Tuesday, April 24, 2012

My Brother and My Name

Menua, me do wo na ma fe wo papaapa.

In 1982, the journey from Accra on the Atlantic coast to Kumasi in the interior rainforest took five hours by bus as we stopped at military checkpoints in each town, where we were forced off the bus, body searched and questioned by the soldiers. It was terrifying because the soldiers were emboldened by their new authority from the coup and their machine guns. Being 20 years old, I never thought my sophomore year in college would turn out like this. But it wasn’t always scary. In incredible contrast, the ride through the rainforest was magical. The silk cotton trees were so tall I couldn’t see the top of the canopy. They were thick with vines painted a hundred shades of green, with monkeys and parrots that chattered at the bus as we wound along the two lane road. The wonderful rhythm of Highlife music played on the radio, keeping everyone in good spirits.

After the tanks and soldiers that policed us all night to enforce the curfew in Accra, Kumasi was a surprising change. It was everything I imagined what tropical West Africa must be like, with orange clay roads, dense rainforest as far as I could see, colonial buildings bustling with people in traditional cloth side by side with men in three-piece suits, and the biggest open-air market in West Africa. I settled in living with the Asare family at their home on the campus of the Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology, fondly nicknamed “Tech” by the students. Luckily there was a reprieve from the machine guns, since the soldiers weren't allowed on the campus. The university was built by Kwame Nkrumah who liberated Ghana from colonial rule in 1957, where the brightest minds of Ghana would be trained to help build the first African country to gain independence. Uncle Ben Asare was the Dean of the Agriculture Department, and he also served as the Chairman of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha'is of Ghana. His wife Auntie Bea served in Baha'i Administration as an Auxiliary Board Member and later as the Continental Counselor for West Africa, traveling and encouraging all the Bahai's throughout ten countries. They had three daughters away at school and a son named Andrew who would be my roommate before I moved into the dormitories.

I met Nana one night at the Asare's home at the Baha'i Feast. Every 19 days, Baha'is have a gathering to pray, discuss community issues & challenges, and to enjoy each other’s company. I remember how far away I felt from home. Everything seemed so strange and I felt I couldn't quite land on my feet; there was nothing to hold onto. I sat and nervously waited for people to arrive, wondering what they would be like. Baha'is started to trickle in, and many were older than me. Then, two students arrived - Akwasi Osei and Nana Abora Boateng. Akwasi was very introspective and on the quiet side. Nana had a presence that filled a room. I tend to be quiet around people I don't know, but Nana wasn't about to let that happen. He had this infectious sense of humor that could disarm anyone. He asked me, "Why so quiet?! You can't come this far to be so very quiet! In Ghana there is no room for shyness! Tell us about who you are!" Akwasi and Nana sat on either side of me, making an effort to let me know I was welcome. Feast was an unforgettable experience. There was a lot of music and singing, and one of the youth played traditional drums. Prayers were recited in English and in Twi. And I recall most vividly how easy it was for the Baha'is to consult on issues. It was unity I had never experienced before.

It's the custom in Ghana to walk a guest half way home. When Feast was over and Akwasi and Nana were leaving, Nana said to me, "Small boy, you must learn our customs. Come and walk with us." Nana and I took the lead, while Akwasi and another Baha'i youth were behind us. As we all walked across the campus, I realized that my anxiety was lifting. Nana made me laugh. I felt after all I had experienced in Accra with the military, maybe now I could give Ghana a chance and I'd have some friends here. As we walked, I discovered that Nana was an art student like me, so we had a lot in common. It was easy to talk to him. We talked about everything - Picasso, Degas, traditional wood carving, and kente cloth. The next morning I showed him my portfolio of drawings I would submit to the university for review. I was worried, not knowing what he would think of them, but he took one look and loved my charcoal drawings. He declared that we were brothers. I didn't know what to think. I already had two brothers back in the States.



Unannounced visits are expected and always welcome in the Akan culture. Auntie Bea always had food on the stove. I asked her why, and she told me that you just never knew who would be stopping by. One afternoon Nana arrived with his portfolio he brought to share with me. It was like nothing I had seen before. His aesthetic was not what I was accustomed to. It was painterly, but with an expressionist feel to it. It was beautiful and he had incredible talent. He used bright colors and drew about the peaceful life of farmers in the villages, graceful women carrying clay water vessels on their heads, animated drummers playing the talking drums and happy babies carried on their mothers' backs on the way to the market. And while he had a gift for drawing, his passion was for textiles so he was studying kente weaving and waxprint design. He had samples of his weaving and later on he would show me his loom at his studio at Tech. It was a relief to know I had someone I connected with, and we could help each other in school. But Nana did not intend to be just another friend.

The next day Nana came to visit again, and the day after that, and the next day, and again on the next day after that. Finally with my best American suspicion and arrogance, I asked, "Why do you keep coming to see me every day?" Nana looked at me as if I had lost my mind and then became quiet. He replied, "Because you are so far away from home and I don't want you to be lonely." He just looked at me. I became quiet, realizing I had offended him. In America, we have friends because we do things together; we go to movies, we go to football games, we play basketball together. This was different. Sometimes Nana would come over just to keep me company; he wouldn't say a word, he’d just do his homework or write letters while I studied. He felt that just being in the room was enough to cure homesickness. It made sense because African children do not grow up alone. In Africa, companionship is a right given by God, so there's no such thing as loneliness or isolation in the Akan culture. "We all help to carry the burden of life on each others' shoulders," Auntie Bea would tell me. And Africans see right through our Western facade, getting past the wall we so carefully build in our civilized lives and looking right into our souls. It could be disarming, but the trade off for such vulnerability is a sense of belonging. It's worth it.

As the months went by Nana, Akwasi and I became inseparable. Across the vast lawns at the campus, you could always hear someone yelling, "There goes the three!" We were nicknamed The Three Muskateers.

Nana patiently taught me words and phrases in Twi, the language of the Akan. There are five major peoples who make up the Akan society - the Akim, Asante, Akwapim, Fante, and Kwahu. All share  Twi as the common language, although the Fante and Akwapim have their own dialects of Twi. Soon I was speaking so well that Auntie Bea told the family would have to speak in Akwapim because I knew too much Twi. Nana also taught me about the Akan proverbs and the Adinkra symbols that I would later study at Tech. Beautiful Adinkra symbols like the swirling fist of God called "Gye Nyame", which means "except God." Everything in life is a blessing from God and nothing is given to us without God's mercy. And the stylized mouth with teeth called "Bi nka bi" which means "no one should bite the other," signifying the importance of unity and acceptance of everyone in our community. The symbols are carefully carved into stamps made from calabashes and printed on cloth to tell a story. Adinkra cloth is traditionally worn by the royalty of the Asante people on special occasions.



I think fufu was my door into the culture. Nana was amazed that I loved the food and could eat fufu, the national dish. Most obrunis who come to Ghana have a hard time with food because it can be very spicy and the textures are not something we are used to. Fufu is made from boiled and pounded cassava and plantain, making a starchy dough that is covered with soup, eaten with the fingers and sort of swallowed and chewed. Nana sat quietly mesmerized, studying this white boy eating fufu and enjoying it. Nana would say, "My brother, you have tried!" But the thing is, I love fufu. It's soul food that sticks to my ribs and to my heart, made with the love of my Auntie's hands, making me feel comforted and loved.

Nana and I spent a lot of time in villages partly helping with research for the Art Department at Tech, but also to assist the Baha'is of Ghana to educate the local Baha'is in the area. After a while, it dawned on me that Nana was guiding me in order to bridge the gap between the people and me. Obrunis are treated with great hospitality, but it's understood that they typically do not know the Akan culture, they don't speak the language and do not eat the food. Nana's education connected me with the people. In the villages, I was humbled by the respect I was accorded simply because I showed a love and appreciation for the cultural traditions, the food and the language. But more importantly, Nana's teaching awoke something inside of me. It was as if I had known these people my entire life. I loved their way of life and I felt comfortable with them. In time as I became more accustomed to the traditional culture, we became as one. I learned what it meant to be part of the history of generations and a member of a community. I discovered what it felt like to wake up in the morning secure and happy because I had so many people to share my life with. No matter what test I faced, I was surrounded by family who were more than willing to help. Baha'u'llah, the Founder of the Baha'i Faith said, "So powerful is the light of unity that it can illuminate the whole earth." I was beginning to understand what that truly meant. 


I remember getting very sick with the flu, and Auntie Bea confined me to bed rest in my little twin bed upstairs. I stayed covered with a sleeping cloth made from traditional waxprint, and slept during the day while I fought the fever. On the third day, I woke up to voices outside the house and the sound of tree branches brushing against the roof. I sat up and peered out the window where I could see Nana way up in the mango tree, straddling a branch while he held a wooden crate box. Too feverish to keep watching, I laid back down and listened to Auntie Bea and Christina fussing at Nana in Twi to be careful. A few minutes later, I heard footsteps quickly coming up the staircase and Nana burst into my room. He dropped the crate, spilling over with mangoes, at the foot of my bed and asked me if this would make me feel better. He knew how much I loved mangoes. It took two more days for the fever to break, and Nana was there around the clock sitting at the foot of my bed, telling me stories and making me laugh.
 


There was a weekend Nana and I spent in a remote village north of Kumasi near Mampong, the second royal capital of the Asante people. Auntie Bea asked us to go to help new Baha'is to establish their own community. In a mud brick hut, we were given a small room with nothing more than a bed and a neatly swept dirt floor. The village women knocked first, coming into our room with our meal, crouched low to the ground because it's considered disrespectful to enter a room with your head held higher than that of the guest. They carried several white enamel pots, filled with nkontomeri and yams. Nkontomeri is made with the dark green leaves of cocoyams, boiled like we prepare collard greens and mashed using the tapoli and asanka bowl, then mixed into sauteed onions, garlic, red pepper and spices. Grilled pieces of fish or chicken is mixed into the stew. Yams are not like our sweet potatoes. The flesh is similar to potatoes, but pure white without the hint of bitterness. We ate the traditional way, sharing the pot with our right hands, using a piece of yam and our fingers to catch the stew. The food was excellent, and we were fed so much we couldn't breathe. It was important to eat everything we were given or risk insulting the cook and embarrassing the host. After we ate, we went outside to enjoy the evening. The villagers were all sitting by candlelight, quietly chatting and laughing, playing oware and enjoying the cool evening breeze. Across the village, we could hear a choir singing traditional hymns in Twi. From deep in the rainforest came the voices of the talking drums conversing between two villages. Monkeys chattered and fussed hundreds of feet above us in the canopy. Life was not complicated, it was essential. That night I felt a peace that I had never felt in my life.

A few weeks later back in Kumasi, it was very late one night while I was studying. Nana grabbed me from my desk and told me we were going for a walk. I was puzzled as he walked me out into the rainforest just outside one of the gates at Tech. The sky was crystal clear and heavy with stars, sparkling through the high branches of the rainforest canopy way above us. Birds were still singing and bush babies were yelling out their night calls. We walked along the footpath winding through the forest, lit by fire flies and the full moon's rays that peeked through the tree tops. Nana refused to tell me what we were up to until he found a spot in a clearing where the moon was directly overhead. The air was warm and still. I looked up; millions of stars and the moon were so close that I could have reached up and touched them. He brought out a flask while asking if I knew what day I was born on. I told him it was a Thursday and asked him why. Nana poured libation onto the ground while reciting a prayer. Then I realized why he had brought me here. This was my naming ceremony, a sacred ceremony given to children of the Akan on the eighth day after their birth.

Nana Nyame, mekyere wo nsu, na menma wo nsu

Nana Nyamewaa, mekyere wo nsu, na menma wo nsu

Osoro, gye nsu nom

Asaase Afua, gye nsu nom

Abosom nyinaa, gye nsu nom

Abusuafo pa, gye nsu nom

Me Ntoro, gye nsu nom

Nananom Nsamanfo, gye nsu nom

Me Asamanfo pa, gye nsu nom


Nana recited this prayer, in which an offering is made to Nyame and Nyamewaa who are the masculine and feminine attributes of the one Supreme God, to the Abosom who are the deities protecting all of nature, and to the Nananom Nsamanfo who are the generations of the Ancestors whose souls have past on from this world to the next and watch out for us while keeping balance in our lives. Some may call them angels. Others may call them inspired souls. Baha'is refer to them as the Concourse on High.

Nana then had me face him. He put a hand on each of my shoulders and told me that from this day on I was Akanfo, meaning a member of the Akan people. He called me menua, "my brother." And he gave me my soul's name, my kraden which is Yaw, the Akan name given to boys born on Thursday, used with great affection by close family members. Nana saw who I was. I didn't have the greatest memories of my own family life, other than turmoil and chaos. But underneath it, he saw who I was. This recognition overwhelmed me. It was an admission to myself that in order for others like Nana to see me, I needed to see myself. I needed to trust that at the end of this journey, there I would be standing, accepting who I really am

The Akan believe that the souls of infants wait in the next world in a pool of collective consciousness, and when the time is right the kra, or soul of the child chooses its parents, finding its way down to this world through Lake Bosumtwi near Kumasi and joining the child upon conception. The baby will be born on that kra's day of the week, so the kra of Yaw is always born on a Thursday.


My name comes from the spirit of Awuo, the planet Jupiter, who is my protective Abosom and part of my soul. The spirit of Yaw is guided by Preko the great boar who is focused, determined and not easily discouraged. With this ceremony, I joined the lineage of generations going back in history for centuries, our names remembered by our linguists who keep our oral traditions and the record of our family. I became part of the traditions of royal ceremonies, of the wisdom in the proverbs and story telling that our people have cherished for a thousand years. My great grandchildren will sit at the feet of their grandmothers, listening to stories of a young man who came from far across the ocean to become their Nana Yaw.

From that day on, I have never heard anyone in Ghana call me Dennis. I am Yaw. My soul is forever joined with the Akan people through my kraden. Every time I hear it said, it's a reminder of the gift that my dear friend Nana gave me, the gift of belonging.

Towards the end of 1982 the situation in Ghana became much worse, partly due to the worst drought that the continent of Africa had seen in decades, but also because of the increasing difficulty caused by the military government. We were tired from hunger. We were down to two meals a day because of the shortages of food. Fufu and kenkey were eaten rarely, but since the maize used to feed cattle was still available, we ate a mashed form of it called banku every day.

Even still, I had work to do. During my last month before I left the country, I lived among the Kusase people in the village of Timonde in the north, near the border of Burkina Faso. The Baha'i community had done something revolutionary by sponsoring a tutorial school for farm children at no cost to their families. I was there to assist the teacher to settle in, and to help the Baha'i community to further their understanding of the administrative process of the Baha'i Faith. 


Getting there was a challenge. I rode on the top of the cab of an eighteen-wheeler transport truck, directly above the driver. It was amazing, with the wind blowing while I rode through the sub-Saharan scrub land, past beautiful villages of round clay huts. Thousands of exotic birds would fly along side the truck as we made or way along the winding dirt roads through fields of yams and millet. The millet fields were like oceans of long grass, waving in the wind as far as I could see. Since the curfew was in effect nation-wide, we had to sleep on the side of the road. Even that was an adventure, since we could hear animals howling in the night. It took 18 hours to drive to Bolgatanga, then a taxi for two hours to Zebilla, and then we walked for five miles through the millet fields to Timonde. When I arrived, the villagers formally greeted me. Tall men shook my hand and inquired about the health of my family. The women knelt and offered their hand while patting me on the back and asking about my own well-being. The small children screamed and ran in horror with their hands thrown up. They called me the ghost. They had never seen a white man. There was no electricity and no running water. This was as far away as it possibly gets from any reference I had to my own life.


photo courtesy of Mary Jane Cassidy

I stayed with the chief of Timonde, a very quiet but imposing man. He was tall - probably 6'5" - and walked with such grace that it was as if his feet did not touch the ground. He had three stunningly beautiful wives and ten children who worked very hard on their farm. His senior wife allowed me to come into her kitchen and watch as she and the two junior wives prepared our meals.

The chief's house was a very large compound of round rooms made with clay walls from mud and dung, and covered with thatched roofs. The construction was ingenious because the clay dried hard, and was then hand-polished. Each compound also had a polished clay floor. It was spotless, and the walls and floors were decorated with intricate abstract designs that told the stories of the Ancestors and mankind.

The chief honored me by giving me the room with the most spiritual significance to his home. It was the room that held the fetish. It was a matted ball of feathers and blood, twice the size of a basket ball and used in ceremonial sacrifices to the Ancestral gods for good crops and healthy children. The beauty of the Baha'i Faith is that we are advised to honor our cultures and to incorporate them in our love of God. The chief was proud of his culture and I was humbled by this gesture that he would have me stay in the holiest place in his home.

The Baha'i Faith is like no other religious community, in that there is no clergy. An elected body of nine representatives called the Local Spiritual Assembly is charged with carrying out the administration of the community. Each year an election is held with no campaigning, no fund raising, no speeches.

Timonde was a fascinating experience because the entire village was made up of Baha'is. No one was literate, so we had to devise a way to help the community to elect its Local Spiritual Assembly while preserving the obligation of anonymity while casting votes. We had the community sit in a circle facing each other, and then one by one each person dropped a pebble in a hole behind each of the nine people they chose to serve.

There was a young man there who could translate the Kusase language for me. One night, as the chief's eldest son Kuma and I sat on goat skins near a fire looking at the stars, we talked about what we wanted out of life. He told me he wanted an education, to be able to see the world and provide a good life to his family. This young man's life was as far removed from mine as it can possibly get, and yet he was so much like me. The chief came out afterwards and sat with us. A few days prior to this he had asked me about my family name, and he was very pleased that it was Hunter. That night, he presented me with a rolled up piece of handwoven cloth. He unrolled it for me, and there was a mud painting depicting a hunter in ceremonial dress and mask, hunting an antelope and a guinea fowl. I have that painting framed in my living room.

I was fascinated by the farming techniques they used. Guinea fowl are beautiful birds with grey feathers and white heads. They have the capability of full flight, but the Kusase would trick them by taking the eggs and having chicken hens raise the chicks. They never learn how to fly and run freely through the compound. The cattle and goats are kept in a large room inside the compound at night. At first this seemed strange to have them penned so close to where we slept, but then I realized that the body heat from five head of cattle generates efficient heat for the entire house on cold nights.

I still think of the chief, Kuma and their family. The Kusase are a quiet and incredibly noble people. Their music was inspiring. Their love of God and their faith humbled me. In that month I learned more about the concept of faith in God than I could have learned in a lifetime living in the United States.

The trip back to Kumasi was alarming, and it was an indication of the tension created by the drought and the public's frustration with the military. While getting through the military check point in Bolgatanga, I was pulled into a shack and questioned for being a CIA spy. I prayed for protection as a drunken soldier waived a Russian machine gun in my face. I repeatedly reminded him I was a student and showed him my ID card. He finally gave up and motioned me to get out of his shack.

When I got back to Kumasi, there were reports coming from Accra that expatriates were being hassled and beaten. I had to quickly decide what to do, because there was a threat that the universities would close again because of student protests. Should I stay another year, or get back to school in the States? I consulted with Auntie Bea and Uncle Ben, and it became clear that I needed to go back and finish my degree. I had wanted to stay, but the risk was too great. I packed and in a few days I was ready to go to Accra and get on a plane.


 
Nana was heartbroken by my decision. For two days he didn't speak. By that time, we were roommates at Independence Hall at the university. I would catch him looking at me, saddened. The day came for me to head to Accra, and he told me that he and some of my friends would see me off. What I didn't realize was that there were ten of my friends with Nana and everyone rode the bus for five hours to Accra to see me off at the airport. That goodbye was one of the most difficult things I have experienced in life. I know that Nana had a very hard time with it as well.

He and I stayed in touch by writing letters about once a week. I would tell him about my studies in the Art Department at San Diego State University. He would tell me about his latest waxprint project for school, or the kente weaving he was working on. At the end of each letter, he would ask me when I was coming back.

And there was someone else I kept in touch with. While at Tech, I fell in love with a beautiful Akwapim girl. She was a music student who had a beautiful voice, played the guitar and was studying traditional drumming for her degree. She had a wonderful sense of humor, she was kind, stunningly beautiful and so easy to be around. We started out as friends at school, and then I found out through a friend that she had feelings for me right about the time I was leaving the country. Since we were both still in college, we decided to stay committed through letters and see where this lead. After four years we finally decided to ask for the consent of our parents to get married, according to Baha'i marriage laws.

Since she was Ghanaian, I also had to follow tradition so I flew back to Ghana in 1986 to speak with her parents about the consent. My friend Mawushi picked me up at the airport. After four years I felt like I had never left. It was that feeling you have when you walk through the door of your home after being away on a trip. Nana met me in Kumasi, and I remember he practically smothered me with a hug. I stayed for a month with Nana as my host, as he orchestrated this meeting for marriage consent. My fiancé and I spent a lot of time together, going for long walks at the university campus and planning our future together.


"Adoa" by Nana Abora Boateng

During that time Nana took me on a trip to his hometown Oda in the lands of the Akim, his people. His mother was a farmer, raising all kinds of crops as well as beautiful white pigs. Her house was simple, and I bathed from a bucket of water each night, standing on a slab of concrete in the moonlight. Nana took me everywhere in Oda - where he went to primary school, where he went to church, and to his secondary school where he painted a beautiful mural entitled "Adoa". The title comes from the Adoa dance, which is very traditional in the Akan cultures. He depicted a woman dancing with a scarf in her hand, and drummers and musicians surrounding her. Nana was sharing his life with me, and he told me that in order for me to understand a brother, I must know his history.

I had several meetings with her parents. They were primarily concerned with what my plans were after college. I explained that I was focused on getting into graduate school at UCLA, studying ethnic symbolism and anthropology. Eventually I wanted to teach and do research. My fianc
é's parents were very supportive of our decision to get married and once the consent was granted, it was about time for me to get back to the States.

A few days before I left, Nana and I spent the day in his flat. We didn't say much and it reminded me vividly of the first days that I got to know him, when he would come to visit me to keep me from getting homesick. Nana suddenly became very serious and asked me to sit down so he could talk with me. He was so serious and his heart was heavy. It was puzzling because he was so happy that I was there. He attempted to tell me something, but he stumbled to find the words. Finally, he grabbed my hand and almost crushed my fingers, and he told me he was not nearly as strong in his faith as I was and he prayed that I would not judge him for decisions he was about to make in his life. I told him that I would never judge him, and that he was my brother. I didn't realize that this was a plea for help.

Nana took me to the airport and in front of my fiancé, our friends and a crowded airport Nana completely broke down. This bear of a man sobbed like a child, taking both my hands and refusing to let go. With tears running down his face and sobbing uncontrollably, he told me that he would never forget his brother Yaw and that he would never have a friend like me ever again. He gave me a bracelet that I wear today and told me there is a belief among the Akim people that the bracelet is modeled after a type of grass that grows in the villages. No matter if you dig it up or try to burn it out, the grass will always grow back. This bracelet is given to a close friend to signify the importance of that bond. He told me to remember that no matter what we were like that grass.

All of my American friends pitched in to help out with the wedding plans since my fiancé would only have a month in the U.S. to get married under her visa. Even my mom stepped in to work with the florist. During this time, my fiancé called me from London to tell me she was traveling to see friends while she was killing time waiting for the visa.

Finally a couple months later, exactly a year after I got back from asking for consent from her parents, I cabled her to let her know her visa was finally approved. I had spent hours each day waiting in line at the U.S. Immigration Service, processing applications and paperwork. I worked two jobs so that I could save money for her plane ticket and to give us a start when we both moved to Los Angeles to study for our masters degrees. She waited a month to respond to my cable, and let me know she needed more time because she felt rushed. I agreed, and let her know I would wait as long as it would take. But I never heard from her again. Two years following that telegram, I discovered through friends that she had been dating someone else during the entire time of our engagement. The phone call from London was actually a shopping trip for her to buy a wedding dress on her way to Germany to meet this man's parents. She lied to her parents and told them that I had called off the engagement. I heard through friends that she was seduced by the relative wealth of this older man. She married him within a week after I had sent her the cable to let her know her visa had been granted to come to the U.S.

With that news, all my hopes of ever having a family and children snapped inside of me. The betrayal was blinding. The anger was a test that I could not bear, and I was so angry that I cut myself off from everyone I knew in Ghana. I didn't want anything to do with that country. I was going to put all of this behind me and try to forget that any of this had happened.

I poured myself into my career and for years became obsessed with having a bigger job title with a bigger office, losing contact with everyone in Ghana as I tried to destroy the memories. The anger got the best of me and I stayed away from the Baha'i community too, since I was so irrationally angry. But in spite of all my efforts I could not destroy the memories. I finally admitted it to myself, in spite of what she had done - the rest of these people were my family. I told myself that one day I would somehow find Akwasi and Nana, and I would make things right again. One day I would go back and it would be like it had always been. But I used my ambition to make excuses. I fooled myself to believe that it wasn't ever the right time because of my career, because of a lack of time, because of money, because of any excuse I could come up with. But in the back of my mind I knew one day I would go. 


Later on I heard that Nana had entered into politics and became a member of parliament. This is what he was trying to tell me about his fear of not having enough strength. Nana had ambition and wanted to provide a better life for his family, but it conflicted with the Baha'i belief that we don't get involved with partisan politics. Every now and then I would wonder about how he was doing, and how all my friends were getting along in life.


Then in 2008, 23 years after my last trip to Ghana, I found Akwasi through Facebook. We exchanged emails and phone numbers, and I called him. After a lot of tears and a lot of catching up, I begged Akwasi for Nana's phone number so that I could call him immediately. I could feel my heart beating like it was about to explode. I would finally be able to fix the past and reconnect with this dear brother of mine, whom I had never forgotten as hard as I had tried. Akwasi became quiet. He stumbled as he told me I must not have heard the news. I asked him, "Akwasi, what news?" Not too long before this phone call, Nana had died in his house in Accra while his wife and children were in Oda. The neighbors had suspected something was wrong because for two days they had not seen him leave the house. They sent their house boy to see if Nana was OK, and he found him in bed. He had died in his sleep, alone.

The wind had been knocked out of my lungs; it felt like someone was standing on my chest. I couldn't speak. I couldn't think straight, so I asked Akwasi if I could call him back later. I put down the phone, feeling the hurt surface from deep inside. I cried. It came from a place deep in my soul. It was the pain of having lost the most influential person in my life, and it was the pain of having let him down when he had asked me to be there for him. The last conversation I had with him when he begged me for help played over and over in my head. The guilt was overwhelming. I didn't sleep for three days, laying awake and remembering all of our time he spent with me to heal my homesickness and all those moments we had at the university in Nana's studio, laughing and talking while we studied. I dug into my storage chest where I keep my grandmother's wedding ring and my grandfather's pocket watch. I put Nana's bracelet on and promised him I would never take it off again.

I decided that the only way I could cope with the pain and guilt was to serve the Baha'i community in Ghana, so I made plans that I would take my vacation and go back for a month to assist in whatever way I could, and to dedicate my trip to Nana. The direction of my life was about to change in a profound way.

I have to wonder if Nana had orchestrated everything for that trip to occur. He had also strayed from the Baha'i community like I had, and I think Nana made a deal with God that if he could help set me back on course, then he would get to experience his own reckoning as well.

It all feels so unfinished.  I've never met Nana's wife or his children. I wonder how many sons and daughters he had. I wonder, is there a boy who looks just like him with those eyes that light up, who has his sense of humor? Does he have Nana's incredible heart? This is the hurt that I bear. I have to go back to Oda and find the family, and let them know what Nana meant to me. That he did not die without having touched and changed someone's life. I owe that to Nana. I owe so much.
 
I don't think we ever quite get over the loss of a loved one. We get past it. We learn to cope with it. The hurt sits in our hearts where we make room for it like an old friend as it greets us when we wake up in the morning and it says good night to us as we lie awake in the darkness, remembering. Sometimes I feel that I was never worthy to have such a friend. Even now the tears come, not because Nana passed away but because I lost irreplaceable moments with someone so important to me. And the tears come because he had asked me for help and I wasn't there for him. I have prayed every night for his forgiveness and in doing so, I have learned that forgiveness is the greatest and most powerful human virtue we have. And its not just forgiving others, but forgiving ourselves.


One day, Nana my brother. One day, you and I will be in the next life sitting with a big asanka of abenkwan and fufu between us, sharing the fufu in the traditional way, laughing like we always did and catching up on all those years we lost together. Until then, ma fe wo paa.