It is. And you are?
Blade.
Blade, like the American movie with Wesley Snipes?
That’s it.
Are you a superhero?
Not at all.
Well, it is nice to meet you, Mr. Blade.
Nice to meet you, Joy. Are you from England?
Why do you say that?
Your accent, there’s, like, hints of British. The taxi guy
too.
Hmmm. Colonization. Blame it on the queen.
Right.
You could use some water, it seems.
That was a very, very long walk.
Only if you’ve never done it.
You’ve done it?
Twice a week. Some of my students, twice a day.
. . . .
Down the road, over there is a shop. We can get some
bottled water there.
I don’t mind drinking the well water.
Even with your American malaria pills, this water is not
safe.
Well, can I help you with the water?
No, Mr. Blade, I can handle it.
Three buckets of water and two arms—are you sure?
I have been carrying buckets since I was three. I am sure.
If you say so.
So tell me, Mr. Blade, what are you doing here?
Looking for someone.
Detective Blade.
Not like that. I think my mother is here.
There are no other missionaries here but you, I’m afraid.
I’m not a missionary.
All Americans who come here are on a mission.
I am on a mission, but it’s just to find my birth mother.
Interesting. You are not here to save us?
I got enough problems of my own, trust me. I’m here to
close a chapter.
I see. Well, what is your mother’s name?
Lucy. Lucy November.
Lucy November is your mother?
I think so. So you know her?
Yes, I do. Lucy November is my auntie.
So, we’re cousins?
Not exactly.
I don’t understand.
It is a sign of respect, in Ghana, for women who take
responsibility for nurturing and protecting, who look
out for the children in their lives like Ms. Lucy does. It is
protocol to say Auntie.
So, can you take me to her?
I can’t, but I know who can, Blade. Come, I will explain.
Joy walks
like
she could balance Venus
on her head.
Not a drop of water
spills
from the two medium pails
on each hand
or the large bucket
centered
on her head.
How is that possible?
She doesn’t trip
on a stone
or tree root,
or look to find
her steps.
She just knows
the way
of the sun
and her hips
sway like a wave
keeping time.
She stops,
turns around,
fluid
like the water,
and looks at me.
Are you staring, Mr. Blade?
I’m not staring. But you can at least let me take one.
I am fine. Medase!
That means thank you, right?
It does. And I do thank you. But, I’ve got this.
Akwaaba!
I am welcome?
You said, Thank you, I was saying, You’re welcome.
Ahhh! Yennaase is “you’re welcome.”
Oh, sorry about that.
It’s okay, Blade, you’re trying. Most American’s don’t.
Joy, how far are we walking?
Not too far—we’re close.
. . . .
Twenty minutes later
we arrive
at a house—
if you can call it that—
made out of
red dirt
and slabs of wood.
Just put your bag down over there, she says, pointing to a
pile of rocks and a pot.
So, where can I find Lucy?
Konko is a big place. There are almost a thousand people
spread throughout it. Most are here, but there are some in
a neighboring community, and a small group in a remote
settlement. Auntie Lucy is visiting there.
In the settlement. Why?
They do not have a lot up there. Even less than we have. She
goes to help. With school. With medicine. With food.
How far is it?
Not—
Yeah, not far, I know. How many miles?
Twenty-five kilometers, but you will need a guide.
A guide?
It’s on the other side of mountain and rainforest. You can
drive for a quarter of the way. The rest is walking, and you
will need a guide.
And where might I find the guide?
He goes up once a week.
When is the next time he’s leaving?
He left this morning.
Can we call her?
No Reception
Of course,
there are no
working cell phones
in that remote
settlement
because there are no
cell towers
on the other side
of mountain
and rainforest.
Perhaps we can send
an African pigeon
with a note,
I want to say
in frustration.
But, of course,
I don’t.
It is impolite
to turn down
a dinner invitation, she says,
handing me a bottle
of Volvic water.
How much do I owe you?
Three cedis.
I haven’t exchanged my money yet. How much is that?
Oh, sixty dollars.
Very funny.
My treat, she says,
pounding flour
and water
in a bowl
along with several
other women
in the village,
while they speak
in a language
I can’t understand,
though I can tell
they are talking
about me
by the laughter
and the stares.
Her Village
is bustling
and bursting
with children
chasing goats
and soccer balls,
while their mothers
cook, wash, laugh,
and dance
all at the same time,
to what sounds like
James Brown,
only faster,
with heavy drums
and lots of chants.
The energy here
is familial,
jovial even.
It rivals Hollywood Boulevard,
only less glitz
more raw
and real.
The men are off
cutting timber
growing cocoa
farming
all day
for their families.
Each person
I pass
waves
like they know me
or they want to.
It is a good feeling
not to be recognized
and still noticed.
Track 8: Zombie
ROCKER: FELA KUTI / ALBUM: ZOMBIE / LABEL: COCONUT RECORDS / RECORDING DATE: 1975 / STUDIO: NIGERIA
The music they’
re dancing to, what is it?
Fela. FELA KUTI! Rabble-rouser.
Sounds like funk jazz rock dance music all mixed up.
The king of Afrobeat.
This song is long. It’s been playing forever.
Epic songs. Some are ten, some are twenty minutes long.
He’s Ghanaian?
From Nigeria, but all of Africa loves Fela.
Where is the music coming from?
There is a boom box and big speakers in a truck down the
way. DJ Enoch entertains us.
A boom box? Wow! Haven’t seen one of those in a while.
The song is called “Zombie.” But, not your American
zombies. It’s about soldiers who don’t think for themselves,
they just follow orders. The song got him into a lot of
trouble.
Like what?
Ironically, he was banned from Ghana. And because of the
song, the very soldiers he spoke out against were ordered to
kill his mother.
Did they?
The zombies did.
For a song? That’s crazy.
Music is powerful, Blade.
Fufu
For dinner,
I hesitantly eat
what looks like
dough
and tastes
like nothing good
until
I dip it in a bowl
of peanut soup
and eat every last
piece.
And when it’s gone
I try to eat
what lingers
on my fingers.
Conversation
Where will you stay tonight?
Do you have hotels?
There are plenty back in Accra. A few near the junction.
You mean back up the long hike?
Taxis will come, but they are random in the evening. More
in the mornings.
Seriously?
There’s always tomorrow.
Medase.
I hear sarcasm.
. . . .
There is a bed in the school. You can sleep there.
What about a shower? Anywhere around here to do that?
What do you think the water was for, boss?
Of course.
On the way
to the school
something runs
in front of us,
and when I ask
Joy what it is,
she smiles, and says,
If we’re lucky,
tomorrow’s soup.
Conversation
That’s not funny at all.
It most certainly isn’t.
Where I come from, that was a rat. A big ole rat.
Grasscutter is a delicacy.
I’ll pass.
So what brings you here to talk to your mom, Lucy? You
know, I had no idea she had a son.
I just found out that I was adopted.
And who are your adoptive parents now?
My mother died when I was eight.
Koo se. I am sorry.
My father and sister are back home.
They must miss you, yes?
It’s complicated.
Is it?
Where is your family?
They live in Volta region.
How far is that?
A long way.
So, why are you here?
I came to take care of my uncle. He is old and doesn’t see.
I’m sorry.
You are sorry a lot. It’s life, Mr. Blade.
Please just call me Blade.
These are your quarters, Blade.
This is your school?
This is it.
Oh.
Home
We are
in a building,
if you can call it that,
smaller than
my Hollywood bedroom.
It has three rooms
no doors
no windows.
We stand in the largest.
I can see
the stars
through holes
in the roof
held up
by four logs
shooting up
from a dirt floor
with rows
and rows
of chairs
and a cross,
which lets me know
this is also a church.
God help me.
Conversation
We will make a pallet over there, she says, pointing to a
wooden contraption with a few blankets on top.
Wait, is this a church? I thought you said I’d be sleeping
in the school.
This building is, indeed, the church, Blade. And the
community center. And the library. And the school. It’s not
complete, but we are working on it.
I see. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it, but I’m happy
to pay for a bed, in a house or something.
All the extra space we have is occupied by children who
have lost their parents.
Lost their parents?
Yes, many have left to find work, or have fallen sick.
Millions here are affected by malaria. Parents die or are
too sick to take care of their sick children. We have twenty
thousand children die each year from it. The mosquitoes
are treacherous.
. . . .
Don’t worry, Blade, we have mosquito nets. Plus, your
American pills are potent.
I’m sorry, Joy.
Don’t be. It is not your fault . . .
What happens to the orphans?
Orphans
The word seems sad
when you say it.
An orphan
is like a soul bulb
waiting
to be planted
in just
the right place.
When you’re an orphan,
you no longer belong,
but a child is a child
of everyone,
they belong
to a community,
to a greater garden,
she says.
But what if the garden is barren? I think,
still captivated
by the way she talks
by the way she cares
by the way
the moon
paints
her perfect
face.
I see you are staring again.
Portrait of a Woman
I am no Michelangelo
to mezza fresco
this old tree
is my canvas
and I marvel
at your body
and soul
the masterpiece
that is your
pristine walk
the heavenly way
it colors
the world
from earth
to sky.
I want to write
your song,
is what I want to say, but
what comes out is:
Can I get that mosquito net, please?
Conversation
You should rest, my friend. The roosters will be here soon.
And with them come eager children who want to meet the
American boy.
I doubt if I will sleep with the big rats looming.
Oh, they are more afraid of you than you are of them.
You sure about that?
Positively. What you must keep your eye out for are the
mountain lions, she says, laughing so loud even the
crickets stop to listen.
Her smile
makes me forget
that I am
seven thousand miles
away from
the spider
that bit
and poisoned me.
I dig through my suitcase
for my malaria pills
beneath the iPad
with 4245 pictures of Chapel
I can no longer look at,
guitar picks I no longer have use for,
wallet with too much money
yet never enough
to help me make sense of this life,
Charlotte’s Web,
which makes me think too much
of the spider in my dreams,
the clothes and pillow
that smell like home,
until I reach
Mom’s sealed letter
that taunts me
that scares me
that I hold
while I drift off
to the unfamiliar hum
and frantic patter
of a Ghanaian night.
Text Conversation with Storm
4:45 am
I think I only slept
for four hours.
Jet-lagged like crazy.
4:45 am
Plus the roosters started
crowing like thirty minutes ago.
You finish the song?
4:45 am
Stop blowing up my
phone, Blade. I’m busy.
Studying ciphers.
4:45 am
Ciphers? What are you,
a rapper now?
4:46 am
Kabbalah. Don’t hate.
Madonna does it too,
I think.
4:46 am
Whatever works. Express
Yourself! LOL!
4:47 am
Storm, you still there?
I slept in a makeshift
school last night.
4:47 am
It’s really just dirt
and concrete. Next stop,
hotel.
4:47 am
BLADE, what part of stop
bothering me did
you not get!!!
4:47 am
The whole place is a
work-in-progress, actually.
4:47 am
Boy, bye.
zZZZZZ
An hour later, when the
roosters take a break, I fall
back asleep and dream
of nothing.
This Morning
Last night,
after missing
the gentle strum
of my guitar
that always helps
me find
my slumber
and finally
passing out
from the boiling heat,
and then
waking up
at three am
and thinking
of all the things
I’m going to say
to my mother