Ghana the Gateway to Africa?

Flight after flight, from one airport to another, finally I was getting closer HOME. The expectations and the excitement with a mix of anxiety made my return trip longer than my exit trip four years ago. Throughout the long journey I kept on reflecting on my expectations: will the road to my house be paved? Will the streets be lighted? Has the traffic congestion on the road leading to my home been finally cleared? Has Ghana changed so much I won’t be able to find my way home? I then thought, “Maybe I am expecting too much”. But I remained positive. Four years down the road, and I assured myself that Ghana hasn’t been at a stand still.

As I got off the plane and entered the arrival lounge, reality began to set in. “AKWABA”, the long banner read. I responded “thanks” in my beat-up ‘bugger’ slung. The next banner read, “Ghana the Gateway to Africa” and I said “sure where else could it be”. The first dose of reality that hit me was not far off. My expectation was that the weather was going to be hotter than what I have been used to over the past couple of years, but I least expected I was going to feel like I was somewhere on the Sahara at the arrival lounge of the ‘Gateway to Africa’. At the immigration checkpoint, the air conditioners only served the purpose of decoration while we panted for breath. So I asked a fellow returnee what the date was and he easily reminded me it was October 4th. Didn’t the minister of National Orientation promise the energy crisis was going to be history by September 31st? Can we take our politicians for their words at all? Albeit, I found myself in a room with hundreds of people, some of who were in Ghana for the first time and I wondered what impressions they were forming of Africa if where they found themselves was the ‘Gateway to Africa’. How I wish they had not read that banner. My point is why should we make claims we can’t live up to?

But through all the heat, I managed to console myself with a sense of pride for being a Ghanaian. In the past, KSM joked about how at the Kotoka immigration check point the queue for foreign nationals was always miles shorter than that of Ghanaians and how it was the other way round when one arrives in America for instance. But this time KSM was wrong. The Ghanaian citizens’ queue, though longer, rather moved faster much to the envy of the foreigners who later decided to jump to our line. For me it was my first time seeing a Ghanaian being given preferential treatment in his own country.

After going through custom check, I must confess I felt ashamed of my self not for anything I did but for what I expected of the officers. I had frown my face and was ready to fight after hearing countless stories of ‘buggers’ who either had to leave their personal possessions behind or conversely, pay bribes to custom officials who fraudulently demanded custom duties on items they knew were personal effects. I was deeply impressed by the manner in which custom checks at Kotoka was handled. There was a supervisor who directed us to the officials and whiles with the official who attended to me, at no point did she demand or even suggest that I pay her money. She asked of the items I had, I told her, and she took me for my word only barely searching all my bags. If my experience wasn’t an exception but the rule, then I say kudos to custom officers at Kotoka.

As I got out of the airport, I can swear all twenty million of Ghana’s population was standing outside waiting to welcome me, and all the ‘buggers’ back home. So many were the people outside that, locating my welcome party was quite a challenge. As we drove away from the airport, I hoped to see the fruits of the ‘positive change’ I had voted for years before I left. However, my hopes were short lived as we drove through 37 and realized there was light-off and at a major traffic intersection the traffic lights were off and there were no police to direct traffic. Thanks to the traditional ingenuity of the Ghanaian, there was no chaos at the junction: a self employed man dressed in his traffic direction gear and equipped with a stick that lighted in the dark, stood at the middle of the junction directing traffic on hopes of receiving spare change from drivers who deemed it right to reward his effort. “Where are the police?” I asked my Dad and he answered, “welcome to Ghana, son!”

As we drove further I wondered why the streets were so dark. Though I had been away for years I could bet that the road in front of the Trade Fair Center was the most lighted in Accra at the time that I was leaving. But sadly, four years later what I was seeing was drab and sad. Though there was light in the neighborhoods, all the way from 37 through Burma Camp, and the La double road, no single streetlight was lighted. The poles stood like impotent old men reminiscing their good old days wishing they could be lighted once more. Just about four months to CAN 2008 and the road linking Kotoka to La Palm, one of the premier hotels in Ghana, is an eyesore.

In no time our car came to a gliding halt joining the snail pace traffic on the outskirts of Teshie. There was still traffic where there used to be ten years ago during my secondary school days. Ten years and two governments later, the traffic menace on such a major road linking Accra to Tema still lives on. I later came to find out that the traffic situation all over Accra and even Kumasi has made life hell for young professionals who leave home as early as 5 am just to beat traffic.

So after what I considered a too long a drive for such a short distance I found myself home. The joy of seeing family and friends all over again is one I won’t trade for anything else. Everywhere I went I was reminded of my elevated status as a ‘bugger’. People warned me not to drink the same water that they drunk, as if my organs were so delicate. I questioned why I shouldn’t drink the same water I drunk and survived on for over twenty years of my life. Being a ‘bugger’, I was given the choice between bathing cold or boiled water. I preferred warmed water directly from the shower but I was told I could have Ghana Water and Sewerage Company pump water to the shower only in my dreams. People wanted to know if the weather was hotter than I was used to; but for me, I had missed it. I had missed lazing under the shadows of the mango tree enjoying the sweet wonderful breeze as the birds hop from one branch to the other. One recurring instance made me feel I was very welcome to visit Ghana but not to stay. As I talked to people they would ask me with a very concerning tone, “So are you coming to stay?” For most people who inquired, a “no” response triggered a very deep and visible sigh of relief. The silent message for me was “bro, it is both literally and figuratively hot down here and you don’t want to join us”.

As I traded felicitations with family and friends, I tried to remind myself that years away from the motherland hasn’t changed me and that I was the same old ‘Ghanaman’ that I was back then. But no matter how hard I tried, I was reminded that I had returned more learned, a graduate, matured and more importantly a ‘bugger’.