I live in a community of Accra called Labadi ... behind a bar/club called Jokers, which I use as a landmark to get me home in a taxi or tro-tro, since I am unsure of my exact address.
The four-bedroom house I share with three other obruni (white) girls, is within a compound. A seven-foot brown metal gate shields us from the dusty dirt road, scampering chickens, strolling goats, squealing children, gabbing locals, tiny shacks and makeshift shopping stands.
Adjacent to our home is another house, which belongs to our landlord's sister, Auntie Alice. (Her brother, our landlord, Thomas works and resides in London, England) Auntie Alice lives with many other family members including her sisters, at least one daughter and grandchildren. There are so many of them, I can't keep track of their comings and goings. Three young boys, all brothers, Auntie Alice's grandsons - Niiabbey, Jacquois and Junior - play ball together and tantalize each other in the front yard whenever they can - before and after school, all weekend. They often peak through the walls surrounding our front porch to check out what the obrunis are up to.
If I am not abruptly woken up most mornings by the repetitive "cockadoodledoo" competition between the neighbourhood roosters, then I am jolted awake by the sound of cries from either Jacquois or Junior. I am never quite sure what they are crying about.
The room where I sleep is a master suite with a king size bed, walk-in closet, en suite four-piece bathroom and air conditioner. These living conditions are certainly not what I expected prior to arriving in Accra. Where are the cockroaches? Why is there consistent running water? What about the rotating blackouts? And, why do I have a cleaning lady twice a week? A huge living room, eat-in kitchen, dining room and washing machine are also at our service. The house is beyond any apartment I have ever rented in Toronto over the last decade and it can compare to homes owned by my parents.
Inside our compound, three cars - including two almost brand new pick up trucks and a station wagon - grace the driveway and are washed every morning by Kojo - the house/errand boy. Kojo also weeds, sweeps and does various other household duties starting at 5am straight into the late evening. His last duty is to release a guard dog meant to protect the compound with incessant barking if anyone even attempts to come near or open that dividing gate. My fellow JHR trainer, Alison Lang, and our Ghanaian friend, Roxy, have both been charged at, the legs of their jeans grabbed and ripped, and the skin on their ankles broken by this unapproachable mutt. We now call Kojo to open the gate upon our return in the evenings to avoid further attacks.
But beyond the compound and those palace-like homes, lies a different world. Shacks stand inches away from each other, children sleep side-by-side on mats outdoors and garbage burns along the side of the dirt road. The small community of people living here treat each other like family and appear to know the ins and outs of each other's lives. Many of them stare as I come and go. I swear they know my schedule and those I have briefly spoken to I'm sure have shared all the details of our brief conversations with the others.
In the mornings as I head to the Daily Guide, children, with dusty clothes and sticky hands, run up to me to say good morning, grabbing my legs and walking me to the end of the street where I catch a tro-tro from La to Ring Road to Nima. Mom's are busy opening up the shopping stands, crouching over plastic tubs hand washing laundry or hunching over outdoor stoves cooking up traditional Ghanaian dishes, including porridge, in large metal pots.
At night when I head out to eat dinner or grab a drink dozens of residents huddle together in front of a T.V. set up on that dirt road, the belting sound of various Nigerian films echoing in the distance perhaps heard across the neighbouring community, Labone. A few nights ago, children were entranced with the screen as the actors (a man and woman) spoke about committing adultery. I assume the novelty of watching a T.V. is more important than program content. There are no "R" or "PG" ratings to be concerned about here.
Though satisfied to live in a community outside of the tourist centre, Osu, in Accra, where western bars, restaurants, supermarkets and Internet cafes and coffee shops are at your fingertips, I struggle to live with the contradiction that lies within and beyond my compound. I struggle to deal with the divide between rich and poor and I wonder if it is as noticeable to the locals as it is to me.
The four-bedroom house I share with three other obruni (white) girls, is within a compound. A seven-foot brown metal gate shields us from the dusty dirt road, scampering chickens, strolling goats, squealing children, gabbing locals, tiny shacks and makeshift shopping stands.
Adjacent to our home is another house, which belongs to our landlord's sister, Auntie Alice. (Her brother, our landlord, Thomas works and resides in London, England) Auntie Alice lives with many other family members including her sisters, at least one daughter and grandchildren. There are so many of them, I can't keep track of their comings and goings. Three young boys, all brothers, Auntie Alice's grandsons - Niiabbey, Jacquois and Junior - play ball together and tantalize each other in the front yard whenever they can - before and after school, all weekend. They often peak through the walls surrounding our front porch to check out what the obrunis are up to.
If I am not abruptly woken up most mornings by the repetitive "cockadoodledoo" competition between the neighbourhood roosters, then I am jolted awake by the sound of cries from either Jacquois or Junior. I am never quite sure what they are crying about.
The room where I sleep is a master suite with a king size bed, walk-in closet, en suite four-piece bathroom and air conditioner. These living conditions are certainly not what I expected prior to arriving in Accra. Where are the cockroaches? Why is there consistent running water? What about the rotating blackouts? And, why do I have a cleaning lady twice a week? A huge living room, eat-in kitchen, dining room and washing machine are also at our service. The house is beyond any apartment I have ever rented in Toronto over the last decade and it can compare to homes owned by my parents.
Inside our compound, three cars - including two almost brand new pick up trucks and a station wagon - grace the driveway and are washed every morning by Kojo - the house/errand boy. Kojo also weeds, sweeps and does various other household duties starting at 5am straight into the late evening. His last duty is to release a guard dog meant to protect the compound with incessant barking if anyone even attempts to come near or open that dividing gate. My fellow JHR trainer, Alison Lang, and our Ghanaian friend, Roxy, have both been charged at, the legs of their jeans grabbed and ripped, and the skin on their ankles broken by this unapproachable mutt. We now call Kojo to open the gate upon our return in the evenings to avoid further attacks.
But beyond the compound and those palace-like homes, lies a different world. Shacks stand inches away from each other, children sleep side-by-side on mats outdoors and garbage burns along the side of the dirt road. The small community of people living here treat each other like family and appear to know the ins and outs of each other's lives. Many of them stare as I come and go. I swear they know my schedule and those I have briefly spoken to I'm sure have shared all the details of our brief conversations with the others.
In the mornings as I head to the Daily Guide, children, with dusty clothes and sticky hands, run up to me to say good morning, grabbing my legs and walking me to the end of the street where I catch a tro-tro from La to Ring Road to Nima. Mom's are busy opening up the shopping stands, crouching over plastic tubs hand washing laundry or hunching over outdoor stoves cooking up traditional Ghanaian dishes, including porridge, in large metal pots.
At night when I head out to eat dinner or grab a drink dozens of residents huddle together in front of a T.V. set up on that dirt road, the belting sound of various Nigerian films echoing in the distance perhaps heard across the neighbouring community, Labone. A few nights ago, children were entranced with the screen as the actors (a man and woman) spoke about committing adultery. I assume the novelty of watching a T.V. is more important than program content. There are no "R" or "PG" ratings to be concerned about here.
Though satisfied to live in a community outside of the tourist centre, Osu, in Accra, where western bars, restaurants, supermarkets and Internet cafes and coffee shops are at your fingertips, I struggle to live with the contradiction that lies within and beyond my compound. I struggle to deal with the divide between rich and poor and I wonder if it is as noticeable to the locals as it is to me.
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