Atta

------------------------------------(Atta's Father Bitumba)

September 4^th, 2011, it was going toward twilight; I was sitting under a shady palm in the Bichabob clan. I was told the day before that a young girl had died. I had told the family I wanted to visit them and learn about the now-deceased girl. The family agreed and was very appreciative of my curiosity. To compare, I noted, “My grandpa turned 94 years of age just 2 days ago,” I said to Joseph (my translator). “Oh! Then he’s too old,” he said excitedly with laughter in his voice (he meant that as a good thing). I began with my questions. “So, please, how old was the girl that died? Was she in her 20s?” “Oh no, she was 19 or 20 maybe…they say they have the date written,” they told me. Good, I thought, as I wanted to give the most accurate representation of this deceased girl as possible. The father of the deceased girl returned with a book – a bible, believe it or not, reminding me of the old family bible my mom has in their house next to the recliner. It was filled with dates, names, and accounts of births. “Atta, is the girl’s name,” they said. Upon searching the front pages of their family’s bible, I found no such name. “How about Tawia? Was she Atta’s sister? Was Atta older than Tawia?” I offered. “Tawia is her sister, but she’s younger, they think Atta was 2 years older,” they replied. Okay, so Tawia was born in July of 1988, we’ll give Atta a birth year of 1986. This meant she was about 25 years old. My age.

-------------------------------------------(Family Bible)

Atta was born in 1986 to her mother Yaa and father Bitumba. Yaa and Bitumba are both farmers, farming yam and cassava. Neither of them has gone to school, and they’re not sure of their age (they actually ask me to tell them how old they are). I told them they were “old,” to which the whole of family around our meeting place responded with laughter and acceptance. Bitumba has 9 children and 2 wives; all are living with the recent exception of Atta. He doesn’t have any hobbies, he just farms. Yaa has given birth to 6 children, she tells me all are still living except for Atta, which I doubt as they tend not to include children who pass before they reach the age of 5. In Konkomba if a mother gives birth to a child, and that child dies, her next child will be named Jagri, meaning that the deceased child has come back again. There are a lot of Jagri’s in this village.

---------------------------------------------(Atta's mother, Yaa)

Yaa is confined to the compound because she “has become blind.” Atta has 6 living siblings, and one daughter named Umborinye. Umborinye means “God Knows” in Konkomba (the local language); she looks no older than 5 years. Atta was married to a man named Tamanja, he only officially was married to her, but I was told he had 2 wives. The other one was just for “friendship,” not official. Tamanja will take care of Umborinye now that Atta died. Atta farmed yams and cassava at her father’s farm, attended church in the village, and attended school up to 4^th grade before dropping out.

-----------------------------------------(Atta's Daughter, Umborinye)

“She was sick a long time” was the answer I got in response to the question whether or not her death was sudden. When I asked them to describe the sickness, Bitumba talked for a long time in Konkomba. When he was finished Joseph said, “She had epilepsy.” “That wasn’t all he said, Joseph! Translate it all for me!” I said. “Okay, well, one certain day she met a man, he gave her money and told her to buy food with it. She bought food and brought it home. She was preparing it in the courtyard by the fire when she collapsed in front of the whole family. They all saw it. She was shaking and throwing her limbs around; she had a lot of saliva around her mouth. When her eyes finally opened and she stopped shaking they asked her what had happened, she didn’t know.” I pressed, “So do they think that man who gave her money to buy food caused her sickness?” “They haven’t seen the man before or again, and neither did she,” he replied (implying that they did indeed think the man had something to do with her sickness). When I asked how long ago her first attack happened, no one could remember, just saying, “a long time, and she’s been falling monthly.” On the 2^nd of September, in the evening time “just like now,” (the time period of the interview) she had a similar attack. The whole family saw it again. This time, her eyes never opened again.

“So then what?” I asked. “We never bury a person during the day, the sun is too hot. So, since it happened in the evening and the coffin wasn’t ready, we had to wait until the next evening to bury her.” Dying young here isn’t good. If you’re old and you die, that is natural and normal. If you die when you are old, you will receive the honor of an immediate funeral 3 days after you die, then you will be “buried in your house” or near your home/within the village. If you were very old and respected you will have a “final funeral” later on when the family can raise enough money to have a big celebration with lots of eating, drinking, and dancing. If you die when you’re young, it’s unnatural and often suspect of something evil. In this case you will be buried in the “kichee” or cemetery, in the bush, far away from the village. Your family will mourn for 3 days, then return to normal daily life. If a child dies, there’s even less observance given. The child is buried, again far away from the village in the bush, and only close family is privy to the fact that a child is gone. Not many people notice and the most visibly affected person is the older sibling on who’s back that child spent most of their days.

--------------------------------------(Child carrying younger sibling)

As a person raised in a 1^st world country, one of my first instincts is to find out exactly why a person died. This situation was no different. Epilepsy is surprisingly common in this village. No one in Atta’s family has a history of it thankfully. If there’s medicine available to the average Ghanaian, I don’t know of it. I asked the family to share with me anything else about her, but unfortunately the lasting impression they have of her, is her post-epileptic behavior. “She’d been very stubborn, you ask her to do something, she won’t mind you.” “Once you have epilepsy you won’t have good mind again.” I can only imagine the amount of brain damage resulting from untreated monthly seizures on concrete floor for “a long time.” So it was likely she died from an untreated seizure.

I considered my curiosity satisfied. But this is a significant difference between my culture back in the states and the culture here. People don’t ask why someone died here, it’s not important to them, it isn’t realized as a potential learning point to prevent a similar death. Death is immediately accepted, no questions asked.

I remember when leaving my job at the UW Hospital I had a premonition of being frustrated with the lack of resources in Ghana for treatable illnesses, this has come true. Save for malaria, dengue and yellow fever, dysentery, malnutrition and the many other 3^rd world diseases and conditions we have in Ghana, we have 1^st world chronic illnesses as well, without access to 1^st world resources. As a result, people die here—more than would otherwise. I didn’t write this to make you feel guilty or for sympathy. I wrote it to expand your knowledge of the world, to show how things are in different areas and cultures and how people cope with their situations.

At the end of my time sitting with Atta’s family, I asked them if they were sad she was gone. They responded tearfully that of course they were sad. To an outsider, their way of coping with death may appear cold and callus, but it’s their tradition. It’s not lack of caring or feeling sad, it’s simply how they do things.

-------------------(Umborinye and her cousins in the compound where Atta lived)

Dear Blog

I think an apology is in order.  We have fallen off the wagon and failed to add a post to you for over a month now.  It's not you, it's us.  We've just been so busy...  I have been on term break from Dec 17 to Jan 10, so no teaching, at least not officially, though I did teach a few extra classes during the break which were voluntary for the form 2s (8th grade).  Tricia and I went to Atimpoku, just below Akosombo dam on the Volta river, for Tricia's birthday.  We also sneaked in a trip to Accra for our flu (H1N1 and seasonal) vaccine and Hep C shots.  Then we went back to Kpassa for Christmas, which was spent in the house the whole day, opening presents (thanks!) and eating a boxed homestyle bake ("turkey stew and stuffing" - delicious), cranberry sauce and brownies.  Even though it was just the two of us, we had plenty of things that made it feel like Christmas at home, and we also talked over the phone with family back home.  After Christmas we hosted 6 other PCVs that were on a marathon trek up through the Volta and Northern regions.  They are all serving in the Eastern region of Ghana, and were surprised with some of the regional differences (dirt roads, naked children).  But we wowed them with chili and mango bread and watermelon, and we were grateful for the company.  In other news, apparently our house is capable of sleeping 8 people.  They left early the next morning, and we started packing for a stay in Nkwanta the next two days with some other PCVs in the area (plus a German volunteer with a British NGO).  We relaxed, talked about our service so far, and, of course, made some awesome food.  Tricia and I contributed cheesy enchilada casserole and homemade fudge (thanks to my mother-in-law for the ingredients!).  Then we came back to site on New Year's Eve, as promised, to experience how people in the area celebrate the new year.  At night on the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd (and on the 4th a bit too), they played jams (hip hop music) from giant speakers, well into the night.  They also wore their "Christmas clothes," which is an outfit they buy leading up to Christmas so they can wear it and parade around the village looking good.  Everyone from age 1 and up was decked out in new fabric.  Some wore more traditional dress, others went for more of a Westernized look, with blue jeans and bright "Aeropostale" or "gucci" shirts, which are considered just as formal.  Western culture is permeating Ghana, but it sometimes manifests itself differently.  After the series of sleepless nights from the never-ending thumping bass, the New Year was sufficiently celebrated, and everything went back to normal.  And by normal I mean guys walking by on their way to farm (out in the bush) with their machetes, women fetching water from the boreholes and firewood from the bush, and children running around, unsupervised, naked or in underwear. 

So, I guess we were busy, but not busy enough that we couldn't write.  So we'll make it up to you, blog.  Promise.

Fat guy in a little coat - the Ghanaian version

Ok, this will be a brief post, but I just have to share this story.  I biked into Kpasa this afternoon to buy some things from the "evening market" which sets up every day except Sunday and includes the basics (produce, grains, etc.).  After I had bought everything on the list, I stopped by another, smaller market at the bottom of the hill, also known as the "yam market," just to check it out (you never know when you might see an avocado...even though I haven't found one in Kpasa yet).  I was walking my bike through the market fairly briskly (I had hot dinner - "chop" - in the basket so I knew not to dawdle) when a man I had just passed by exclaimed, "White man...in the yam market."  Like most Ghanaians that call out to me using terms like "white man, fada, obroni," I ignored him.  But I immediately thought of the movie Tommy Boy, and the "fat guy in a little coat" scene.  The Ghanaian even said it slowly, almost melodically, like in the film.  So I thought to myself, "I guess this is the Ghanaian version."  I had to chuckle.

On the subject of Ghanaians yelling at me as I walk/bike/ride by (this is a blog post in and of itself, but I'll let it tag along), in Kpasa it is starting to change.  When you are white in Ghana, it is like you are a light and Ghanaians are moths.  But unlike moths, they are not quiet.  I'm not sure what it is, but they feel compelled to say something.  Anything.  In any language.  Usually English, but not always relevant.  For example, in Kpasa this afternoon I heard, "obroni" about 8 times, mostly from children (they haven't learned concepts such as politeness and sensitivity just yet...).  I also hear, "white man" a lot, in case I can't do the translation from Twi to English myself.  Or, in Likpakpaln, the local dialect of Konkomba, their word for white man is "fada."  Why "fada?"  Because the first white people to be seen by Konkomba were missionaries.  Not that they think I'm a missionary, it's just that they don't have a word in their language to distinguish "Peace Corps Volunteer" from "pastor." So when I took the LPI (language test) during training, I had to say, "N ye PCV la" - that's "I am a PCV."  In addition, sometimes they are quick-tongued enough to blurt out something else.  I have heard, "white man, where are you going?" many times when traveling on tro-tros.  Not that I have time to respond with the speed of the vehicle.  Seriously, sometimes I can hear the Doppler effect in their voice as I pass by.  Sometimes I ponder, "what will they do even if I do tell them where I am going?"  That's why I think it is less calculating and more compulsion.  They just have to say something.

I should say that in Kpasa this behavior is slowly changing.  More and more, as I introduce myself, and as rumor spreads, people are addressing me as "teacher" and "Kofi," and are saying more welcoming things like "you are welcome here."  Even one student that remembered me from my brief site visit in July approached me on the main road and declared that he would come over to my house the next day to formally introduce himself.  The children are still incessant in their catcalls, "obroni" or "fada," repeatedly, even after I acknowledge them.  But the adults are starting to recognize me as part of their community (plus some even tell the kids to stop bothering me).  I am trying to keep my responses subdued - there's no sense in getting upset about it or yelling back, or even acknowledging it.  Plus, for some reason it is really easy for me to ignore.  Especially in the market, when I am on a mission to find avocado, good tomatoes, or fresh wagashi (cheese made by the Fulani nomads that is fried in oil - not the same as cheese curds, but still good!).  It's not even derogatory, "obroni" or "fada;" it's only a word they use to describe me, because they do not know me.  Soon it will be "Kofi" or "teacher," though with the kids it will remain incessant and might make me wish I could go back to being called "obroni/fada" to feel more anonymous. 

Ok, not so short a blog post, but I thought it would be useful to describe this aspect of Ghana and my corner here in northern Volta.  It is true that here I am no longer anonymous - I cannot blend in and be a local.  But over the next two years I will be getting close, if only in my community.  And because integration is hardest at the beginning and gets easier each day, I am confident that it won't be a major problem for me.