Ma sends her team out

"won't you go with efreeyeh instead of sit here with me?" Ma was asking, in what sounded like an annoyed manner. her face was wrinkled and her lips were pouty.

all 3 of us had been sitting peacefully in Ma's office, i was reading, they were chatting. efreeyeh bounced out of her chair, and walked outside. was i supposed to know what was going on?

"what is she doing?" i asked.

"oh! why should you ask? i've told her to go and bring the pregnant women. won't you go with her?"

"uh, okay. ya. i'll go and bring the pregnant women. now?"

"yes, now."

"okay." i packed up my purse and said good bye, then efreeyeh and i began to walk in the direction of town.

"what exactly are we doing?" i asked.

"Ma Aggie wants us to go and visit the pregnant women and tell them to come to the clinic."

efreeyeh had just started calling Ma, Ma Aggie. i liked the long version when efreeyeh said it because it sounded like "Moggy", but Ma would always and forever remain a two lettered woman to me.

at the beginning of that week we had a lady in town, pregnant with twins, attempt to deliver at home with a traditional birth attendant (TBA). it was a bad story with an unhappy ending, depending on how you look at it. Maame Vic thought it was a good thing one of the babies didn't make it. "you see?" she said "she is a poor poor woman, she can't afford twins. so now she has just one, she will feel free. her baby will be strong. but that TBA is a wicked wicked woman."

her perspective on the neonate's death was a good way to look at it, i suppose. and the TBA is actually a very kind woman who was put into a difficult situation. turns out the girl showed up on her doorstep with the first child already making it's way into the world. what was she to do?

she came in after her children were delivered, with a retained placenta. Maame Vic had to manually remove it, and during the process a lot of blood was lost. She stayed in the clinic longer than any patient i had ever seen. she was weak and anemic and too poor to go to the hospital for a blood transfusion.

"i'll pay for it." i said.

"let's wait and see if rest and her modified diet will work." sofie said.

her baby girl was premature, and i learned that day about how to correctly wrap a baby into a kangaroo hold. the mother learned also. it is a method that has saved premature babies who don't have access to incubators, babies born in the bush. wrap the child skin to skin against the mother's (or anyone's) chest. keep the baby there, the mother's body heat is perfect for "incubation". the positioning looked quite comfortable, and the baby seemed happier.

things were looking on the bright side the day she was discharged.

it obviously affected Ma, to get her motivated in sending us out into the community.

efreeyeh loves leaving the clinic on missions, whether it's riding the bike to fetch Ma her lunch, going to the market to buy the clinic something, or doing what we were about to do. whatever the case may be, there is always an extra skip in her step.

"so how many women are we going to visit?" i asked.

"just wait and see." she said, smirking at me.

she looked more official in her green uniform. she looked like a health professional. she looked like the community might trust her.

we walked up a hill, alongside some decrepit buildings, past women wringing out their children's just washed clothes. we walked past the baby ducks, i love those baby ducks. i noticed how much they walked like efreeyeh, a slight waddle. i told her this and she slapped me. "i only share these things with you because you share your thoughts with me." i said.

"what do you mean?" she asked.

i pointed to my arm, the arm she has been making fun of for months, the arm she says looks like i broke. "why do you walk like you've broken your arm?" she always asks.

"why do you waddle like a duck?" i now say.

we kept going and i was interested to see whose house we would stop at, when my path was intercepted by the local crazy man. it took me a while to figure out he was crazy, because he says many of the same things the locals say to me, except he repeats them and rocks back and forth while he does it, like he's slightly autistic, but he's not.

"he's a drunk." efreeyeh says. "and he's lost his mind."

now he was standing in front of me, telling me everything i already knew.

"My name is Mike Warrington! Shake me!"

he grabbed for my hand. he didn't need to grab though, i was going to offer it up willingly. i've set my rule with him. i will give him 3 handshakes, then it's over. with my dislike for handshaking i consider myself generous.

"My name is Mike Warrington. are you a british? Shake me!"

i gave him his second.

efreeyeh watched, very pleased with the situation.

"are you a british? my name is mike warrington. i am listening attentively. shake me!"

shake number three and over.

i walked away from him up the dirt hill. "c'mon efreeyeh, hurry up."

she ran up to my side and laughed. "he's lost his mind i hope you know that."

"i know, i'm just trying to get away from his handshaking. i hate it. he does this to me every morning before work, but usually i can see him and dodge him before it happens. shake me efreeyeh shake me!" then i grabbed her hand and started jostling it all around. she laughed.

"go in here akua." she said.

i walked through a metal gate painted blue, into a courtyard. there was a very pregnant woman sitting on a bench eating.

"how are you?" i asked.

"fine." she said.

"hungry?" i said.

"very." she said.

lots of laughter and then some small talk. there was a small child, of whom i had a special interest in since my first week here, hanging out close by. i asked "is this your son?", she said yes.

"oh! really? ebeneezer is my little friend. he's a good boy." i said.

he got very shy and hid.

Mike Warrington came around the corner and made his way into the courtyard over to ebeneezer. the boy tried to escape Mike Warrington but got cornered, so he just stood there while Mike Warrington told me his name over and over again, stressing the k in miKe and the rr's and t in waRRingTon.

the thing about Mike Warrington is, he can pass as sane for quite a long while, until you look closer at his glassy eyes.

"are you a british?" he kept asking.

"no i'm american." i said, wondering why i was even answering, then wondering why i wouldn't. crazy. what is crazy? crazy is still human.

the mother laughed when miKe waRRingTon said he was listening attentively. she spoke only a small bit of english, and his use of proper words had her laughing. he sounded like he had memorized a few lines from the a radio program he might have listened to. it would have been easy, since like nanakwame, he always was cradeling a small cheap radio in the crook of his armpit, listening "attentively".

when i started to ignore him, by turning my head and speaking to the pregant woman, he grabbed ebeneezers arm and squeezed until ebeneezer winced and we all turned to look. "are you a british?"

"please let go of the little boy's arm." i said.

he squeezed tighter "no, i am going to beat this child. my name is miKe waRRingTon."

he had a sick grin on his face.

"LET GO." i said.

ebeneezer looked like he was going to cry, but he wasn't moving. it was a disturbing moment.

"LET HIM GO." i said, again.

he let go, and laughed, treating me as if i were insane. then he came over and said "shake me." putting his grimy hand in my face.

"NO! i won't shake you. everyday you come to me and you say shake me shake me shake me. i'm tired of shaking you mike warrington. really tired of it. don't ask me again."

he kept laughing.

"let's go." i said to efreeyeh.

we reminded the woman to come to the clinic, she thanked us for visiting her and kept eating.

i ran up the hill and hid from miKe waRRington. i watched him walk back down the hill.

"we are going to this woman's house, by the market. have you seen her akua? she's too big, like this." then efreeyeh put her hands out past her toes. "like that. she's big, big."

"is she having twins you think?"

"yes."

"how do you know?"

"she went for a scan."

we turned the corner and were at the place.

"but all the women have gone to farm." efreeyeh said. "it's thursday. they will prepare for tommorow, market day."

"even the women who are about to deliver."

"every body has to prepare." she said.

"eh! efreeyeh. let's see if you are still saying that when you are 9 months pregnant, ya?"

she laughed. "i will akua."

we yelled into the one room structure "kokokoko" which is a phrase in twi, which is supposed to imitate the sound of knocking, but is voiced because most people don't have anything to knock a knuckle up against. no door, no window, nothing. just a vacant doorway. the response is "memememe", and we heard it. the woman hadn't gone to farm. when i saw her, i was suprised she was even moving! she was huge.

we spent some time touching her belly, talking to her, sitting around.

this was another form of community outreach. our own personal form.

this woman was afraid to come to the clinic.

i asked efreeyeh later, "why?".

she said because she hasn't been yet, mostly because she started her antenatal after she got her scan, so she just continued going to Konongo hospital. now that she was at term, Ma would yell at her for not having visited her sooner.

"but she should still come!" i said. "is she going to?"

"she said she would. tommorrow."

"do you think she will?"

"yes. if she says she will then i believe her. but it's true, Ma will yell at her."

"are the women in the village scared of Ma?"

"no." she said.

the next day she did come to the clinic, and Ma did yell at her. then i yelled at Ma, kind of.

"Ma?" i said. "you told us to go into the village and tell the women to come. now when they come, you yell at them. they won't want to deliver here if you make them feel guilty for not having come sooner, and then they'll just deliver at home. exactly what we don't want. so we should be kinder, don't you agree?"

"HMPF. these people." she began "they don't come for antenatal. i don't see them until this point, when they are coming to deliver. you see? HMPF."

"did you ask her why?"

"YES! but she won't speak."

it was true. the woman giggled uncomfortably everytime Ma asked her a question. she never answered one of them.

efreeyeh told me later she had warned her to keep her mouth shut, until she was about to leave, then she could explain her reason for not coming sooner and Ma wouldn't yell as much.

that is exactly what she did. she told Ma, she had to go to Konongo for the scan and if she didn't do antenatal there but got sent there due to complications during delivery, the midwives at the hospital wouldn't care about her. they would treat her poorly because they didn't recognize her.

i wondered if she had spoke with sister Yaa.

it was a smart move, i thought.

our delivery room was kind, whether you had been there before or not. we didn't slap hard, and we didn't yell. we also didn't perform fundal pressure. there were windows which let in the breeze and a view of nature. and although Ma could be moody, she was an excellent midwife.

my initial skepticism of her qualifications, i now see, was due to my own ignorance. i would trust Ma to deliver my child, but i would make sure i went to my antenatals with her first. just to get on her good side.

the mali men's last visit

i found out the mali people were actually from niger, but nobody seemed to care. they still referred to them as "the mali men". just like everybody still believes sofie is from germany.

as i was exploring the village one early morning, on my way to work, taking pictures of kids and dogs and baby ducks, one of the mali women ran across the road over to me.

she grabbed at my dress and inched up uncomfortably close to my face. then she spoke her language. i had no idea what language it was.

i tried to back away, but every time i did she grabbed my dress tighter and got closer.

she smelled like dirty goat and smoked cheese. she didn't smell ghanaian, and i hadn't realized until that point that there was a distinct ghanaian smell. it was anything other than what i was smelling now.

everything about her was different. she had unusually pink gums. they almost looked edible.

i didn't particularly like her gripping me the way she was, but it seemed desperate, so i tried hard to understand what she was explaining.

she was pointing to her dress, it had different colored swirls all over it. she singled out a red swirl and counted to 7.

what was i to think?

"wote twi?" i asked.

she said yes she speaks small twi.

"yeka twi. let's speak twi."

she told me about blood, and months, and medicine, but none of it made much sense. "i'm sorry" i said "i don't understand what you are saying. do you want medicine?"

she said yes yes yes she wants medicine.

"then come today to the clinic." i said.

she told me she would see me soon.

then i summoned up the courage and asked if i could take her picture, because she was unusually beautiful, and she said of course. then she modeled, and pressured me into taking 3 pictures, instead of 1.

well that was easy, i thought as i walked away.

when i got to work i told Maame Vic the mali people would be coming for a visit, and when they came walking down the road towards us, we sat and stared at them. they walked in long strings of pairs, husbands and wives.

they were taller and leaner and boneier. they dressed in more clothes. they were muslim.

we brought the woman i had just met earlier that morning into Vic's office. she sat down and spoke in a clippy blunt accent. it was my first time hearing twi in a foreign african accent. i could barely understand it, but Vic could.

she responded "no, no, we don't do that here."

"do what?" sofie and i asked.

"she's asking for medicine to get blood. she says she hasn't had her period for 1 month, but she's had it the past 7 months, and she wants it. so she's asking for medicine to get the blood back."

"she wants an abortion?" i asked.

"oh no, that's not in our services." sofie said.

"but she doesn't think she's pregnant." vic said.

"but she hasn't had her period for 1 month?"

we all gave each other a dubious look.

"does she know about birth control?" i asked. "we should at least council her in that. for the future."

vic explained this to our mali friend.

she was enthusiastic and wanted an injection of depo provera right away.

"first let's find out if she's pregnant." one of us said.

she left, peed, and came back in to wait with us. kingsley brought in the results.

positive.

again, the mother was unhappy with the news, but coping better than the last. i was already growing frustrated with my emotions regarding unwanted pregnancy. i wanted her to want it. i wanted to be supportive to her. i was already imagining talking to the unborn child 35 years from now. hearing his amazing life tale, telling him about his beginnings.

"well no depo for her i guess."

"let's at least get her some folic acid."

vic called the husband in the room and talked with them both. he smelled like smoke from a wood fire and wore a funny red hat. the kind a circus monkey might wear, boxy-made of felt. he had a neck full of leather jewelry dangling down to his chest. it looked special, like the charms were loaded with secret spells. i had to ask once they were through talking. i asked a few other things as well.

i concluded with "... and why exactly are they here in boama, what do they DO?"

"they walk around and sell their medicines." vic said "do you see? they have medicine there in their bags, you see? it is special from mali, they sell it from village to village. they walk everywhere."

they both were sitting, contemplativly in their chairs, trying to engage but unable to devote much energy to conversation. they just found out they were going to have their 6th child. they seemed like a wonderful couple, close and caring.

working in the clinic is strange. i'm not used to this sort of work, the kind where you know people's most intimate affairs. sofie is used to it. and really, the village is SMALL, so one begins to feel they know too much.

we walk through town together, we pass the man who is being treated for his urinary tract infection, we eat dinner with the woman who has a spleen so large it resembles another breast, i play soccer with the cute guy who comes in every day for an injection in his ass. (all the girls have a hard time with that one, figuratively and literally. the guy is fit. he is one big muscle. they all tried pawning it off on me.)

"since you love injections so much, you take the cute guy."

"it's not in my job description." i say. "looks like you'll have to do it."

i buy rice, bread, eggs from women i've seen naked, frightened or brave, lying supine on the bed in the ward. i sing in church, my voice mixing with the 20 other members, half of which are grandmothers of children i've seen be born.

i interviewed a few midwives before i came to ghana only because people said skeptically (but lovingly) "you've never seen a birth before and you're going to work in a birthing clinic, in africa? can you handle all the blood?"

every time i agreed with their statement, and said i don't know if i could handle the blood, i felt foolish and unwise, because all i could go off of was a "feeling". a feeling that this was something i would love. so to combat my insecurities stemming from other people's insecurities i engaged in some personal research. i tried to do something smart, tried to somehow prepare, so that i could prove "i was prepared."

all of this was entirely against my nature, and was only to appease those questioning me. but... i started by calling midwives in various cities, all but my own. i was too intimidated to talk face to face with a real life midwife.

i remember one of the women i called saying her least favorite part of the job was that she became so close to these pregnant women and their families. she took part in such a milestone of their lives, such a raw-intimate-now-we-know-eachother-forever-moment, but then they sort of just vanish. the baby gets older, everyone gets busier, naturally they don't see much of each other again. she saw it as a sense of loss. she didn't like that part of the job, these intense one year relationships. she wanted them to last.

i should have told her to move to a village. to practice midwifery work in boamadumase. your clients won't ever forget you, you'll get to see them every day. like a fine kente weave, you come in and out of their lives, each day, every day. there is really no way around it. you depend on them as much as they depend on you.

village life is symbiotic.

but not with these mali folk, and ultimately not with me either. we have our own tribes. although i'd like to think i will have a lasting relationship with this place.

the mali folk will travel on, and who knows what will happen, with them, or the baby.

all we could do was offer her a little advice and a handful of folic acid.

when they were leaving, Maame Vic asked the woman to do her hair, and mine. the lady said she would, but they left town that afternoon, and walked onward.

"oh well." we both said, the next day when we realized we'd been deserted. "at least efreeyeh and sofie are looking beautiful."

"but weren't they cool?" everyone said.

nanakwame

it was dark, and cool, because it had just rained, again. sometimes i like to shine a flashlight into my dinner bowl, just to see what i am eating. because knowing what one is eating is comforting. but on this particular night, the air was the type of humid that encourages big nasty insects to fly around, into lights, into bowls, and sakola swatted at my torch when i brought it out.

"you're right." i said tucking it away.

we ate our food in silence, because that is the way sakola likes it. he prefers to not talk while we are eating. in fact, he prefers no sound at all. one night i was happy and decided to hum while i swallowed (most ghanaian food is meant to be swallowed, not chewed. there is a specific word that means "to chew one's food")

"ei! kissy! wo kasa dodo! you talk too much."

"i'm not saying anything."

"you see?"

"see what?" i asked.

"NO! you SING! you SING when you eat, is no good, no good at all."

so i shut up. and then, i couldn't stop giggling, because dinner seemed so serious. i looked over at collins (who eats out of his own bowl, unlike everyone else who shares a bowl) and i winked. no response.

some nights on the porch are brimming with entertainment with random people stopping by to share in the food or tell outrageous stories, or play board games, or just relax and share in the passing moments. one of our favorite past times is to make fun of NanaKwame's english. of his i'dliketosay. everyone gets in on this, especially collin's mother, who is always working hard cooking or cleaning or preparing her lesson for her kindegartoners the next day. he's fiesty enough to defend himself and continue speaking however he pleases while we all roll around on the ground laughing.

other nights seem long, slow, and the interaction is dry. no talking while eating nights. those are the nights it's hard for me to sit up straight on the benches, without squirming around and wanting to walk home rather than wait for dinner to come. those are the nights i don't like speaking twi, each word struggles to come out of my mouth and my ears hurt from listening to it. those are the nights when i feel i am completely used to everything, that it has all become like second nature, and although it is long and slow and interaction is dry- i still love it.

and on this dark cool night, when i was sitting like a good school girl not uttering a word, dipping my hands into the bowl and swooping out my fufuo, swallowing then swooping again, i heard a loud scrambling on the side of the house.

i ignored it.

then we all heard it.

no one mentioned a thing.

there was the sound again, then in a grand entrance nanakwame came swinging around the corner, tumbling over himself and the ground and smacking into the side of the porch, then disappearing underneath.

we looked at each other with quizzacal faces.

"MMMMYYYYYYYYYYYYY PEEEOOOPPLLEE!!" nanakwame screamed out, as he popped up from the ground, then on to the porch. he jogged in place saying "ooohh ohhhh my peoooplllee!"

"KESSSSS!" he ran over to me, picked me up, shook me around. "KESS KESS KESS! OH KESS!"

then he dropped me.

sakola had a big grin on his face, staring up at nanakwame from the bench we eat dinner on. i whispered "someones pretty drunk huh?" and sakola laughed and shook his head. all the brothers claim they don't drink, although i've "caught" all of them and their friends, except collins, wasted at one point or another. mostly after a funeral.

but tonite was like any other week night. what occasion was there for nanakwame to get drunk?

i looked over, he had sakola's 4 year old sister lifted high and he was spinning her around. she didn't like it at all. children can feel when they're safety is endangered, i could see why she didn't want to be his play toy. she squirmed out of his arms and ran away.

collin's father, who is always crouched on the porch, quietly wrapped in a blanket, who is constantly coughing and growing thinner each day, began to yell. i never hear him yell. he is a peaceful sick soul, who usually doesn't raise his voice. "ah! nanakwame! it's too much!"

nanakwame didn't hear a word he said. he ran back over to us and started dancing. "EHHH HEE HEH MY FAMILY!!! I'DLIKETOSAY DANCE!"

we continued with our fufuo.

"Nanakwame and apeteshie have become very close." i said. i knew this would be the type of comment the family would consider funny, so i said it and they all laughed. collins repeated it in twi to nanakwame and nanakwame, like a good drunk, became very serious. "KESS! you da say i am drink?"

when sakola drinks (which he rarely does) he becomes brave and uses english words i've never heard him utter in the day. he speaks a lot more and a lot better. but when nanakwame drinks conversation begins to resemble a jigsaw puzzle, or those single word fridge magnets that are meant to be arranged into poetry, or incoherent sentences.

"you da say i been back you i'dliketosay drink the drink? NO! i no!"

a long silent moment passes as we all try to figure that one out.

"are you speaking english?" i ask.

then me and the family erupt once again in laughter.

"kess! you laughing me? you'd say i'dliketosay i go mate tro tro konongonkumasi i'dliketosay tonite?"

"what?"

"OH KESS! my english is i'dliketosay you say i go take the drink town yeahh!"

"i'm going to the clinic" i tell everyone, "thanks for dinner."

it is my nightly routine to check and see if there are any women who have began labor. the walk helps me digest the big ball of fufuo in my belly (sofie and i call them our fufuo babies and this night i was 7 months), and if i cover all my limbs and wear a hood i can sneak through the village without being recognized as an oburoni. it makes for great voyeurism.

but this night, nanakwame was intent on accompanying me.

"no no stay here" i said "i can go alone."

"KESS? you'dsay you bring clinic no go why?"

i wasn't going to try and make sense of anything coming out of his mouth. "nanakwame" i began "don't speak drunk english. it's really bad. just speak twi."

"you say is bad?"

"when you are drunk, yes. it's really bad. i'm going to the clinic, you should eat your dinner."

"NO KESS!" he screamed in a funny voice "NO! wait me. wait me."

then he scarfed down a bowl of fufuo came over to me and told me to wait just a while longer. "i am going to bathe." he said. "wait me."

"i'm leaving." i said, unsure of the truth of the statement. walking around town with him in this state could have been interesting, i knew this, so i lingered, then threatend. "okay, fine, you have 5 minutes."

5 minutes drunk time can last forever, i learned this playing hide and go seek with my once alchoholic father. then it was to my advantage. drunk time is more similar to kid time, it is easily entertained and can go on forever, until it falls flat on it's face and doesn't get up. i was not on drunk time. the longer i waited, the more i realized... i was on sober kacie time. i wanted to leave in 5 minutes, go directly to the clinic, then return. all in a timely fashion. i wasn't in the mood for an inebriated stroll.

"c'mon nanakwame, you have 2 more minutes!"

he hadn't even fetched his bucket of water. "wait me i'm bath water cold i come kess!"

madame yelled at him to hurry or i'd leave. my sudden punctuality, and everyone supporting it, was humorous. "1 minute!" i screamed.

the moon was plump, spilling it's light everywhere. i notice the stages of the moon more in a electricity-less village. i know the times i need to bring a lantern out to the latrine, and the times when i'll be able to see from the natural light of the night.

this night was the type of night i had to turn my head. nanakwame was bathing 5 feet from the porch, which isn't anything new. typically his black naked body blends in with the stark black surroundings, and i stare out in his direction, while we talk and he scrubs.

but not now.

i fell back and looked up at the stars. i talked to sakola and told him about my dreams. 1 week of nightmares, again. i played hand clapping games with his little sister. i drank some water.

nanakwame ran over and grabbed a towel from the clothesline above my head. then he put on some clothes.

"ready?" i said.

"lez go." he said.

his cold bath seemed to sober him up a bit, enough for the walk to be relatively uneventful. we walked arm in arm the entire way, me supporting us through the slipping and sliding in the thick red mud. further on down the road, closer to the clinic, and after a heavy hard rain, the ground begins to resemble quicksand. we had a lot of fun once we reached that point, laughing and nearly falling over or sinking deep every 2 feet.

on the walk back home, after an unsuccesful attempt of dancing at the town bar (nanakwame got in a shoving match before we entered) we chatted a bit, mostly none of it making sense, while he (unaware) shone his flashlight in oncoming people's faces.

a small boy, maybe 7 years old, had been walking behind us for quite some time. i hadn't paid him much attention until he said in a nice firm voice "NanaKwame your english is broken. if you want to speak it you should speak it correctly. come to my house and i'll give you lessons." then he veered off down a path into his hut.

i wasn't aware there was a child nearby who spoke so well. nanakwame was shamed into confession.

"i'dliketosay i drink apeteshie kess, i drink too much!"

"i know, nanakwame, i know. it's pretty obvious, but thanks for admitting any way."

"ya kess ya! i'dliketosay my english is correct! is correct! ya?!"

"yes, it's correct, kind of, when you're not drunk."

"oh keesssss!" he reached down and swooped me up, swinging me around in drunken glee.

"thanks for walking me home." i said.

"awwwwwwwww kess, you're my sister! kess! is correct!"