Wanderlust

Our eyes continually scan ahead to avoid the open sewers as we merge into the flow of human traffic. Stalls line the street displaying intricately woven kente, and the air is thick with the aroma of bubbling cauldrons mingled with the sick stench of sewage. A white-washed castle looms over the town casting an ominous reminder of the not-so-distant past. Repetitive thumps of women pounding fufu are drowned only slightly by the constant calls of “Welcome obruni!”

Colourful hand painted signs adorn shop fronts, each one an individual work of art. We approach a barbershop, its sign displaying the style-du-jour and the Ghanaian flag proudly in the top corner. I ask the barber where we can find a similar sign and am met with a confused stare as he appears stunned by the sweat-drenched “obrunis” in his doorway. His friend introduces himself as “Mr. Shoemaker”, and offers to help. We walk through a maze of alleys winding further away from town, eventually stopping at an unmarked shack. There is a rapid conversation with a woman in a dialect we cannot decipher and I begin to wonder if we have been duped. It turns out that the artist is not home and a sense of disappointment washes over me. Undeterred, he says he has another plan.

We set off again, stopping periodically as introductions are made to friends. We arrive at another shop and are in luck. Details and prices are quickly negotiated and we are told to return later. With a sense of accomplishment we walk back into town. As we shake hands, about to part ways, he extends an invitation to dinner at his home the following evening. We sadly explain that we are leaving in the morning and with a grin he jots down his address and phone number and declares that we have an open invitation to stay with him should we return. A chance meeting and this man had spent hours helping us and was now opening his home without hesitation. Who knew that what began with a sign would instead become a symbol of the generosity of Ghana.