Get Up Eight

You’ll be in the middle of it, whatever it might be.

And everything that seems important stops. Lights, fans, A/C. All still, all silent. All off, instantly.

Life in a country with a sometimes irrational power grid demands flexibility. And a good flashlight. But the benefits of a sudden outage help to keep us, like a good wire, grounded.

There is silence.

When everything that makes noise halts, and everything that is lit goes dark, it sheds light on how much we’ve been missing. We catch our breath, we pause.

We hear what isn’t there. And it’s beautiful.

Today I lived a different kind of power outage. Not the grid, myself.

Life near the equator means yucky tummy. It comes and goes, more often than it should, wreaking havoc with regularity, adding urgency to the most important question, how quickly can I get to the loo?

And low. Low. Low. Energy.

But this energy, like a blackout, can be good. It slows me down, alerts me to the things I take for granted. Reminds me I need to power up to make it through the day.

First jolt, a hug from Elephant as he’s on his way to lunch.

Second jolt, a whistle (and one back) across the playground to J as she gracefully makes her way, reminding me what’s most important.

Third jolt, a quick chat with a beloved colleague. She empathizes, she smiles, she wishes me well. It picks me up.

Fourth jolt: a shared laugh with Ms M. We have a routine. I see her across the playground or pop into her room. WIthout a word, she points and follows with a deep, grand, heartfelt laugh, straight from her belly. I respond, without hesitation, in kind.

Final jolt: these nine -year olds with whom I spend my day.

I share with them.

I’m not at my best

They respond.

it’s okay, we can help

And so, I’m here, not fully illuminated. But not blacked out.

And so grateful for the folks who power me up.

Everything. Is. Dependent. On. The <pause>. Supply. Of Dollars. In. Relation. To. The Cedi.

The shrill, halting voice of the African economist filters in and out of my consciousness as I stare blankly at the vehicles, stacked row upon row, seemingly to the horizon. I consider changing the station.

Since it’s Thursday, traffic shouldn’t be an issue

I had thought to myself

Meaningless beeps staccato to a crescendo. I ponder my next move. The lumbering beast beside me inches forward, 16 wheels in unison. When he moves, people listen. Stay out of the way of the big guy.

Do I take this lane? Does this merge into those seven, now eight, now ten vehicles on my right? Are they just exiting? Should I signal? Is life simply meaningless?

I descend into nihilism as three merchants, goods perfectly balanced on their heads, overtake me at a leisurely pace. On foot.

We move, slowly.

There are two lanes of merging traffic here, just prior to two lanes of exiting traffic. Everyone is going to the same places, at the same time. Heading east, on the expressway. Heading off, to the Mall. Or heading north, towards East Legon. Too many cars, not enough lanes.

It’s a problem of supply and demand.

And yet, despite the outnumbered lanes. It works.

With patience, skill, a sense for flow.

And patience (did I mention patience).

If you see space on the road, you have the right to fill it.

The overarching principle: keep things moving, however that might happen. Lanes are suggestions. When space exists, it is filled.

Honking is prevalent, but road rage near nonexistent. Travel throughout the country and you will be hard pressed to see an outraged driver. Courtesy rules the day, a sense that we’re all in this together.

Somehow, eventually, supply and demand merge and yield, reaching equilibrium.

The welcome breeze sneaks into my shirt.

Today, this week, this month, have been equatorial-style, shirt-drippingly hot.

Of course, it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.

But it’s also the heat.

With dusk comes breeze and welcome relief.

Our taxi is cozy but full of light and energy. The four of us peek out the window as we pass Pig Farm. Sheet metal walls, hastily erected, signal some sort of new construction. We wonder what it will be.

We look out. And up.

Evening sky, all grey, purple, and blue.

The bats are back.

They swirl. And we wonder.

That’s amazing!There are so many!

Tonight, we have an expert in the car. Mr. Isaac knows about the bats. So we of course ask him

Why do they

Where are they

When do they

He divulges.

Geography matters most in this tale. And royalty. The tale of the King of the Bats.

Many years and generations of bats ago, the King became ill. His tribe wasn’t sure what to do to help him, but as a last resort took him to 37 Hospital. There, he was nursed back to health. He slowly gained strength, he grew a fondness for the trees surrounding the campus. As he returned to full health, the tribe of bats was so grateful they came to call 37 their home.

To this day, it is home to the clan. Under the daytime sky, you can see thousands of bats, nestled, snug, sleepy.

Until dusk, that is, when they stir, unfold, chirp. A cacophony of batsounds, readying to make their way tens of kilometers north, to Atiwa. They migrate nightly and dance their return, filling bellies for the long day’s nap.

And subsequent dreaming, probably of bugs.

The whir of the treadmill is rhythmic, sedative. Andres runs, a steady pace, beads of sweat pool.

But now, we need a beat.

It’s my turn to run.

I leave him. Crack the door, bright sunlight confronts me. I step, hop, move. With purpose.

Through a swaying mass of swim caps, arms windmilling, stretches accompanied by Bon Jovi blasting across the pool. Troy’s voice interrupts, but only for a moment.

Woooooooooaaaahhhh we’re halfway the-ere

next up, 14 y/o girls freestyle

So much energy, all bustling and frantic as I pass. Dolphins are here, Lions too. All poised and ready to dive. I nod hello to familiar faces but signal there’s no time to chat.

A swarm of six and seven year olds dashes back and forth, kicking and chasing balls. Their coaches entreat, encourage, cajole. Elephant is there. And in between drills he sits on his ball.

don’t sit on the ball

I want to yell. But there’s no time.

We need a beat.

The tennis instructor has secured a makeshift net. Three students aligned, waiting their turn for volleys. A ball drifts off the court and into the big toy. All pavlovian impulses kick in and like a puppy I’m ready to chase.

But my purpose holds. Stay on target.

We need a beat.

I beeline into my room, grab the bluetooth speaker, a snug fit in my hand. I marvel.

And remember the four-foot speakers in my brother’s room as a boy. The delicious smell of vinyl as Supertramp told us they could see us in the morning when we went to school. I’d lay there for hours, enveloped in sound, hidden away in melody and amazement. As Earth Wind and Fire, all horn and sync and beauty, asked whether we remember.

We do.

I’m back in the race. Speaker in hand, my return trip is quick. I pass the meet, a swirl of humanity, and avoid all eye contact because I’m almost there.

The whir of the treadmill is rhythmic, sedative. Andres runs, a steady pace, beads of sweat pool.

And now we have a beat.

I step out of the room and approach the three steps to the playground when I am assaulted.

We’d been here for a couple years before we started to pay attention to air quality. In fact, we had been working on the assumption that the air here is fine.

Of course, the Harmattan is its own beast. Thousands of tons of Sahara sands airborne, bringing haze, density, grounding flights and hampering visibility. The layered dust visits daily. We clean it away, but it persists. It says hello again, and again, and again.

But the Harmattan is seasonal. It comes, stays, then goes.

Unfortunately, the type of assault that arrived this morning visits year-round.

Burning is habit here. Yard waste, food scraps, trash. Burning makes it all go away. It’s easy, effective, cheap.

But nothing is without cost.

Levels of particulate matter are high. Not China high, but they are up there. Literally.

When a big burn takes place the daily parade of ‘not-quite emissions-checked’ vehicles is augmented by suffocating black smoke. It’s the cost of doing business. The cost of development. The cost of we’re not quite sure how to manage all our waste.

And so, when I step out of my classroom I am assaulted. My eyes water and squint, nose wrinkles. For a moment the smell evokes roasted campfires, calling out for marshmallows. But there’s more to this. An extra layer, something that doesn’t quite sit right.

I seek refuge under the mango tree.

And take a breath.

I did not come here to sing

I did not come here to sing

But he does sing, anyway. Unexpectedly. The band leader called him out, and up.

We are in the company of greatness! Please, Mr. Ambolley, please come and join us on stage.

Lounging in the back, chatting with friends under the stars. He’s sitting quietly, not wanting the extra attention. Perhaps just a jaunt to hear some HighLife, an evening out, without fanfare.

But when you’re a living legend, you don’t always get to take a night off.

I’m going to take it in a different direction tonight

Stage, fronting trumpets, drums, bass, is a familiar spot for him. You can tell. A majesty, he moves with the beat. Because it’s part of him.

Football may be life in West Africa, but music is heart and soul. Wander any neighborhood, in any town, and you cannot escape it. A reggaeton beat fuels your step. Hip Life giving you bounce. Gospel down the way. And always, drums. Volume turned to eleven. We all dance. We all sing.

Ambolley, forefather of HighLife, humors us, treats us to a song. And his voice, all deep and sugar. Ad lib, improvisation, all soul, all magic.

Some in the audience know him well. Others, first time. But everyone, in a matter of moments, knows. We’re in the presence of greatness. Of legend.

He did not come here to sing.

But as the beat washes us, we’re sure glad he did.

The generator is humming today, but it’s the crickets buzzing that grab my attention. There must be so many, hidden in the grass. Krrrrrrrrrrrt. Krrrrrrrrrrt.

Don’t they get crushed by the boots?

I breathe heavily, not quite panting, but close. My heart bumps as I regret a lack of exercise over the past week. Month. Year.

I track forward, then back, a weather vane spinning as the flow of play turns me once, then again. A familiar twinge as first my left, then my right achilles cries out.

I’m getting too old for this.

But I love it so damn much.

Football is king here. Cruise round country and it’s a stone guarantee that you’ll see ten, twenty, even thirty young boys (why always boys?) chasing a ball.

To most outsiders, the typical pitch is little more than a red-dirt, uneven, bumpy patch of land, bereft of marking or sidelines, usually nestled abruptly against a too busy street or highway. Makeshift goals, usually torn-up shoes or a couple weathered, just big-enough rocks. To most outsiders.

But to these footballers, it’s Camp Nou, 100,000 deep. And nothing matters besides the ball, the score, the game. Football is life.

Today’s game is on grass.

It’s been some twenty years since I played on grass. The ball off your foot, the way it travels, the smell, the sound. There’s nothing like it.

When word gets out there’s a game, we get players. Real players. These guys are good.

Danny, sinewy, a spider. Always the ball, in sight and mind. When he’s ready, he dives in, all in. But still in control. It’s inevitable that he comes away with the ball at his feet, and once he does, he lays it square to

Gideon, the vet. Still fleet, still cagy. Not afraid to make me look bad. And in this moment, he does. He feints left, dodges right, ball tethered to his feet. He plays the ball to

Coach, the thinker. Constantly directing traffic, he’s lost a step, but makes up for it with savvy. And strength. A kindred spirit, I dream to play like him. He makes a move but is dispossessed by

Alfred, all legs and pace, flash and smile as he’s by you. A lightning bolt, daring you to take him on, daring to take you on. He veers quickly right, laying the ball square to

Ben. The Maestro, the Engine. Playing 3D Chess as the rest of us struggle to get our checkers in place on the board.

I don’t always feel like I belong with these guys. They’re younger, fitter. Better.

But I still have my moments. A graceful pass, a deft feint. A searching ball over the top, paced to lead a teammate on. They don’t happen as often as they used to. But when they do, I’m afloat.

The games are battles. We’re all in, and we play like it matters, because it does. Because football is life.

But, at the end of it.

It’s these moments, post-match, that I’ll remember. Full of heart and sweaty affection for one another. Full-bodied handshakes with a hug and a snap. We are all damp stink. But it doesn’t matter.

Laughter catches as we recap, talk smack, surprises, miracle plays. Always the mistakes, especially the mistakes.

In these moments, we are here. And we are together, and football is all that matters.

I’m getting too old for this.

But I love it so damn much.

First bend, a right turn

Papa

Did you know this is the smoothest part of our ride

We round, the morning still quiet. Our ride together allows us to slowly wake, in unison with the world. We pass a young boy on his way to school. He seems lost in thought, but still has time to wave hello.

The birds are the ones most alert, patterned warblers long since busy. They taunt us, asking What took you so long to get out of bed?

Left turn

Two night-shift guards heading home. One wraps his bright orange neckerchief, readying for the sweaty tro-tro.

This section has a lot more potholes, we need to be careful

Elephant is paying attention to the roads this morning. He is present, awake, noticing. It wakes me too. He perches on the rack behind me, his arms around my waist just firm enough to steady.

He’s comfortable back there. And his arms around me are the best start to the day.

Turn three

Morning workout for our friend. He must be finishing his jog as he bends his arms, touches his shoulders, bends his arms, touches his shoulders. Maintaining his pace, you can tell he does this a lot. He nods hello and smiles. I should probably get some exercise

Fourth turn, a final right

We amble lazily down the home stretch. The sun plays off the leaves, the breeze is welcome. Elephant waves a quiet hello to our usual friends.

They’re happy to see us too.

Leticia and I have quiet agreements.

She glides, like a ray patrolling the reef, graceful, steady, her daily rounds. She has her stops, a pattern to follow.

At the same point in each morning, she pokes her head in the door, makes bright eye contact, and smiles.

Without saying a word, only raising her arms and eyebrows, she asks.

Yes, please, today.

She is steady of hand and sturdy afoot, with her silverware and dishes. She moves with certainty. And is always accurate with her bookkeeping.

How much is left from before please

I know it’s 26. But it’s been 11 days since I’ve seen her so want to double check that we’re on the same page.

26, please

As expected, she knows the score.

She departs silently but I know she’ll be back.

Many things happen in between. A’s water bottle spills into A’s cubby and he mops it up. A fifth grader comes in to survey the crew about Overnight. The usual suspect breaks wind, yet again. They all know it’s him, yet again, but rather than disdain, it’s giggles that spread, yet again. It’s funny, still funny, always funny.

She returns with her tray, this time loaded, for me. It’s a simple, predictable meal, but a ritual that fuels my afternoon. Tomato-rich jollof, fresh greens, crisp beets and carrots sliced just small, chicken with what everyone would agree is the right amount of pepper.

Red sauce, mild spice. Brown sauce, beads of sweat begin to form spice. Green sauce, take a break and sweat for the rest of your afternoon spice.

I mean, sweat more than your usual, normal, equatorial-sun is blindingly hot and humidity is off-the-charts sweat. To clarify.

She places it on the counter and I unwrap the thin layer of saran.

I stick with the red today.

We lounge on the bed, the gentle breeze of the ceiling fan fueling our indifference to ambition.

Elephant steps out of the bathroom, pantless yet unconcerned.

Papa

Yeah buddy?

Toilet paper is divided into two parts

He precisely pries the two ply plys, then proudly prizes the pried paired plys for our proud prying eyes.

I acknowledge his accomplishment with an understated nod. It’s the little things, when you’re six.

Heck, it’s the little things when you’re a grownup.

Like ceiling fans. And alliteration.

Did you wipe?

Not yet.

Was it a healthy one or a bit runny?

We’ve been passing around yucky tummies this week, the question is timely and urgent. His reply is perfect.

Not runny, just a little chicken nugget