The World through my eyes

The Kitten who losses its family, survives a rain storm, and finds a home and job at last

mcyonordeeforreal — Fri, 21 Sep 2012 15:14:00 GMT

I met him at an area known as the Gap in the Liberians refugees Settlement in Buduburam, Ghana, where mostly young men go to drink cheap liquor, smoke marijuana, and to argue about the UNHCR’s cessation clause for Liberian Refugees, as its draws nearer. I have gone to conduct an interview with a dissatisfied refugee known as Pa Newton, a 65 year old Liberian who has spent more than 20 years of his life in exile, and feels he should be resettle to the United States. Pa Newton now owns one of the joints in the Gap - a three bed room unfinished mud brick structure-where several young men have gathered to go through the routine of the morning hours- smoking, drinking, and argueing.

As we sat among the noisy customers in the open air piazza, chatting very low, trying not to be heard or disrupted by their piecing voices, something else disrupted our conversation.

“Meow, meow.”

We both heard the soft meows coming from the doorway of the unfinished structure and raised our heads together just in time to capture the most amazing sight in the group.The little fella crept into the opened air piazza of Pa Newton’s Joint much to everyone‘s astonishment. He was just a week old, I guessed, and a handful, but carried himself as though he was a grown tiger in the midst of hostile men. Bold and courageous as any of his species, a wee little cat came creeping softly through the legs of frantic adults to seek refuge in the corner of one of the empty rooms.

“Look at the baby cat!” Someone from the group of adults remarked sharply.

“It’s a witch! Get away you witch cat!” a stuff shirt youth exclaimed, and stomped his feet to frighten the little fella away.

But the little fella, a survivor, and a living witness to a gruesome act of animals right's violation, only managed an unpleasant meow, and darted across the short distance to his refuge corner under a tall brush of grass in the empty rooms.

“I knew I heard something like cat crying around my house last night,” Pa Newton presumed.

“Somebody must have killed a cat this morning; I woke up from a noise around two AM, and noticed it was the cry of a cat being hit,” one customer affirmed strongly.

“Yeah, it’s true, last night someone was running behind cat right under my window, so I think it’s the mother cat,” another confirmed unsympathetically.

“Then the other kittens must have gotten missing, or taken, too. Who knows?” Pa Newton suggested.

“Those are so so witch cats them, so they need to die!” screamed Mr. Macho.

I got from beside Pa Newton, and went after the little fella. I found him curled under a brush of grass that grew in the dirt in the room. He was trembling, either from cold, or fright, but his curious gray eyes watched every move I made toward him.

Pa Newton came over and joined me. “He’s weak from hunger,” he observed with sympathy.

“I don’t think he’s gonna make it,” I predicted, considering his frail and thin frame.

“If he does he can stay here, and no one will bother him,” Pa Newton promised.

Much to the annoyance of those who believed that the kitten was a witch, and should be kicked out, the little fella was allowed to have the brush in the corner all to himself.

I was glad, yet worry about the little fella’s survival, as the afternoon approached. With the cloud dressed in gloomy gray, prepared for a rain storm, everyone least expected the little fella to make it through the night in a roofless building that usually gets flooded during heavy arain.

At night fall the cloud burst forth open in a heavy down pour of rain. As i leid awake in bed my heart went out to the poor little fella, whose story is as similar to those of the many Liberian refugees. Both have gone through similar unfortunate ordeal, by watching their families murdered by armed men, but managed to survive. Except, that the little fella’s family was apparently murdered, and eaten by hungry refugees. As I lied in bed listening to the heavy drops beat upon the roof, with the storm violently jerking at it to tear it down, I began to wonder if the little fella would make it by day break.

The storm continued violently through the night and seized only at the break of dawn. Early that morning, I got out of bed and ran to Pa Newton’s Gap to find out what may have happened to the kitten through the rain storm. But Pa Newton had beaten me to the task, however, by three or four minutes. When I arrived, I met him searching for the little fella from room to room, and joined him.

“Did you check good under the tall grass in the room he went into yesterday?” I asked with concern.

Pa Newton looked at me doubtfully at first before answering.”I check the room but…” he stuttered in thoughtfulness.

A feeling of melancholy gripped me at the thought of the little fella getting drown in the heavy down pour, and so decided to check the room up again. To our outmost surprise, just as the kitten heard our steps he uncurled himself from under the brush of grass and came creeping forward. He sat up and licked clean his wet fur before greeting us.

“Mew,” he let out softly, as if he meant, ‘Good morning gentlemen, I’m fine, thank you’, and gave his little frail body a full stretch and shake.

“He survived!” I said triumphantly, trying to get close to gave him a pet on the back, which he resisted by raising his back in a defensive ach, and then japing me with a left hook. Pa Newton and I burst into laughter. “His survival instinct is really sharp,” I observed.

“A natural born predator; I think I have a job for him at home,” Pa Newton asserted excitedly. “The rats are giving me hard time. He will be of great help and service to me.”

“Sure,” I agreed, glad that the little fella has, not just found a home at last, but a job as well as a new family.

To watch the falling stars

mcyonordeeforreal — Sat, 21 Apr 2012 12:55:00 GMT

To watch the falling stars

At 4 PM I’m suddenly up with an excellent burst of vitality after the afternoon’s sumptuous feast of Kanke and spicy lobsters’ source had sent me on a three hours nap. The heaviness of the Kenke, another of Ghana’s traditional meal prepared from corn maize made me almost forget the significance of the day.

Of course it’s Wednesday! I think excitedly.

Like all Ghanaians, I have begun the day in a very high spirit. And now, in two hours time all hell will stand still in the humid country as the Black Stars go against the Chipolopolo of Zambia in the Semi final of the Orange African cup of Nations in the city of Bata, Equatorial Guinea, at the Estadio de Bata.

As four times title holder, the Black Stars are hungry for another title. Their last taste of victory was in 1982. Considered favorite for the title this year, they parade a very youthful and talented team with international stars like Asamoah Gyan who stunned the English Premier League last season, and Dede Ayew of Marselle, Ghana new wonder boy since his father Abede Pele.

But the team struggled to beat Tunisia 2-1 in 120 minutes exhaustive match on Sunday night to booked their place in the last four of the tournament, while Zambia had a cool sailing to the last four after beating Sudan on Saturday.

Howbeit, both sides won three and drew one game to get here.

Brock, my research partner, is quick to point out to me: “Ghana should be very careful of the Chipolopolo team. They are a very great side and will make it to the final.”

But my Ghanaian brothers and I are confidence of winning tonight. And every Ghanaian I meet does not see this side losing the match at all. They see the game as if their supremacy on the continent depended upon it.

The pre-match tension had begun to build as earlier as this morning.

“Charley when we finish with Zambia, you people should just give us the cup now!” One jubilant fan shouts at his opponent in an argument about the team’s slow performance.

And another adds indignantly, “We are the best in the world! You people should ask USA about us, now. We dey beat them, paaaa!”

As the cadence of the descending sun illuminates the former Gold Coast, its humid rays dazzle on every pedestrian dressed in the national team jerseys. And to admit, it’s a very beautiful rainbow combination to watch as the diehard Ghanaian fans scintillate in their national side’s jerseys.

At five thirty, I board a bus for the suburban town of Malam, about 10 km from the Buduburam Refugee Settlement where I’ve come to conduct a research, to see a Ghanaian friend, whose place I will watch this all important game of African Football.

The exitement starts at 6:00 PM, precisely after the usual familiarity that went on before all football matches. Of course I was the only foreigner in the living room of four adults and two kids cheering the Black stars to victory, as my custom is to be a citizen of wherever I travel.

Seated before a 41 inch plasma screen that brought the picture in a very high definition, it was as if we were seated in the steamy weather of the partly empty Bata stadium.

At the sound of the whistle we squeeze into our seat as Ghana starts the game with a quick tempo to break the Zambians as quickly as possible.

But as expected, Zambia lines up a 4-2-2-2, a very defensive system they seem to be good at.

However, the Black Stars task to try to break down the resilient Zambia defense quickly results into an early minute penalty just eight minutes into the game.

All Ghana stands still at the moment as the ball is place on the spot to be taken by Asamoah Gyan. You can almost hear your own heart beats within the seconds. But all our hearts shatter as Ghana star player widely misses this glorious opportunity.

The whole Ghana thunders into a great roar of disappointment.

“Oh Asamoah you dey kill us oooh!” My host shouted as the ball went sailing past the post.

“What happened?” I ask, daze and confuse, having blink from fright as the penalty was taken.

“If we lost this game we go kill that bastard!” yelled someone in our audience.

The game continues. Ghana dominates, but struggles to create chances.

And the Zambians, fast on every counter, attempt to break quickly with the two wide players, Chansa on the left and Rainford Kabala, their most dangerous player on the ball, on the right coming in off the flanks.

Then Mayuka, the only member of the Zambian squad playing for a European first division club, came in and added a little flavor to his team.

We clink to the edges of our seats as the game now becomes tense.

And then out of the blue, with a shot on the turn of 78 minutes, Emmanuel Mayuka, the Zambians’ substitute broke our hearts. We watch in bewilderment as the ball sails past and seems to be happily collected by the nets.

And then the entire Ghana goes mute. It seems the unpredictable gods of football have already decided Ghana’s fate on this day. To add insult to the injury, as my old grandmother would say, our midfielder Derek Boateng is sent off eight minutes from time with a second yellow.

By now all Ghana erupts in an upheaval of disappointment over the performance of the national team.

My host says hysterically,”Asamoah Gyan is a bastard, and not a real Ghanaian, I swear to God!”

Everyone in the living room agrees.

The whistle finally goes in the 92 minutes to announce the sad fall of the illustrious Black Stars.

Like all Ghanaians I must travel 10 Km back in silence with curses for Asamoah Gyan, for missing a clear cut chance in the eight minutes of the game.

Photos: The World Through my Eyes

mcyonordeeforreal — Mon, 2 Apr 2012 01:27:00 GMT

Banku in the Sun

My Scholarship entry - Understanding a Culture through Food

mcyonordeeforreal — Sun, 1 Apr 2012 00:07:00 GMT

Stepping out of Arik into Accra at mid day, the fiery embrace of the sun greets me first, and then in the cool of the busy terminal a dazzling poster of a girl in a traditional piece of colorful embroidery around her curvy waist and firm breast as she sifts maize in a calabash. The word above her head says: Akwaba – a Twi word for welcome.

Outside the terminal, the bustling activities of street vendors marvel me.

“Cold Cocoa for fifty pewsua!”

“Tro-tro, Charley?”

Their insistent calls in the nonstop heat astound me. I settle for a bus for Buduburam to conduct a research on Liberian refugees. And on the bus, I ask a man the secret behind his energy under the fiery Sun.

“This is Ghana now, Charley. Our culture be hard work. We chop plenty corn for power in the sun, craaa.” His dark plum face burst into an exaggerated mirth as he boldly made his point.

My host, Aunty Glorious, a Liberian refugee woman, did me the favor. The Banku is the most widely eaten corn maize, she says as she empties a 1 lb bag of maize in a calabash of water, and uses her right hand to mix into a watery porridge. She pours the mixed into a pot on the stove and stirs meticulously until the porridge is cooked into a pasty blob. “Prepared along with mixed vegetable stew and tuna fish, it’s very nutritious."

The mixed vegetable stew is next. She fries the tuna in hot vegetable oil. Next, the fusions of vegetables paste go in. And to the reddish mixture seasons and spices.
Hmm, my mouth waters as the aroma of the cultural meal permeates the humid air.

A 2 lb blob rolled into a double fisted ball along with the reddish sauce and two fried tuna fish are set before me in plates. Not even the heat of the day can deprive me of the moment. I devour the voluptuous meal in the traditional fashion- with my bare hand.

In awe I find the secret to a culture of hard work weave in a delicious dish. The energy I feel is great, despite the day’s heat.