A Kind of Homecoming

by Braithwaite, E. R. ;

There were smart new office buildings, shops, schools, and housing units for one, two, or more persons, with adequate garage space for car-owners, and plenty of playground facilities for children as well as adults. The designers seemed to have considered everything, including the colour scheme, which was as pleasing as the careful landscaping. Some workmen, digging­ a deep ditch to contain a sewer pipe, were singing as they worked—a resonant, rumbling sound, strange, new, yet immediately­ familiar.

  Looking at all this I remembered a remark by a Ghanaian visitor to Monrovia. He had said that “Ghana was capable of imagination and hard work.” That seemed to be borne out here.

  That evening we did a spot of pub-crawling, starting with hotel bars after dinner and winding up at a dance hall soon after midnight. I enjoyed the music immensely, the compulsive, teasing, seductive “high-life”, and danced until the perspiration streamed off me. In the dance hall I noticed an appreciable number of Europeans, some of them with African partners. They all seemed relaxed and thoroughly enjoying themselves. For the first time since I arrived in Africa I saw Africans and Europeans mixing socially in an atmosphere of ease and relaxation. The women were very exciting, probably because of the naturally sinuous way in which they responded to the music, their bodies half-hinting all kinds of pleasures.

  I woke around three o’clock in the afternoon, showered and went down to the lounge, where I had to make do with beer and a reluctant cheese sandwich. I had brought my scratch pad, and hurried to write down all I could remember of the events of the previous day.

  Now, as I edit and reshape my report, I try as far as is possible to confine myself to the facts. In reproducing conversations I have always tried to repeat what I heard, as far as my habit of making notes each night makes this possible. None of this report is contrived or created for effect. Sometimes, however, I find it advisable, even necessary, to use my own words, the better to relate the whole scene, or create a kind of sequence where in fact conversation had been an interlacing, excitable exchange which often overlapped as we eagerly intruded on each other. Now I wrote until nearly six o’clock, when Josh arrived.

  First he took me on a short trip to see the University of Ghana, and then to the house of a friend, where several men and women were gathered to meet me, I was told. We drank and talked, mostly about literature, especially about what they referred to as “Negro literature”. Here I jumped in with both feet, because I do not subscribe to the idea of so-called Negro literature any more than I do to “white” literature. I said that I wrote as I felt, that I wanted to write, had to write and wanted to write about life—all life—refusing to restrict my interests by considerations of the thin capsule which could not restrict any thinking, or loving, or feeling.

  There was talk of the “African presence”, as if it were some special kind of spiritual essence peculiar to Africa. I made the observation that my enforced separation from Africa may have diluted to invisibility whatever claim to the essence should have justifiably been mine because of my colour. They argued against me, but in sophisticated, friendly fashion. I enjoyed being with them, and was often amazed by their wide appreciation of contemporary European literature and thought. They occasionally spoke rather scathingly of Britain and the British, but never forgot to mention their association, however limited, with British institutions, especially the universities.

  Naturally we got around to politics. Some of them were party members. For my benefit it was explained that they followed a Socialist ideology and were not Communists. Someone said, “It’s odd, but there’s socialism in Britain as in many other European countries, but no Briton or American can accept socialism for Africa. If we show any inclination to follow our own political course, we’re immediately called Communists.”

  “Perhaps it’s not merely your political ideology, but . . . ” I was interrupted by a handsome girl, who was clever, witty and conscious of her obvious attractiveness.

  “I know what you’re going to say: we’re friendly with the Communists.”

  I was going to say no such thing, but I let her carry on.

  “We’re an independent state, and we’ve got to have the courage to independently run our country and choose our friends. Why should we let anyone tell us who our friends should be?’

  “There’s no such thing as friendship, internationally speaking”—one young man said—“only associations, which are subject to being bent, twisted, broken and mended, as situations dictate. Internationally speaking a country, especially an African country, should be prepared to take full advantage of friendly associations while the situations are favourable. At the moment Africa is riding high and everyone is eager to wipe our noses, but who knows?—tomorrow it might be South America or China or Lapland. Then, to hell with Africa!”

  This was greeted with general approval.

  “Like those nice, shiny aircraft at the aerodrome?” someone asked.

  “Yes, like those. Did you see those big Ilyushin planes on the tarmac when you arrived?” he asked me. “Gift from Russia—six of them. That’s what I call friendship.”

  “Nothing for nothing and very little for sixpence,” I replied paraphrasing an old Guianese saying.

  “I’m all for accepting all they have to give,” another said, “but meanwhile we must learn to do things for ourselves, just in case the supply is suddenly cut off.”

  “We’re not the ones who need to worry,” the girl said. “It’s those new states which are supposed to be independent but are content to sit up and beg from their old masters like performing dogs. Some of them would even fight against us if de Gaulle or Macmillan told them to. Sons of bitches.”

  I was surprised by her vehemence, and language, but I did not show it. It was probably intended to shock me, anyway. We talked about the Osagyefo, the party, neighbouring African States, the Congo, Angola, space travel—anything. They spoke freely and intelligently. Before I left them I learned of several Guianese residing and working in Ghana, all doing very well.

  As planned, Josh and I set out for Kumasi early on Thursday morning, following the smooth-paved road out of town and out into the green countryside, through sudden villages and hamlets where I glimpsed uniformed children at play, old men chatting together and wives busy at household chores, their tiny infants securely slung on their backs. Often, on the edge of a village could be seen a few modern houses, to where the wealthy retreated from the bustle of Accra, Josh said. The road curved snakily up a steep hill, on top of which was perched the Osagyefo’s new house, under construction. Looking back across the steep slope, Accra could be seen in the distance, indistinct, like a postcard picture of Bethlehem at Christmas.

  We stopped at a village, as it suddenly occurred to Josh that he should telephone his wife at Kumasi to let her know he was on his way. This was significant to me—telecommunication between villages and towns and individual dwellings.

  There was an air of prosperity about the towns and villages through which we passed—shops, stores, garages, all well stocked and clean—and the people seemed cheerful and neat, especially the children, fat, cheerful, and noisily healthy. But the hospitality took on a somewhat menacing note. Here and there Josh decided to stop on one pretext or another—water for the radiator, or to see a relative—and someone was sure to offer us a drink: “At least one beer, only one, just to please us,” they’d insist; or “a little whisky, perhaps.” They made the “perhaps” sound like “of course”. I stuck to iced beer, but Josh refused to hurt his friends and relatives and drank the whisky. However, this seemed in no way to interfere with his driving, and soon after noon we reached Kumasi.

  I had thought it would be a village, or small town, at best, in the depths of the countryside. What I saw as we drove slowly in were bright new houses and bungalows, shops, cinemas, blocks of flats—in short, Accra reproduced, only newer, perhaps cleaner, if that were possible. It was fantastic. New buildings in every phase of constructi
on!

  “That’s the general hospital,” Josh said, pointing to a huge, beautiful white building surrounded by lawns and shrubbery. And so it went! It was difficult to keep in mind that this was Africa, in the bush.

  We lunched at a government hostel and then drove to one of the Rest Houses, where I would spend the night—a neat, well-equipped bungalow with bath, toilet, electricity, refrigerator, a small lounge and two comfortable-looking beds. The uniformed attendant took charge of my bag, and Josh and I set out to meet some of the town’s notables.

  First I was taken to meet the Mayor of Kumasi, the Hon. James Owusu, a short, thickset, pugnacious-looking man, who welcomed me warmly to Kumasi in sharp, clipped English. He invited me to attend a ceremony that evening at the Kumasi Zoo, where he was making a presentation to an Indian mahout who had brought a young elephant from India to the Kumasi Zoo and stayed long enough to see it settled down comfortably.

  “If you can stay until tomorrow afternoon,” the Mayor told me, “I’m opening an exhibition at our central library. Russian books. You know any Russian? Come if you can. Pleased to have you.”

  When we left him, Josh said, “He’s the most influential man in Kumasi. If anything is to be done, he gives the say-so.”

  If Accra surprised me, Kumasi went one better. I was not quite prepared for the wide-paved streets, large modern buildings, and obvious effective functioning I saw everywhere. We visited the Department of Health, and there I ran into an old London university colleague, Ohene Darko, a health-education specialist, with whom I had shared many an amusing episode during our days together in London.

  The Kumasi Cultural Centre is situated in a pleasant park. Here an attempt is being made to preserve the old and historic and at the same time give impetus to the new and progressive. In one corner of the park is a life-size reproduction of the house of a Ghanaian chieftain as it existed centuries ago, complete with courtyard and a Tree of Truth. Artistically woven royal clothing, beds, stools and the chief’s bath were all there, excellently preserved, as were a set of “talking drums”, which were played for me by a young assistant to the curator.

  Some short distance from the chief’s home was an exhibition hall, an elegant structure of stone and glass, which now housed a one-man exhibition of carvings in bronze and wood by a local doctor. The general idea, as Josh put it, was to make Kumasi as big and as important as Accra, and was part of an over-all development plan to prevent too much migration towards the coastal strip. The same depth and extent of development was going on at the coastal towns of Takoradi, Cape Coast, Salt Pond, Sekondi, and others. Now, through the Volta Dam and other projects, it was hoped to transform the northern territories into an important industrial district.

  On Josh’s advice I returned to the Rest House for a nap. He went off to see his wife, and promised to call for me at seven that evening.

  The presentation ceremony was a simple affair, attended by a handful of persons. The Mayor made a short speech and, in the name of the people of Kumasi, presented to the mahout a beautiful robe of kente cloth, that distinctive interweave of gold and blue which is peculiar to Ghana. Afterwards I became part of a group in a local bar, returning to my quarters around midnight. The attendant had thoughtfully prepared me a bath of cool water, and it was heaven to lie full length in it.

  Early next morning I was awakened by the attendant. He had brought me a cup of tea. I could not help smiling as I recalled the many stories I had read of this most British of institutions in the most unlikely of places. Near the bed I noticed a small radio, and, more from curiosity than expectation, I turned the switch. Coincidence can play strange tricks. From the radio came a few crackles of static . . . then a clear voice saying, “This is London calling in the Overseas Service of the B.B.C. Here is the news.”

  I nearly dropped my tea, placed it carefully on a side table, and howled with laughter. The amazing juxtaposition of tea and B.B.C. was too much! Good Lord! That brash young woman the other night had said something about “ridding ourselves of everything that could remind us of colonialism.” How was she going to achieve that? Tea and the B.B.C.! No, my girl. If the truth be told, you’ll wind up loving them to death, without even realizing it. Those British! Those goddamned crafty, far-sighted British! Tea and B.B.C.! What a combination!

  Josh called for me at around ten o’clock and we went to the zoo to take a look at the gift elephant. Although only a few months old the ponderous animal was colossal, yet rather pathetic and lonely. Josh was as interested in the animals as I was and confessed that it was about the only way he had of seeing wild animals, or, at least, anything as wild as these.

  We spent the morning cruising around some distance beyond Kumasi—green, rich country, people everywhere. Even where the forest growth was thickest one would come upon neat little bungalows surrounded by a space cleared of trees and producing lush green vegetables. The villages were clean and orderly, probably the result of the Health Department’s active programme. Whenever possible I stopped to chat with the locals, and found them to be charming, friendly people.

  We arrived at the Russian Book Exhibition on time, but the affair did not get under way until about an hour later, much to my irritation, as we planned to return to Accra as soon as possible to avoid having to drive too far into the night. I was introduced to the visiting Russians, and would hazard a guess that they too were less than pleased at the African’s casual attitude to time.

  When finally all was ready, the Mayor read a short speech, the Russian representative replied, and the Exhibition was declared open. There was no time for me to examine any of the large number of books and periodicals displayed, so Josh and I, after farewells all round, were on our way, non-stop to Accra.

  Next morning I went to the Air France office and checked my flight reservation—past experience was still a sharp reminder. I met Josh as arranged. He seemed very pleased with himself, and before I could ask the reason, he thrust a copy of a local newspaper, The Evening News, into my hand. I read it all. Apparently the Osagyefo had broadcast to his people very early in the morning. It was a forthright and telling message indicative of his intention to “promote greater efficiency in the machinery of the Government and tighten up party discipline.”

  In the speech the President expressed his determination to make war on ostentatious living, vain pride, haughtiness in high places, and a contemptuous attitude towards the masses. He said, among other things:

  I have stated over and over again that members of the Convention People’s Party must not use their party membership or official position for personal gain or for the amassing of wealth. Such tendencies directly contradict our party constitution, which makes it clear that the aims and objects of the party among other things are the building of a Socialist pattern of society in which free development of each is the condition for the free development of all—a pattern of society consonant with African situations, circumstances and conditions.

  I have explained very clearly this Socialist structure and have on many occasions elaborated the five sectors into which our economy may be divided.

  These sectors are: first, the state sector, in which all enterprises are entirely State-owned; second, joint State-owned private sector, which will incorporate enterprises owned jointly by Government and foreign private capital; third, the co-operative sector, in which all enterprises will be undertaken by co-operative organizations affiliated with the National Co-operative Council; fourth, the private-­enterprise sector, which will incorporate those industries which are open freely to foreign private enterprise; and fifth, the workers’-enterprise sector.

  I have had occasions to emphasize the part which private enterprise will continue to play in our economic and industrial life. A different situation arises with Ghanaian businessmen who attempt to combine business with political life.

  Being a party member of the Assembly—and much more, being a ministerial secretary or a m
inister—means that the persons who take up these positions owe a duty to those who have elected them, or who have given them their positions with confidence.

  To be able to maintain this confidence, therefore, they should not enter into any type of industrial or commercial undertaking. Any party member of Parliament who wishes to be a businessman can do so, but he should give up his seat in Parliament.

  In other words, no minister, ministerial secretary or party member of Parliament should own a business or be involved in anyone else’s business, Ghanaian or foreign.

  In spite of my constant clarifications and explanations of our aims and objectives, some party members in Parliament pursue a conduct in direct contradiction of our party aims.

  They are tending, by virtue of their functions and positions, to become a social group aiming to become a new ruling class of self-seekers and careerists.

  This tendency is working to alienate the support of the masses and to bring the National Assembly into isolation.

  I am aware that the evil of patronage finds a good deal of place in our society. I consider that it is entirely wrong for persons placed in positions of eminence or authority to use the influence of office in patronizing others, in many cases wrong persons, for immoral favours.

  I am seeing to it that this evil shall be uprooted no matter who is gored. The same thing goes for nepotism, which is, so to speak, a twin brother of the evil of patronage.

  At this point I would like to make a little divergence and touch upon civil service red tape. It amazes me that up to the present, many civil servants do not realize that we are living in a revolutionary era. This Ghana, which has lost so much time serving colonial masters, cannot afford to be tied down to archaic snail-pace methods of work which obstruct expeditious progress.

  We have lost so much time that we need to do in ten years what has taken others a hundred years to accomplish.

  Civil servants, therefore, must develop a new orientation, a sense of mission and urgency to enable them to eliminate all tendencies towards red tape-ism, bureaucracy and waste. Civil servants must use their initiative to make the civil service an effective instrument in the rapid development of Ghana.