Odo Nyera Ne Fie Kwan

"Odo nyera ne fie kwan." It's such a simple proverb in Twi, but it tells so much about my life and the journey I have been on. It means, "Love never gets lost on its way home."

Becoming a Baha'i in the summer of 1979 when I was 17 was the end of a five year spiritual search. It was the feeling of coming home after a long journey, but the irony was that there was no home to return to.

That summer, I went to work for a family friend in Hawaii for the summer. I saved my money from my part time job for my plane ticket and left for Moloka'i a week after school was out. Working at a charcoal factory was tough, but I loved it because I was finally seeing the world. When I was a kid, my favorite book we had at home was this huge atlas. I would lay sprawled out on the floor in the living room, turning the pages and looking at all the countries, planning my big adventure when I was old enough to go out and see the world. Moloka'i was the first step, learning about different cultures and a way of life that was completely new to me. Everything was going great until July of that summer when I found out through my boss that my parents had split up and my mother moved out. They didn't want to tell me because it would ruin my trip.  I called home and asked what was going on, and they told me that things were not good, and now that I knew I was to come home immediately and help with the chaos. I said no because I had made a commitment to stay until the end of the summer as I had planned. Frankly, I felt that if it wasn't important enough to tell me the news, then it wasn't important enough for me to rush home and clean up the mess.  When I came back in September, I walked through the front door of our house and everything had changed. It felt so dark inside that house. It was empty and cold, as if its spirit had moved away. All that was left was a place to sleep and eat. Home was gone.

My parents agreed that my father was supposed to raise the three of us in that house, but he didn't have the maturity to understand what that would take. His new-found freedom meant that he was never around and not really interested in the responsibility of children. My mother was focused on finding her own way, so focused on herself that she left her children to fend for themselves. My older brother moved north to Humboldt in northern California to get away from the fallout from the continuing battle so no one was there except me to keep my younger brother on the right path. The divorce ate up any money they had left between them, so all hopes to go to Dartmouth vanished. Instead, I got a job at a fast food restaurant, took over running the house and made sure my younger brother stayed in school. I knew as a matter of survival I still had to get a degree, so I enrolled at San Diego State University down the street because it was public college and I could afford the fees. Life suddenly flipped upside down and became about self-preservation, so dreams like Dartmouth would have to wait.

At 17, I assumed my parents would be there to keep us safe and the responsibilities of adulthood would be further down the road. But instead, I was the parent and everything I thought I could rely on was gone. With fear came anger, because I had been robbed by the two people I needed to protect me. I learned that needing anyone would only end in heartbreak, so I decided I would only need myself and I would protect my younger brother, making sure he had a place to go for guidance and support. I was so busy running the house, working, keeping up with my own education and watching out for Scott, that I fooled myself into believing I had no time to let anyone in. I kept my head down and just kept going. Even while I was living in Ghana on a scholarship, I still felt guilty. I didn't deserve it. I wrote my brother often to make sure he was studying and getting good grades, but the panic would set in at night, lying awake and worrying if he was OK while I was gone. 

When I came back from Ghana, it dawned on me how independent I had become. My father didn't like it and two years later he kicked me out of the house as I approached my senior year at the university. He is an uneducated man, and felt threatened that his sons could potentially be more successful than he was. He assumed that sabotage could be the means to make sure his fear never became realized. So at 21 I had to find an apartment, feed myself, pay the rent and somehow get my degree done. But that was no problem for me, right? That elusive word "home" would have to wait with my dreams because I had to survive. Home would have to come later.

The sense of being home didn't appear again in my life until the summer I first stayed at Uncle Prince's house. I was 48 years old. Each morning as I would eat my breakfast in Brafoyaw, Auntie Aggie would make sure to come to dote on me like one of her own, asking me how I slept and how the food was. She would ask me, "Yaw, are you happy?" In the evenings, Uncle Prince and I would sit and talk for hours in the courtyard and he would always ask me right before I went to bed, "Yaw, are you content here with my family?" These two kind people actually wanted to know if I was happy. I had never thought about an answer to that question because no one had ever asked me. It was uncomfortable for me to be taken care of. I didn't know how to let anyone do that, but I decided to open my heart and stop running away. I learned that they really loved me and would never hurt me or leave me. I had found home and I wasn't about to let go of it ever again. It was their love that ignited the idea of moving my life to Ghana.

Two years ago, Uncle Prince and I were glued to the television each night watching the local news and "Ghana's Most Beautiful," sort of like a beauty contest but showcasing the music, languages, traditional dress, dance and traditions of each of the regions of Ghana. I kept seeing ads running from a real estate development company building homes in gated communities. I had a long talk with Alex and Uncle Prince about the prospects of building a house independently in Cape Coast, but they advised me that unless I was living there full time it was too risky, because I would not be able to stay on top of the sub-contractors hired to carry out the building process. There had to be another solution.

Later when I went to Accra with Sammy, we stayed at my brother Akwasi Osei's house in Roman Ridge and we found out the developer's office was in walking distance just down the road in Kotobabi. So Sammy and I went to speak with them, and I was really impressed. There was no hard sell, no pushy pitch to buy. Best of all, this method of building communities was tailored for expatriates who can't be in the country to supervise building. They would also provide a 10 year mortgage so that I could make monthly payments.

The next step was to check the communities they were building and to take a close look at the construction. Sammy and I met with Josephine who is one of the sales representatives and a driver to take us on a tour of four communities in the Accra area. First was Tema, heading east along the coast from Accra. Tema is a suburb, originally built as a planned community and port town by Kwame Nkrumah. I was surprised when we got there, not realizing that this is a very dry part of the country with only grass land and very few trees. I asked if we could go to the next one in Afienya north of Tema. It was much greener, but still part of the grasslands. I wanted trees. So we got back in the car and our next stop was Dodowa in the Krobo area at the foot of the Aburi Hills, heading northwest from Afienya on the outskirts of Accra.

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The terrain changed as we drove along, getting greener with mango orchards and banana farms, and the rain forest getting higher and more dense as we drove along. We watched the Aburi Hills rise from the plains as the fog rolled down the hills and into the mango orchards. It reminded me of how beautiful the campus and surroundings were at KNUST when I was a student in 1982. The town of Dodowa is small and clean, and the Ga-Dangme people are friendly. It was so beautiful that I lost my cool. I blurted out in the car, "THIS IS IT!"

We drove to the site where the community is being built, and it hit me. I loved it here. I was excited to think that I could have a house here with the view of the hills and trees each morning, and where I could live in the countryside and have a tropical garden, grow orchids and plumeria flowers, and provide a home where my boys and my grandchildren can come stay as long as they like. This would be home.

We then drove to Katamanso in Adenta, which is part of Accra, in order to check the construction of houses that were almost completed. It was exactly what I was looking for, so after a couple of days of praying and consulting with Akwasi, Alex, Sammy and Uncle Prince I decided to sign a contract.

When I got back to Los Angeles, I started to think about the Ga-Dangme and Krobo people who will be my neighbors. I realized I knew very little about the them because almost all of my studies had to do with the Akan peoples. The Ga-Dangme and Krobo were not Akan. The Akan trace their heritage from the great Asante migration out of the kingdom of Ghana originally in Mali, while the Ga-Dangme and Krobo have an incredible story of how they found the Accra plains, migrating from areas east of Ghana. It brought me back to the question of home. Who were these people and why did they decide to settle in the Accra plains after a long journey across the continent of Africa?

The Krobo people along with the Ga, the Ga-Dangme and the Shai peoples are groups who share the common languages of Krobo and Ga, and live in the Greater Accra areas of Osu in Accra, Shai east of Dodowa where my house is, La, Ningo, Kpone, Krobo south of Koforidua and the Aburi Hills, Osudoku, and Prampram along the beach east of Accra on the way to the Togo border.

Anthropologists have several origin theories for these ethnic groups, including a possibility that they descended from peoples of the Upper Volta River and even as far north from areas of what is now Niger. Genetic studies link them closely with the Akan peoples of Asante, Central and Western Regions of Ghana, however this is not conclusive with regards to origin since the Ga, Krobo and Akan have intermarried for centuries.

 

Their own oral tradition tells a more fascinating story. They believe that they had descended from two out of ten of the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel - the Dan and Naphtali. Descending from those two tribes, they crossed into Egypt, then Ethiopia, then into Sudan intermarrying with the people referenced in Biblical history as the Nubians. They then moved on, and after years and years of migrating across Central Africa they finally settled in Ile-Ife, the spiritual homeland of the Yoruba people of western Nigeria. It was temporary though, and they continued moving west crossing through what is now Benin and Togo, where some settled and integrated with the Ewe people who occupy the area east of the Volta River and Togo. The remaining groups continued their migration and found their home in the Accra plains and the land just north along the foot of the Aburi Hills in the Shai forest which includes where my house is in Dodowa.

An anthropologist did a study comparing the Ga language with the Jewish Aramaic language, and the results are incredible. More than 70 words in each language are identical with the same pronunciation and meaning. Also, many traditions such as the rite of male circumcision and the timing of the rituals are identical.

Here's more of the story from my brother Freddie Agamah.

"My people, the Ewes, also believe their roots go back to Israel. I listened to an oral account which drew a relationship between the name of the powerful Yewe cult (an Ewe cult) and Yahweh/Jehovah. An interesting fact about the cult is that members spot ten tribal marks on their faces. That, we were told, stands for the ten commandments.  According to the Ewe account, before Ife, they had been in Ethiopia. I found out from a recent Facebook conversation that the name Selase, a popular Ewe name and Selassie (Ethiopian) have similar meanings, and beyond that they share other names and words. The part [of the migration] after Ife is now properly documented. The Krobos and Ewes share a strong brotherhood. The Krobo word for Ewe is 'the friends'. It's all oral and almost impossible to verify, but you can just feel it that there is so much of our history that may not be recovered."

In my experience over the last 32 years with Ghana, I have come to the conclusion that I have no answers. Oral traditions come from somewhere, and they must be important enough to the people that their linguists and their grandmothers felt they had to safeguard them by handing down the stories through generations upon generations. There must be truth to this.  

I often wonder about what caused the Ga-Dangme and Krobo to pack up and leave the Middle East, to start a migration that would lead them across a continent. What kept them going, packing up their entire community to continue a walk across Africa that must have spanned generations? Why did they decide to settle for good in the Accra plains, never going back again?  The answers will probably never be found. But that's part of the mystery of life - searching for what our hearts are yearning for. I can't wait to get settled in Dodowa and start learning from my neighbors about their history.

For me, my life has been a search for love and a sense of belonging. It's one thing to believe the principles that I do as a Baha'i, that mankind is one and that we are all part of the family of man. But my experience has made my understanding very personal. I have a sense of permanence that I did not grow up with. I have children who have allowed me to take care of them in a way that I was not taken care of, and in doing so they have healed my past.  It's not just four walls and a roof; home is a place in the heart shared by the people we love. We aren't here on this earth to go through this journey alone. I'm blessed to have been given this life of mine, and to be sent on a long journey to find my family and my home.

The Earth Is Heavier Than The Sea

"Asaase Yaa," painting courtesy of Jonathan Kwegyir Aggrey 

"Asaase y3 duru s3 po." The earth is heavier than the sea.

In the painting above, my gifted artist friend Jonathan Kwegyir Aggrey has captured the essence of Asaase Yaa the earth goddess, and incorporated the adinkra symbol dedicated to her, two intertwined hearts.

This proverb asks us to recognize the sacred spirit of our earth, because she gives us life. She gives us nourishment. She gives us communion with the Ancestors, she provides us with roots to ground us, she shelters us from loneliness with the precious gift of family and children.

My life has had a common thread about loved ones leaving. Experiences such as the disintegration of our family from my parents divorce and my fiance marrying another man during our engagement  have forced me to learn to create my own family, gathering loved ones outside of the American norm. In many ways I don't understand how to navigate through American society. It's like a game to which no one ever taught me the rules. So when my Uncle Prince told me that God made a small mistake because he believed I was born in the wrong place, I think he touched on something incredibly insightful. The people my soul connects with are half way around the world. It has come at great sacrifice for me because these bonds span great distances here on earth and even greater distances to the afterlife.

Why do I feel such a profound connection to the earth? Maybe it's the sense of permanence that it provides. Like Asaase Yaa, a dependable mother, earth is always there to take care of me.

Part of my heritage is Irish. I've looked into the relationship of the Irish people to the land, and what I found is that there is a spiritual connection. Long before Catholicism and the British attempts to subdue the Irish people, they believed that the land was a goddess who gave us life. They believed that the forests were magical, where the spirits of their ancestors lived. I've come to understand the metaphysical relationship that each of us have with the people we are descended from. I can't help but think that my connection to the earth originates from deep inside my DNA, where memories of my ancestors are safely kept.

My grandfather was a man who loved the earth. I grew up spending summers in Nebraska, where he and my grandmother had a small farm. I remember the soil was black; so rich that anything could grow in it. Papa grew beautiful watermelons, sugar beets and sweet corn, juicy red tomatoes that we'd eat like fruit right off the vine, and fresh green beans that I'd sit with my grandmother on the porch, snapping them for dinner. There was a wonderful feeling of being connected to the earth, watching life grow before us.

The Akan beliefs about the land are a little more complicated. As I had previously explained about the hierarchy of Nyame and Nyamewaa, the male and female attributes of the Supreme God; the Abosom who are the spirit deities that protect all of life; and the Nananom Nsamanfo who are the souls of the Ancestors, looking out for us and making sure we are treating the earth with respect - each work to protect the environment in various capacities. Nyame and Nyamewaa give life. The tradition states that originally they were close to man, but after being repeatedly pummeled by the pestle of an old woman pounding fufuo, they moved way up into the sky.  Nyamewaa is also known as Asaase Yaa, the wife of Nyame. She is the earth goddess and responsible for the safety of the forest, crops, fertility and any life that may originate from the ground. The Abosom are believed to inhabit the environment. I remember a neighbor in Kumasi who cut down a huge tree on his property. For several months afterwards he had financial problems, marital problems and lost his job. The explanation? He had not poured libation to Asaase Yaa nor had he asked the spirit that lived in the tree to leave. The Nananom Nsamanfo watch over the land and make sure that we treat the earth with respect. Traditionally an Akan says a small prayer before the slaughter of an animal for food, thanking the Nananom and the spirit of the animal for its sacrifice, and for the bounty of feeding the people.

The traditions from my heritage are not at all in conflict with my belief as a Baha'i. Being a Baha'i has brought me very close to the subject of our environment, since Baha'i believe as Baha'u'llah, the Founder of the Baha'i Faith stated, "The earth is but one country and mankind its citizens."  If mankind was to look at the earth with such a sacred reverance, we could solve the various crises we are facing such as global warming, the challenges of renewable resources, pollution of our land and oceans and the depletion of the earth's rainforests.

From a letter by the Baha'i International Community, Office of the Environment:

"Long-term solutions will require a new and comprehensive vision of a global society, supported by new values. In the view of the Baha'i International Community, acceptance of the oneness of humanity is the first fundamental prerequisite for this reorganisation and administration of the world as one country, the home of humankind. Recognition of this principle does not imply abandonment of legitimate loyalties, the suppression of cultural diversity, or the abolition of national autonomy. It calls for a wider loyalty, for a far higher aspiration than has so far animated human efforts. It clearly requires the subordination of national impulses and interests to the imperative claims of a unified world. It is inconsistent not only with any attempt to impose uniformity, but with any tendency towards excessive centralization. Its goal is well captured in the concept of unity in diversity."

I think why the land makes me feel safe and secure is because it never leaves. The earth is a holy and sacred being whom my soul feels closest to when I'm out in the countryside near Cape Coast. There are forests of acacia trees blooming with thousands of bright yellow flowers, fields of maize and pineapples, and oceans of sugar cane as far as the eye can see, flowing with waves caused by the wind. It doesn't surprise me that I'm at peace when I'm in a village in the middle of the rain forest, bathing with rain water while brightly colored tropical birds sing in chorus and monkeys chatter in the canopy above. This is that sense of security that alludes me living in a western society.

 
Three years ago, Alex called me and told me there was an opportunity to purchase some land in Biriwa, not too far from Moree Junction and Brafoyaw. Alex has a passion for farming. He has a hatchery for chicks, and has probably 100 chickens running free at the house. He took me to see his nursery where he had mango seedlings, tomatoes, plantain and cassava growing. When Alex talked to me about farming, his eyes would light up and he'd explain every detail of his dream to have a farm one day. So when he called me about the land, it brought back memories of my grandfather in Nebraska. It brought back the feelings of safety and happiness. Alex's dream could come true. My connection to the earth of Ghana could be realized.

We took the opportunity and acted quickly, and now the land is ours - legally confirmed by the court and recorded by the Ministry of Lands. I made a very thoughtful and personal decision, coming to terms with my own mortality. I decided that the land will be in both my name and Alex's name. This is my gift to my son, a legacy that he will in turn hand down to his children. Alex was resistant at first, but I explained to him that I will eventually pass on and the farm will live on. It will outlive each of us and it must be entrusted to our grandchildren - a gift of love and permanency in each of our lives.

So what do we name this farm? Alex called me one day very excited and told me he had an idea. "Let's call it Abha Farms, and we will run it ethically according to our Baha'i standards." Abha is Arabic, and means "most glorious."  Most Glorious Farms. I loved the name and I told Alex he chose well.

 
Alex plans to farm using organic methods and fair pricing. We also decided to set aside a plot for the Love & Kindness Junior Youth Group in Yamoransa so that the children can learn farming techniques while growing food to assist their families. This junior youth group has sprung up from three years of speaking to parents in Yamoransa, communicating a new idea from the Baha'i Community in which children could create a community service based organization, completely non-denominational, where they can learn concepts of moral behavior while spearheading projects to be of service to their town. So far there are 39 children, and their parents and older siblings have become involved as well.

Last week I spoke with Alex and asked him how the farm was coming along. His excitement is palpable. "I am on it!" he exclaimed to me. He's got mako or pepper, anamuna or watermelon, bankye or cassava, aburo or maize, mankani or cocoa yam and borodzi3 or plantain already planted.

I admit, I've been feeling a bit down this week, a little lonely. The people I've loved and who've passed on are on my mind. My brother Nana, my friend Damina, my grandparents. With Abha Farms being realized, I'm feeling my own roots grow deeper into the soil in Biriwa. Meanwhile the roots of the bond between my sons and me also grow deeper, winding deep down into the soil of Oguaa. It gives me permanence that I long for but in its wake it brings solitude while I live here in the U.S. in order to build a future in Ghana. I know they are always as near as a phone call, but I still miss them.

I'd give anything to be living with my boys right now, farming our land.

The Theft of My Sons' Ancestors

Three years ago it was a rare occasion that Alex and I had nothing to do one morning, so I asked him if we could go visit Cape Coast Castle where President Obama had visited during his historic trip in July of 2009.

We took a taxi into town, and as the car wound through the streets it approached an ominous fortress, freshly painted white with beautiful light blue shutters covering the windows. We walked through the gate, admiring the massive size. It was quiet. Historians and archivists who worked there were quietly walking to their offices. We could hear the waves crashing on the sea wall. But the quiet was more than just the silence of the people who worked there. I could feel that we had walked onto holy ground, and the silence was out of respect.

The castle was built by the Swedes in 1653 for the Swedish Africa Company as a fortified weigh station for timber and gold. In 1663 it was taken over by the Dutch and then conquered by the British in 1664.

The British used the castle as a holding dungeon for the slave trade, trafficking human beings to be sold in the Americas. Since the subject of African history is so limited in the American school system, this was about all I knew about this massive castle.

I remember as a young boy going to visit my grandparents in Nebraska, and my grandfather took me to a cattle auction just over the state border in Missouri. Cattle were rounded up onto trucks which drove away. As a boy I stood watching, and wondered where they went and what happened to them. This time I wondered about people who had been treated worse than cattle, each with families, children, wives and husbands.

Alex and I walked through the entrance, past the tourist office, into the courtyard surrounded by three stories of colonial offices and living quarters. The sea wall was lined with cannons to defend the castle from attack by sea.

We waited as enough people arrived to form a large group. Our guide Mr. Essel Blankson,  who had guided the Obama family during their visit to the castle, then gave us some background information and led us to the first stop on the tour. It was the Men's Dungeon.

The space was incredibly cramped as we walked down an uneven brick ramp through a  tunnel, down several stories below the ground floor of the castle. It was dark and damp, and the walls were covered with green mold from the sea air. The ramp opened up into a room probably 100 feet wide by 200 feet long. The floor appeared to be a hardened mud floor. There were no windows, and only a small hole at the top of the wall on one end for ventilation. The air was stuffy and it was almost pitch black except for a light installed for the tours. Our guide told us that this was where 200 men were kept in chains and shackles on the walls, as they waited for the slave ships to arrive off shore. Conditions were horrific, and many men died from dysentery, typhoid and cholera during the wait. We were told that the floor was not mud, but rather petrified human feces over two feet deep.

At that moment, I felt the oppression and a great sorrow in that room. It was as if my heart weighed a thousand pounds. Alex told me later that he felt it as well. It was as if the souls of hundreds of thousands of men, all drowning in sadness, were crying out. Not cries of desperation, but of hopelessness. It was as if they realized that life was now over, and that their souls were now trapped to endure a lifeless hell.

Men who did not follow orders were sent to a cell to be beaten and tortured.  Our guide took us in, and shut the lights off. It was so dark I could not see my hand in front of my face. The air was so thick that it was hard to breathe. Men were kept in here for months until they were broken into submission.

In the effort to break the spirit of the Fante people, the British even went as far as stealing the sacred fetish that had inhabited the spot where this dungeon occupied. Imagine someone coming into a most sacred place such as a church and stealing the crucifix or the alter. It wasn't until the 1970's that the British finally returned the fetish. A fetish priest now sits in wait to guard the holy site.

I stayed back while the group continued on into the tunnel leading to the Women's Dungeon. I stood by myself for a moment in the dark, wondering about the terror that these men must have felt. One day hunting in the great rain forests, knowing they had wives and children waiting for them at home in their villages; the next day shackled in chains and handcuffs to a wall, laying in the darkness in their own feces, terrified and having no idea what the future was about to bring them.

As the tour progressed, so did the heaviness I felt in my chest.

We were then led deeper into the castle, into the Women's Dungeon. This was where I witnessed the depths that humanity can stoop to. Hundreds of women were kept shackled to the walls. No windows, no ventilation and no sanitation.

In order to entertain themselves, the British soldiers stationed at the castle would come to the Women's Dungeon and select a woman to be led in chains to this small room. It wasn't more than 10 feet by 10 feet, and the ceiling was so low that it was impossible to stand upright. There, the woman was repeatedly raped until the soldier was finished. She was then put back into the Women's Dungeon to be available for the same treatment by other soldiers.

Many women were so badly beaten during these rapes that their injuries prevented them from being able to make the long journey to the Americas. This was the same for pregnant women, injured men, anyone severely ill and the elderly. The British took these people to this wall and threw them into the ocean to drown. Villagers outside the castle wall would collect the bodies as they washed to shore, and bury them in communal graves since they could not determine who these people were or where they came from. In African cultures, the rites of burial are sacred. This brutal and merciless killing with no burial was beyond blasphemous.

And the hypocrisy? The British and the slave holders in the New World would argue that these were not people, that they were beasts of burden. But even that is a lie. The soldiers who raped the women often impregnated them, and those children were taken at birth to be raised in a school inside the castle walls just above the women's dungeon. They were groomed to be good Christian subjects of Queen Victoria. They knew these were human beings.

There was a group of black American women who had come on a tour to Ghana. Alex and I had met them in town a few days prior, and we talked about my life in Cape Coast. They were also on this tour of the castle with us. At this point they broke down into tears, crying so hard that I thought they would not be able to continue. I would never be able to fully embrace their pain, but I did have some understanding. I thought of the terror I would have felt if Alex or Sammy had been captured and taken from me. What kind of horror would they have faced in this castle and then in America?

I have been to Dachau, one of the concentration camps in Germany which is now a memorial to the Holocaust. As I walked over the threshold of the gate at Dachau, I could feel the agony of the millions who died there. But in the selective telling of American history, absent is the holocaust inflicted on the continent of Africa which took more than 20 million lives. 20 million men, women and children. The continent of Africa was left behind while the world developed because the human resources required for development were stolen - taken away to other parts of the world to be beaten, raped and exploited for the benefit of white men.

The immensity of the evil that humanity is capable of hit my heart. And looking at the expression on Alex's face, it hit him as well. But Alex and I didn't weep. It was a sadness beyond what could be consoled through tears. The mind cannot fully grasp what horrible things mankind is capable of doing. I tried to find words to express this feeling. I could not. My heart begged for answers, but there were none.

Our guide then brought us to this doorway where the slaves were led through to board the slave ships docked outside the castle wall. It is called the Door of No Return. He said, "through this door you were stripped of your family, your community, your faith, your name, your language, your culture, your history, your past and your future. Through this door your humanity was taken away from you."

Alex and I looked at each other, but we were silent. We walked through the door, and I imagined what the fear must have been like for those in chains being loaded onto the ship. Did they realize they were never coming back?

There was an eerie irony to the beauty that was on the other side of that door. We walked outside the castle wall and there is a fishing village. The fishermen had just finished for the day, bringing their catch in. Life had somehow, in spite of man's cruelty, managed to carry on here.

Our group went back up to the main courtyard where we were brought to this plaque. It was written by the mother of a friend of mine. One of the black American women asked our guide why the castle was not torn down, to destroy the atrocities that had been committed here. Mr. Blankson explained that the castle was now a memorial and that Ghana promised to preserve this place so that we will never forget and we will never allow mankind to commit such horror again.

This experience brought history to life, a history that spans the Old World and New World. But more importantly for me, this experience was personal because it is part of the past of my sons. I wondered who in their family had been taken away. I wondered what great great grandmother of Sammy cried sitting in the doorway of her home when her husband did not return. I wondered if a cousin of Alex has ever walked by me here on the streets of Los Angeles. This is my sons' history and now it's my history. It would be easy to have a discussion about who was to blame for all of this, but I believe we are all to blame. Humanity is responsible for allowing the slave trade to happen. We cannot change the past, but we can recognize it. We can burn it into our memories and vow that it will never happen again.

The experience also makes me wonder about the issues of racism here in the United States. We have a history with slavery, and yet we have never dealt with it. We act as if the Emancipation Proclamation ended it all, but we have never really processed the fall-out from slavery. We have a black president, so we must have arrived, right? Today there are more black Americans in prison, on probation or on parole than those enslaved in 1850. Voting rights are still denied to black Americans and there is currently an effort to repeal the Voting Rights Act of 1965 in this country. Every year one million children of color drop out of school. Oppression still exists in the Unites States, but it has been disguised, concealed and integrated into our daily lives.

One of the greatest dilemmas that I face is whether or not I decide to bring Alex and Sammy here to visit this country; to see first-hand what happened to their ancestors. My fear is that it would destroy their belief that mankind is good and that the world is a just place for all. When Trayvon Martin was murdered, I had to discuss this at great length with Alex while he kept pleading with me in desperation, "He was shot and killed because of the color of his skin? This can't be!" Imagine teaching a black son the concept of institutionalized racism, and that his father lives in a country which sees Alex as a threat. This is what I face.

The ghosts of the slave ships and Cape Coast Castle lead us to the United States. What are we as a nation going to do to heal the wounds and foster unity?

Mothers Protect the People

"Yaw, it is time to wake up. I was thinking we should take a trip and go to Akim Oda to see my mother for a few days. What would you think of that?"  

"Sure, some time at the farm, Nana. I'd like that." I replied, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

It was 1986. Nana had struggled to get to where he was at in life, now a Masters Degree candidate and lecturing in the Art Department at Tech.

Nana, his brothers and sisters were raised by a single mother who I knew simply as Auntie Nana.  Nana is not only a proper name for a boy or a girl, but it's also a title used when addressing older people, meaning 'respected one.'  She let me call her Auntie Nana and she smiled when I called her that. Her husband left when the children were very young, so she had to figure out a way to feed her children and to pay their school fees. Buying and selling produce in the market, she saved money over many years and bought land in Akim Oda, northwest of Accra in the Akim land. And on that land she built the most beautiful farm with maize, eggplants, tomatoes, plantain, papaya, bananas and the most gorgeous white pigs.

The Akim are a quiet people, and they tend to keep to themselves. Traditionally they were warriors, but became cocoa farmers during the late 1800's. Akim is hilly with dense rain forest, an incredibly beautiful part of Ghana. I've always enjoyed that part of the country, because of its tranquility and simplicity of life.

We quickly got bathed. Nana shared a flat at Independence Residence Hall at the university with another Masters candidate, but the showers and bathrooms were dormitory style down the hall. We walked down to the showers, carrying our towels, sponges, soap and toothpaste. Nana was concerned about a weaving project he was working on, and asked for my advice as we showered.

After we were clean and shaved, I packed a few t-shirts and a couple pairs of cotton pants, while Nana carried a box of things for his mother we had bought in town; things she wouldn't buy for herself, like imported soap, cocoa butter lotion made in Ghana, biscuits and chocolate. This was during my first visit back to Ghana after 1982, and the economy had vastly improved. The markets in Kumasi were packed with everything imaginable, so it was nice to be able to shop for some things with which Nana's mother could indulge herself. Nana was very close to his mother. Whenever he spoke of her his eyes would light up and that infectious smile would take over.

We took a taxi to Kejetia in the center of Kumasi and then walked to the bus yard. The bus yard could be described as controlled chaos with buses lined up in arbitrary rows. The object was to find a bus headed to where you are traveling to. This could be a challenge, since a hundred "mates", or drivers' assistants,  yelled their destination at the same time with a great deal of bravado. "Taaaaaaaaaamale, Tamale, Tamale!" "Cape! Cape! Cape! Cape! Cape!" "Bolgaaaaaaaaatanga, Bolga, Bolga, Bolgataaaaaanga!" "Accra! Accra! Accra! Accra! Accra!" A chorus of a hundred cities' names all being yelled at once. Magically, Nana could hear Akim Oda called out, weaving his way through the maze of buses and Tro-Tros. How he could hear this was baffling to me.

We bought our tickets, got on the bus and then waited for the bus to fill up. Once every seat was taken, it would be time to leave. So Nana and I found our seats and bought some snacks from the market women catering to passengers, carrying their baskets of treats on their heads as they combed through the aisles while yelling, "Meat pies! Kokoo chips! Kwadu ne nkatee! Hard-boiled kosuea! Roasted bayere ne mako! Fried kosuea sandwiches! Bofrort!"

While we sat and ate our fried egg sandwiches, a young man boarded the bus flanked by two older men who were dressed in traditional cloth. I put my sandwich down and froze. The young man was stunningly beautiful - that's the only way to describe him. He was dressed in white robes, with strings of tiny brass bells around his wrists and ankles, chiming as he walked. His gait was so graceful that it was as if his feet did not touch the ground. He had shoulder-length dreadlocks, and the bottom of each lock was dyed a burnt orange color with a polished cowry shell sewn to the end. His forehead, eyes and cheeks were covered with white powder and his neck, arms and ankles were intricately painted with abstract designs made with a white pigment.  He carried a whisk made from the tail of a white goat with a leather handle dyed in intricate patterns.  His neck was laden with strands upon strands of Krobo beads, so high that his neck was not visible.

I watched in awe. "Nana, who is he?" I whispered.

Speaking quietly, Nana explained. "He is an Asante fetish priest from near Kumasi, and still quite young.  At an early age, probably 5 or 6 years old, he was recognized by the elders of his people for having one foot in this world and one foot in the next. Maybe he was able to communicate with the departed or he was able to call their spirits to be present in this world. You understand our belief in Nyame and Nyamewaa, right?"

"Yes," I replied. "The unknowable God appears to mankind as both the male God Nyame and the female Goddess Nyamewaa."

"Exactly. He would have been selected because the elders could see attributes of both Nyame and Nyamewaa in his character. Often these children are naturally adept at music, drumming or dance. They have the ability to heal, are incredibly intuitive and have an innate understanding of the herbal medicines we use."

I asked Nana about what the priest was wearing.

"The bells are to alert the spirits who inhabit the trees and the bush that he is coming, and not to be startled by his presence. His hair and his white robes signify that he is separate from the rest of the community, and that he lives in both this world and the next one.  Cowry shells have traditionally been a sign of royalty because they were very expensive to bring up to the Asante land from the shores in the Ga, Fante and Ewe lands."

"Wow...," I whispered.

Nana patted me on the knee and laughed. "There is much to our culture here, Yaw. It makes me happy that you want to learn more."

The priest and his companions sat a few rows in front of us, and slowly the bus filled up.

I loved riding the buses, filled with people who were coming from the market with produce and livestock like chickens and pygmy goats, businessmen in their suits, students finished with classes and old women returning to their villages after shopping or conducting business in Kumasi. Soon, the engine started and the bus was filled with the sounds of High Life music from the radio as we pulled out of the bus yard and onto the road.

Since the roads were still in disrepair with pot holes or completely washed out, we couldn't use the roads directly to Oda and we had to travel south through Accra, then head west to Winneba along the coast and then north to Akim Oda. I never minded the trips, because it was so beautiful to look out and watch as we wound our way through the rain forest passing villages and towns. It was always easy to make new friends because conversation comes so easily during the ride.

Nana and I never ran out of things to talk about, and on this trip Nana told me about how hard his mother had worked to raise her children.

Women in Ghana are fearless when it comes to the upbringing of their children. Part of this comes from the status that motherhood brings a woman in society. Annie and I were once walking through the Kumasi central market, and we came across a disagreement between two women, arguing over who had selected a tuber of yam. The older woman was clearly in the wrong because we had watched the younger woman pick up the tuber to examine it, and then suddenly the older woman snatched it from her. It escalated into yelling but then suddenly stopped. Instead of asserting her right to the tuber, the younger woman backed down and gave up. Annie said the reason was because she did not have children yet, and therefore her status in society was lower than that of the older women who did have children.

Living in Kumasi was a unique experience because the Asantes are a matrilineal society, bringing much more of an equal status to men and women. This is because inheritance, unlike our American culture, is traced to the mother's side of the family and helps to even out the distribution of wealth by giving the women's side of the family much more economic clout. Even at the level of royalty, women play an influential role. The Asantehene, king of the Asante people, is advised by the Queen Mother who has her own court and her own powerful status in the royal palace.

Powerful women are a part of the history of Ghana. One such woman was Yaa Asantewaa. She was born in 1840, and when her brother the Ejisuhene, king of Ejisu, died in 1894, she used her right as Queen Mother to nominate her own grandson to be the new king. She watched as the British exiled him along with Prempeh I, the Ansantehene, to the Seychelles Islands in 1896 for being a perceived threat to the British colony. To add to this disgrace,  the governor general for the Gold Coast Colony, demanded that the Asante people hand over the Golden Stool which embodied the spirit of the people. It is believed to have been brought down from the heavens by Okomfo Anokye the great priest. A meeting among the Asante leaders was held to discuss ways to get the Asantehene out of exile, and Yaa Asantewaa was so frustrated by their lack of leadership, she stood and said the following:

"Now I see that some of you fear to go forward to fight for our king. If it was in the brave days of Osei Tutu, Okomfo Anokye and Opoku Ware, chiefs would not sit down to see their king to be taken away without firing a shot. No European could have dared speak to chiefs of Asante in the way the governor spoke to you this morning. Is it true that the bravery of Asante is no more? I cannot believe it. It cannot be! I must say this - if you, the men of Asante, will not go forward, then we will. We, the women, will. I shall call upon my fellow women. We will fight! We will fight till the last of us falls in the battlefields."

And with that, she lead the great rebellion of 1900 against the British. Thousands died during the rebellion, as the Asante people attacked the Kumasi Fort where the British Army was isolated for months. She was an incredible leader, and used clever ways to keep the British at bay inside the fort including making small ponds of stagnate water at the foot of the fort walls so that mosquitoes would breed and infect the British soldiers with malaria. After four months, the British governor general had to bring in 1,400 troops to put down the rebellion. Nana Yaa Asantewaa and 15 of her advisers were put into exile with Prempeh I along with the Ejisuhene in the Seychelles. She passed away there October 17, 1921.  Prempeh I and the Ejisuhene were released and allowed to return to Ghana, and Prempeh I demanded that her remains and the remains of the other exiles be returned to Ghana for royal burials.

Nana Yaa Asantewaa is loved in Ghana. In 1960, the Yaa Ansantewaa Secondary School for Girls was established, and in 2000 a week-long centenary celebration was held to honor her leadership and fearlessness in the rebellion. A museum was also dedicated to her in Kwaso near Ejisu. She represents the bravery of so many women in Ghana, and through her inspirational example she opened doors for women to play vital roles in securing the independence of Ghana in 1957 and to guide the country as members of Parliament, and as leaders in public service, education and business.

During 1982, I experienced another uprising led by a queen. As I had said, the Asantes have a strong presence of women leaders among their people in positions of influence and power. One such area of influence is in the markets throughout the country that provide food to the entire population.

A sorority of women known as the yam queens, operate under their own hierarchy of power. Lower queens that may only have influence over one or two markets in a localized area report to and follow the direction of queens higher in the hierarchy. At the top of this sisterhood is the Supreme Yam Queen. She watches the supply and demand for yams, a fundamental staple in the Akan diet. If the market gets flooded with yams causing the price to fall, she will communicate to the lower queens to tell market sellers not to come to the market and effectively reduce the supply to keep the prices up. Conversely, if prices get too high, she will give orders for sellers to bring more product to market and bring down the price. And the most fascinating thing is that in most instances, the yam queens are illiterate. They are able to do complex calculations, keep financial records and keep track of inventories by memory.

As I had previously pointed out, the military government wanted to take control of the marketplace and force controlled pricing. The markets were pretty much bare since the market women simply refused to bring their merchandise to be forced to sell at cut rates. Food was a bit more complicated though. If food was not available and the market women were perceived as being responsible for shortages, the power of the queens would have been usurped. In spite of that risk, the Supreme Yam Queen shut down the entire availability of yams throughout the country to let the military government know to stay out of her business. The masses of people did not turn on her, but rather they became outraged at the military government. She stood her ground and she did not blink, and the military was forced to bow down to her. Do not battle with a Ghanaian woman who has children to educate and feed. You will lose.

The bus arrived late in the afternoon and we walked to Auntie Nana's farm. She was so excited to see us both. She was a beautiful woman, with worn hands from working her land.

She and her daughters prepared a room for Nana and I, and then prepared our baths. A bath in the country is much different because we used a bucket of water, handmade soap and a concrete slab under the stars. This is one of my most fond memories of Ghana, where life is broken down to the most essential parts. It's so simple and I felt so much closer to my soul without the distractions of modern life.There's something magical to stand in the warm tropical air, washing with cool water drawn from a well with a million stars overhead - so close you can almost touch them.

We sat with her in her sitting room, watching television and catching up on all the news about Oda. Auntie Nana was kind and soft spoken, but there was a resilience to her as well. A woman who had worked very hard for many years; life had given her thick skin. She asked me if I had seen his paintings and weaving. We talked a lot about what it was like for me to study at a university in Ghana, and she asked me much about how it was similar and different to the U.S.  In the course of the conversation, I learned that Nana's mother was much like my own. He and I had come from uneducated parents, and we were the first in our families to go to the university.  She was very proud of Nana.

It's amazing to watch a Ghanaian mother with her children. They mean everything to her. An education is a prized possession in Ghana, probably the most treasured thing a Ghanaian can have. Mothers sacrifice their lives to get their children into good schools, and she will sell every one of her possessions if it means assisting her children to attaining a better life for themselves.

We had a wonderful few days with Nana's mother at her farm. She showed me all of her crops and her beautiful white pigs that she was so proud of. At harvest time, she would pack her produce and take it to market in Winneba. If I had my way in life to do it all over again, I would own a farm just like Auntie Nana. What a wonderful place to live life in peace and raise your children without any of the distractions or threats that arise living in a city.

Ghanaian women have had an enormous impact on my own development. Auntie Bea treated me like her own son for the year that I lived with the Asares. She groomed me into becoming a respectful young man. She taught me so much about life, and how to see the world from the perspective of someone else.

My Auntie Aggie is another one of these mothers who has helped to make me a better man. Auntie Aggie is the love of my Uncle Prince's life, and she is an example of what every mother would hope to be.  She raised five children of her own, all of which have become incredible people who are now raising children of their own as well.

Auntie Aggie speaks very little English, but she and I communicate through the heart. She never raises her voice, but she is firm. She runs the house, she cooks for us and she makes sure we are safe and happy. Her day starts before the sun comes up and she is usually the last to go to sleep at night. It's overwhelming to see the amount of work there is in order to run a home with many people living there. Cooking, cleaning, washing clothes, doing small trading on the side to make extra cash for the family, making sure children are clean and dressed each day for school, going to market for food. It's a back-breaking job that Auntie Aggie does with pride and elegance.

She is also a Baha'i, and her faith comes from a place that is unseen. She relies on God for everything, and she makes no decision without the assistance of prayer and meditation. It's as if she sees and hears God when no one else can. I quietly watch her and learn from her, hoping that some of her faith will rub off onto me. She holds such a special place in my heart. I hope she lives forever. I'm proud to call her my mother.

A Day of Patience

Introducing ‘Abdu’l Baha at Stanford University in 1912, University President David Starr Jordan said, "Abdu’l Baha will surely unite the East and the West, for He walks the mystical path with practical feet." Abdul Baha once told a story about two little girls who were late to school, standing on the porch as it started to pour down rain. One asked the other, "Should we pray for the rain to stop, or should take our umbrellas and run?" The other replied, "I think we need to do both."

That's me, living in Kumasi in 1982 at just 20 years old. Efua who lived across the road loved me. Every time she saw me coming out the front door, she would run over and sit in my lap, and she'd tell me in Twi everything going on in her world. She could hardly contain her excitement about life. Her smile could cure any amount of homesickness, no matter how bad.

At the time this photograph was taken, we were in the middle of the darkest part of the military coup as dangerous events seemed to occur weekly; things I wouldn't dare write about to my parents back at home in the U.S. 

One Sunday, I was sitting on the couch in the living room reading a book and dozing in the afternoon heat. It was quiet except for the yellow-headed lizards barking while they sunned themselves on the wall and magpies quarreling with each other in the trees. Occasionally people would walk by, and it was so quiet I could hear their conversations.

Then like the crack of splintering wood, machine guns went off nearby. At first it sounded like it was on the roof, but I heard the distinct ping of metal on stone inside the house. Three rounds had gone through the windows and over my head, hitting the the far wall inside the house. The sound was from the empty shells bouncing on the marble floor.

I threw myself to the floor and rolled under the couch as fast as I could. Sweat surfaced spontaneously all over my body. I could feel my scalp suddenly drenched and my back was soaked as my t-shirt clung to my skin. I found myself whispering a Baha'i prayer for travelers, "...holding fast to the cord of Thy love and I have committed myself wholly to They care and Thy protection."

Trucks of soldiers went flying by on the road, and the din of yelling and gunfire made it impossible to figure out what was happening. Were they coming into the house to round up ex-patriots? Were soldiers attempting to corral the march of protesting students again? I stayed as still as I could, hardly breathing for fear of making any sound. And as suddenly as it started, it stopped. It was completely silent again and after a few minutes the magpies started their arguing all over. 

Half an hour later, the trucks sped by on the way back into town, but there was no sound of gunfire - only cheering.  I laid back down on the cold marble floor and waited until they were gone.

Later that day, we heard that a preacher had spoken out against the military coup. He had fled his pulpit when the soldiers were tipped off, and they chased him onto the university campus, There was an understanding that the campus grounds were off-limits to the soldiers, but they captured him and took him back to Kejetia at the center of town, where they tied him to a stake and burned him in front of the crowd to teach them a lesson about disobedience.

I remember Uncle Ben telling us the news of soldiers stopping buses between Kumasi and Accra, and everyone was ordered to get down off the bus to go into the bush and carry 50 pound bags of cocoa on their backs to the road for distribution trucks to pick up. When Uncle Ben asked me what I would do in that situation, I was so naive that I told him I would immediately head to the American Embassy to report the soldiers. I was so young.

Despite the constant danger from the soldiers, I still had to go into Accra regularly because of my visa situation. The chaos in the Ministry of Immigration was so bad that I came into the country on a visitor's visa, because processing a student visa from abroad was impossible. However when I arrived in Ghana, the military had closed the universities because of student protests so my status was delayed. As a back up plan, I enrolled in a language college. I desperately needed the visa in order to have access to my bank account in Togo. Without it, I was stuck in the country with no money and no means of getting over the border. And that meant taking risks by traveling into Accra regularly in an attempt to complete the process.

Back then, the Ministry was like something out of a 1950's movie. Everything was done by hand. Onion skin paper for manual typewriters. Offices full of dust with sad military grey metal desks, cardboard case files stacked floor to ceiling, covered in purple in ink from the never-ending bureaucratic process of stamping approvals upon approvals.  

My case was assigned to a wall of a woman, standing at least six feet tall and weighing 300 pounds. She had a burning hatred for her job, but not nearly as much as her hatred for people. And the best part - her name was Patience. She was not.  Every time I went into the Ministry, waiting hours for my name to be called, my stomach would churn because of my fear of Patience. Everything in the Ministry was painted battleship green, and I remember laughing to myself because I thought that color must match the color of my stomach, as it boiled while I waited.

She would bellow at me, "Mr. Hunter, I'm sure you are not stupid! I distinctly told you that the Headmaster of the school was supposed to initial three copies of the immigration annex form, and you have only submitted two to me! I TOLD YOU THREE COPIES! STOP WASTING MY TIME AND GET OUT OF MY OFFICE! NEXT!" I had written down exactly what she had requested from my last appointment with her - two copies of the immigration annex form, stapled in the upper left hand corner with one staple.

After the fifth or sixth trip to Accra risking my safety each time, I came home again to Kumasi empty handed. Nana sat me down and set me straight. He asked me if I knew what kalabule was and I told him no.  Kalabule was the local slang term for corrupt business practices, such as smuggling and paying bribes in order to get things done. He told me I had to consider that Patience was purposely blocking the approval of my visa because she was expecting a bribe. I told Nana that as a Baha'i, I couldn't pay a bribe in order to get things done. I just couldn't do it. He told me then to consider giving her a gift of necessities, making sure that she understood what my intention was with the gift.

A friend had just come back from Togo with things I needed - six rolls of toilet paper, three tubes of toothpaste, and a dozen bars of soap. I would give Patience everything.

There was a young Baha'i named Lisa who was also living with the Asares, doing her Year of Service while going to secondary school at St. Louis Academy with Christine Asare. She was having the same problems with her visa, and she was assigned to a man named Mr. Opoku. Lisa was a pretty girl, so Nana and Christine helped Lisa devise a plan to get her visa stamped. The four of us went to Accra again. Christine and Lisa went into one of the bedrooms at the Baha'i Centre, and stayed there for an hour. Nana just grinned at me while we waited, refusing to tell me what they were up to.

They finally came out. Lisa had on a form-fitting red silk dress she had brought from Taipei when she had lived there previously. Christine had French-braided her hair so that it made a ponytail down one of her shoulders. She had red lipstick and eye shadow on. Lisa was going in for the kill.

The two of us got into a taxi as Nana and Christine wished us luck. They were heading back to Kumasi, because we were all under strict orders from Auntie Bea to stay out of danger and get home as soon as possible. Lisa and I would get on a bus as soon as we were done.

We both walked into the sick-green waiting room, and we waited for four hours until finally Lisa's name was called by Mr. Opoku. I think his eyes popped out of his head. "Well, hello Miss Lisa! How are you doing today?! You are looking so lovely!" He didn't shut his office door, so I got to watch. Lisa tilted her head, batted her eyes, and complimented Mr. Opoku as she hung on every word he said. She walked back out and winked at me, flashing me her visa he had stamped in her passport. I was up next.

Mr. Opoku then came out into the waiting room, seeing Lisa sitting next to me. He asked Lisa if I was related to her, and she said yes. He then announced my name as loud as he possibly could, "DEEEEEEE HUNTER!" He came up to me and asked me if, "Lisa's brother would follow him to Patience's office."  I looked back at Lisa, trying not to laugh as Mr. Opoku escorted me down the hall. When I told this story to all my friends back in Kumasi, I never lived it down. Nana laughed so hard I thought he'd have a heart attack. To this day, Annie still calls me Dee.

I walked in and sat down. Patience just scowled at me for a while, as if I had disrupted her entire life. I quietly said, "Sister Patience, I know things are hard in Ghana." I took out the six toilet paper rolls and stacked them in a pyramid on her desk. I continued, "I am sure you can appreciate my gifts." I lined up the three tubes of toothpaste in a neat row next to the toilet paper. "I know how hard you work, and I just want to acknowledge my appreciation." I stacked the bars of soap in a tidy pile. I said, "I really need your help so that I can continue my education here in Ghana." I sat back and stayed quiet. Either I was about to be arrested because she was a loyalist to the military coup, or she would take the gifts.

She continued to scowl, but I didn't move. I didn't even blink, partly because of the terror of not knowing what was about to happen. And after a few moments, she started to pick up each of the items and put them in her bottom desk drawer. She then sat for a moment, saying nothing - just glaring at me. She pulled open her top drawer, pulled out an ink pad and a rubber stamp, and pounded the stamp into my passport with enough force that she could have broken the desk. I had my visa.

I stood up and reached out my hand to thank her. She sat still and just stared back at me. I thanked her for all her help as I grabbed my passport and headed for the door. I was sure she was going to change her mind so I had to get out of there as soon as I could. I met Lisa in the waiting room and grabbed her hand, and we ran out of the Ministry. 

It was about 3:00, and we knew that if we didn't catch a bus in an hour, we would have to spend the night in Accra. We decided to take our chances and headed straight for Kwame Nkrumah Circle. We got lucky and our bus left at 3:45. We would make it home before the curfew at 9:00.

Or so we thought. 

At 9:15, the bus rolled past the soldiers' barricade coming into Kumasi. The gate to the university was right there, so we were close to being home. As the bus stopped, we assumed that it was going to let passengers off who lived in Bomso and at the university campus. Instead, three soldiers all armed with machine guns got onto the bus, and pulled the bus driver and his porter out of their seats and onto the road. We heard yelling, and then one of the soldiers came back and told all of us to get down and line up on the side of the road. We did as we were told. That same soldier then started to yell at the bus driver about being late and violating the curfew. He screamed at him that the soldiers were going to teach him a lesson about being late.

The soldiers pulled out leather covered billy clubs, and one by one beat each passenger on their shoulders and back until they dropped to their knees, screaming and crying in pain - men, women and children. I turned to Lisa and whispered, "Start praying because we have about three minutes until they get to us, and they are going to beat us to a pulp."  We stood and quietly said a Baha'i prayer, "Is there any remover of difficulties save God? Say, praised be God, He is God. All are His servants and all abide by His bidding."

Out of nowhere, a small hatchback car screeched to a stop directly in front of Lisa and me. The passenger door flew open and we heard a voice yell, "GET IN!" We had nothing to lose, so we both ran for the car and jumped in. The car made a wild left turn while its wheels skidded and smoked as the driver gunned the engine. He sped through the university gate and onto the campus, barely maintaining control of the car. There was no way for the soldiers to follow us because they were stationed at the barricade without vehicles. 

We were safe.

I caught my breath and turned to look at the face of the man who rescued us. It was our next door neighbor on Ridge Road at the campus. Lisa and I looked at each other with disbelief. We didn't say a word as we drove home. He dropped us off and we thanked him for saving our lives. I told him we owe him a great debt, but he told us just to be careful and stay close to home. Auntie Bea and Uncle Ben were up waiting for us. We reassured them that we were OK, and after a cup of tea we all went to bed. But I didn't sleep that night; neither did Lisa. We both laid awake, wondering what happened after we were rescued.

Sometimes I still lay awake at night, thinking of those people being beaten. Their faces are burned into my memory, images of them falling to their knees with tears streaming down their faces. I lay in the dark and wonder if their feelings about their country changed or after all these years, were they able to forget about that night. And I wonder about the soldiers. Do they look back and think about what they did during a moment of intoxication from power? Do they see the faces of those people in the faces of their own parents, wives and children? 

And I lay awake, thinking about the incredible circumstances which allowed Lisa and I to escape.

People will deny the existence of God and faith, or they'll discredit the reality of what may simply be unseen. But that night, I know in my heart that something out there protected Lisa and me. I have no explanation for it, but it was real.

Baha'is believe in the Concourse on High. The Akan people call them the Nananom Nsamanfo - the Ancestors. Others may call them angels. They are the souls of our loved ones who have passed on to the next world, inspiring everything that is good in humanity here on earth. They also watch out for us when we ask for their help. 

I know they are there.