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Authors: Tanya Shaffer
Tags: nonfiction
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cedis for ampicillin. Twenty-one hundred for paracetamol. Minessi looked on with an incredulous expression, shaking her head slightly as I fished out the money for the medications. On the way back to the hospital, she repeatedly removed the medicines from their paper bag and looked at them.
“Are you all right, Minessi?” I asked, but she didn’t respond.
Back at the hospital, she sat down on a cot with Yao. In a flat voice, she asked me to tell her husband to come tonight with clothes for her and the baby, and some water.
I began to leave, but she stopped me. “Chop money,” she said, her face turned away. I gave her 1,500 cedis for food and told her to send word with her husband if she needed more. She took the money without comment and didn’t look at me as I walked to the door.
Yao and Minessi stayed in the hospital a week. When they returned, Yao’s eyes were clear and bright. His breath flowed unimpeded, a strong sweet column of air.
“I’m so glad he’s better,” I said to Minessi as she pounded
fufu
in a corner of the yard. She had been distant toward me since her return from the hospital. My feelings toward her had changed, too. I had an agenda now: to keep Yao healthy. Where I once thought Minessi an ally, I now feared she might be an obstacle. I kept my tone cheery, trying to neutralize the tension by ignoring it.
“Isn’t it a relief that Yao is back? Maybe we could go together and buy some milk for him. I could set up some kind of a milk fund.”
She continued to pound silently, the muscles in her back working.
“Sistah Korkor!” called Amoah, from across the yard. “You people know so much! Here we thought the boy is fine. He smiles, he looks around, this is a healthy boy. And now we find that the boy was so sick. We know nothing!”
I sensed, more than saw, a bristling from Minessi. The pounding sped up.
“Oh no,” I said. “Minessi knows a lot more than I do. She just couldn’t—she didn’t—”
“No!” Amoah laughed. “She is a foolish African woman. Not smart, like you. Is it not true, Minessi?”
Minessi stopped pounding; her pestle hung midair. “Yes,” she said suddenly, loudly. “Before Sistah Korkor and her friend the doctor we know nothing. We do not know Yao is sick, we do not know Yao is well. We know nothing; we can do nothing. We must say thank you to Sistah Korkor.” She turned to me, her jaw taut. The veins stood out in her neck and arms.
“Thank you, Sistah,” she said, her voice low and shaking. “Thank you for the life of Yao.”
She turned her back. The thud of her pestle filled the air like a mournful drum, a rhythmic counterpoint to the other women pounding out their dinners in nearby huts.
5
Musical Chairs
In Apam, every time I step outside the door I attract a following. Foreign visitors are rare here, and people shout
“obroni”
at me—white person—from morning till night. Mothers bring their youngsters close, point
a finger right in my face, and pronounce the word slowly so that the children can learn. Yesterday a group of children trooped after me through the
streets, exuberantly chanting, “
Obroni
/ How are you? / I am fine /
Thank you!” Toddlers start to cry when they see me, and their mothers
seem to find nothing funnier than to drag them toward me, saying in
Fanti, “Take him to your country.” Even Santana and her family refer to
me as “the white lady.” I overhear them saying to each other, “The white
lady is up; the white lady is hungry; the white lady is taking a bath.”
Saturday nights at the Afranguah camp, we took turns sharing party games from our countries. On our first Game Night, an English volunteer introduced “telephone,” in which a whispered message is passed around the circle. First time around, when the last link in our forty-five person chain was asked to relay the message he’d received, he said quizzically, “Fun-dee?”
“How did you hear fun-dee?” shouted Ayatollah, who’d originated
“Are you all right, Minessi?” I asked, but she didn’t respond.
Back at the hospital, she sat down on a cot with Yao. In a flat voice, she asked me to tell her husband to come tonight with clothes for her and the baby, and some water.
I began to leave, but she stopped me. “Chop money,” she said, her face turned away. I gave her 1,500 cedis for food and told her to send word with her husband if she needed more. She took the money without comment and didn’t look at me as I walked to the door.
Yao and Minessi stayed in the hospital a week. When they returned, Yao’s eyes were clear and bright. His breath flowed unimpeded, a strong sweet column of air.
“I’m so glad he’s better,” I said to Minessi as she pounded
fufu
in a corner of the yard. She had been distant toward me since her return from the hospital. My feelings toward her had changed, too. I had an agenda now: to keep Yao healthy. Where I once thought Minessi an ally, I now feared she might be an obstacle. I kept my tone cheery, trying to neutralize the tension by ignoring it.
“Isn’t it a relief that Yao is back? Maybe we could go together and buy some milk for him. I could set up some kind of a milk fund.”
She continued to pound silently, the muscles in her back working.
“Sistah Korkor!” called Amoah, from across the yard. “You people know so much! Here we thought the boy is fine. He smiles, he looks around, this is a healthy boy. And now we find that the boy was so sick. We know nothing!”
I sensed, more than saw, a bristling from Minessi. The pounding sped up.
“Oh no,” I said. “Minessi knows a lot more than I do. She just couldn’t—she didn’t—”
“No!” Amoah laughed. “She is a foolish African woman. Not smart, like you. Is it not true, Minessi?”
Minessi stopped pounding; her pestle hung midair. “Yes,” she said suddenly, loudly. “Before Sistah Korkor and her friend the doctor we know nothing. We do not know Yao is sick, we do not know Yao is well. We know nothing; we can do nothing. We must say thank you to Sistah Korkor.” She turned to me, her jaw taut. The veins stood out in her neck and arms.
“Thank you, Sistah,” she said, her voice low and shaking. “Thank you for the life of Yao.”
She turned her back. The thud of her pestle filled the air like a mournful drum, a rhythmic counterpoint to the other women pounding out their dinners in nearby huts.
5
Musical Chairs
In Apam, every time I step outside the door I attract a following. Foreign visitors are rare here, and people shout
“obroni”
at me—white person—from morning till night. Mothers bring their youngsters close, point
a finger right in my face, and pronounce the word slowly so that the children can learn. Yesterday a group of children trooped after me through the
streets, exuberantly chanting, “
Obroni
/ How are you? / I am fine /
Thank you!” Toddlers start to cry when they see me, and their mothers
seem to find nothing funnier than to drag them toward me, saying in
Fanti, “Take him to your country.” Even Santana and her family refer to
me as “the white lady.” I overhear them saying to each other, “The white
lady is up; the white lady is hungry; the white lady is taking a bath.”
Saturday nights at the Afranguah camp, we took turns sharing party games from our countries. On our first Game Night, an English volunteer introduced “telephone,” in which a whispered message is passed around the circle. First time around, when the last link in our forty-five person chain was asked to relay the message he’d received, he said quizzically, “Fun-dee?”
“How did you hear fun-dee?” shouted Ayatollah, who’d originated
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