Chapter 7:
August 5, Busua Akwaaba Beach Hotel, Ghana
Jason woke up with a migraine so potent that his head did not feel like a part of his body. He felt a fly whiz past his head and tried to follow its path only to be stopped by the searing pain that seemed to have a head all its own. As he struggled to make sense of it all, his door flung open and in walked a shirtless, white man, long straggly brown hair and dark brown eyes in a weather beaten face that would probably put the owner in his mid to late thirties.
“You still sleeping?”
“Get lost” Jason responded sleepily. He pulled a pillow over his head to drown out the noisy intruder.
“No way to talk to your best man – man! The sun’s been up for almost two hours and if you don’t get off your lazy ass, we’re gonna miss breakfast. This is our second time here – wait – our third – and you still haven’t figured out what time to wake up?”
Gerry walked to the bathroom as if to look for someone.
“What are you doing in my bathroom?” Jason asked from beneath the pillow
“Making sure your hooker didn’t stay too long’, Gerry said laughing.
“And if she did?”
Gerry walked over to the queen size bed that seemed too small for Jason’s six feet, two hundred pound frame. He put on a serious look and lowered his voice so he’d come across more seriously.
“Listen bud – there are hookers and there are HOOKERS. The pros are crawling all over the place, they know this is where the rich guys are, white and black. Last night, you got smashed way too early…and that man came on to you”
“Man? What man?” Jason jumped out of the bed, letting the crisp white sheets fall around him. He looked at his naked self, as if something would have changed on his body if a man had been in his bed. He grabbed onto Gerry’s shoulders.
“I came here with a man? Why didn’t you stop me?”
Gerry walked away nonchalantly towards the doors. He held onto the door knob and turned ever so slightly and said softly:
“You looked like you were having too much fun”.
Jason took one of the pillows and threw it on Gerry’s retreating back as Gerry laughed his way towards his chalet. He looked around, hoping to find one of those laborers he’d seen on his previous trips to the resort. A short black man was watering the flowers in front of Jason’s chalet and offered a sad smile and a good morning. Jason responded and then he had a brainwave; perhaps this man saw who left his room?
“Have you been here long?”
“Yes Sir”
“How long?”
“Since five am sir!” He responded like he thought Jason was checking up on the hours he’d worked.
“Did you see anyone leave my room?”
“Yes Sir”
For crying out loud, couldn’t this man just get the drift of the conversation and give him more in-depth answers? He remembered what his boss had told him about Ghanaian servants – they would not proffer any information unless paid or prodded mercilessly. Some were just plain scared of foreigners and would not want to offend by seeming to talk too much, something known in Ghanaian parlance as being ‘too-known’.
“Was it a man or woman?” Jason prodded.
It took forever for the grounds keeper to give his response.
“Something like that”.
“What the hell!” Jason couldn’t help himself but the man was driving him insane. What did he mean by something like that? Was the person who left his room a transsexual still undergoing the change?
“Please, why do you want to know?” the grounds keeper asked.
“I’m the one asking the questions!” Jason was getting angry now. “Did you see a man leave my room?”
“No”, said the grounds keeper
“Ok – did you see a woman leave my room?”, continued Jason, looking hopeful.
“No”.
“So who did you see leaving my room?”
“A man and a woman”, the grounds keeper said confidently.
“What?”
“A woman left your room around five thirty and a man left just ten minutes ago, Sir”
Jason breathed a huge sigh of relief. At least he had been with a woman but he couldn’t remember who it was, what they did, why they did it, how long they did it for. He grabbed a towel and headed off towards the pool.
The Busua Akwaaba Beach Hotel in the Western Region of Ghana was situated right on the beach, made up of fifteen chalets just a stones throw away from each other and arranged around a semi-circle. At the center was the pool, though why that was needed with a pristine white-sanded beach, Jason would never know. Around the pool were five deck chairs with towels placed on them and a lifeguard, ears plugged with earphones attached to an mp3 player.
Barely had he placed his bottled water beside the chair when he saw the gangly body of his friend. Already, Gerry had established a name for himself in Akwaaba and he looked like he could be the owner of the resort, walking lazily towards the pool along with the Food Manager, a bottle of Fanta dangling precariously between his forefinger and thumb. They laughed as they talked and Jason felt a twinge of jealousy; he really must pick up this twi language, what with all the girls he’d had the pleasure of enjoying lately, knowing how to say ‘do you like this’ in their own language would be quite the titillating event.
“Hey bud”, Gerry yelled out to Jason.
Jason nodded his way and then jumped into the pool. After two laps in the rectangular shaped pool, he stepped out to a cool breeze.
“Man, this is how life should be lived”, he yelled out to Gerry.
“You think?” Gerry said sarcastically.
“How come no one ever tells you Africa could be like this?” Jason asked as he sat dripping on the pool chair.
“ I dunno. I guess everyone’s got so much to gain by keeping Africa unknown…I dunno…I mean, missionaries and other humanitarian workers want to keep the money flowing since when they raise funds to help poor Africans, they also make money along the way and Africans themselves…well, I dunno but each time I come here, I see wealthy Africans here, from Ghana and Nigeria and even South Africa. Maybe it never seemed like a big deal to them, you know? The sandy beaches and awesome natural environment…yah, much of Africa is still quite unspoiled, I wonder if the Africans know that”.
Jason sighed. He felt a bit guilty.
“Makes me feel bad when I think of what oil could do, you know?”
There was a deep silence as the two men contemplated that last statement.
“I guess if their government wants it…” Gerry seemed deep in thought.
“The government does want it. Mr. Prah told me the last time we met over drinks in Accra”
“But how are they going to control Ghanaian interests?”
“Not sure but he says they have contracts lined up with the Chinese in exchange for the oil. Apparently, they will help the Ghanaian government with infrastructure and the Chinese get oil in exchange.”
“Yeah, I know that – you mentioned it last time but something just does not make sense. Ghana has always been friends with America so why would they jeopardize that relationship by getting in bed with China?”
“Buddy”, Jason sat up and faced Gerry. “If you needed a belt to hold your clothes together and your lover kept saying ‘yah, I hear ya, next week I’ll get you a belt but next week comes and he gives you something that could be a belt but is not a belt and tells you its still good enough and the ‘gift’ ALSO comes with strings that keep you feeling like a puppet, you’re going to feel insulted. Every day. Then one day, someone with more swagger comes along, sees you need a belt, hears you out and says, yah, I’ll give you the belt and actually delivers the belt you need, hey, you’re gonna say ‘thanks for the belt, here’s some booty’….no?”
Gerry looked around him as if making sure no one was in earshot.
“You sound like I imagine Kwasi Prah to sound”
Jason laughed.<
br />
“Yah, actually I stole that from Mr. Prah and apparently, he stole that from Mr. Asante”
“The President of Ghana?”
“None other”, Jason said with enough swagger for ten belts.
“So what can America do?” Gerry asked as if unconcerned.
“Well, Mr. Asante is planning to continue giving them the cold shoulder. Last week apparently, the Secretary of State called to find out if she could pay a visit to Ghana. He told her he’d be unavailable and one of his parliamentary secretaries would host her. He actually had no plans and just wanted to piss her off which according to him, he succeeded in doing. They’re also bugging them about the three deaths in the Takoradi area and because he knows wassup with that, he doesn’t want to talk to anyone. He thinks America has outlived the world superpower title and needs to realize there’s a new game in town. Did you know that in the past year, there’ve been more trade missions to China than to any other country in the Western Hemisphere combined?”
“Seriously?” Gerry softly asked.
“Seriously. Even regular folk are getting in on the action. Aunty Ceci, my sister-in-law’s aunt has a couple of businesses in Lagos but she set one up here in Accra so she could go with one of the trade missions that left just last January. Kwasi was in charge of that mission so you know how connections work here – she got put on the list and she came back with incredible stories of industry contacts she’d made, loans that were being extended to Ghanaians by Chinese banks, factories that were ready to ship products to Ghana…buddy…China is bigger in Africa than we want to know.”
“Does anyone in Canada know this?”
Raucous laughter could be heard in the pool area as the two men struggled to maintain their composure.
“Canada? Know about this? That would be a first when we’re busying ourselves with what Stephen Harper is wearing on his cross country tour!” said Jason.
“Hey, hey, give us some credit Jay – maybe we’re not in the game but its not because we can’t be in the game. We just don’t want to be. Look at you and KM Gas; if we weren’t important in the game, why would KM Gas be here? Why would you be here?”
“You got a point there bud. I guess we’re in it…to a certain degree but from what Kwasi tells me, Ghana is only one of the spots that China has its eye on. Zambia and Angola have signed various mining contracts with China and its only a matter of time before Botswana, Rwanda, Sierra Leone and Sudan…
Gerry gasped. Jason laughed and continued.
“Yes Sudan of Darfur infamy- they are going to get in on the action too. Next week, Kwasi is hosting a delegation from Zimbabwe and on paper, they’re coming to talk about OAU business – how to make energy more efficient on the continent blah blah blah but really, they’re coming to Ghana to show them the contracts the Chinese have given to them; they want to see firsthand, the effect of Ghana-China collaboration and to talk African to African.”
“So do you know who is killing these workers and painting the American flag on their cheeks?”
Jason contemplated the question, took a long sip of his drink and looking far out to sea, he said in a very measured tone.
“None of our business Gerry. We’re Canadians.”
Just then, Jason lowered his voice as a tall Ghanaian girl, wearing the Akwaaba uniform came towards them. She had very dark smooth skin and her hair was neatly corn rowed with a bun at the top. She was also holding two large plates of fries and kebabs and Gerry wasn’t sure which was making his friend salivate – the girl or the food. She got over to their deck chairs, smiled coyly and then placed the two plates in between them.
“Compliments of the Restaurant Manager”, she said in her strong Ghanaian accent.
While Gerry immediately dug in, Jason continued his worship as her petite buttocks, quite unlike the big ones he’d observed on Ghanaian women made its undulating way towards the restaurant. She swayed like a palm tree in the gentle seaside breeze and with her back ramrod straight, neck regally carrying her head, he was sure he had not seen any North American woman walk with that much control of her body.
“I was with her last night”, he said to Gerry.
“Yah, I know. I was there when you picked her up at the bar”.
“No wonder I couldn’t remember. She was so amazing I lost a few brain cells. She also likes stamps”.
“Stamps?” Gerry asked incredulously.
Jason chuckled.
“Yup stamps. After checking in, as we walked towards the chalets, I noticed some stamps in the gift shop so I bought some. They were lying beside my bed when she and I dragged ourselves in and I quite remember her telling me how a 1966 one – it was right in the middle of the case - was released just before Nkrumah was deposed.
“She actually knew that?”
“Yah weird huh?”
“Even weirder that you had enough brain cells left to talk about stamps!”
“Hey, hey! When it comes to stamps, I’m never too drunk.”
“No kidding. So stamp girl was worth the brews?”
“Yah…and we talked poetry too…or shall I say SHE talked poetry since I was too smashed to talk”.
“Nuff said!”
The two men laughed as Jason ruffled his honey gold hair. Only a few months in Ghana and his hair was bleaching all by itself. Stamp girl had loved his hair.
“I wonder what her name is”.
“Who, Stamp girl? Only one way to find out bruv”, Gerry chuckled.
Well Jason did find out, and what a bundle of contradictions she was. Her name was Araba and she sold fish on those days she didn’t have a shift as a waitress at Akwaaba hotel. They spent days and nights together, talking, laughing among other things. She would wrap her long legs around him and sink her head into his chest, mumbling words he didn’t understand. She was so supple and strong, so soft and yet so firm…he still had no idea how old she was but just before his planned visit to Canada, he decided to pay a visit to her home to return some bangles she’d left behind at his place.
Araba lived off one of the main arteries that emanated from the central roundabout in Takoradi and led to the former Princess Cinema. The house was like most others, cement brick with peeling paint, a central courtyard with a fireplace used for cooking and several two-roomed apartments with doors that led out to the courtyard. This was Araba’s traditional family house and along with her mother and two cousins were an assortment of relatives who all occupied the other apartments in the compound house, as they called it. On this brisk Thursday evening, most of the workers were still not back home when Jason stepped foot in the compound house, looking around him for someone who might know if he was in the right place. In the far corner of the courtyard sat a girl of no more than twelve with a baby boy who was still crawling. He made his way towards them and softened when he saw the look of fear in the girl’s face.
“Hello,” he said gently.
She just stared back and the baby started crying. Jason looked at the baby and wondered. He had the soft tanned skin of someone who was half black, half something paler. Furthermore, the baby had narrow eyes, similar to what you would find in most people of Asian descent. Jason thought this was intriguing.
“Hello,” he said again to the young girl. “Araba?”
The little girl shook her head in dismay and proceeded to respond in Fanti.
“Onyi hor, werpueh.” She’s not in, she’s out.
Jason understood the sentence and nodded. He reached for the baby’s hand and felt a strong grip. The baby gurgled and grabbed two more of Jason’s fingers and as he playfully tried to release his hand, he noticed that the baby had a very small red bangle with five gold stars on his ankle. And it looked eerily familiar to him.
“Please can you give this to her when she gets back?”
And he handed the envelope to the little girl. Inside were three bangles – one blue, one yellow and the third red, with five stars on it. He hurriedly left the comp
ound house, turning back to look at the two children and befuddled at the possible new piece of information that he had unearthed.
The following week, Araba was elusive – both physically and mentally. He refused to ask her about the child and she seemed to be waiting for him to ask. Even their intimate moments had changed. No longer was she yelling out glorious phrases from Robert Frost’s ‘The Road not taken’ as she peaked in ecstasy…he’d give anything these days to hear her say between deep breaths: “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.” He missed her badly and knew he had to get to the bottom of this woman. Who was she really? He invited her to Akwaaba Busua htoel – she’d cut down her hours there – and the first evening, they spent walking along the beach in silence. There were children from the nearby village running along the sandy shore and as they walked, Araba would pick a shell, rub it and try to blow through it. He turned to look at her and wondered what she was doing. Did he seriously think he could carry on a relationship with this girl? She was old enough, he was sure of it, but if this was going to be a real relationship, they had to talk about their expectations beyond the bedroom. Would he take her back to Canada? Would he raise her child? Wouldn’t that be weird?
They ate on the beach. Roasted prawn with seasoned gari that he knew was going to do funny things to his stomach but what the heck? He held her close and nibbled her ear, pausing every so often to sigh.
“Is the father still around?”
Araba shifted uncomfortably.
“No.”
Oh good, Jason thought.
“Where is he?”
“He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
She nodded.
“What happened?”
“I didn’t kill him if that’s what you’re thinking. Please don’t make me talk about it Jay-son, please.”
But we have to, he thought to himself. I’ve got to know what I’m getting into.
“But we have to – I’ve got to know what I’m getting myself into if this is more serious than…” he said exasperated.
She moved herself out of his arms and turned around. Looking him squarely in the face.
“Listen, it was a while ago. This man promised he loved me and I accepted his advances and then one day, he forced himself on me. Not long after, he was killed. I became pregnant and that’s that. Kojo is my baby and because I disgraced the family by having a baby out of wedlock, I might never get married…many people are very traditional in these parts so I am not holding my breath.”
Jason looked at her, still wondering to whom he was listening.
“Thanks for the explanation…in very good English, which begs the question, why is a girl like you, able to use complex English words, quote Frost while in the throes of passion, working as a waitress by night and a fish seller by day?”
She chose to answer with a deep throaty kiss, leaving Jason with a few more brain cells missing. She smiled at her effect on him and while she gently massaged his back with her long fingers, she told him her story.
“My father was a very rich man before his death so he had three wives; my mother was the third wife and was quite well educated- well, better than the other wives I guess – she’d gone to Takoradi Polytechnic to study graphic design and communications. When my father died suddenly at fifty-five, our entire household was thrown into disarray as various factions of the family fought to gain control of my father’s hundred hectare cocoa farm and two large fishing boats. My mother got nothing while the other two wives, by virtue of seniority got one fishing boat each. We were thrown out of my father’s house. My mother returned to her family house – that’s where you returned the bangles – and I had to quit school and sell fish with my mother. During the day, we went to the seaside and haggled with the fishermen and at night, she’d teach me from her books – poems by Coleridge, Keats, Browning and Frost as well as Shakespeare and also some science and mathematics. I longed for a time when I’d go back to school but with us having to eke out an existence from whatever little money the fish brought, it wasn’t a very promising future. One day at the Fish Market, a Chinese man walked by and he asked my mother if he could teach me to type…he needed a secretary. Mama Kate – that’s my mother’s name – was eager for me to do something different and she’d heard the Chinese were beginning to make inroads into our country; perhaps this could be my lucky break. She chatted with Mr. Jiang and the following day, I was on my way to Jiang Enterprises, a small electronics business off the Market Circle.”
“Yes I know it!” Jason interjected.
She laughed softly.
“I worked there filing papers, meeting clients and generally being general office help and one day Mr. Jiang’s older son came to visit from Shanghai. He was to become the new Manager.
“And…” Jason asked gently, willing the story to go on but hesitant to hear the next part.
“Well, he made it clear he wanted me. And, what future did I have if I said no? If I were fired from the job for not complying, I would have to go back to selling fish all the time – at least now, I sold fish early in the morning and worked in the office from 1 – 6pm. I welcomed his advances and one day, we went off to the woods together and he – forced – himself – on – me.”
She stopped her story and walked off.
Jason continued sitting on the makeshift steps, unsure of what to do. As he sat there contemplating his situation, a coconut seller walked towards him.
“Please Obruni – do you want coconut?”
He fished out one cedi from his wallet and paid for it, asking the young man to keep the change of half a cedi – the boy was ecstatic. Araba had still not returned so he sipped the juice and walked alone to the chalet that they had shared the night before.
He knew something was wrong when he walked into the living room area. Araba had left the resort, taking all her belongings and leaving behind the beautiful bracelet he had given her a few weeks ago, the one with the maple leaf on it. He ran out of the chalet towards the reception area, frantically looking around him. Outside was a small Nissan Urvan, loading up passengers – mostly workers – to take them to Takoradi. He ran to the minivan and scanned it, seeing Araba way at the back with her head on her lap. He yelled out her name and begged her to get down. She sat motionless, until the driver yelled at her:
“Hey, make you no worry the white man, my sister. He dey call you – make you no worry am!”
Araba reluctantly got off the van and had to look Jason squarely in the face.
“Ok – what do you want?”
“What you probably want – except that I’m beginning to think I don’t know who you are.”
“Then why are you wasting your time with me?” she asked petulantly
Jason sighed. Yeah, why was he wasting time with this woman who was too much of a mystery to him? Wasn’t he safer with someone who spoke like him, looked like him, didn’t sleep with Asian business men and didn’t doubt his commitment to her?
“I honestly have no idea but I do know I want to be with you…maybe for better for worse.”
“Ei, white boy – be careful ohhh!” she laughed and that dissolved a lot of the anxiety Jason had had.
They walked together back to the chalet and with arms wrapped around one another, Jason learned about the intricate customary rites one had to go through to get a wife and Araba learned about the oil business. As the sun peeked through the shades in a morning that held more promise than that of the day before, Jason found that he had made a decision. Araba was still undecided.
“But will you come back Jay-son”, she asked, breaking his name up into two distinct syllables in her heavily accented English.
“Of course honey, of course I will. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I know many white men who say exactly that. They use you and they leave you. That’s why I’m asking.”
“And I know many Ghanaian girls who use white men too…for their
money,” Jason retorted.
Araba smiled.
“So you see, it cuts both ways – we have to trust one another and believe that when I say I want you, I mean I want you. Ataa?” He smiled at his own attempt to speak the local Fanti dialect.
She nodded and slipped out to the reception area to get them some Fanta drinks.