Not far beyond the borders of Wa, in Ghana’s Upper West (Northern) Region, lies a village named Ullo.
The road to Ullo is a thick layer of red dust, with bumps to brace and grinds to swerve around rendering the motorbike as the best and most common form of transportation used to get there. On the back of one is how I traveled to Ullo earlier this month, with a Ghanaian friend of mine who was born and raised there.
The Karnie market lies halfway between Jirapa – the closest major town from Wa - and Ullo. Deep fried balls of dough sprinkled with salt and various kinds of roasted meat seem to be the most common items sold here. Sachets of pure water are not so common, so I settled for a bottle of Coke. This market visits Ullo once a week to sell goods to locals without means to travel beyond their village borders.
Upon entering the village, the Ullo Naa’s palace lies to the right. The grounds are large, adjacent to a mosque with a bright yellow concrete, roofless public urinal labelled in red "male" and "female". There is also a well for pumping water.
On the palace property, which includes various concrete structures where Chief Salifu, his wives and family live, stands a grand Baobab tree. Legend says that the late chief fought over a woman, chopping off another suitor’s family jewels and hanging them upon this tree to display that he had indeed won the battle and a wife.
The population of Ullo is at most a thousand and the dusty serene streets lie peaceful come sunset. Upon my visit there, not many graced the streets at this time but a few curious but sceptical children, who rarely see foreigners, and a couple of men roasting a recently slaughtered pig, selling its bright red meat, ears, feet, intestines by the roadside.
Ullo has one bar called No Food For A Lazy Man, which sells the West African standards including STAR, Guinness, and Club as well as a locally brewed liquor available in tiny sachets - similar to take away Chinese food soya sauce packets - called Goal. Goal tastes like fermented sugar cane and makes your head ache and eyes squint with each sip.
It was at No Food For A Lazy Man that I met Solomon and Sylvester, about 7 and 5 years old, who live somewhere just behind the bar. Both children wore mismatched, ill-fitting clothing. Solomon a filthy green and black striped T-shirt with beige pinstriped polyester short; Sylvester a girl’s pink woollen button-up sweater and plaid wool pants that were inches too short. Solomon was barefoot. Sylvester was lucky enough to have pink slippers (flip-flops) that oddly matched his sweater. Their foreheads, mouths, legs and hands were caked with dried mud. Beneath Sylvester’s sweater was a bloated belly, like those seen in World Vision infomercials. Long straight scars, in the design of a star, extended from his large round protruding belly button.
The two children huddled together across the bar staring incessantly and squirming and giggling each time our eyes made contact or I smiled and waved a “hello” or “atumo”, in their language. Eventually, I suggested that they join us and two seats were pulled up beside me. Sipping casually on my beer and inhaling frequently on my cigarettes, it quickly dawned on me that neither child had anything to drink, so I offered them soda. My offer, which was translated, was accepted with shy smiles.
Eyes were wide, and lips tightly pursed, as they took the first few gulps, gripping onto the glass bottles as if that was the last drink they’d swallow in their tiny lifetimes.
And then to my dismay, I discovered ... it was the very first time they'd tasted Coke.
The sugary, syrupy, caffeine-infused drink, which I refuse to serve my little sister, niece and nephew back in Canada, was chugged down in minutes and a drunken glee followed.
Soon three more children had joined Solomon and Sylvester and all five of them jived before me to Bob Marley crackling out from the blown speakers. One shirtless, soiled boy disappeared, returning a few minutes later, pulling on one of his best shirts.
The dancing continued ‘til dusk, when I joined them.
Then darkness and thoughts of the ride back to Wa on the rear of a bike along a lightless, bumpy dirt road set in.
The children, some of whom had already dispersed, gathered by the bar’s gated entrance, as I hopped on that bike and a handful of wave’s goodbye sent me off.
As quickly as I arrived in Ullo with a trail of dust to follow, I was departing leaving a trail of dust behind. But, somehow I know that's not my first and last visit.
