I hardly noticed the change to night, or that the noises now were concentrated around the veranda and lounge. The sky had become a black void in which the stars were pendulous and bright; large insects battered themselves vigorously against the light bulbs, then fell to their doom underfoot.
When dinner was announced I was one of the first to be seated. All the tables were set with places for four, and it was amusing to watch the way in which everyone tried to find an empty table. When this was no longer possible, the latecomers looked the guests over, deciding with whom it would be agreeable to sit during a meal.
I was finally joined by an English family of three—husband, wife, and eighteen-year-old son. After nodding to me in greeting, they restricted their conversation to themselves, and I was able to gather that they owned a farm in Kenya and were on the way to Britain, combining a holiday with the boy’s entry into an agricultural college. Now and then I looked at their faces, trying to make up my mind about the kind of opening gambit which could make our enforced propinquity more comfortable.
I could not help overhearing the mother’s reminders to her son about keeping warm in Britain. She promised that they’d go shopping together in London. The boy, a husky fellow, more reddened than bronzed by the African sun, was somewhat embarrassed by her motherliness. He occasionally darted a glance in my direction, probably hoping that I either was not listening or could not understand. It was so funny I could not help smiling. The boy noticed and blushed; the mother looked at me and smiled; the father looked at me and said, “It’s his first visit home since he was eight.”
Just like that, as if they were as anxious as I to break the ice.
“It hasn’t changed much,” I replied, “only colder.”
“He thinks I’m fussing,” the mother said, “but it will be very different from Africa.”
“I agree. I’ve only been in Africa a few months and my main preoccupation has been keeping cool.”
“Aren’t you an African?” the father asked.
I explained that this was my first visit. Soon we were chatting away in the most friendly fashion about Britain, the boy’s scholastic possibilities, and the things they planned to do on their holiday. They said nothing about their life in Kenya, and I did not inquire, although I wished I might. I think we all enjoyed our meal.
Next morning I again tried telephoning my contacts, this time with some success—one of them promised to call for me in an hour. In the interval I took stock of my surroundings. The aerodrome was set some distance off an arterial road, or so I judged from the heavy vehicular traffic moving to and fro. So British, I thought, easily recognizable by the way the traffic kept to the left; to change it would be a major operation. One way or another the British left an indelible mark on Africa.
Across the road was a pleasant housing site of bright two-storied units, arranged on the side of a grassy knoll intersected with paved roads. A passer-by told me it was one of the new “villages” for aged ex-servicemen and their families. Behind the village small sections of land were available to them for market gardens or for raising chickens. Soon after nine o’clock my friend Josh arrived in his car. We had some coffee while getting to know each other. He was a junior civil servant studying law in his spare time and saving to go to Trinity College, Dublin, for further study and qualification.
We drove into town along a smooth road, past smart new drive-in garages, under roadway arches gay with bunting in the colours of Ghana, past houses and bungalows hiding discreetly behind trimmed hedges, very much in the English fashion. There was an air of cleanliness, order, modernity and comfort here, and I was told this was one of the residential sections. We passed the road leading to the presidential quarters, indicated by flags and a sign prohibiting the sounding of horns. Farther along the road was green, tree-shaded parkland, a cool and inviting interlude before the huge fashionable hotels and towering blocks of offices.
We passed under an arch erected in memory of ex-servicemen who were shot during a protest march in the struggle for self-government, and outside the House of Representatives I saw the life-size statue of President Nkrumah—Josh referred to him as Osagyefo—in short-sleeved open-necked shirt and slacks. At the base of the statue was the inscription “Seek ye first political freedom and all other things shall be added unto you.”
“Is the name ‘Osagyefo’ the African equivalent of ‘President’?” I asked.
“No, it means Redeemer,” Josh replied.
This was unlike any African town I had yet seen—with banks, shops of every kind, offices—but for the preponderance of black faces I might have been in the business section of any large European town. Our first stop was at a bank, Barclay’s, because I needed to get some local currency. The staff was mainly African, but here and there I saw a European, English specialists, probably, men and women. My general impression was of quiet order and assurance. Clerks, supervisors, messengers, everyone seemed concerned with the job at hand. I was attended to with the same courtesy and dispatch as were the other clients, blacks and whites.
Afterwards I was shown around the town. There were new buildings everywhere. Tall edifices of gleaming glass and stone some colourfully painted, like the new Trade Union Building and the Co-op Building, the latter in pleasing harmony with the trees and grassy space carefully preserved around it.
“This is Ghana,” Josh said, proud. “All this is Ghana, the Ghana we built in less than five years.”
We drove through the crowded, busy, shopping centre and parked, as I expressed a wish to see the street market. I had heard about the Ghanaian “market mammies”, now I saw them—large, muscular women, looking as powerful and durable as bronze or ebony. I paused by a stall where two of them were chatting together in dialect and roaring with deep laughter, their broad, damp faces and sparkling teeth suggesting a love of life, a pleasurable satisfaction in living. One of them said something to me but I did not understand. My friend replied in the same dialect. Then the woman said, in English, “Don’t only visit, come and live with us.”
Her companion whispered to her in dialect; she laughed and replied, “I’d have to fatten him up a bit first.”
I got her meaning and laughed, wondering what kind of giants their husbands must be.
As we walked, my companion said, “They’re very powerful, those women, economically and politically. You’d be surprised at the amount of business they control, especially with local produce.”
“And politically?”
“Most of them are party members, the Convention People’s Party, you know. They’re solidly behind the Osagyefo. And there’s the National Council of Women.”
“I’ll agree with the ‘solidly’ bit.”
He grinned, acknowledging the point. “That’s very obvious whenever there’s a procession or a visit from some foreign dignitary; they’re always well presented. Anyone who tried to mime the Osagyefo would have to reckon with them.”
“Are they only active in the party?”
“Generally speaking, yes. But women as a whole are taking their place equally with men in every department of our national life. You saw them in the bank. They’re in the civil service, the professions, industry, the Builders’ Brigade, everywhere. However, they never make equality an issue.”
This section of town was truly international. Among the tide of black faces could be seen Europeans and Asiatics, while the names on the stores were German, Indian, Pakistani, British, French, and many others. It was a stimulating experience, being in the crowd. The African women, for the most part, wore variations of the national costume: an ankle-length, wrap-around skirt, or lappa, and a close-fitting jacket which flared at the waist. Some of the younger women carried a stole of the same material slung elegantly over one shoulder. The market mammies wore colourful headkerchiefs, while the business girls and others went bareheaded, their hair modishly styled. Josh told me that because the la
ppa was a simple square of cloth, a woman could easily pack a dozen changes of clothing into a suitcase and have them uncreased and ready to wear.
It had now become, for me, terribly hot, and I envied his cool, neat appearance. We returned to the car and he remarked, “All this is Ghana. With a few notable exceptions, all this is new. Now I’ll take you to see what remains of the Gold Coast.”
After a few minutes’ driving we entered a shabby slum section of littered streets and tumbledown buildings, a shocking sight after the elegance I had just left.
“All this will soon disappear,” Josh said, with quiet emphasis. “These people are gradually being rehoused, and we’ll be able to rebuild this place in keeping with our dignified standards.”
We moved on. The more I saw, the more I marvelled. I had not expected anything so advanced, so attractive. Men and machines working on a new highway, part of it already in use with a modern roundabout and road marking to help control the heavy traffic. Away from the centre of town the planners were maintaining the close relationship between man and nature by preserving as many shady trees, flowering shrubs and grassy sections as possible near and between the bright new buildings. Several new streets, squares and parks were named after the President. New buildings were rising everywhere—flats, offices, shops, schools, churches. One church, near the C.P.P. headquarters, was one of the most gracefully modern I’d ever seen.
“That’s our cathedral,” I was told.
I was taken into the C.P.P. headquarters, colourful outside in blending pastel shades, cool and even more colourful inside. The walls of the entrance hall were covered by vigorous murals depicting Ghana’s struggle towards independence, and a light, graceful stairway led upward to the offices of officials on the middle floors, and those of the party secretary on the upper floor, which provided a clear view of the surrounding area.
“The Osagyefo will soon be taking over the office of party secretary,” Josh said. “By the way, how long do you expect to stay in Ghana?”
“Until the week-end. My flight to Paris is booked for Sunday next.”
“O.K. I’ve arranged for some time off, so we can see as much as possible of Accra and run up to Kumasi for a couple of days. Let’s have some lunch now, and later this afternoon I’ll try to get you to meet some of our leaders.”
We lunched at a fashionable new hotel some distance away from the crowded town centre. The restaurant was a separate single-storey building designed to take full advantage of light and air. Patrons could dine in the spacious dining hall or on the wide, shaded veranda. There was a delightful touch to the place. The waitresses, all African, wore uniforms—a bright replica of their national dress.
“This is something of an experiment,” Josh said, “not only here, but in Africa generally. Previously there were no waitresses. Men served as waiters, houseboys, gardeners, etc., while the women remained at home. I have an idea that it was a kind of conspiracy to emasculate the African. Anyway, as women are moving into everything, they are now being trained to wait on tables. This is the first batch. When their training is complete, they will go out to staff other new hotels being built here and in other parts of the country.”
“Is it a private venture or governmental?”
“Governmental. This hotel is part of a government-sponsored scheme, and many others are on the way.”
“Do the girls like the idea of waiting on tables?”
“Judging by the way they’re rushing to get in, they like it. It is well-paid, dignified work. No tipping is allowed, so they can feel the same pride of service as any other worker.”
The girls were handsome and well formed, with a certain shyness, which added to their attractiveness. Perhaps after a year or two they’d be as tough and blasé as waitresses the world over, unless . . .
“As with most other jobs, I expect many of these will leave to be married?” I asked.
Josh considered that for a while, then replied, “Perhaps, but there will always be others. Plenty of others.”
Remembering other countries, I asked, “Is this a polygamous society?”
“Oh, yes. Now and then somebody or other starts talking about a ‘one-man, one-wife’ law, but that always gets the women up in arms and it’s soon forgotten.”
“Would they not benefit by greater personal security?”
“Only a few. As things are, no child is considered a bastard, because if a man associates with a woman, she is, by local custom, his wife. A child born to her is her child, and has its place as a member of her family. Fathers acknowledge their children and support them as they are able. Some men prefer to have one wife, but most of us have two or more.”
He’d included himself. More than one wife—working days and studying nights. I took another, more respectful, look at him, to better evaluate his talents.
“In Europe I’ve attended many meetings where the rights of women were discussed. I had imagined that, in a polygamous society the status of a woman is, to say the least, very low.”
“That’s typical of the outsider,” Josh replied. “They always know more about us than we do of ourselves. In fact, any attempt to change the present arrangement is always met by vigorous opposition from the women themselves. Let’s face it, women out-number men in this country, and the way things are, everyone is served.”
He appreciated the double-entendre in his remark and laughed heartily with me.
The meal was excellent, but pervading everything was the consciousness of Africa, of Ghana. These Africans were relaxed in the consciousness of dignity with purpose; one could nearly reach out and grasp a handful of the energetic spirit.
Afterwards we drove around, looking at the continuous building. Building—there seemed to be lots of work and no idlers in sight.
I was taken to the headquarters of the Builders’ Brigade, a kind of civilian army of workers, where youths of both sexes received training as engineers, carpenters, cobblers, blacksmiths, anything and everything designed to fit them for a useful life in their society. They all wore khaki uniforms and were supervised by a corps of tough, smart ex-servicemen who seemed to take great pride in their responsibilities. I sat awhile with a group of them and exchanged wartime stories while my companion made some telephone calls. When he returned, he told me a short interview had been arranged with the Minister of Defence.
The minister, the Hon. Dr. Graft Dickson, a slim, well-tailored African, received me very courteously and, after formally welcoming me to Ghana, chatted with me about my visit and promised to extend to me any help I might wish. He told me that his home was in Ashanti, and invited me to visit him, but this was not possible, as my stay was not long enough.
“I’ve a surprise for you,” Josh promised when we’d left the minister.
Now we drove towards a headland where a high, turreted building was in process of repair and extension. Workmen swarmed everywhere.
“This is Christianborg Castle. An integral part of the history of our struggles,” Josh said. “It was once the residence of the Governor. Now we are reconditioning and extending it as accommodation for important guests of state.”
No visitors were allowed in the precincts while work was in progress, so I had to content myself with the little we could see from the road. All this was a source of obvious pride to my companion. Even when he spoke of the castle dungeons and his forebears, who were imprisoned or perished there, he seemed to derive added stature and satisfaction from the telling, and the knowledge that his roots ran deep in the very earth itself.
We drove along the coast road, the tyres singing in counterpoint to the crash of the huge breakers on the rocks; fishermen with circular seine nets waded waist-deep in a shallow, flooded area on the other side of the road. Farther along we passed the farms where girls of the Builders’ Brigade were clearing the ground and tending rows of vegetables. At intervals along the road were signs indicating sites
reserved for the Government, with warnings against anyone else attempting to build on them.
“Where are we heading?” I asked.
“Wait and you’ll see. It won’t be long now.”
The road now swung inland in a straight line across flat land too sterile to support more than separated tufts of tough, withered grass. In the distance I could see the tops of tall derricks, and soon we drove on to a flat plateau where an army of workmen was engaged in a wide variety of tasks. We parked and followed a concrete pathway which was crisscrossed by inset rails, to a wide concrete apron from which several docks projected into the sea. On these docks were the tall new derricks and cranes which I had glimpsed as we approached along the road.
“This is Tema Docks,” Josh said, with as much pride as if he had single-handedly built it himself. “Not long ago all this was wasteland, with only a tiny fishing village to give it any identity. Look at it now!”
I looked. It was a massive feat of engineering. The length of the docks suggested that they were designed to accommodate ships of any draught. Running to and from each dock was a network of railway lines, which led off to a central marshalling yard some distance away. Storage and other sheds were in various stages of completion, together with many types of installations and services necessary to the effective operation of a busy port.
“When completed, it will be the premier port of Ghana,” Josh told me. “But this is only part of it. Let’s go.”
We drove out of the port section, along a wide, newly paved road, to another building site. In Britain I had seen the building of entirely new towns, complete with schools, shops, churches, pubs, etc. This was a similar project.
“This will be Tema Town,” my companion said. “A new town to accommodate the workers and businesses which are indivisible from port life and would otherwise spring up unplanned and unlovely. We’ve tried to anticipate as far ahead as possible the nature and extent of development likely to occur.”
A Kind of Homecoming Page 26