In Ghana, my name is Yaa. The spelling and pronunciation changes slightly depending on what region and language you’re in, but the name is always born from the same reason: I was born on a Thursday. And in Twi, probably the most dominant language in the Accra region, it’s Yaa. Despite how much time as I’ve spent around Accra, and how much as I’ve been exposed to Twi, the single phrase I recognize is the simple how-are-you-I-am-fine exchange; everything else is a jumbled mess of explosive syllables and sounds that effortlessly fuse together. When I first arrived, I did have difficulty distinguishing between Twi and the heavily accented English, and even more trouble decoding the ambiguous pronunciation once I realized it was (supposedly) the language I speak. From my experience, most Ghanaians speak very quickly, and either very loud or very soft. Unfortunately, it seems the majority of people I talk to opt for a quieter tone, their “d”s and “t”s almost identical and their enunciation muddled as their pitch drops. I found myself speaking slower and clearer in an effort to not only help them if my own accent was foreign and confusing (it doesn’t seem that it is, one man even asked me if I was British because I wasn’t speaking a mile a minute like a typical American), but to hopefully remind them to do the same. Yet I’ve gotten used to the Ghanaian accent as well as the little phrases that initially caught me off guard, the ones that help to further establish this English as almost a completely new language, but one that I now appreciate. I love the soft, double-syllable “hi” I get from shy children passing me on the street, how each time you arrive somewhere you are greeted “you are welcome,” (which seems logical enough but isn’t really used back home, at least in the same sense). If I were to ask, “are we leaving at 7?” I would receive a “yes please” in return, and if I were to come across somebody eating, they would say “you are invited,” no matter how big or small the meal in front of them. I once overheard someone on the phone say “you make my heart sing,” and I couldn’t help but smile, because these little expressions paired with a gentle, lilted voice really do become melodic, especially so next to the harsher articulations of Twi.

Aside from the obvious disparity of language, there are more subtle occurrences that hint of this different culture, or perhaps more accurately, attitude. One of my first days here I was sitting at work talking with Benedict, and he mentioned the name of some apparently famous American influential speaker, and was amazed when I said I hadn’t heard of them. He looked at me with this shocked expression and asked, “well then where do you get your motivation from?” This struck me as a bit of a strange concept, one I had to truly think about; I don’t know that I’ve ever set out solely to find motivation, but that my drive stems rather naturally from the people around me, my parents and peers and myself. Maybe that’s just me, but it seemed odd to take the initiative to listen to a speech exclusively to become motivated, and to become motivated in what? In your work, your morality, your life? Perhaps this isn’t a typical Ghanaian thing either, just one contrasting factor between two people with different roots. Religion is undoubtedly a big influencer here, steeped in all parts of life; each meeting at work begins and ends with a prayer, religiously-affiliated schools dominate the education system, and there are more churches in a square mile than you could count. While it is a largely Christian country, there is a significant Islamic population (mostly in the North), however the two religions blend peacefully.

Any and all cultural events I was lucky enough to see completely amazed me; the joy and brilliance of the performers so powerfully radiated over the audience. Over Easter weekend I attended the Tema Festival with a friend, immersed in crowds of brightly colored and loudly chanting people, flag carriers launching their banners high up in the air and dancers in traditional dress and makeup bumping to the rhythm of drums. Joshua had to pull me to the side to protect me from being trampled by the powerful current of people charging through the streets, yet all I (foolishly) wanted to be was right in the thick of it. In the North I was witness to a traditional dance at a work event, the women twisting huge barrels with streaming pieces of fabric on their heads, and the men stomping their decked out combat boots. On one of my last weekends here, I was treated to the show of a local dance troupe in Cape Coast, which was filled with acrobatic stunts and wordless dramas in addition to extraordinary dancing; I have no idea how the women (or men) can move like that. The same passion was paralleled in the Kuwani funeral I witnessed, a beautiful illustration of the strength of community. To see how an entire village (and sometimes neighboring ones) unite to celebrate a life not once, but twice, with extravagant dancing and singing, to truly admire and honor life even at its hardest moments…to call it an inspiration is a injustice to its power.  

My time in Kuwani gifted me the most insight into this lustrous culture, one that throbs beneath the surface of a life often outwardly seen as destitute and deprived. One day, as I watched Ceilar nap in the dirt among scratching chickens, I realized how much we coddle our children, protect them from all things “dirty” and “dangerous”. Mothers here don’t bat an eye when a child is erratically stabbing a knife into the dirt around his feet, don’t give a second thought to balancing their newborn on their back to wrap them up in just a piece of worn cloth, don’t blink when their diper-less child pees all over their lap, don’t mind the swarms of flies clinging to their kids’ scabby knees. This is completely unrelated to the level of love or protection surrounding the child, that is blatantly obvious…it’s just simply the way life is here. And the kids turn out just fine. They lead a fearless life, one they don’t pretend to have any control over and respect greatly, which is what allows for a carefree and joyful mind despite the undeniable difficulty surrounding them. This thought was brought to life through a conversation between two juxtaposed young men, Nna’s son Ben and a traveling shoe peddler. All the shoe salesman talked about was how depressed he was that nobody was buying his (cheap knockoff) shoes, how he was unhappy and unfulfilled, how if he could only just get to America (“please take me home with you”), he could truly have a good life. Ben just laughed at him. “My friend, this is not a bad life. I too had ideas of how I could advance in the world; I lived in Accra and went to school, and do you know how much money I spent every day? And how busy the life was? I came back here, disappointing some people, but here I have home, I have family, I have work, I have food. I go to the farm in the morning and come back to dinner on my plate, I have my friends, I have my music. I am still moving up, one step at a time. What more could I need?” This was coming from a man who, in our society, has “nothing”, who wears the same faded tank top every day and at 28, still lives at home, yet who is irreversibly happy with his life and wants nothing more than he can reasonably strive to achieve. I think we can all learn a lesson from Ben. 

And honestly, I do think my own attitude has changed, if only a bit, by what I’ve seen here. I have begun learning to let go the things I cannot control, to try to embrace exactly where I am at that moment, and to be always thankful for what I do have instead of focusing on what I don’t. I’m not claiming to be done, to be reconditioned by any means, but I think (and hope) that this patience and forgiveness will always be there at the back of my mind. A bit of perspective, if you will.