by Adwoa Badoe
As we weaved along the mountain road, we filled the boneshaker with our screams. The road was steep and narrow, and each time we rounded a bend I was sure we were going to fall over.
What if we had an accident? What if someone fell out? Our highways were so troubled by fatal car accidents, and I now understood why.
We spent that first morning at the carrying station waiting to get organized. There was always some person or some machine we had to wait for. My dad would have said, “Poor planning and poor maintenance — the bane of Ghanaian development!”
So we wasted the morning away. Then we had a snack of roasted plantain and groundnuts for lunch. Afterwards we weighed a few bags of cocoa and arranged them in a pile.
“Time is money,” is nothing but a pathetic saying that no Ghanaian truly believes,” said Banahene.
He was quite right, I thought. So many times I had been late for things and I never cared unless there was a punishment attached. Hanging around all day carrying this, weighing that in the middle of the Kwahu hills was so surreal that I had to pinch myself a couple of times just to be sure it was really happening.
What if this went on forever? I wondered. What a waste of time that would be.
The hours passed slowly. Then it was time to board the boneshakers back to our dormitories.
With the sun setting rapidly, we were soon plunged into darkness. Inside the truck, I listened to the rattling of our diesel engine as the vehicle shook violently all the way downhill. I couldn’t see the depth of the valley. But I could imagine it, just by the incline of the truck and the harsh grating of the gears. I could smell the day’s sweat and feel my heart against my ribs. The journey was worse in the night than it had been in the morning.
‹•›
That night there was an exchange between Banahene and Elias Dagadu in the dining hall. After the meal Dagadu introduced us to our camp leaders — four men and one woman who would help to run our programs — people to whom we could take our issues. Then he thanked us for our willingness to assist the beloved nation.
At our table, Sharon and one of her friends, Derek, burst out laughing. Banahene stood up when things quieted down.
“Elias Dagadu, why do you thank us for our willingness to assist with the cocoa project? Did we vote to come here?” Banahene had to shout his question as the hall was large.
“Can we, as good citizens, decline to help the country that pays our university tuition, when there is such a need?” said Dagadu.
“Mr. Dagadu, can you please answer my question? Do we have a choice to be here, or not?” demanded Banahene.
There was a buzz of voices from various tables. I saw the determination in Banahene’s eyes. He was ready to argue for those of us who were angry at how we had been hustled out of school without so much as a vote.
“Historically, student representatives have always been chosen by voting. We don’t even know how come you are our leader in this camp,” said Banahene.
Somebody shouted, “I am more concerned about our meals than governmental thanks. What kind of meat was in that strange stew we just ate — bat or beef?”
The students roared with laughter. Dagadu waited until the laughter subsided.
“Someday you will be known for your patriotism in rescuing the nation at this time. Someday you will be feted for serving Mother Ghana,” he said.
But Banahene turned to me and said, “Soon they will say that students voted unanimously to suspend their curriculum in support of the revolution. They will forget they forced us here. Just watch.”
‹•›
The boneshakers showed up again the next morning, and I joined the others for the frightful uphill journey.
“You’re back,” said Derek mischievously, when I climbed in behind him.
“Scared but compliant,” I said.
“She’s a true Ghanaian. She complains and acquiesces,” said Banahene.
“True. Our unspoken national motto is Me mpɛ me ho asɛm — I don’t want trouble!” said Sharon.
Indeed, it was hard to stand apart from everybody else. I knew what people would think if I continued to complain. “She thinks she’s better than everyone.” All our lives we had been taught to always fit in and never rock the boat. Girls, especially.
‹•›
It turned out that Banahene and I worked very well together, and I made up my mind that I would always work on his team. No matter how our leaders tried to organize the groups, I stuck close to him. If a leader tried to make me join another group, I simply broke orders and found Banahene again. He must have been quite flattered to find me chasing him like that.
On a count of three, he would grab one end of a cocoa sack while I lifted the other end. Then we would haul it up a short distance to load on a truck. That small effort would take the wind out of me. And on the way back to the pile of cocoa, we would chat about this, that and the other. The time passed easily that way.
I loved the purity of mornings in Kwahu — the freshness of the mountain air and the coolness of the dew underfoot. I listened for the sound of the cock crowing every morning. But in the end, the hustle and bustle of our daily work dismissed the peace of the countryside.
There was a newspaper vendor near the entrance to the cocoa-carrying station, and Banahene bought two newspapers, the Daily Crusade and the People’s Daily Graphic.
“How do you manage this every day?” I asked. I had never spent my money on a newspaper in all my life. It was something our parents did — people who worked a job and earned money.
“I used to buy just the Graphic, but these days I have to buy two papers. It’s the only way to sift the real news from propaganda. If I could afford it, I’d buy about five papers daily,” he said.
I observed the little details of Banahene’s expressions as he skimmed through the first paper. I read in his eyes humor and cynicism and incredulity as he moved from one story to the next.
“Listen, Charlotte. Fifty soldiers from Kumasi’s Fourth Battalion Infantry Brigade attacked a religious sect called The Lord Is My Shepherd. They killed the minister, dismembered his body and put his parts on public display,” said Banahene.
“No way!” I said.
“Apparently it was just a small disagreement between a trigger-happy soldier and a policewoman who attended that church. And then everything got out of hand. You can’t get deader than that,” said Banahene, as he showed me the picture of a man lying dead on a street.
Sharon had just joined us beneath the shade tree in the yard.
“The soldiers are tripping!” she said.
“Power in the wrong hands,” said Banahene. “They killed the policewoman, too.”
“This can’t be happening in Ghana,” I said.
“Is the story in the Daily Graphic?” Sharon asked.
“No. It’s in the privately owned Crusade. You have no idea what escapes the radar of journalism in our new socialist state,” said Banahene wryly.
That night Banahene, Derek, Sharon and I gathered in an unlocked classroom. We spread dishes of kenkey and fish, which we had bought in the village, on two tables. We ate, relishing every mouthful.
“We always talk about things but isn’t there something we can do?” asked Sharon. She was still appalled by the gory news we’d read earlier in the day.
We all agreed that it was time to stand up for what we believed in. I was quite clear that I did not believe in bloody military revolutions, and I certainly disagreed with a communist agenda for our nation. I just didn’t know what standing up for something meant. I told them about our meetings in Dr. Ampem’s office.
“You know, it was all talk! Every week, meet and talk,” I said.
“Maybe for you it was talk but not for some of the others. The guy was recruiting comrades for the revolution. I’ve heard that he is one of the people behind this exercis
e,” said Banahene.
“Well, let’s do something right now,” said Derek.
“So formed, the New Student Democrats. All say aye,” I said.
There were four ayes, and Derek pulled a sheet of paper and a pencil out of his pocket and began to write.
“The New Student Democrats are hereby formed, and our vision is to affect student participation in the politics of the land,” said Banahene grandly.
“We will work to help students in politics so long as they favor ideas of democracy,” I said.
“Such ideas include advancing the rule of law, civil rights and human rights,” said Sharon, as Derek wrote furiously to get it all down.
“We have a rough mission statement now, but we shall soon part ways. How will we carry on?” asked Derek.
“K.I.S.S. Keep It So Simple!” said Sharon. “Let’s just plan to stand for positions in our Student Representative Councils.”
“How about the National Union of Ghana Students — NUGS itself?” asked Derek.
“I’m not quite sure about personally standing for elections. But I can support the right candidates by joining their campaigns,” I said.
“I’m going to stand for SRC secretary or treasurer at Cape Vars,” said Sharon.
“I will campaign for you, Sharon,” said Derek.
“I think Banahene should stand for SRC president. He would be amazing!” I said.
“Yes, you’re the man for it, Banahene. You could even be the NUGS president,” said Sharon. NUGS leadership is moving to UST this year.”
“Maybe Charlotte should stand for NUGS president,” said Banahene.
“Don’t try to get out of this by making jokes,” I replied.
“Seriously, Charlotte! Don’t forget that Dr. Ampem saw something in you,” said Banahene.
“Yeah, Charlotte, stand!” said Derek.
“Charlotte, how about this for a deal? If you stand for president, I will stand for secretary, and I will campaign for you,” said Banahene.
“Yes, vote Charlotte for president! I don’t think any of the universities have ever had a woman SRC or NUGS president,” said Sharon.
“You sound like Dr. Ampem. But I can only promise that I will support Banahene’s campaign for NUGS or SRC president,” I said. “That, I can handle.”
11
By the second week of the exercise, we were working shorter days because the drivers opted to drive us back while it was still daytime. Our leaders agreed that it was safer, and I was much happier.
It felt good to wash the sweat and dust off my body even if the water was so cold. After my shower, I went to find Banahene and we wandered into the small town on whose outskirts we were perched. We bought fried yam and pepper from the first vendor we saw. I loved the crispy corners of fried yam, cut in geometric shapes and well salted. Already the pepper sauce was soaking through the yam and I smacked my lips with pleasure.
What was it about street food that was so satisfying?
The fried yam vendor told us that a drum ensemble played for the locals every Friday evening. We walked around and saw the chief’s house and two small churches, one Presbyterian and the other Roman Catholic. I wondered how Mass would sound in Twi. We passed by a school and some houses. A bank, a police station, a few commercial buildings and a row of kiosks made up the town center.
People greeted us affably and we responded. We strolled around until we got tired, then we headed back to the school. By this time the sun was just a reddish, purplish glow in the western sky, and we sat outside the assembly hall reminiscing.
“Do you remember how we met? asked Banahene.
“How could I forget? You knocked me over on the eighth-floor landing.”
We both laughed.
“You should have taken my advice that day,” said Banahene.
“I disagree. My subsequent ponding is a far better story to tell. Everyone gets such a laugh over it.”
Banahene did not mention the one kiss between us. It was something he never referred to. And I didn’t mention Asare and my passport.
It was strange how things had built up between Asare and me, only to fade over the first few weeks of the New Year because of the coup. Here I was now, in February, in the strangest place I could have imagined, high on the mountains of Kwahu, carrying cocoa bags by day and hanging out village style by night.
It was growing darker and mosquitoes were beginning to buzz and bite, so Banahene and I went walking to keep them at bay.
“I don’t think I have ever seen a moon as brilliant as tonight’s,” said Banahene wistfully.
I looked up. The sky was flushed with moonlight, and the moon itself seemed so close.
Banahene placed his arm around my waist. He pulled me a little closer and tighter. We walked on, and the pepper sauce was still burning on my tongue. Then the talking stopped between us, and all I could hear was the sound of crickets screeching.
Suddenly, a chill passed through me, and I shivered.
“Cold?” he asked.
“No,” I replied, even though the mountain air was cool.
But Banahene took off his cotton jacket and covered my shoulders. Then he drew me close towards him. All I could feel was the warmth of his breath on my face. Then his lips were on mine, and just like that, we were kissing.
After long moments his lips broke away from mine, but still he held on to me.
“I’ve wanted to do that ever since … for a long time.” He reached for my hand and pulled me along. We found an upstairs corridor in one of the classroom blocks. Leaning back against the wall, he drew me to him.
“Charlotte, I’m sure you know I am so attracted to you,” he said.
“No,” I mumbled. “I just know we really get along.”
“Come on, Charlotte. Friends don’t kiss like this.”
“I didn’t know what to make of that other kiss. You never mentioned it again,” I said.
“I was up against … against tremendous odds. I still am, I guess, except now I have you to myself. It’s the one thing I can thank the socialists for,” he said with a chuckle.
I laughed. “It hasn’t been so bad after all, eh?”
“Charlotte, I might as well just say it. I am in love with you.”
“It’s probably the crazy moonlit night,” I said.
“Maybe.” He pulled me close again. His hands traveled over my back and my face, tracing lines of fire on my skin. We kissed again and again. Banahene pressed against me, and I felt every inch of him. I was surprised at how strong and taut he was, as the firm muscle of his thigh marked mine.
“It isn’t just the moon, Charlotte,” he whispered. “Be my girlfriend.”
I didn’t speak. It wasn’t that I didn’t love him, but there was still Asare, and I felt as though I owed him.
“Okay, baby, think about it for a while. But don’t be too long thinking.”
He brushed my hair with his hand, just where I cuddled against him. Banahene was tall, and my head felt snug just beneath his chin.
‹•›
Two weeks passed quickly as we bagged and loaded cocoa onto trucks. One Friday, a farmer visited us at the station. He had come to thank us for our work. A pleasant man, he brought fresh cocoa fruit to share with us.
I broke the yellow pod open with a machete, and inside were the pap-covered seeds. With my index finger I dislodged a seed and licked the gooey sweetness all around it.
Cocoa tasted good — tangy-sweet. But it wasn’t sold fresh because it was the dried seeds that appealed to Caucasians, who then processed them for drinking as a beverage or as chocolate for dessert. This was where the money was hidden — inside the seed.
“Do you know about Tetteh Quarshie?” I asked the farmer.
“Who is he?” he asked.
“He is the famous Ghanaian blacksm
ith who first brought cocoa seeds into the country from Fernando Po island in 1876.”
Every schoolchild learned this fact in history class. But this man was likely illiterate and perhaps had not gone to school beyond early primary.
“The Ga people have done something for Ghana,” said the farmer.
I liked the modesty of rural folk. He explained that he had inherited his cocoa farm from his uncle. I asked him if his farm was nearby. But he laughed and said it was several hours away.
“I don’t think you would know how to climb the slippery hills of Kwahu,” he said with eyes twinkling. “Have you ever been to a farm before?”
“No,” I said.
I was a city girl, only one generation removed from the farms of my people. I had never walked barefoot in mud and mire. I had never cut through thickets and creepers. I had never carried firewood on my head.
The farmer’s name was Owusu Ansah. He was a typical Akan, smallish but strong. He was also very dark with discolored eyes. Sun and age did that to eyes, but he still had a twinkle in them.
“Have you ever had chocolate?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“What about Milo?” asked Banahene.
“Yes, I like that better than tea.”
“Did you know Milo is made from cocoa?” asked Banahene.
“Do you think we village people know nothing at all?” he asked.
Suddenly, I wanted to give Mr. Owusu Ansah a gift. And I knew exactly what to do.
It took me twenty minutes to walk to the cluster of vendors we had passed on our way to the cocoa station. I purchased three bars of Golden Tree chocolate for the old man. I insisted he open one bar right there. I wanted him to taste it because I knew he would be more inclined to save the treat for his grandchildren.
He laughed as he ate a small piece of chocolate.