I would like to do something nice for Christiana before I leave.
Christiana sells me fruit, but she is so much more than that: she has laughed with me, prayed for me, shared snippets of her life with me. She cannot wait to meet my parents when they visit. I cannot wait for them to meet her.
In Ghana the word horwhor means stranger but it also means guest. Christiana has welcomed me, a total stranger, as just that. She took me to church last Sunday and refused to split the cab fare. She held my hand as I was invited up to meet the Priest and linked my arm as I was taken for tea, refusing to drink herself as she was not a newcomer. I smuggled out my sandwich for her which she took, reluctantly.
Christiana is a single mother to two young boys: Harrison and Henry. She lost their father when Henry was still growing inside her. She says God is her husband now. She sells fruit on our corner every day except for Sundays and Tuesdays, her days of prayer. When she has finished her daytime shift she moves her camp 100 metres up the road to cash in on the evening trade. She cannot earn much yet she made two offerings at church last Sunday. She every bit encompasses the commitment and kindness that make Ghana glorious. I am proud to be greeted by her as a sister.
Christiana sells me fruit, but she is so much more than that: she has laughed with me, prayed for me, shared snippets of her life with me. She cannot wait to meet my parents when they visit. I cannot wait for them to meet her.
In Ghana the word horwhor means stranger but it also means guest. Christiana has welcomed me, a total stranger, as just that. She took me to church last Sunday and refused to split the cab fare. She held my hand as I was invited up to meet the Priest and linked my arm as I was taken for tea, refusing to drink herself as she was not a newcomer. I smuggled out my sandwich for her which she took, reluctantly.
Christiana is a single mother to two young boys: Harrison and Henry. She lost their father when Henry was still growing inside her. She says God is her husband now. She sells fruit on our corner every day except for Sundays and Tuesdays, her days of prayer. When she has finished her daytime shift she moves her camp 100 metres up the road to cash in on the evening trade. She cannot earn much yet she made two offerings at church last Sunday. She every bit encompasses the commitment and kindness that make Ghana glorious. I am proud to be greeted by her as a sister.
The bond between women in Ghana is strong and it is extended to us strangers/guests in the country. The women who work at Agoo bring their daughters to work with them and will happily allow us to take care of them. Awa’s daughter, Aisha, is adorable. It will break my heart to say goodbye to her in July. Awa is from Burkina Faso and she is beautiful. Every day she turns up looking immaculate and gracefully floats around the hostel doing her chores. Aisha will inevitably grow up to be just like her. She has started saying a few words in English and each new word stirs pride in us all.
The women who are having the most profound effect on me however are those I see every Thursday at the Jamestown Community Theatre Centre. The Old Fadama project has now reached its fourth week of behavior change workshops for the new intake of sex workers. Patience, Esther and Gloria are facilitating and they are doing marvelously. They need a gentle nudge from time to time but, for the most part, they hold their own. Patience turns up to each session looking set to present the MTV Movie Awards: bright orange t-shirt, high-waisted jeans and a bejeweled cap that spells ‘HOT’ across her forehead. Her appearance is self-assured and confident, but we know all too well the nerves and responsibility she feels.
The women know me now. I am developing unique relationships: everybody is. Last week I was paired with Sarah, a new participant and mother of one; she has bambi eyes and the gentlest of demeanours. We were exploring the idea of trust and taking it in turns to lead each other around the workspace. Sarah shut her eyes and allowed me to direct her with words she did not understand, but interpreted through intonation. She maintained her serene smile as I led her in and out of doorways, around chairs and through a mass of people. At the end of the session the women shared their thoughts on trust. Sarah trusts nobody: she thinks people are mischievous. But she trusted me.
This week I am separated from Sarah, making numbers on the floor with another group of women. This is Gloria’s group. I love Gloria. She has the physicality and personality of a character actress; she would make a wonderful Nurse. For the majority of the session I do not recognise a word she says but her body speaks for her, charismatic and clear; she is a natural born communicator. I cannot decide if in another world she would be a comedienne or a motivational speaker. Perhaps a bit of both. We experiment and play in a way that is so familiar to me. I forget where I am. I forget who I am with. It does not matter: every woman is smiling. We discuss if we are leaders or followers. In every other context I might say the former but, right now, I am falling in with gleeful abandon.
The session ends and there are smiles and hugs and the women help each other pack up bags and belongings and babies. Sarah emerges from the next-door room and immediately bounds rights up to me. We are face-to-face before she realises she has absolutely nothing to say: a momentary pause, a simultaneous smile and shared laughter. We steer clear of words and take each other’s hands as if we are sisters. And, here in Ghana, we absolutely are.
The session ends and there are smiles and hugs and the women help each other pack up bags and belongings and babies. Sarah emerges from the next-door room and immediately bounds rights up to me. We are face-to-face before she realises she has absolutely nothing to say: a momentary pause, a simultaneous smile and shared laughter. We steer clear of words and take each other’s hands as if we are sisters. And, here in Ghana, we absolutely are.