Beauties of the Kukoa

I do not wish to share these out of a desire to exploit or take lightly the lives of these gentle women. I have no wish to judge.
I am not worthy of the right to choose to see any peculiarity in their practice.
We cannot separate.















But, I am immediately detached in front of my computer, with my radio and fancy hot chocolate.

Kukoa

One day, two boys of the same mother fell ill. Both were with fever, headaches and stomach pains.
The mother became worried and set out to find out the source of her children's weakness.
After a few days with no sign of change, the eldest boy came to his mother and said "Momma, last night I had a dream, I dreamt that _____ and _____ were standing over me chanting, above them was a dark shadow. I was frightened in the dream."
Right away the mother recognized the names of the women. They were younger wives of her husband. Beautiful and fertile.
She, satisfied with her search, took her claim to the elders that very day.
"Uncles, my sons, who have been suffering so with this illness have told me of a dream. They dreamt _____ and _______ were standing over them, menacing and chanting, gnashing their teeth and waving dark winds. I beg you, my Uncles, are these two women the true source of my son's sickness?"
The elders chewed on their kola nuts and discussed quietly the case that had been brought before them. A very serious matter.
After the deliberations, the eldest of the men called her to him. "My sister, we believe your boys have been victim to witchcraft. Have your husband take this fowl to the Chief of the Kukoa. Have him determine their fate."
The next day, the husband took the fowl and his two accused young wives across the savanna to Gambaga. The home of the closest Kukoa.
He presented the fowl and his wives to the Chief.
After listening intently, the chief called his favorite houseboy to collect for him a fowl of comparable size to the one the villager held.
"We will place our fowl feet down on the ground. We will hold their heads up high. At the same time we must slit their throats in one clean sweep. If the fowl should fall facing up, the women who have been accused are not guilty, and will therefore return to the village with you.
If the fowl should fall face down, The women are indeed guilty of witchcraft and are to stay in the Kukoa to live out the rest of their lives."
And so the men slit the throats of the two paralyzed, frightened fowl, let go, and stepped back to witness the judgement.
Now it happened that, the villager's fowl, after it's quick release, suspended momentarily before tipping forward and landing on it's front with a bloody splat. The Chief, a little older and certainly not as nimble, was unable to release his fowl's neck as quickly. His fingers uncurled and let go with more care. The newly dead fowl's body collapsed downward, the weight of it's head deciding it's direction. The fowl, rather gracefully, landed on it's back.
The Chief looked up, assessed the situation, and proclaimed, "My fowl has landed on it's back, the women will not be accepted into the Kukoa and must return to the village with you."
The husband was aghast, "My fowl, the one from the elders has judged the women to be guilty. They cannot return home with me. If they are to return, they will be badly beaten by the rest of the villagers. I will not take them."
At this, he turned quickly and walked away towards his village. Eastwardbound, and a little north from Gambaga. He did not look back.
The two women were left at the entrance to the Kukoa.

One was 26. She had six children.
The other was 29. Mother of eight.
Maybe, deep inside, they were wishing they had crafted the little boys dream, if only to have some control in their fate.
Maybe I am projecting.

After staying this day of their arrival with them, I had no choice but to leave at nightfall.
They were knelt before the Kukoa Chief, begging for the safety of that strange prison in the Savanna.
Hoping for the acceptance to live out their lives among others like themselves in the witches camp.

The year was 2006.

Song

Hey, you know that song?
The one that upon hearing the first note, a small flush breaks out, your chest widens and inside you tell yourself 'oh no, here we go'.
The one with the lyrics that were written with all your passion and pain in mind and you can't pinpoint what it reminds you of, but it tends to cover the most beautiful and most devastating moments in your experience thus far and leaves you in this nowhere land trying to figure whether you're happy or sad. It is so full of both that it becomes complete.
Then there's that moment, every single time, about three quarters way through. You can feel it coming and your eyes don't so much swell up with tears, but a tiny burst appears at the mere anticipation of it. You can't help yourself but become perfectly still and silent to wait for it. And then when that moment comes, you've already experienced the emotion of it in advance, so you laugh and shake your head, amused by your sheer love affair with the drama of it all.
It kinda hurts, but you'll never stop listening.

You know the song.
Yeah, that one.
Good.

Could you put it on?
I'd like to dance.

Taken by Spirits

Snap

I had very quickly secured a spot teaching at a school in a Kwahu Tafo. The classroom is open air, with no books, but a chalkboard and full of lively village kids set free by their foreign volunteer teacher, guaranteed no use of the switch.
I was ending the class by having each student recite from their assignments "What I will be when I grow up". My favorite being "a palm wine tapper".
This must have been where I first felt it coming on.
The shadow suddenly leaving the pit of my stomach.
I didn't bother joining my fellow volunteers at the lunch table, just walked straight up the path.
Past the small mud huts, the goats, chickens and children, around the bend straight forward along the road through the palm trees. Ahead to the clearing, I opened the gate.
Patience was in the courtyard doing laundry, gossiping with a few other compound women. She appeared to pay me no mind, as she was generally surly in nature. Aloof to those of us from away with our books, backpacks and free time.
I entered the room, closed the door and locked it.
All we had was a rickety wooden bunk bed and a scattering of clothes on the floor.
I reached down and grabbed my cloth, turned, holding it tight, whipped it full throttle against the bed post.
And again.
The sound of the blow trembling down my spine. I can hear it through my bones.
And again.
My legs dig into that concrete floor and hold fast.
And again.
My arms hardened, my back popping. I am completely engaged.
And again, and again. I have never had such force.
I do not stop.

And all this time, Patience peers through the small window, hands gently holding the bars.

Oh. My Sista, Why?
Why?

Exactly.






,

Describing a scent.

It had been almost 11 years.

How can one possibly describe a smell?
A rush of heat, moisture, car exhaust, hibiscus flowers, the ocean, palm oil cooking over charcoal, burning garbage, sweat and smoking fish hurdles itself at you the moment you step from the plane. It is so distinctly Africa.

I knew this place right away.
A cousin,
an old friend,
a most familiar lover.

After the first breath in of air follows the first bead of sweat on the cheek, the soft spot closer to the nose, just under the eye.
My shoulders drop down and away almost immediately. My heart softens and skips a beat.

The immigration officer asks me if I have been to Ghana before.
"Yes. A long time ago. 11 years."
He smiles
"Akwaaba. Welcome home."

I have come armed with old photographs of everyone I had met so many years before, hoping to find if only a few.

Six weeks later, I have found them all.

Heavy snowflakes

I love those big fluffy snowflakes. Many flakes clustered together, falling slowly with weight. They can land and rest on a woolly hat without melting for at least a minute, I'm sure.
Fluffy snowflakes, quietly and gently determined to stay.
They appear on my favorite kind of winter days.

The most awful things sometimes happen on the most beautiful days.

Dad was putting up the tree, Mom had taken my nephew to see The Nutcracker.
(There were hidden presents in the closet at the other side of the city....)

The light, bright grey.

It snowed like this for a couple of weeks following, right through Christmas, and New Years.

Everything fell slowly in these two weeks, but inside I was rushing, I rode the subway aimlessly more than once just to feel like I was going somewhere. Everybody seemed to be smiling, laughing.
(I still hadn't heard a word.)
One day I arrived at their house, walked into their living room, looked at Mom.

"I'm going back to Africa".

Uninvited

Please, if you choose to disappear.
Simply just remain disappeared. Vanished.
Chances are, we have stopped thinking of you.
We have turned a new leaf, our perspectives have broadened, our hearts refueled.
You are gone. No longer allowed.
You have become uninvited.

Wake

I had only arrived a few days earlier. It would be the night of the wake keeping.
The day had been spent at the mother's house in Korle Gonno, a neighbourhood in western Accra. The old ladies who were to wash and dress the body gathered the chewing sponge that was to be divided among them as reward for their work. Fights and arguments broke out sporadically. Apparently this is common.
After this ritual, we went to the mortuary to bring her body home.

I decided to take a small break, the day being overwhelming culturally, emotionally.
I just arrived at the house when the storm clouds rolled in. As the sky snapped dark a huge gust of wind tore the tarpaulin off the bar patio next door throwing it clear across the path, wrapping it around the electrical wires surrounding the house. Almost immediately the wires snapped, sputtered and sparked. Tiny explosions in a ring around the house. Then fire. And I, alone and small in Africa, kneeling at the centre of the room peering down toward my hands intertwined and resting in my lap.
The fire ceased as the rain rushed down. But the wires that had broken lay awake and fully alive outside the door. Resting in a few inches of water collected in the concrete yard. I am not able to move.
I am still for four hours.
Then they come. No flashlights, no equipment, just a rickety old ladder and shut off all power in the vicinity.
I am free.

I arrive at the wake late, but it's okay the wake keeping is to continue through the night. The air blasts with popular hymns recorded in the fifties.
I enter. She has been bathed and dressed in a wedding gown. Her face is smeared with makeup. This does not resemble her, but alas, the body is seven weeks old. I make my rounds to each Auntie, each elder, bending before them reaching out my right hand.
I whisper 'kpo'.

The storm was beautiful. The fire was beautiful. The hours of stillness were beautiful.
The first of the funeral traditions. Only four more to go......

I hesitate to post this photo. I am questioning the tastelessness of such a gesture. But I do remember that, 1500 people went through the room, bent down and expressed their sorrow. And, many took video and pictures. We probably wouldn't do that here. So.......