteer by air-tracing their silhouette. “Glasses… red…”

“Mev?”

Tettey nodded. Mev was the only redhead in the group. I remembered her complaining that she only had 50 pesewas (coins) to her name after leaving the Accra National Arts Centre in the morning. That was nice of him to loan her money, I thought.

I turned toward the conference room down the hall. “Oh, wait!” I nearly shouted and spun around to the front desk again, “Tettey, this is good that you’re here! Yvonne, can you fill him in on what’s happened?”

I got the money from Mev and returned to the drama. The manager had joined too, sitting in a low-seated tan sofa chair next to the front desk. I looked at the others and sensed Tettey had been filled in.

“So, Tettey. Has something like this happened before to your tour groups at this hotel?” I asked.

“No,” he shook his head, staring at the ground with both arms folded across his chest.

“What about at a different hotel?”

He shook his head again, trance unbroken. He seemed very upset.

The sound of a car engine flooded the lobby. It was the cleaning lady. I noticed she was the same woman who served us breakfast, fresh-faced, all smiles.

She was wearing a grey conservative dress with an airy scarf around her shoulders. Her black glossy purse hung over her shoulder and in her hand was a Bible. Was that a...prop? Couldn’t she have just left it in the cab or stuck it in her purse? It's not a likely thing to forget to have in one's hand... it was definitely intentional.

The scene was quite predictable: The manager asked me to assert our concern, I explained what had happened and asked Yvonne if I had left anything out, and the cleaning lady denied taking the money. Yvonne watched in silence, Tettey studied the staff members and I attempted to keep peace.

It was quite humorous aside from the gravity. The cleaning lady was yelling at the receptionist and manager in Ga, occasionally looking at me and Yvonne. What was the point of her defending her innocence to the staff? They didn’t care. “In English, please,” I had to remind her a few times. In English, she went off about morality and why she has never stolen a single thing in her life. “I never even touched her suitcase!” At one point she even shook her Bible in the air to emphasize a point. The manager sat, legs sprawled and chin cupped in his hand, as if he was watching TV.

When the cleaning lady got particularly worked up, I interrupted, “Please. Let me speak. We are not accusing anyone. We simply want to know more about what happened to Yvonne’s room during the day.” Why all the hostility? I tried placing myself in her shoes. I couldn’t decide if I would act this way if I were innocent or guilty. When she switched from English to Ga again, I took advantage of not having to listen and examined her. She was well-dressed and accessorized and her nails were painted. I decided appearance had nothing to do with the likelihood of her being a thief. Rich or poor, 80 dollars is 80 dollars.

When she was done ranting, the manager moved his hand from under his chin and thrust it forward as if to say, “I told you she didn’t take it.” Instead, only slightly more appropriately, he said, “As you can see, she did not steal the $80." Ha! I almost burst out laughing. "If the money had been put in a safe, we would have more to do. But that is not what happened.”

“Well, thank you for coming here to tell us your side of the story,” I said to the cleaning lady. She nodded and looked at the floor with disdain. “I am calling the owner tonight to set up a time to continue the discussion in the morning, and then we will file a police report.” I looked at Yvonne. She had been quiet during most of the cleaning lady's rant. “Yvonne, anything else you’d like to add?”

She looked at me, then looked at the cleaning lady and shook her head.

“Naomi,” said the manager. The cleaning lady looked up. “You may go.” Naomi spun in her heels and marched out the lobby doors. Yvonne went to the front desk and talked to the receptionist while Tettey and I spoke to the manager. Tettey and I decided that after dropping off the group at the airport, we would return to the hotel and sleep in the rooms until the owner arrived. Then we would get to the bottom of the issue.

I said goodnight to Tettey and the manager. Yvonne was still listening to the receptionist. "She said she came straight from church. Did you see how angry and loud she got and how she shook her Bible in the air?" she laughed. "She is lying. You heard her when she said she didn't touch the suitecase? Of course she touched the suitecase! Her saying that only made her seem more guilty - to clean properly you must touch everything!"

"Has she gotten in trouble for something like this before?" I asked.

The receptionist looked at us and lowered her voice, "Oh, yes. And the manager knew about it too."

"If the manager knew about her history of stealing things, why didn't he say anything about it to us?" Yvonne asked.

"Because they are friends," she responded.

Yvonne laughed and shook her head. I wondered why this lady was so openly telling us all these awful things about Naomi and the manager.

"Think about it," she continued, "she is the only one who could have done it. She had access to all the keys throughout the day."

"But we put the keys on the front desk when we left. What happened to the keys after that?" I asked.

"You gave us the keys, I put them in their boxes right here." She motioned to a wooden rack on the wall with about 30 cubby holes big enough for a hand to fit inside. "We put all the dirty rooms' keys in these - " pointing to the "Dirty Rooms" sign, " - and then when they are clean, we move them to the 'Clean Rooms' boxes below," she said, pointing to the identical set of 30 cubby holes two inches below.

"Who worked at the front desk during the day?" I asked.

"Oh, there was a different boy. He comes mid-morning to mid-afternoon."

I continued pressing, hoping she wouldn't catch on to my developing sideways accusation. "Could he have used the keys to go into the rooms?"

Her mouth opened and closed. "You see, at the front desk we are responsible for so many things. We cannot leave the front desk for very long. There is no way he could have left long enough to check all of the rooms to see which suitcase had money laying freely."

For some reason, I believed her. By the look on Yvonne's face, I think she was convinced of this excuse as well. It was as if this receptionist was a mind ninja - she had won both of us over by verbalizing our thoughts, like: "The manager is clueless. He is always asking me what to do." Maybe she could tell that Yvonne didn't want ambiguity and instead needed something to put her negative energy toward.

The receptionist received an internal phone call. She hung up and said, "I am coming," to us, and then walked around her desk out the side door to the compound next-door. About a minute later she returned with a towel and said, "Come. I must bring this to a guest."

We followed her two doors down the hallway and continued listening. I wanted to continue walking up the stairs to my bed, but sensed Yvonne felt comforted by her. Then I remembered I should call my boss Kirsty to fill her in. I went upstairs to fetch my phone. I felt a lot better after talking to her. She said that because Yvonne did not put her wallet in the hotel's safe, the hotel is not liable, and neither are we as a NGO. And neither is Tettey's tour agency, which technically was in charge of the group since the day before. 

Yet, I still felt somewhat responsible for making sure Yvonne got her money back since she wasn't able to fight her own battle the following day. I really didn't want to hand off the case to the police, considering our NGO's previous experience with "law enforcers." Not even a week earlier, one of the male volunteers from the University of Missouri group was guilelessly walking alone in the dark and was followed and robbed. He had a number of important items in his stolen backpack, including his passport (who carries their passport around when traveling?). So we filed a police report. When the University leaders, the volunteer, Kirsty and Lawrence stated their case to the front desk policeman, he actually asked them, "What do you want us to do about it?"

Kirsty told me to keep threatening to file a police report to make sure the staff knew we meant business, and maybe the owner would crack and cough up $80 in the morning.

The receptionist had a similar idea. "It would be so dishonorable for the hotel to be involved with the police," she said, handing the portable hotel phone to me to call the owner. "You should call him now. You must sound very angry."

"I can do that. What is his name?"

"Call him Mr. Charles."

I thought it was strange that she was giving me tips on how to talk to the owner, along with all the other insider information she had given us. Later I realized it was probably to win over Yvonne and I as friends so we trusted her and didn't think that she, too, was a suspect. 

I called the owner while Yvonne and the receptionist watched. "Mr. Charles?"

"Yes?"

"Good evening. This is Michaela. I am the leader of the volunteer group staying at your hotel last night and tonight. Today while we were away, we believe someone from your staff took a lot of money from one of the rooms." My voice was crescendoing with force.

"I am very sorry to hear that."

"Yes, it is most unfortunate because the group is leaving very early tomorrow morning to go back to America. I need to meet you tomorrow morning to discuss what we are going to do about this issue."

"I will be in tomorrow at 9 a.m.," said Mr. Charles.

"Nine a.m., I look forward to it. And I hope you will show more concern than your manager did this evening. It was not handled well at all," I said, my eyes meeting Yvonne's.

"Madam, please, I do apologize."

"Thank you, and I am sorry to disturb you at such a late hour. I hope you understand."

"It is no problem, Madam."

"I will see you tomorrow."

I hung up and the receptionist beamed. "That was perfect! He will do everything possible to help you tomorrow, I am sure."

Yvonne lingered to ask the receptionist more "whys" and "hows." I was getting antsy, feeling we were wasting time trusting this receptionist, but didn't want to dishearten Yvonne. About fifteen minutes later we retreated upstairs to Yvonne's room.

"In the morning you should give me all your contact information - I will need it for the police report. We have it in our database online, but that doesn't help," I told her.

"Right."

"And if I get your money back for you, I can have it wired to your account. Or we can send it through PayPal.”

“I don’t have PayPal but my husband does,” Yvonne said, unlocking her door.

“That'll work. Write down his PayPal email address on that piece of paper too," I said.

"I will," Yvonne assured me. She sank into her chair in the corner, and I sat on her desk.

"What do you think of the cleaning lady?" Yvonne asked. "Do you think she did it?"

"I'm not sure. I definitely know the receptionist rubs me the wrong way for some reason. It could've been any of the staff - Naomi, the receptionist or the boy who takes over at the front desk during the day. I don't know why we just targeted the cleaning lady tonight."

"You're right." She sighed. "You know, I feel like this happened to me because I got away with such good bargains the whole time I was here. Karma's a bitch," she said, laughing.

"No, let's not think it was karma because you couldn't have done anything to deserve someone stealing from you. It was just bad luck. And you know, I think you handled this better than the majority of the group would have. I just hope this experience doesn't ruin your image of Ghana. This sort of thing can happen anywhere."

"True, but the thing that maybe bummed me out more was the way it was handled by the management," Yvonne said.

"You're right, that manager doesn't know left from right. But you should try not to let one person or one incident give you a sour taste in your mouth the night before leaving Ghana. I wish you could be here tomorrow to see how it turns out. I'm sure your spirits would be lifted."

"This isn't going to take away from my feelings about Ghana," Yvonne assured me. "My love for this country is too strong. This was just a little bump in the road. I wish I could see how things turn out too, but I trust that everything will turn out as it should."

I nodded.

"And you know," Yvonne said, laughing, "I really wish our group hadn't decided to make this an alcohol-free trip because I could really go for a glass of wine right now!"

Part Two: Can't Be Bothered (Morning and Afternoon Episode)

Friends in Low Places

I am in Ghana on a tourist visa. I was granted 60 days upon arrival, renewed my visa in September for three months and was due for a second renewal on December 8th. If I had a work visa, which we are in the process of obtaining, I wouldn’t have to renew my visa at all. But that is neither here nor there.

So here’s the pickle: About every other week day, an immigration officer takes a bag of the visas-to-be-renewed to Ghana’s capital, Accra, which is a bulk of the reason it takes approximately two weeks to process the visa renewal for all mainstream requests. I am leaving Cape Coast on Friday, December 17 to visit Togo with a friend for a week. I need my visa/passport to get into Togo; therefore, I needed to have my visa returned to Cape Coast by the 17th. To get my visa back by then, I needed to get it renewed no later than December 3rd.

Toward the end of November I told my boss Kirsty about my December 3rd deadline. She said the Cape Coast immigration office has a rule stating that foreigners are prohibited from renewing their visa more than one time at the immigration office in Cape Coast if they have not left Ghana since their arrival. I have not left Ghana since I arrived in July, and I had already renewed my visa once in Cape Coast.

Traveling to a neighboring country to renew my visa was out of the question – I just needed a quick fix to tide me over until I go to Togo. I could’ve taken a three-hour tro-tro or Ford van ride to Accra, but I’ve read that the Accra office can take a couple days to sort out a visa renewal, and unfortunately I can’t afford to take time off from work right now. I considered what would happen if I would let my visa expire from December 8th until the 18th when I’d arrive to Togo, where I could get a new visa at the border. On second thought I decided I’d rather be on the good side of Togo’s border patrol – no need to ruffle any feathers by entering a country on an expired visa.

After telling Kirsty I could try going to Accra, she mentioned that our Ghanaian friend Eric has a friend in the immigration office in Cape Coast who would be able to take care of my situation in a matter of days. Days? What happened to the two-week process? On numerous occasions I’ve benefited from “knowing people” but never with this small amount of my own merit.

The weekend before my visa was due for a renewal, I started to doubt this alleged immigration connection. What if the guy can’t pull the strings Eric said he’d pull? If my visa isn’t returned by December 17th, I won’t be able to go to Togo – a vacation I’ve been looking forward to for months, down time I need desperately before the influx of volunteers coming January and an adventure I’m excited to share with my good friend who’s flying all the way from the U.S.

Okay, okay… surrender your throne, Drama Queen. Or is that more diva-like? Whatever, I would still be able to go to Togo, just not as long as I’d hoped. But still – the fact that I had anticipated this time crunch and could have taken the visa to Accra myself instead of relying on some random source… but why worry? All I can do now, I thought, is tell myself in my most Ghanaian voice, “It twill be fiiine.”

Two days before my visa expired, Kirsty got the phone number of the immigration guy from Eric. She had met the man, Jude (name has been changed for security purposes), a few weeks earlier when she was due for a renewal herself, so she called him to find out when I would be able to catch him at the immigration office. She returned to my office and relayed to me that Jude was in Accra Monday and Tuesday, so I should go to the Cape Coast immigration office on Wednesday. I’d been instructed not to leave visa renewals for the last minute, or “until the eleventh hour,” as a Ghanaian friend put it once. I hoped this guy knew my visa would expire that day but figured Kirsty or Eric had told him.

The day before my visa expired, my friend Joeva said she read that nine foreigners were deported recently for having expired visas. It was especially wonderful hearing this after I had already convinced myself the worst case scenario would be paying a 40-cedi fine for allowing the visa to expire, or not getting my visa returned before I wanted to leave for Togo. Thanks, Jo. Such a fountain of information, that girl.

Wednesday morning I went through the visa renewal checklist of required materials: a printout of my return flight itinerary, a letter written by a superior from my NGO requesting my visa renewal, a copy of my NGO’s certificate, 40 cedis for a one-month extension (I will request a 60-day visa upon my return to Ghana from Togo), and 5 cedis to get four passport-size pictures taken at the photo booth on my way to the immigration office. I walked from our office to the main junction and took a shared taxi to town. I alighted at Kingsway in front of the Melcom superstore and walked toward the Cape Coast slave castle to the photo booth just outside the immigration office.

I thought about joking with the photographer about why he didn’t ask to take my remaining two photos of the set of four (only two photos are required for visa purposes) like he did the last time he took my picture for my visa renewal in September, but decided against it. I didn’t think he’d remember me from the first time and reasoned he, like many Ghanaians, may not understand that sort of humor (“What, did I get uglier over three months?”).

I called Jude as I walked through the front entrance and waited at the door for him to meet me. The building contains more offices than just the immigration office, but to me the entire building is called the immigration office. It’s my favorite building in Ghana that I’ve been inside. It’s open-air; birds fly free and not silently and the blue sky is ceiling to maybe 8 to 10 floors, which are situated on the outside of the circular building and the central part of the ground floor is a circle of well-groomed grass.

A Ghanaian man in a jungle green immigration uniform sauntered toward me from the bottom of the staircase across the hall, one hand holding his cell phone to his ear and the other grasping a newspaper. His eyes were glued to me for about 10 paces - I was the only white person in the front entry way, so I figured he knew who I was. Respectively, I took him for Jude.

Now standing in front of me, he was still on the phone. I shook his hand and stood in front of him awkwardly as he finished his conversation.
“Hello, I am Michaela. Eric’s friend.”
“Yeah,” he said, smiling from my face to my hand, which was still in his. “Is that your car?” He motioned to the car parked on the street in front of the entrance. A Ghanaian man was in the driver seat.
“Um, no, it’s not.”
“Oh,” he replied, sounding disappointed. He let go of my hand. “Is Eric coming?” he asked, looking outside again.
“No, he isn’t,” I told him. “He is in Accra today. With Kirsty, my sister you talked to on the phone on Monday.”
“Ohh, I see, I see, I see. How did you get here?”
“By taxi. I took a shared taxi from my office to town.” I may be an obroni and I may be a female, if that’s what he’s getting at, but that doesn’t make me helpless!

We walked across the hall to the staircase. “You have all the documents?” he asked.
“Yes,” I nodded.
“And Eric has told you everything?”
I paused. Told me everything? That sounds so omnious, I thought. What else is there to know?
“Yes, he has.”
Jude smiled. “Good. It will be fine then.”
What will be fine?

As he led me into his office I wondered if he could tell I hadn't a clue what he was talking about. Three wooden desks were arranged in the shape of a digital U and three wooden chairs were in the middle of the open space. Jude pulled one of the chairs over to the side of his desk, which was parallel with the window. “Sit here,” he told me. He tossed the newspaper on his desk and squeezed between the middle desk and his. I wondered how many months or maybe even years it would take him and the others he shared the office with to realize they wouldn’t have to squeeze between the desks if they would simply move the desks farther apart.

I took out of my bag the folder containing all the necessary documents and handed them to Jude. He leafed through my passport. “An American, I see. That is my favorite country. So when are you taking me to the U.S.?”

When Ghanaians ask me that question, normally I answer, “When you’ve saved up enough money for your plane ticket!” But I couldn’t say things like that to this man, or anyone who works for Ghana’s immigration offices for that matter. I needed to convince him I will do whatever it takes to stay in Ghana.

“Well, I love Ghana. I want to stay here for long long time. But maybe after that you can come to the U.S.” Because I’m in Ghana on a tourist visa, I couldn’t carry on and express my love for Ghana by telling him I want to stay for two years – that would blow my cover. No one is a tourist for two years.

We really need to light a fire under our employer's bum to get us the documents we need for a work visa.

“July…” he muttered to himself, flipping through the pages of my passport again.
“Yes, July. I’ve been here long time.” Saying that probably didn't help my case, but he would’ve done the math anyway. He examined my passport for another minute, closed it and said, “Wow.”

Something was wrong.

Jude looked at me and shook the passport his hand. “You’ve already renewed your visa in Cape Coast once. You should have taken it to Accra this time.”
“Yes, and Eric said you could help me so I wouldn’t have to take my visa to Accra this time.”
He opened the passport again and flipped through the pages to my visa. “It expires on eighth of December,” he paused. “That is today.”
“Yes,” I said sheepishly. This was one of the rare occasions I was not a procrastinator by choice. “But I am going to Togo on the 18th of this month, so I can get it renewed when I am reentering Ghana – ” He looked up at me and I finished, “ – That is the reason I only want a one-month extension.”
Jude continued to examine the visa page of my passport. “Yes, you can only renew your visa in Cape Coast one time. I will have to talk to my boss about this.”
“Oh, okay. Also, this may not be an issue yet but I will need my visa back before December 17th because I am going to Togo.”
“How long you stay in Togo?”
“About a week.”
“You are going alone?”
“No, I’m going with a friend. He’s coming to visit me. And Ghana.”
“Ah, that is nice,” said Jude, sitting back in his chair as if to admire me. “Is he your darling boy?”
“What? No!” I started laughing nervously. I knew how to deal with Ghanaian men who are hitting on me, but not from this angle. “He used to be my – ” Despite all my might, I couldn’t make myself say ‘darling boy’ with a straight face. “ – Well, we started dating before I came here.” I paused and looked at him. “Wait, how did you guess?”
“A girl as beautiful as you? Of course you have a darling boy!”

Hearing myself laugh nervously makes me laugh even harder.

“So now you are single?” Jude asked.
I tried to regain composure. “Yes.”
“Whoever marries you will be a very lucky man.”
"You are making me blush!” And I’m making myself sick! I noticed he was pulling the familiar move of hiding his wedding ring by hanging him arms underneath his desk, but his secret was out. I had already seen it.

Jude laughed and leaned in. “Yes, I will go talk to my boss now. But it’s not easy,” he said, shaking his head. “I will need to tell him to make an exception for you. But in return you will need to dash my boss. I will make this happen for you because I like Eric, I like the white lady I talked to on the phone – you said, Kristy?”
“Kirsty.”
“Yes, Kirsty.” He smiled, “And I like you. You are very nice and very nice to look at. I like the whites.”
I smiled and said, “Thank you, I like you too.”

Jude smiled again. Then he gathered my passport, photos and other documents in a pile and moved it to a corner of his desk. He opened up the newspaper to the middle, picked up the pile of my things and placed it inside. He closed the newspaper, folded it once and then stood up from his seat. Wedging the newspaper under his right arm, he shuffled sideways through the six-inch gap between the two desks. “Get your money ready,” he said and left the room.

I couldn’t believe how dirty those last words made me feel. I know bribes are a big part of how Africans do business and I understand that some bribes are like trading favors, but this particular bribe reeked of injustice. Plus, if I’m going to break any law, I’d rather do it on the fly. Premeditated dirty deeds are so much dirtier. He might as well had said, “Get your gun ready. You’re going to shoot someone.”

Birth, Outdooring and a Naming Ceremony

The wife of one of our Ghanaian staff members, Lawrence, gave birth to a girl last Wednesday. Lawrence is now father to three daughters and is very happy, even though his heart was set on having a Lawrence Junior. He called Kirsty Wednesday night to inform her of the new addition to his family.

“ – So I may be late to work tomorrow…”

“Lawrence, do you want a day off?” Kirsty asked, laughing.

“Ohh, God bless you!”

The next day Kirsty shared Lawrence’s news with me. She said they named her Fiona Edelbetha. We mused over the uniqueness of the name – "Fiona" is neither a Christian name nor a local name we’ve come across yet in Ghana. Kirsty told me Lawrence's daughters chose her name; because Rhodalyn is the oldest, Lawrence and his wife honored her choice of name first. Apparently Clara chose Edelbetha because that is the name of her best friend from school.

I was four and my sister was two when our brother Jake was born. If we’d been older, would our parents have allowed us to name him? I don’t even think I knew any boy names when I was four. I wonder what growing up would be like for a boy named Dad, Prince Charming, Big Bird or Pooh Bear.

Kirsty told me Lawrence informed her of the Ghanaian tradition of keeping a baby indoors eight days following his or her birth, after which the family “outdoors” the child during an event called “The Naming Ceremony.” This Wednesday was Fiona’s Naming Ceremony. The next day Lawrence resumed his work at the office. He and I share an office - about mid-morning I heard Lawrence sigh and saw his focus had lifted from his laptop. I seized the opportunity to ask him about his daughter’s naming ceremony.

“In our culture,” he said, turning to face me in his chair, “we choose a name for our children and we also name them after an elder person in the community. It is a great honor. We chose my mother, Efua Elizabeth, so our daughter's name will be Efua Elizabeth Fiona Edelbetha Arhin.”

I thought it peculiar that she would take the name Efua as well as Elizabeth, considering “Efua” is the Fante name for females born on Friday – Fiona was born on a Wednesday, which would make her Fante name “Ekua.” Fiona’s Fante name is Ekua, her family name is Efua Elizabeth and her first and middle names are Fiona Edelbetha. That’s a lot of names to keep track of.

“Everybody wanted to come to the ceremony yesterday – everybody,” Lawrence continued, shaking his head and smiling. “I know a lot of people and they all wanted to come. They said, ‘Oh, Lawrence, oh, Lawrence, please can I come see your daughter?’ People like me because they know what I do for a profession and know it is good –” I knew by “like me” he meant “respect me.” Ghanaians don’t have many friendships because that would require trust, which most do not have for each other. They would rather have numerous connections in the you-scratch-my-back-and-I’ll-scratch-yours sort of way. In Ghana, as well as in most parts of the world, if you do enough scratching you will be well-respected by your peers. Being respected seems to be all that matters here, along with maintaining good health.

“ – and many people spend big money on these ceremonies.”

“As much as funerals and weddings?” I asked. I’ve heard several stories about families going into debt by throwing extravagant funerals. Think: Western-world weddings but three days long.

“Yes. If you are hosting a ceremony it is tradition that you must provide water to each person attending. I do not have that much money. I only had 150 cedis to spend, so I said to my wife, ‘Why not make it a small ceremony – maybe only 30 minutes long – and open a bank account for Fiona?’ She liked that, so that is what I did.”

“Lawrence, that is such a smart idea! I’m sure one day Fiona will appreciate it very much,” I said. I was relieved and impressed by Lawrence’s decision – I find it such a pity that families here go into debt when celebrating the different periods of someone’s life. Modest celebrations are just as effective and meaningful as superfluous ones.

“Yes, because each month I will put money in her account so she can go to secondary school and to university. That is what I’ve done with Rhodalyn and Clara too. Every month I put five cedis into each of their accounts. Now I will do that for Fiona too. Five in Rhodalyn’s, five in Clara’s and five in Fiona’s every month, and I don’t ever touch that money because it is theirs. They don’t even know that I’ve been doing this – I simply tell them they don’t have to worry about paying for SS or university. It is no problem.”

“You are a great father,” I told him. He beamed back at me. In most of the Western world, going to such lengths for one's children is pretty much expected. In Ghana if one has the ability and discipline to save money for their children, it is a mark of an honest educated responsible individual. It's one thing to bring people into the world; it's another to make sure they will always have everything they need.