Art Worlds in Ghana

My flight was delayed multiple times (I got to watch Picture This with Ashley Tisdale while I waited in the airport), but I am finally home safe and have been for a few days.

Sorry I’ve been so so terrible at updating this. Much belated blog posts to come soon. For now, here are a couple pictures of me with some of the kids from the play.

Andrews, Justice ("my husband"), Patricia, Diana, and Albert

Vic, Diana, Slim, James, Jennifer, Daniel, and that's David's head poking up at the bottom

It’s hard to believe it’s over. I’ve been amazed by my shower, sturdy buildings, organized streets that don’t smell like the sewers, and a clear subway system with a map and labeled stops. I miss Ghana though — music playing in the street, brightly painted houses, eating banku and stew with my hands, women selling pineapple off their heads, men with FanMilk carts of ice cream in plastic sachets, and stores with names like “Sure In Him Bakery” and “Blessed Spot.” I’m adjusting to people not staring at me, asking for my number, or calling out, “You are welcome,” or “Obruni, come!”

I’m happy to be home, but I miss my Ghanaian friends and family, and there’s so much more I wish I could do. And the prices, I miss the prices now I’m back in New York City. Yesterday I stopped by an upscale soda fountain near the Met museum. A milkshake cost $8.50, and I promptly left. You can get a whole meal off the street for 2 cedis in Ghana (about $1.50).

I just spoke to Kofi on the phone; he gave me a call to see how I was (my friend from the village/Gladys’s grandson who took care around the house). It was hard to understand him on the phone, but he said he misses me and can’t concentrate since I’ve left.

Last I saw him, he was wanted by the police for dating a girl who is 16 (he’s 23), except that he’s not actually dating her, they’re just friends, and her parents don’t know what they’re talking about. He couldn’t walk on the main road though because he might get arrested, so he had to come from behind the house. Oh, Kofi.

That evening, Gladys and I waited for Kofi to make his way through the brushes. When he arrived, he laid down on the bench across from us and rested his head on his hands. I saw that he was wearing two of my slim black hair bands on his wrists. They must have fallen out of my suitcase, and he’d found them in the room after I left for Accra. “But Kofi,” I said, “you don’t have any hair to tie with them.” He just looked at me and smiled.