“Obroni! Obroni!” They yell as we approach. Two small children sit close to their mother as she hangs towels by a tree. They wave with excitement.

“Obroni!” the little boy announces as we pass the small grill and tables set up outside. He stops and watches us carefully until we wave to acknowledge his presence. 

“Obroni!” shouts the group of young girls playing in front of the wooden lottery stand. 

Kojo waves each time. He thinks obroni means hello. He said it to me himself for the first time today when he found me in the kitchen.

Obroni means white person. 

Kojo sleeps most of the way home from our journey back from Abbayayo’s place. His eyes never quite close completely as if he doesn’t want to miss anything along the way. My own eyes are not entirely open and half of me is still in the kitchen where we sat around the small table and watched Abbayayo make faces as we devoured fresh eggs and crumbly magdalenas. From the kitchen we watched the mountains in the distance, the people gathering around the small pond, and the gaviotas gliding effortlessly by. Abbayayo knows how to listen and watches over Kojo carefully. Despite the years between them, they get along so well. 

“We’re home, Abbayayo, no need to worry.” I say to myself as I open the gate.

The time away was just long enough for me to feel transformed when we return home. My feet are tired, but I don’t mind. Abbayayo packed a little of the mountain, pond, and wind to take home with us.

There are days when time or energy is less abundant. One thing or another occupies the space reserved for our daily walks. Instead we sit quietly close to the thinly paned window and listen to the sounds that permeate the wall. These used to be the noises that kept us up at night or made us long for quiet places far away. Silence and darkness used to seem like such a luxury. Now we sit and name the sounds we know so well:

the restless rooster from the neighbor’s fenced yard, 

the Fandango ice cream-vendor’s bubble horn,

taxi horns beeping at anyone to make their service known, 

heavy, big black birds walking on the roof above us,

the welding, sawing, and hammering from the metal workshop next door,

the crying baby in the open-windowed house below, 

the evening church event with choir and charismatics fully amplified, 

the treble-less drum and bass from the watering hole somewhere down the hill, 

the howl of a wild dog mourning the loss of a friend, 

the self employed young woman announcing fresh tea bread for sale,

the sound of an old car engine rattling as it slowly passes by,

the call to prayer from the big mosque,

the newly donated bells from the Catholic church,

the friendly wide-eyed goat on the corner and

the distant train traveling from Tema to Accra.

There will be a time for silence and darkness. Not now. Not yet. We sit still and enjoy our sound walk. 

As we step out for our walk we are shocked to see a shiny new layer of asphalt on Swaniker Road. We walk up to the intersection to investigate. Swaniker Road is a heavily trafficked area during peak hours. There is a tro tro stop which brings many vans and small buses packed with riders up and down the street. There is always a variety of vehicles to spot and identify which makes it a favorite viewing spot for Kojo. 

“Listen. Political truck,” Kojo says. He recognizes the sound of the loud speaker and the van moving slowly up and down the street. We can’t understand what they are saying partly because of the feedback from the microphone and speakers but mostly because the propaganda is in Twi. The van is covered in posters from either one or the other political party running for office

Until today, Swaniker Road was covered with potholes- the type of potholes that slow traffic, fill with water after a big rain, and get larger every season. These were the same potholes that forced me to hold Kojo’s head still whenever we rode a taxi because his neck was not strong enough to withstand so much bumping up and down.  

Without warning, the road was flattened, covered in black asphalt and still looks wet. There are no painted marks to divide the lines of cars riding up or down the hill. Kojo calls it the new road. I tell him that the old road is still underneath. He seems to be mesmerized by its utter blackness. Seshi, our taxi driver, told us once that this happens before an election. The party in power paves roads to convince voters that they are improving the lives of their citizens. 

Until today, drivers travelled slowly down the road to avoid damaging their cars. We could walk hugging the edge of the road and still feel safe. With the new road, cars zoom down the smooth surface and don’t seem to mind startling pedestrians. There are no sidewalks in Abelemkpe and those on foot must trust those behind the wheel. 

As we get half way to the tiny mosque, we are feeling uneasy. We liked things the way they were. We miss having to keep our eyes on the ground to make sure our footing was secure as we maneuvered over the uneven terrain. There is no more dirt or small rocks to get stuck between our feet and sandals to make us stop and shake every now and then. 

We head right onto the first small road we encounter. We’ve never travelled on it before. We can smell food from an oiled grill behind a covered food stand. We see a boy running after a small cat next to his mother who is selling eggs and tomatoes. The road is filled with potholes and although it’s new to us, we feel so comfortable on its worn down surface.

Evon’s Beauty Salon is more of a beauty closet than beauty salon. There is no room to move around except for the narrow space behind the four chairs set up in a row. A fifth chair sits in front of an old, but still functional free standing hair dryer with a view of the entire street.  The salon, like most other businesses along the small road leading to the big mosque, are made out of metal shipping containers.  Instead of a door, a plexiglass sliding pane serves as the fourth wall and also a place to hang the printed sign with the name of the place, a few images of women’s heads, and a photo menu of braiding options. 

We’ve never seen the shop closed. Even on a late Sunday afternoon, I can see Evon’s feet sticking out as we turn the corner. When there are no customers, the fifth chair is hers. She sits with her legs stretched out resting her head on the back of the chair. Somehow, she always sees us coming from behind and is ready to exchange hellos as we pass. The large birthmark on her forehead perfectly positioned between her eyes steals my attention when we talk.

The first time we met her, she was sitting with another woman watching us walk up from busy Tro Tro Street. I was carrying Kojo because we had visited the Catholic church to hear the bells ring and it was getting late. She was clearly talking about us and neither of them had on friendly faces. 

When we got closer I smiled and said, “Good evening.” 

“You should wear him on your back like we do.” she responded.

“You’re right. Next time, I’ll bring a piece of fabric and you can show me how to tie him on.” She liked that answer and we were no longer strangers. 

Evon’s chairs are usually full. Most of the time only one is paying for services, the rest are chatting, watching, or just resting. When she is working, she stands close to her customers to listen to their stories. 

If we haven’t traveled to Tro Tro Street for a week or so, she asks where we’ve been. I never brought the fabric for her to show me and Kojo is a bit too big now to be carried on my back. Maybe one day, we’ll stop and sit down inside next to the hair dryer to share a secret or two. The world needs less strangers. 

We pass many trees on our walks. The sprightly lemon tree stands proudly on the corner just behind Kunga’s red chair. The overly manicured, mushroom trees line the wall of the mud-colored house down the street. Banana trees huddle together in front of an empty wooden chicken coup. A lone papaya tree looks out above the barbed wire fence like a nosy neighbor. We greet each one as we pass. 

Right across from the house without a number, lays the fallen Monkey Thorn Tree. Described as fast growing and long living by those who know these things, this tree can survive extreme heat and is recommended for wide avenues because of the shade it provides. 

Here it is leafless and lifeless with its branches collecting the plastic bags and water sachets the evening wind delivers. Although its broken body takes up much of the small road, no one has claimed it and no one has cleared it to make space for something new. 

We get close to listen to the remaining woody pods hanging delicately filled with dried up seeds. Adorned with flowers, this tree once stood tall, bathing under many rainy summer skies. 

We gently pick off a dried up pod for each of us. We twirl them and shake them and hold them up to the darkening sky. Then, we find the seam, open them up carefully and release the seeds. Kojo loves to collect them and keep them all in his hand. Tightly he holds on but each time he opens a little to see if they are still there, he loses a few more. 

The street lights turn on slowly. The moon is out already. We begin our walk back. When we finally make it to our front gate, his tiny fist has loosened its grip completely and no more seeds are to be found

Down the hill from our home is a community water supply. A single standpost with attached faucet sticks out from a large cement platform. Behind it, protected by a wall, stands a black water storage unit marked POLYTANK in large lettering.  At dusk, groups of teenage boys and girls wait their turn to fill their large containers. 

We walk slowly and watch as Grace’s container is filled to the very top. Another girl helps as she scoops it up from the ground onto her head in one continuous movement. Although the bucket is now securely centered on the rolled up scarf on her head, the water continues to move and splashes over to completely wet Grace’s face and back. She closes her eyes for a moment and seems to enjoy the cool shower. 

She is headed in the same direction as us. We walk behind her, watching the water dancing above her head as she gracefully dodges potholes. Her hair is cut short like all the young girls that attend public school. We watch as her neck, carrying the bulk of the heavy weight above her, sways and shakes slightly. Her T-shirt and most of her skirt stick heavy and damp to her body. Her solid flat feet drag flimsy flip flops along the way. 

I should be thinking about how privileged we are to be going home to take our nightly bath without a thought of where or how the water fills the tub. It would be right for me now to worry about all those who do not have access to clean water. But all I can think about is the absolute strength and beauty of Grace as we step on the wet trail she is leaving behind. 

Kunga sits on an old, red plastic chair. It’s a chair that you would expect to find deserted after too many injuries from the broken armrest. The dust and dirt its collected over time make it look like it’s outlined by an artist’s hand in black charcoal.

Kunga sits perched on a small, triangular piece of grassy land surrounded by a sewer and the front wall of my neighbor’s house. If he’s alone, it’s rare. He’s usually surrounded by a few men talking loudly, occasionally laughing, or in the middle of what seems to be a confrontation. I never know whether to say hello, wave, nod or ignore.

When I met him for the first time away from his red chair, he was taller than I had imagined, his shirt hung a little too short and his arms moved more than his legs when he crossed the street towards us. He looked at my son and said, “How’s my boy?”

His eyes narrowed with disappointed when there was no answer. My son peeked from behind me intimidated by his presence. “We are well,” I answered, “and you?”

“I am the grounds keeper here. Everybody knows me. They call me Kunga.”

“Hello, Kunga.” Pointing to my son, I said, “They call him Kojo.”

Kunga didn’t respond after that. He kept looking at the little boy too new to this world to understand the complexity of conversation. The grip on my leg grew tighter. I realized that I was also too new to this world. We all stood there looking at each other in the middle of the road. A taxi drove by and beeped its horn.

“Nice to meet you.” I said as we started to walk away.

After that day, whenever we pass by on our walks and he is sitting on his bright, red throne holding court, we look and wave. “That’s Kunga,” I tell my son, “everyone knows him.”

Just above the blue “POST NO BILLS” sign you can see directly into the church grounds. One would never know just how big the lot is until you peer in over the gate. Most of it is free of trees and tiled with reddish clay earth. The church itself occupies just a small corner and doesn’t call too much attention to itself. 

The back wall of the church holds another gate that opens everyday at exactly 5:30. Men, women and children appear dressed all in white and begin to sing. Some wear shoes, others prefer bare feet. The girls wear white scarves over their heads. They march in the exact same direction everyday tracing the footsteps left from the day before. Their feet and voices make four laps around as the oldest man calls out, “Right, left, right, left,” between verses to keep everyone on track. 

We’ve rushed to hear them sing countless times. When we arrive too late, we can see the dust settling  and the voices disappearing behind the gate. They know we watch them. They can see us clearly as they circle round. The men never make eye contact but a few of the young girls sing louder when they pass as we exchange smiles. 

They do this each and every evening to thank God for granting them another day. I admire their commitment to ritual. We watch until they return to where they came, the dust settles again on the reddish clay earth, and the youngest one turns to wave as she locks the gate.

Just past Amazing Grace’s Fabric Shop, sits a tiny mosque. It sits so quietly, that many pass by without noticing. The single, delicate minaret hugs the body of the mosque tightly. Dusty white against dusty white. You don’t have to stretch your neck too high to see the moon and star that rest upon its head. The metal crescent moon crafted by hand wears the welder’s fingerprints and the scars left from hammering it into shape. We’ve never seen anyone enter or leave through the reflective windowed door. One circular speaker sticks out from the facade. We’ve visited three times already to hear the tiny mosque’s tiny call to prayer. As we wait, we can hear the surrounding intimidating mosques begin their calls. Silently, the tiny mosque sits.