It was in late September 2007 when I first contracted the awful virus that threatened to question my sanity. It was right after my sister’s wedding in Ghana where I had spent only a week and a half; my shortest trip to Ghana ever. I arrived back in the United States not feeling quite like myself and that’s when I knew something was wrong. I had been afflicted with the disease many Ghanaians are known to catch when they go home for whatever reason – a sudden case of life deficiency.

My symptoms included serious bouts of strong urges to play nothing but hip-life. All other music was intense noise to my ears. I had nervous twitches that required me to call home everyday just to say “hi.” I exhibited cry-baby tendencies which made me cry uncontrollably for no reason at all – all the time. I would catch sniffs of what seemed to be fried onions in zomi oil and nkontomire (not spinach!) coming out my neighbor’s kitchen window and I would take the stairs two at a time only to get there and realize it was just the smell of illusion. My disappointment in finding that out would cause me to plunge into hysteria coupled with renewed tears. That was my personal life. In my public life, everything was wrong at work. Nothing felt right anymore. The job was immediately boring and lacked challenge. My talents and intellect were being severely under-used. The morning commute was full of slow drivers who lacked the nerve to honk their horns for no reason at all. They were too careful and law-abiding, it was simply sickening. Americans were slow, and Ghana was the place to be. I was suffering from work withdrawal symptoms and I was constantly depressed. I felt overworked and underpaid. I could be running a company if I were back home!

I got some over-the-counter medicine which included a five year plan. (Five years seems to be the magic number for both sexes.) I was going to relocate permanently to Ghana in five years and open up a bridal shop as a side gig to my corporate job where I would head a whole department. At the bridal shop I would be called “madam” and have young budding girls fresh out of secondary school looking up to me as their role model. I would shape their mannerisms to suit my tastes and the shop will be known as the place where first-class customer service ‘amba ntem!’ The medicine seemed to work because just thinking about my life in five years filled me with such exhilaration I got to work on putting my finances in order. Five years may seem like a long time, but it was right around the corner. I sprung into action and got my younger sister in and excited about my prospects.

That was towards the end of September 2007. By mid-October 2007, I abruptly stopped eating fufu every week, and my yearning for palm nut soup (not the ones that come in cans) began to subside. I put away the hip-life CDs and pulled out my Akon and Joe CDs. My phone calls home became a lot more sporadic, and my dream bridal shop became just that – a dream bridal shop! The American air wasn’t suffocating anymore and the drivers seemed a lot more normal than usual. The peace and quiet felt serene once again. Work was once again fulfilling. I was on the road to recovery and it felt so good to be retuning back to normal! A male cousin of mine just came back from Ghana about three weeks ago, and my “male friend” followed suit about two weeks ago. It’s been three weeks of aggressive symptoms from both of them. I’m sure it has something to do with the fact that they’re men. They seem to think the world revolves around them and nothing is going to get done unless they do something about it. They need to go back home with such urgency because the survival of the Ghana economy demands it. So, in addition to my female symptoms (minus the uncontrollable tears), they are also exhibiting narcissistic tendencies.

Last night I suggested pizza for dinner and I got the look that silently asked if I was out of mind. He’s still in the banku phase. I wonder how long it will take to wear off because my arms are getting tired, and there isn’t enough cheap banku mix and okra in America to keep feeding his obsession. Of course, he’s also suffering from severe bouts of depression. His life is meaningless compared to that of all his friends back home who are working shorter hours with longer lunch breaks and more vacation time in between.

He called me at work on Tuesday, March 9, to ask me if I was aware it was a holiday in Ghana. What he wouldn’t have given to be in Ghana at that very moment.

“What holiday?” I asked him.

“Oh, w’ante s3 Saturday holiday nu ye d’ash3 Monday? (implying that because March 6, Independence Day, fell on Saturday this year, Monday was declared a holiday).”

“But today is Tuesday!” I replied sounding confused.

“Oh, you too koraa too! You are talking as if you don’t know Ghanaians. Don’t you know that because yesterday was a holiday and your people were out enjoying themselves that Tuesday is an automatic holiday because they will be sleeping off Monday’s celebrations?” We laughed, but he was as serious as serious can get. The good life is being lived in Ghana and here we are slaving our asses off and wasting our leadership potential in a country that appreciates talent and hard work with three week vacations in a year! In the last three weeks, all I have heard is how bad life sucks abroad and what we are missing by being here. I have seen the animated expressions and have heard the intense and almost convincing arguments being made on a daily basis. I am still studying the male symptoms of the virus and hope to come out with the stages that lead back to normalcy in men. (I at least know that their medicine also involves a five-year plan.) I normally wouldn’t care this much except that one of the side effects of the male symptoms is that it is contagious! The restlessness of one in particular is beginning to rub off on me.

The good thing about this virus, however is that time heals it (at least it does with women), so all I have to do is watch and wait. I must admit I am having fun studying the male symptoms because of the added intensity with which they are exhibited. The bad thing is that the aggressiveness with which male symptoms are displayed makes me very doubtful that it will take another two weeks for the hyperactivity to die down.

One thing that keeps me going, however, as I watch and wait for the calm after the storm is this: “I wonder how long this will last?! I really wonder just how long it will last!”

(N. Amma Twum-Baah is the Founder/Editor of Afrikan Goddess (AG) Online, the premier online publication for African women of charm and excellence.)