More from Vodafone..
Sunday, 27 February 2011
Friday, 25 February 2011
A Big Congratulations to Ghanaian Supermodel Belinda Baidoo on the birth of her beautiful Twins…
There are those of us who continue to look pregnant six years after having baby and the likes of ever beautiful Belinda Baidoo, who loose it all in an instant -its just not fair! Anyway she back, looking fabulous -and raring to go. Belinda is looking for high fashion models for her b2 Model agency in Ghana this Sunday. The details are as follows:
Ghanaian supermodel Belinda Baidoo is looking for new faces for her agency http://b2models.com/ Bring on your stilettos & swag!
Date: Sunday 27th Feb. 2011
Time: 3:00pm sharp!
Venue: Silver Star Tower
Call 024 311 5518 for more info
Please do come with a jean and a white t-shirt …
***Good luck people.
Thursday, 24 February 2011
Architecture: Lesley Lokko and Joe Osae-Addo
**I had no idea author Lesley Lokko is also an architect -did you? I guess there’s no end to her talents. I found the following via http://www.afrikamuseum.nl/
Lesley Naa Norle Lokko is an architect, academic and novelist. She grew up in Ghana, West Africa and was educated in Ghana and the UK. She completed her architectural training at the ULC Bartlett School of Architecture and holds a PhD in Architecture from the University of London. She has taught in the UK, the USA and South Africa and is currently a Visiting Professor of Architecture at Westminster University. She has lectured and published widely on the subject of race, cultural identity and their relationship to architecture and is the editor of White Papers, Black Marks: Race, Culture, Architecture (University of Minnesota Press, 2000). Being the owner of a design firm, Lokko Associates in Accra, Ghana, she completed several residential projects in Accra and Akosombo, Ghana. She is currently a member of the African Centre for Cities, which looks critically at the challenges and opportunities facing African cities in the near and longterm future. Her second career, as a novelist, has seen the publication of five novels, three of which have been UK bestsellers. She currently divides her time between Johannesburg, South Africa; Accra, Ghana and London, UK..**For more information about Lesley Lokko visit: http://www.lesleylokko.com/
I also found the following about fellow Ghanaian architect, Joe Osae-Addo, new to Ghana Rising’s radar -and I’m sooo pleased as he’s an incredibly talented individual -and we are happy to celebrate him.
Joe Osae – Addo was born in Ghana, West Africa, and was educated at the Architectural Association in London. He worked in Finland, the UK and the USA, setting up his practice in Los Angeles in 1991. His work has been influenced by ‘genus-loci’ and the role it pplayed in creating architecture. In his work, he searched for a way to create pieces which are site specific and at the same time meet the needs of people who will interact with it. He is a founding partner in the A + D Museum, Los Angeles, whose mission is to advance knowledge and to enable people to appreciate and understand architecture and design. He moved back to his native country Ghana in 2004 and is currently the CEO of Constructs LLC, an inno-native design firm based in Accra and Tamale in Ghana, West Africa.Joe Osae-Addo is a member of Jury Africa Middle East of the Holcim Awards for Sustainable Design and has been member of the World Economic Forum in 2009. He is, among many other projects, working on the Make It Right project in New Orleans, initiated by Brad Pitt after the Katrina disaster. He is also involved in a 1000 unit affordable housing project in Monrovia, Liberia. Since 2010 he has been chair of the Board of the ArchiAfrika foundation.
Music: Rhian Benson’s latest single “Better Without You” is out Now..
There’s something about Rhian Benson isn’t there? Beautiful, talented and to those in the know -one of the sweetest ladies in the entertainment industry, -what’s not to Love? I’m loving her latest, ok -her long awaited ‘Better Without You’ -and I’m hoping that she won’t be going quiet on us again, any time soon. To listen and download her elegant, soulful-pop and a somewhat surprisingly younger verve album visit: http://itunes.apple.com/gb/album/hands-clean/id387411556 -For more information about Rhian Benson visit: http://www.rhianbenson.com/ -Its good to see you back, Rhian x
The Rezidor Hotel Group, is set to open The Radisson Blu Hotel in Accra, Ghana in 2013
Radisson Hotel, Boston
**I am doing a piece about the luxury market in Ghana -and having been searching for various websites/addresses of some of Accra’s hottest businesses/venues to no avail -and must confess -I’m disappointed. I think that businesses in Ghana need to be aware that we live in a global village and doing business by word-of-mouth, will no longer cut it in 2011, -its just not good enough. Anyway, I stumbled across the following pieces about The Rezidor Hotel Group building a The Radisson Blu Hotel in our Accra, due for completion in 2013 -and I just had to share. I’m soo pleased, as I truly believe that this luxury group know their stuff and will add to Accra’s luxury landscape, plus judging by their other hotels -their spas alone will make heading to Accra -very worthwhile, -lovely…
***
The Rezidor Hotel Group, one of the fastest growing hotel companies worldwide, has announced its 10th hotel in West Africa: The Radisson Blu Hotel, Accra in Ghana, which is scheduled to open in 2013 and adds 168 rooms to Rezidor's pipeline.
"The emerging African continent is a key development area for Rezidor. We are delighted to add a new hotel in a new country to our portfolio which now comprises 37 hotels and almost 8,300 rooms in operation and under development across 15 African countries," said Kurt Ritter, president & CEO of Rezidor.
The Radisson Blu Hotel, Accra, will be located in the heart of the business district of the Ghanaian capital; 5 minutes walk from the beach. Besides 168 guest rooms which includes 20 apartments ranging from 1 to 3 bedrooms, the property will offer a restaurant, 2 bars, 300msq of meeting space, a gym, and an outdoor swimming pool.
One of the most economically and politically stable countries in Africa, Ghana has experienced several years of sustained economic growth, despite the global economic situation. Good fiscal management and high prices for key commodities like gold and cocoa have sustained the economy and the IMF projects accelerated growth for the coming years. Moreover, in December 2010 Ghana began to pump its first commercial oil from the offshore Jubilee Field, which contains an estimated 1.5 billion barrels of oil, and is projected to generate $1 billion in government revenues annually.
"Africa is an exciting market with huge natural resources, increasingly stable systems and improved infrastructure, a high GDP growth and - last but not least - an imbalance of supply and demand when it comes to modern, internationally branded hotel rooms. We see a great potential for profitable growth in Africa and are actively seeking for further development opportunities," commented Kurt Ritter.
About The Rezidor Hotel Group
The Rezidor Hotel Group is one of the fastest growing hotel companies in the world. The group features a portfolio of more than 400 hotels in operation and under development with 86,300 rooms in over 60 countries, including a wide range of Paris hotels, Rome hotels and London hotels.
Rezidor operates the brands Radisson Blu Hotels & Resorts, Park Inn by Radisson and Country Inns & Suites in Europe, Middle East and Africa, along with the goldpoints plusSM loyalty programme for frequent hotel guests. Under a worldwide licence agreement with the iconic Italian fashion house Missoni, Rezidor also operates and develops the new lifestyle brand Hotel Missoni.
In November 2006, Rezidor was listed on the Stockholm Stock Exchange. Carlson, a privately held, global hospitality and travel company, based in Minneapolis (USA), is the majority shareholder. The Corporate office of the Rezidor Hotel Group is based in Brussels, Belgium. Credit: http://pr-usa.net/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=630286&Itemid=33
For more information about the Radisson Hotel Group visit:
http://www.rezidor.com/Tuesday, 22 February 2011
Ghana Rising Hearts Annette Boateng (one of the most fashionable women of Ghanaian origin in the world)…
I’ve coined a new euphony that describes the ever growing band of young, fabulous, successful, uber stylish ‘It’ girls of Ghanaian origin, the GIG, or GIGs, -its stands for Ghanaian It Girl(s), -is embodied perfectly by Annette Boateng.
Part of the new generation of uber hip British-Ghanaian fashionista bloggers, Ms Boateng's blog is fast becoming the go-to blog of choice for Ghana Rising! Whether she is sharing her innate sense of style, her love of make-up, especially her love of quirky nail vanish, or reporting from one of the various yummy events she’s at, -Ms Boateng’s in-depth knowledge and sense-of-humour shines through. We love her, -think she’s uber fabulous and hope to work with her in the near future. You can keep up with all of Annette Boateng’s hot happenings via: http://annette-hothappenings.blogspot.com/
Monday, 21 February 2011
Marian Kihogo is photographed on Day 1 of LFW (London Fashion Week) for Vogue Italy…
Fashion: Zandile Blay shares her style …
Zandile Blay for Stylelikeu.com from Stylelikeu on Vimeo.
***Wow -this is why Ghana Rising loves Zandile -she keeps it real ..x You can keep up with all of her happenings via: http://twitter.com/zandile
Tuesday, 15 February 2011
Condé Nast Traveler: Globe Aware in Ghana
***I stumbled across the following piece by Conde Nast travel writer, George Rush entitled, ‘Trying (Hard) to Be a Good Man in Africa’ via http://www.globeaware.org/ -an organisation that offers volunteers the opportunity to learn and make a difference in poor communities around the world; including building schools in Ho, the capital of the Volta Region, in southeast Ghana. I truly enjoyed this lovely and insightful read……….
Travel writer George Rush traveled with Globe Aware for a volunteer vacation in Ghana. Joined by his 10-year-old son Eamon, George's adventures in-sights are featured in September 2010 edition of Condé Nast Traveler.
Title: Trying (Hard) to Be a Good Man in Africa
By: George Rush (Condé Nast Traveler) Dated:Wednesday, September 1, 2010It’s funny, the detours you take when you set out to enlighten a nation.
My ten–year–old son, Eamon, and I had come to Ghana as volunteers to lend a hand in building a computer center. We were supposed to help connect a rural village to the World Wide Web, so that, one day, its benighted people might learn to Google, Wiki, and Twitter. But here I was in a Vodun ceremony, stripped down to a white sarong, whipping my head like a hypnotized chicken, as a fetish priest and his coven of drummers connected me to an older Ethernet.
Eamon shook his head in embarrassment. Isn’t it awful when your dad drags you to Africa and then gets lost in a spirit trance?
It had started as a lark. After a morning spent mixing mortar and lugging cinder blocks, our little band of volunteers figured a hike would be a good way to walk off lunch. We’d marched through the bush for less than an hour when we came to a clearing where a half–dozen thatched huts were protected by a stone talisman, a wax–covered little man with a knife in his head. This was the Mina Mavo Healing Center. People stayed here for days, looking for a cure for their physical and mental maladies. We hadn’t come with any complaints. And yet, to different degrees, all of us saw Ghana as a kind of healing center. Among our patients were a recent divorcée, a globe–trotting executive craving a reward beyond frequent–flier miles, and a young family simply looking for relief from the usual holiday, where the memory of the trip fades faster than the tan. We all wanted to sweat off some of our self–absorption. I’d been to thirty–five or so countries, but I often came home feeling that I’d just scratched the surface of the culture, leaving behind nothing more than a little baksheesh. I was looking for the deep–tissue massage you can get only by doing hard labor for a good cause. I also had this picture of working with my son, shoulder to shoulder, to conquer African poverty—even if I could barely get him to clean our cat’s litter box.
We weren’t the first to come to Ghana looking to be useful. The country’s political stability, its robust economy (it has one of the world’s best–performing stock markets), and the fact that its people speak English have made Ghana one of the most popular African destinations for anyone who ever considered joining the Peace Corps. Goodwill ambassador Louis Armstrong visited in 1956, the year before the citizens of the Gold Coast won their independence from Great Britain after a decade of civil disobedience. More than 100,000 fans turned out to hear Satchmo play at Accra’s Old Polo Ground.
“I came from here, way back,” he said, after spotting a woman who resembled his late mother. “Now I know this is my country too.”
Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, Jr., Muhammad Ali, Richard Wright, and Maya Angelou came later to see the first sub–Saharan nation to hand its colonial rulers their hats. Some of them saw Ghana as a refuge from American prejudice and were attracted to first president Kwame Nkrumah’s dream of Pan–African unity. Some seventy thousand Americans visited Ghana last year, and the country remains a pilgrimage destination for African–Americans—including Stevie Wonder, Will Smith, Danny Glover, Beyoncé, and Jay–Z—who come to see, among other historically significant sites, the continent’s largest repository of slave forts.
Ghana has not escaped coups and corruption. But its democratic progress has been impressive enough to earn visits from presidents Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, and Barack Obama (who chose to visit Ghana even over his father’s homeland, Kenya).
But Ghana isn’t only about tear¬stained remembrance and hernia–inducing acts of charity. A couple of taxi rides with Ghanaian drivers in New York City was enough to tip me off that these people were a lively bunch. Their enduring art forms include traveling comic operas called concert parties and highlife music, a swinging Africanized jazz percolating with social commentary. At least one sociologist has suggested that Ghanaians laugh too easily—to conform and to avoid confrontation. Is it any wonder that a Ghanaian, Kofi Annan, should win the Nobel Peace Prize? Or that the Ghanaian calendar should groan with celebrations? Looking it over, I saw that barely a week passes without some festival, saluting everything from the moon to the yam. There is an even greater abundance of wildlife in Ghana’s eighteen national parks and reserves. So I decided that, before we surrendered for community service, Eamon and I should see some of the country.
An eleven–hour flight from New York deposited us in the capital of Accra on a rainy morning. I’d mapped out an express–lane itinerary that had us circumnavigating the country (about the size of Michigan) in a week. We’d need to make good time. There at the airport to help us was our Land Tours guide, Ben Addo, a husky, genial man who’d driven Jesse Jackson a few times. Underscoring Ghana’s brotherhood with America, Ben made our first stop the former home of W.E.B. DuBois, the Massachusetts–born civil rights pioneer who spent his final years here. We also hit the memorial park honoring President Nkrumah, a graduate of Pennsylvania’s Lincoln University. A bronze statue of Nkrumah was missing its head and left arm (broken off during a 1966 coup). The city of about 4.5 million people takes its name from the Akan word for “ants,” because there were once many anthills here. Today they’ve been replaced by more than a dozen skyscrapers, but most of Accra still doesn’t climb above three stories. On our tour of the town, we saw at least a dozen remnants of the British realm, including the nineteenth–century Holy Trinity Cathedral, designed by Sir Aston Webb, architect of London’s Victoria and Albert Museum. The Soviets had clearly inspired Black Star Square, with its triumphal Independence Arch.
The Chinese had supplied the soaring modernist National Theatre, which claims the only classical symphony orchestra in West, Central, and East Africa, and the Danes had left behind the seventeenth–century Osu Castle. It had been home to every Ghanaian president until 2009, when members of President John Kufuor’s National Patriotic party decided he shouldn’t live in a former slave fort, borrowed thirty million dollars from India, and built a palace shaped like a Ghanaian chief’s throne stool. We had started our tour at Nkrumah’s mausoleum, and Ben thought it made perfect sense to end it at Accra’s coffin shops. Back in the 1950s, carpenter Kane Kwei knew a lady who dreamed of flying. When she died, he made her a casket shaped like an airplane, and that was when sepulchre sculpture really took off in Accra. Kwei’s twenty–five–year–old grandson, Eric, invited us into a showroom where we saw a giant chicken, a fishing boat, a beer bottle, and a satin–lined mango.
Eric had just sold a Mercedes–Benz casket.
“It’s very popular among rich people,” he said.
My wiseacre son suggested that the gray snail in the corner might be good for his old dad.
“The snail is usually for a lawyer or a chief,” Eric explained, restoring my reputation. “They are very slow, but they usually get to their destination.” Next, we were off to Ada, a much smaller town about two hours east, on the Atlantic. (The late soul man Isaac Hayes had a home here.) On the way, we picked up Otor Plahar, an Ada–born government official who had offered to introduce me to local chiefs during the weeklong warrior festival of Asafotufiam.
Ghana has a British–begotten parliament and justice system, complete with white wigs. It also has a National House of Chiefs, which has no executive or legislative power but whose advice is respected on matters of tradition. While some of its hereditary leaders are wealthy and politically wired, others squeak by on what they make from humble day jobs. Arriving in Ada, Otor led us down a dirt alley to a modest one–story dwelling where chickens pecked outside. This was the court of our first chief, Nene Tsatsu Pediator IV. The seventy–five–year–old leader of the Kudzragbe clan (one of ten in Ada) wore a black headband decorated with gold moons and stars. One bare, bony shoulder stuck out of his toga, which was made of Ghana’s famous kente cloth. A sentry holding a nineteenth–century musket stood behind the chief as he chatted on his cell phone.
Custom forbade us from speaking directly to Nene Pediator, dictating that we direct all questions to his court linguist. But after a few awkward exchanges, the chief dispensed with formality. He explained that members of his clan sought his opinion on issues ranging from real estate to adultery.
“Marital disputes—we do a lot of those,” he said, flashing a gold tooth. “We give fines.”
We spoke for about half an hour, until it came time to give the chief his traditional present. Most chiefs accepted a “libation.” Otor whispered that this one, a retired accountant, would prefer cash.
“One hundred dollars U.S. would be fine,” he suggested.
I was stunned by the amount, but I didn’t want to breach protocol, especially while that guy with the musket was watching me. I slipped the bills to Otor.
We moved on to the gathering of Ada’s traditional military units, known as asafo companies. Once the warriors of the village, the companies are now dedicated to community service. But during this first week of August, their younger members commemorate Ada’s eighteenth– and nineteenth–century military victories with ram–like displays of testosterone. Stepping cautiously around an open field, we saw a strapping, shirtless teenager wearing antelope horns and brandishing an ancient sword. His friends fired flintlocks into the air. The young men had no bullets. But they’d had a bit of palm wine. At any moment, one of them might sneak up behind you and unload his musket near your ear. One guy stuffed gunpowder into a metal pipe pinched between his legs. Every few minutes, he’d ejaculate fire.
Overseeing this mock combat were the chiefs. Some of them wore capes of leaves. Their linguists gripped staffs carved with power symbols—the parrot, the frog, the egg. Eventually, everyone marched down the road to the Volta River, carrying on their heads their clan chiefs’ stools, as well as drums as long as five feet. The celebrants had sung Christian hymns earlier in the day, but that didn’t keep away the fetish priestesses—older ladies, dressed in white, who stayed in touch with the pre–missionary gods. One of the crones whirled around, clenching her fists as though she were boxing someone we couldn’t see.
The height of the festivities came the next day, when Ada’s paramount chief, Nene Abram Kabu Akuaku III, convened his durbar at a parade ground ringed by hundreds of people. Each of the clan chiefs arrived on a palanquin shouldered by his followers. The chiefs wore their finest kente and enough gold bling to humble an American rap star. Once they’d dismounted their litters, the clan leaders crossed the durbar—shaded by umbrella bearers and heralded by men blowing tusks—to swear their allegiance.
After each chief had recalled his clan’s role in historic battles, the paramount chief declared, “We are still at war—this war of development of our resources.” He mentioned threats to the local wetlands and boundary disputes. He also called upon attending political candidates to conduct their campaigns “in a manner devoid of insults . . . that would likely inflame passions.”
And this was a crowd with flammable passions. Hoisted into the air by their bearers, the chiefs danced on their litters and waved their ceremonial sabers. Jockeying for position in the royal convoy was Nene Buertey Okumko Obuapong IV, whose “war shirt” shimmered with mirrors that deflected the evil eye. The gun smoke of his clan’s musketeers mingled with the dust until the brawny chief appeared to be floating on a russet cloud. He seemed to be having a good time, bouncing up and down, but I sensed his heart fluttering. The day before he’d confided, “I pray to God they don’t drop me.”
I was thinking the same thing at six the next morning as we climbed into the clouds aboard a twin–engine Antrak Air palanquin, winging toward the Northern Region city of Tamale. Our wheelman, Ben, met us when we landed, having set out the day before on the eleven–hour drive from the coast. From Tamale, we headed west across dry red terrain relieved by fat baobab trees and stout thatch–and–clay huts. Stopping in Larabanga, we found that Allah, rather than Jesus, held sway, and learned that the villagers claim their mud–and–stick mosque is the oldest building in Ghana. The Northern Region’s biggest draw for us, though, was the country’s largest nature sanctuary.
Ghana might not have the sprawling game reserves of eastern and southern Africa, with their rhinos, zebras, and giraffes. But its 1.2 million–acre Mole National Park does have an estimated six hundred elephants, more than a thousand buffaloes, five types of primates, thirty–three kinds of reptiles, about three hundred bird species, and a dozen makes of antelope. Among its seventeen varieties of carnivores are just a couple of leopards and lions. With so few man–eaters on the prowl in Mole (pronounced mo–lay), you didn’t need to ride around in a Land Rover for protection. You could get intimate with the savanna and walk through the bush, as we did with our dry–humored ranger, D. K. Basig. He carried a vintage .375–caliber carbine but assured us, “I’ve never had to fire it.”
We followed him through a fragrant sea of lemongrass and shadowed a cortege of foraging elephants. Around noon, they ended up at a lagoon, where some of their buddies were already snorkeling, their trunks poking out of the water.
The next day, we headed south, past maize and cassava fields, to Kumasi, Ghana’s second–largest city. Founded in 1695, it was the capital of the gold–rich state of Ashanti, whose slave–trading people once controlled an empire probably larger than today’s Ghana.
One of the town’s few remnants of the British realm is Kumasi Fort. Its military museum chronicles the service of Ghanaian soldiers like Bukari Moshie, who even as a sergeant major was not entitled to wear shoes, and three Ghanaian World War II vets who were killed in 1948—not in battle but in a peaceful demonstration against Britain’s refusal to give them their promised pension. Their deaths helped ignite Ghana’s independence movement. A few examples of vernacular Ashanti architecture survive in ten sacred shrines designated as UNESCO World Heritage Sites. One, known as Aduko Jachie, is tucked away at the end of a street lined with evangelical churches, whose ministers tell their congregations to stay away from the shrine. But people still come—secretly, according to its female caretaker, Akua Bedu. The shrine’s last fetish priest ran off years ago, but Akua still prunes the bush in its courtyard. “If you let it blossom,” she explained, “a prominent person in town will die.”
From Kumasi, we proceeded south to Assin Manso, where slaves would stop for inspection before being shipped to the coast. A sign near the riverbank commemorates their “last bath.” African–Americans sometimes bring home vessels of the river’s water and leave wreaths at the graves of two former slaves whose remains were flown here from the United States and Jamaica in 1998.
From Assin Manso it was on to the city of Cape Coast, where in 1653 the Swedes erected a fort on rocks overlooking the Atlantic. The British made the fort’s walls stronger and dungeons deeper, to hold tens of thousands of human beings who were shipped like cargo to the Americas. Descending into this cobblestone purgatory, we saw a line on the wall three feet high that marked the tide of feces, straw, and corpses that the dungeon once contained.
About five hundred women were stored in a separate hell, where the master had his pick. Those who survived their stay in the fort were led to the ships through the Door of No Return.
The following morning, we headed back to Accra to meet up with our fellow Globe Aware volunteers. We could spot one another by our white T–shirts proclaiming, have fun, help people. Founded in 2000, the Dallas–based nonprofit arranges “adventures in service” in fifteen countries. Eamon was pleased to meet a co–conspirator in another ten–year–old boy, Wyatt Keyser, who came with his father, Wayne, a park ranger from Nevada, and his vivacious mother, Jodee. Also on board were Scott Strazik, a General Electric executive; Julie Tortorici, a New York filmmaker shooting a documentary about rebuilding her life after a divorce; and Joe Amon, her laser–witted cameraman.
Each of us had paid thirteen hundred dollars for the privilege of breaking our asses. There to help us do that was Richard Kwashie Yinkah, the thirty–year–old founder of Disaster Volunteers of Ghana. In the last eight years, Richard and his team had built schools, staffed orphanages, and imported books, computers, and teachers from abroad. For all his dedication, Richard had a hip sense of humor—especially when he laid Ghana’s soul–brother handshake on me. First came the interlocking of fists, followed by some quick thumb play, then a slow tango of the middle fingers, all of which culminated in a resounding snap when the two parties pulled their hands apart. At least that was how it was supposed to go. Somehow my hand stayed glued to Richard’s. There was no snap.
“Keep practicing,” he said with a wink.
Richard’s thirty–two–year–old first lieutenant, Robert Tornu, helped wedge us into a beat–up passenger van. After driving northeast for two hours, we reached Ho, which would be our base. Ho boasts three hospitals, a cathedral, a museum, a prison, and several hotels and Internet cafés. But many people still think of it as a large village.
We arrived just as Ho’s paramount chief, Togbe Afede XIV, was honoring his predecessor, the late Togbe Afede Asor II, with a procession. Asafo warriors were firing muskets. Lithe, ocher–haired beauties were swiveling their hips. A barefoot fetish priestess who resembled Oprah Winfrey spun around in a trance. Dancers and drummers circled her whenever she plopped down in the middle of the street to blow her whistle.
“Some Christian ladies would be offended to see her here,” said Richard. “But tradition says she should have a place in the procession.”
We shared a catered dinner in the parking lot of Ho’s public bus terminal, then settled into the bricklike single beds of our dorm rooms at the Ghana National Teachers Association Hostel.
The next day was Sunday. Since almost sixty–nine percent of Ghanaians are Christian, working on their Sabbath was out. So we continued our cultural immersion, rumbling in our van through jade valleys for an hour till we reached the Agumatsa Wildlife Sanctuary on the border of Togo. There, we walked through a forest glittering with butterflies and across nine footbridges, until the birdsong was devoured by the roar of Wli Falls, said to be the tallest plunge of water in West Africa. Even before we saw it, the mist cooled our faces. Eamon and I had gone bodysurfing in the crashing Atlantic, but we’d stayed out of ponds for fear of the dreaded bilharzia parasites that dwell in still water. Here, the roiling pool at the bottom of the falls was safe. In fact, it was fantastic. We dove into its mighty clouds of joy like a bunch of Baptists. The next morning, we drove forty–five minutes to Tsyome Afedo, a village of well–kept mud–brick houses surrounded by verdant hills. As we got out of the van, a tipsy old man greeted us, banging a cowbell.
“My name is Teddy Bonfu,” he rasped. “But everybody calls me Teddy Bones.”
I tried to give him the Ghanaian handshake but again failed miserably. There was no snap.
Richard and Robert guided us to a house where the chief, Togbega Tomadofodoe IV, had gathered with his council. All wore their best togas.
The chief’s linguist gave us a brief history of Tsyome Afedo. He recalled how the Ewe people had settled here in about 1795. Although Tsyome Afedo still isn’t on most maps, it now has a public phone booth and a bus stop. The village has about seven hundred people who farm small tracts, but the linguist said more and more of the young men and women have been getting on the bus to go to the city, to seek jobs and a modern education.
“If we had a computer center,” said the linguist, “we believe more people would stay. Our children could browse and learn.”
We followed Richard to the work site. So far, the computer center consisted of just three unfinished cinder block walls.
“Progress stops and starts because there is no full–time support,” Richard explained. “People have to stop their farming to work on it.”
But now the Yanks had come to get the job done! Provided someone pointed us in the right direction. Wyatt’s father, Wayne, and I headed off to a clearing where men were hand–sawing fourteen–foot boards from a felled kapok tree. Wayne and I hoisted a plank onto our shoulders. We hadn’t gotten far down the forest path before sweat was running into our eyes. As we stopped for breath, a barefoot granny whizzed by us with a larger board balanced on her head. I felt like a snail.
Someone asked me to fetch some cement. I loaded two fifty–pound bags into a wheelbarrow, which immediately tipped over. Eventually, I got them to the mortar–mixing slab, where I joined in the shoveling. But I couldn’t quite keep up with the seamless groove of the human cement mixers.
When the mortar was ready, we shoveled it into aluminum pans that the village women lifted onto their heads. After struggling to carry the heavy pans in our arms, we realized that the ladies were onto something. I hoisted a pan onto my head.
“Eamon, take my picture!” I said.
My camera–smile soon turned into a grimace as I felt the pan driving my baseball cap’s top button into my skull.
Noon’s pitiless sun made everyone call it a day. That night, at dinner, some of us questioned how much we were helping the people of Tsyome Afedo.
“I think we may just be comic relief for them,” I told Richard. “We’re funny to watch.”
“Your coming here wakes them up,” he insisted. “Too often, our people wait for a miracle. They go to these new evangelical churches that promise them the Lord will find a way. We can’t wait for God, or for the government, to build the school.
“You guys are part of the motivation for these people,” he went on. “They say, ‘If these Americans can travel three thousand miles to our village just to move concrete, why shouldn’t we do it?’ ”
We returned to the work site pumped up. When the masons called for mortar, we scrambled to get it. Eamon and Wyatt shoveled cement like a couple of Local 147 sandhogs.
There seemed to be more villagers on the site. Even their queen mother was carrying planks. Maybe Richard was right about our inspiring them. Only . . . we may have inspired them too much. Now they were hogging all the aluminum pans, leaving us to watch.
“They don’t want you to get tired,” explained Robert.
We needed more pans. The next morning, we stocked up at the hardware store in Ho and marched onto the work site like Spartans, flashing our gleaming shields. That day we showed our grit—covering ourselves, if not in glory, then in a lot of dirt.
We did get breaks. The village boys showed Eamon how to play the talking drums, and Eamon showed the boys how to throw an American football. One big Ghanaian kid was soon drilling perfect spirals into my gut. (Is it any wonder the country’s Black Stars soccer team booted us out of the World Cup?)
On our last day, more villagers showed up to work than we’d seen all week. The ladies were lined up like ballerinas with fifty–pound cinder blocks on their heads. In between loads, the women would lob taunts at the male masons about their productivity. The men growled back. But the bickering always ended in laughter—the Ghanaian rule.
Where did Eamon go? He’d been sawing iron rods—his greatest feat of independence—but now he’d disappeared. I found him in a school classroom. Three concentric circles of kids hovered around him, or rather around the glowing screen of his Nintendo. They’d never seen a computer you could hold in your palm. Introducing video games to the village made me feel a bit like a playground drug dealer. But maybe this was the shape of things to come, once their computer center opened. And Eamon’s eye candy did open a discussion. Watching the tiny Nintendo skateboarder, one boy asked, “What is skateboarding?”
“It’s like surfing, only on the street,” I said.
“What is surfing?” asked the boy.
After lunch and an impromptu international soccer match, Richard asked us if we wanted to visit a Vodun village.
We started down a path into the forest. Tagging along was our ever–present cowbell banger, Teddy Bones—lured no doubt by our offertory bottle of gin. Having forded a stream, we came to that group of thatched huts I mentioned at the beginning of this story—and that little stone man. “He defends the village from Christian enemies,” said Robert, who warned us not to touch the carved fetish.
The village seemed deserted. But Richard and Robert soon located Hunor Thomas Kwami–Ahli, fetish priest of the Mina Mavo (translation: “Free Me”) Healing Center. A handsome, bare–chested man in his thirties, the priest wiped his brow with an American flag handkerchief. He asked us to take off our shoes and shirts, and he gave us sarongs. Then he invited us to the “power house,” where we found his center’s patients—forty or so men, women, and children—gathered on a veranda. In one corner were several percussionists. With a wave of his hand, the priest beckoned the drummers to play. The faithful began to chant and sway and dance with precision. I’m not sure what they needed healed; their limbs seemed to work fine.
We were invited to take part. At first, I joined in just to be polite. But before I knew it, I’d slipped into rapture. The rhythm took me down a stream where Mami Wata, the python–handling water goddess, throttled me as if I were a garter snake. Thankfully, one of the priest’s acolytes guided me to my seat before my fellow volunteers could videotape too much of the spectacle.
Back in Tsyome Afedo, the chief invited us to the house where we’d met him at the week’s start. The queen mother and the council of elders were all there. The chief’s linguist acknowledged that the computer center was far from finished. “This is not the end of our work,” he said. Nor, he hoped, was it the end of our acquaintance. Two women tied a string with a trading bead around each of our wrists.
“We do this,” said the linguist, “so that you may go back safely and so people will see your connection to us.”
We offered a few words of our own gratitude. But the love–fest started to go awry. Teddy Bones, who’d had a few too many ceremonial libations, kept chiming in. Finally, someone dragged him outside.
When we came out of the chief’s house, Teddy was sobbing. Jodee gave him a hug, and I slipped him some beer money, which cheered him up immediately.
I was feeling a little misty myself as we drove back to our dorm. I felt like I’d known the people in the village and the people in this van for much longer than seven days. The previous week’s breakneck sightseeing had filled my memory card. But I’d had a deeper encounter—and, frankly, more fun—hauling cement and being humiliated by old ladies. Eamon had risen to the challenge. He’d griped every day about missing his pets and his mom, but even he had to admit, “This was a pretty good trip.”
When we got back to Ho, the people in the Vodun village called Richard to say that they’d found my BlackBerry, which I must have lost during my trance dance. I took it as a sign. Maybe I should be grateful to the fetish priest for ridding me of the wireless tumor–giver. Who wants to be buried in a cell phone?
“I can get it,” said Richard.
“Don’t,” I said. “I can buy another one.”
But, naturally, Richard wouldn’t hear of it. He got up early and fetched the infernal device, giving it back to me at the airport. I hugged him and, once again, tried to give him the Ghanaian soul–shake. The jets were roaring overhead but, so help me, I heard our fingers snap.
THE END (Credit: http://www.globeaware.org/cond%C3%A9-nast-traveler-globe-aware-ghana)
****For more information about Globe Aware and their Volunteer Vacations visit: http://www.globeaware.org
Travel writer George Rush traveled with Globe Aware for a volunteer vacation in Ghana. Joined by his 10-year-old son Eamon, George's adventures in-sights are featured in September 2010 edition of Condé Nast Traveler.
Title: Trying (Hard) to Be a Good Man in Africa
By: George Rush (Condé Nast Traveler) Dated:Wednesday, September 1, 2010It’s funny, the detours you take when you set out to enlighten a nation.
My ten–year–old son, Eamon, and I had come to Ghana as volunteers to lend a hand in building a computer center. We were supposed to help connect a rural village to the World Wide Web, so that, one day, its benighted people might learn to Google, Wiki, and Twitter. But here I was in a Vodun ceremony, stripped down to a white sarong, whipping my head like a hypnotized chicken, as a fetish priest and his coven of drummers connected me to an older Ethernet.
Eamon shook his head in embarrassment. Isn’t it awful when your dad drags you to Africa and then gets lost in a spirit trance?
It had started as a lark. After a morning spent mixing mortar and lugging cinder blocks, our little band of volunteers figured a hike would be a good way to walk off lunch. We’d marched through the bush for less than an hour when we came to a clearing where a half–dozen thatched huts were protected by a stone talisman, a wax–covered little man with a knife in his head. This was the Mina Mavo Healing Center. People stayed here for days, looking for a cure for their physical and mental maladies. We hadn’t come with any complaints. And yet, to different degrees, all of us saw Ghana as a kind of healing center. Among our patients were a recent divorcée, a globe–trotting executive craving a reward beyond frequent–flier miles, and a young family simply looking for relief from the usual holiday, where the memory of the trip fades faster than the tan. We all wanted to sweat off some of our self–absorption. I’d been to thirty–five or so countries, but I often came home feeling that I’d just scratched the surface of the culture, leaving behind nothing more than a little baksheesh. I was looking for the deep–tissue massage you can get only by doing hard labor for a good cause. I also had this picture of working with my son, shoulder to shoulder, to conquer African poverty—even if I could barely get him to clean our cat’s litter box.
We weren’t the first to come to Ghana looking to be useful. The country’s political stability, its robust economy (it has one of the world’s best–performing stock markets), and the fact that its people speak English have made Ghana one of the most popular African destinations for anyone who ever considered joining the Peace Corps. Goodwill ambassador Louis Armstrong visited in 1956, the year before the citizens of the Gold Coast won their independence from Great Britain after a decade of civil disobedience. More than 100,000 fans turned out to hear Satchmo play at Accra’s Old Polo Ground.
“I came from here, way back,” he said, after spotting a woman who resembled his late mother. “Now I know this is my country too.”
Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, Jr., Muhammad Ali, Richard Wright, and Maya Angelou came later to see the first sub–Saharan nation to hand its colonial rulers their hats. Some of them saw Ghana as a refuge from American prejudice and were attracted to first president Kwame Nkrumah’s dream of Pan–African unity. Some seventy thousand Americans visited Ghana last year, and the country remains a pilgrimage destination for African–Americans—including Stevie Wonder, Will Smith, Danny Glover, Beyoncé, and Jay–Z—who come to see, among other historically significant sites, the continent’s largest repository of slave forts.
Ghana has not escaped coups and corruption. But its democratic progress has been impressive enough to earn visits from presidents Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, and Barack Obama (who chose to visit Ghana even over his father’s homeland, Kenya).
But Ghana isn’t only about tear¬stained remembrance and hernia–inducing acts of charity. A couple of taxi rides with Ghanaian drivers in New York City was enough to tip me off that these people were a lively bunch. Their enduring art forms include traveling comic operas called concert parties and highlife music, a swinging Africanized jazz percolating with social commentary. At least one sociologist has suggested that Ghanaians laugh too easily—to conform and to avoid confrontation. Is it any wonder that a Ghanaian, Kofi Annan, should win the Nobel Peace Prize? Or that the Ghanaian calendar should groan with celebrations? Looking it over, I saw that barely a week passes without some festival, saluting everything from the moon to the yam. There is an even greater abundance of wildlife in Ghana’s eighteen national parks and reserves. So I decided that, before we surrendered for community service, Eamon and I should see some of the country.
An eleven–hour flight from New York deposited us in the capital of Accra on a rainy morning. I’d mapped out an express–lane itinerary that had us circumnavigating the country (about the size of Michigan) in a week. We’d need to make good time. There at the airport to help us was our Land Tours guide, Ben Addo, a husky, genial man who’d driven Jesse Jackson a few times. Underscoring Ghana’s brotherhood with America, Ben made our first stop the former home of W.E.B. DuBois, the Massachusetts–born civil rights pioneer who spent his final years here. We also hit the memorial park honoring President Nkrumah, a graduate of Pennsylvania’s Lincoln University. A bronze statue of Nkrumah was missing its head and left arm (broken off during a 1966 coup). The city of about 4.5 million people takes its name from the Akan word for “ants,” because there were once many anthills here. Today they’ve been replaced by more than a dozen skyscrapers, but most of Accra still doesn’t climb above three stories. On our tour of the town, we saw at least a dozen remnants of the British realm, including the nineteenth–century Holy Trinity Cathedral, designed by Sir Aston Webb, architect of London’s Victoria and Albert Museum. The Soviets had clearly inspired Black Star Square, with its triumphal Independence Arch.
The Chinese had supplied the soaring modernist National Theatre, which claims the only classical symphony orchestra in West, Central, and East Africa, and the Danes had left behind the seventeenth–century Osu Castle. It had been home to every Ghanaian president until 2009, when members of President John Kufuor’s National Patriotic party decided he shouldn’t live in a former slave fort, borrowed thirty million dollars from India, and built a palace shaped like a Ghanaian chief’s throne stool. We had started our tour at Nkrumah’s mausoleum, and Ben thought it made perfect sense to end it at Accra’s coffin shops. Back in the 1950s, carpenter Kane Kwei knew a lady who dreamed of flying. When she died, he made her a casket shaped like an airplane, and that was when sepulchre sculpture really took off in Accra. Kwei’s twenty–five–year–old grandson, Eric, invited us into a showroom where we saw a giant chicken, a fishing boat, a beer bottle, and a satin–lined mango.
Eric had just sold a Mercedes–Benz casket.
“It’s very popular among rich people,” he said.
My wiseacre son suggested that the gray snail in the corner might be good for his old dad.
“The snail is usually for a lawyer or a chief,” Eric explained, restoring my reputation. “They are very slow, but they usually get to their destination.” Next, we were off to Ada, a much smaller town about two hours east, on the Atlantic. (The late soul man Isaac Hayes had a home here.) On the way, we picked up Otor Plahar, an Ada–born government official who had offered to introduce me to local chiefs during the weeklong warrior festival of Asafotufiam.
Ghana has a British–begotten parliament and justice system, complete with white wigs. It also has a National House of Chiefs, which has no executive or legislative power but whose advice is respected on matters of tradition. While some of its hereditary leaders are wealthy and politically wired, others squeak by on what they make from humble day jobs. Arriving in Ada, Otor led us down a dirt alley to a modest one–story dwelling where chickens pecked outside. This was the court of our first chief, Nene Tsatsu Pediator IV. The seventy–five–year–old leader of the Kudzragbe clan (one of ten in Ada) wore a black headband decorated with gold moons and stars. One bare, bony shoulder stuck out of his toga, which was made of Ghana’s famous kente cloth. A sentry holding a nineteenth–century musket stood behind the chief as he chatted on his cell phone.
Custom forbade us from speaking directly to Nene Pediator, dictating that we direct all questions to his court linguist. But after a few awkward exchanges, the chief dispensed with formality. He explained that members of his clan sought his opinion on issues ranging from real estate to adultery.
“Marital disputes—we do a lot of those,” he said, flashing a gold tooth. “We give fines.”
We spoke for about half an hour, until it came time to give the chief his traditional present. Most chiefs accepted a “libation.” Otor whispered that this one, a retired accountant, would prefer cash.
“One hundred dollars U.S. would be fine,” he suggested.
I was stunned by the amount, but I didn’t want to breach protocol, especially while that guy with the musket was watching me. I slipped the bills to Otor.
We moved on to the gathering of Ada’s traditional military units, known as asafo companies. Once the warriors of the village, the companies are now dedicated to community service. But during this first week of August, their younger members commemorate Ada’s eighteenth– and nineteenth–century military victories with ram–like displays of testosterone. Stepping cautiously around an open field, we saw a strapping, shirtless teenager wearing antelope horns and brandishing an ancient sword. His friends fired flintlocks into the air. The young men had no bullets. But they’d had a bit of palm wine. At any moment, one of them might sneak up behind you and unload his musket near your ear. One guy stuffed gunpowder into a metal pipe pinched between his legs. Every few minutes, he’d ejaculate fire.
Overseeing this mock combat were the chiefs. Some of them wore capes of leaves. Their linguists gripped staffs carved with power symbols—the parrot, the frog, the egg. Eventually, everyone marched down the road to the Volta River, carrying on their heads their clan chiefs’ stools, as well as drums as long as five feet. The celebrants had sung Christian hymns earlier in the day, but that didn’t keep away the fetish priestesses—older ladies, dressed in white, who stayed in touch with the pre–missionary gods. One of the crones whirled around, clenching her fists as though she were boxing someone we couldn’t see.
The height of the festivities came the next day, when Ada’s paramount chief, Nene Abram Kabu Akuaku III, convened his durbar at a parade ground ringed by hundreds of people. Each of the clan chiefs arrived on a palanquin shouldered by his followers. The chiefs wore their finest kente and enough gold bling to humble an American rap star. Once they’d dismounted their litters, the clan leaders crossed the durbar—shaded by umbrella bearers and heralded by men blowing tusks—to swear their allegiance.
After each chief had recalled his clan’s role in historic battles, the paramount chief declared, “We are still at war—this war of development of our resources.” He mentioned threats to the local wetlands and boundary disputes. He also called upon attending political candidates to conduct their campaigns “in a manner devoid of insults . . . that would likely inflame passions.”
And this was a crowd with flammable passions. Hoisted into the air by their bearers, the chiefs danced on their litters and waved their ceremonial sabers. Jockeying for position in the royal convoy was Nene Buertey Okumko Obuapong IV, whose “war shirt” shimmered with mirrors that deflected the evil eye. The gun smoke of his clan’s musketeers mingled with the dust until the brawny chief appeared to be floating on a russet cloud. He seemed to be having a good time, bouncing up and down, but I sensed his heart fluttering. The day before he’d confided, “I pray to God they don’t drop me.”
I was thinking the same thing at six the next morning as we climbed into the clouds aboard a twin–engine Antrak Air palanquin, winging toward the Northern Region city of Tamale. Our wheelman, Ben, met us when we landed, having set out the day before on the eleven–hour drive from the coast. From Tamale, we headed west across dry red terrain relieved by fat baobab trees and stout thatch–and–clay huts. Stopping in Larabanga, we found that Allah, rather than Jesus, held sway, and learned that the villagers claim their mud–and–stick mosque is the oldest building in Ghana. The Northern Region’s biggest draw for us, though, was the country’s largest nature sanctuary.
Ghana might not have the sprawling game reserves of eastern and southern Africa, with their rhinos, zebras, and giraffes. But its 1.2 million–acre Mole National Park does have an estimated six hundred elephants, more than a thousand buffaloes, five types of primates, thirty–three kinds of reptiles, about three hundred bird species, and a dozen makes of antelope. Among its seventeen varieties of carnivores are just a couple of leopards and lions. With so few man–eaters on the prowl in Mole (pronounced mo–lay), you didn’t need to ride around in a Land Rover for protection. You could get intimate with the savanna and walk through the bush, as we did with our dry–humored ranger, D. K. Basig. He carried a vintage .375–caliber carbine but assured us, “I’ve never had to fire it.”
We followed him through a fragrant sea of lemongrass and shadowed a cortege of foraging elephants. Around noon, they ended up at a lagoon, where some of their buddies were already snorkeling, their trunks poking out of the water.
The next day, we headed south, past maize and cassava fields, to Kumasi, Ghana’s second–largest city. Founded in 1695, it was the capital of the gold–rich state of Ashanti, whose slave–trading people once controlled an empire probably larger than today’s Ghana.
One of the town’s few remnants of the British realm is Kumasi Fort. Its military museum chronicles the service of Ghanaian soldiers like Bukari Moshie, who even as a sergeant major was not entitled to wear shoes, and three Ghanaian World War II vets who were killed in 1948—not in battle but in a peaceful demonstration against Britain’s refusal to give them their promised pension. Their deaths helped ignite Ghana’s independence movement. A few examples of vernacular Ashanti architecture survive in ten sacred shrines designated as UNESCO World Heritage Sites. One, known as Aduko Jachie, is tucked away at the end of a street lined with evangelical churches, whose ministers tell their congregations to stay away from the shrine. But people still come—secretly, according to its female caretaker, Akua Bedu. The shrine’s last fetish priest ran off years ago, but Akua still prunes the bush in its courtyard. “If you let it blossom,” she explained, “a prominent person in town will die.”
From Kumasi, we proceeded south to Assin Manso, where slaves would stop for inspection before being shipped to the coast. A sign near the riverbank commemorates their “last bath.” African–Americans sometimes bring home vessels of the river’s water and leave wreaths at the graves of two former slaves whose remains were flown here from the United States and Jamaica in 1998.
From Assin Manso it was on to the city of Cape Coast, where in 1653 the Swedes erected a fort on rocks overlooking the Atlantic. The British made the fort’s walls stronger and dungeons deeper, to hold tens of thousands of human beings who were shipped like cargo to the Americas. Descending into this cobblestone purgatory, we saw a line on the wall three feet high that marked the tide of feces, straw, and corpses that the dungeon once contained.
About five hundred women were stored in a separate hell, where the master had his pick. Those who survived their stay in the fort were led to the ships through the Door of No Return.
The following morning, we headed back to Accra to meet up with our fellow Globe Aware volunteers. We could spot one another by our white T–shirts proclaiming, have fun, help people. Founded in 2000, the Dallas–based nonprofit arranges “adventures in service” in fifteen countries. Eamon was pleased to meet a co–conspirator in another ten–year–old boy, Wyatt Keyser, who came with his father, Wayne, a park ranger from Nevada, and his vivacious mother, Jodee. Also on board were Scott Strazik, a General Electric executive; Julie Tortorici, a New York filmmaker shooting a documentary about rebuilding her life after a divorce; and Joe Amon, her laser–witted cameraman.
Each of us had paid thirteen hundred dollars for the privilege of breaking our asses. There to help us do that was Richard Kwashie Yinkah, the thirty–year–old founder of Disaster Volunteers of Ghana. In the last eight years, Richard and his team had built schools, staffed orphanages, and imported books, computers, and teachers from abroad. For all his dedication, Richard had a hip sense of humor—especially when he laid Ghana’s soul–brother handshake on me. First came the interlocking of fists, followed by some quick thumb play, then a slow tango of the middle fingers, all of which culminated in a resounding snap when the two parties pulled their hands apart. At least that was how it was supposed to go. Somehow my hand stayed glued to Richard’s. There was no snap.
“Keep practicing,” he said with a wink.
Richard’s thirty–two–year–old first lieutenant, Robert Tornu, helped wedge us into a beat–up passenger van. After driving northeast for two hours, we reached Ho, which would be our base. Ho boasts three hospitals, a cathedral, a museum, a prison, and several hotels and Internet cafés. But many people still think of it as a large village.
We arrived just as Ho’s paramount chief, Togbe Afede XIV, was honoring his predecessor, the late Togbe Afede Asor II, with a procession. Asafo warriors were firing muskets. Lithe, ocher–haired beauties were swiveling their hips. A barefoot fetish priestess who resembled Oprah Winfrey spun around in a trance. Dancers and drummers circled her whenever she plopped down in the middle of the street to blow her whistle.
“Some Christian ladies would be offended to see her here,” said Richard. “But tradition says she should have a place in the procession.”
We shared a catered dinner in the parking lot of Ho’s public bus terminal, then settled into the bricklike single beds of our dorm rooms at the Ghana National Teachers Association Hostel.
The next day was Sunday. Since almost sixty–nine percent of Ghanaians are Christian, working on their Sabbath was out. So we continued our cultural immersion, rumbling in our van through jade valleys for an hour till we reached the Agumatsa Wildlife Sanctuary on the border of Togo. There, we walked through a forest glittering with butterflies and across nine footbridges, until the birdsong was devoured by the roar of Wli Falls, said to be the tallest plunge of water in West Africa. Even before we saw it, the mist cooled our faces. Eamon and I had gone bodysurfing in the crashing Atlantic, but we’d stayed out of ponds for fear of the dreaded bilharzia parasites that dwell in still water. Here, the roiling pool at the bottom of the falls was safe. In fact, it was fantastic. We dove into its mighty clouds of joy like a bunch of Baptists. The next morning, we drove forty–five minutes to Tsyome Afedo, a village of well–kept mud–brick houses surrounded by verdant hills. As we got out of the van, a tipsy old man greeted us, banging a cowbell.
“My name is Teddy Bonfu,” he rasped. “But everybody calls me Teddy Bones.”
I tried to give him the Ghanaian handshake but again failed miserably. There was no snap.
Richard and Robert guided us to a house where the chief, Togbega Tomadofodoe IV, had gathered with his council. All wore their best togas.
The chief’s linguist gave us a brief history of Tsyome Afedo. He recalled how the Ewe people had settled here in about 1795. Although Tsyome Afedo still isn’t on most maps, it now has a public phone booth and a bus stop. The village has about seven hundred people who farm small tracts, but the linguist said more and more of the young men and women have been getting on the bus to go to the city, to seek jobs and a modern education.
“If we had a computer center,” said the linguist, “we believe more people would stay. Our children could browse and learn.”
We followed Richard to the work site. So far, the computer center consisted of just three unfinished cinder block walls.
“Progress stops and starts because there is no full–time support,” Richard explained. “People have to stop their farming to work on it.”
But now the Yanks had come to get the job done! Provided someone pointed us in the right direction. Wyatt’s father, Wayne, and I headed off to a clearing where men were hand–sawing fourteen–foot boards from a felled kapok tree. Wayne and I hoisted a plank onto our shoulders. We hadn’t gotten far down the forest path before sweat was running into our eyes. As we stopped for breath, a barefoot granny whizzed by us with a larger board balanced on her head. I felt like a snail.
Someone asked me to fetch some cement. I loaded two fifty–pound bags into a wheelbarrow, which immediately tipped over. Eventually, I got them to the mortar–mixing slab, where I joined in the shoveling. But I couldn’t quite keep up with the seamless groove of the human cement mixers.
When the mortar was ready, we shoveled it into aluminum pans that the village women lifted onto their heads. After struggling to carry the heavy pans in our arms, we realized that the ladies were onto something. I hoisted a pan onto my head.
“Eamon, take my picture!” I said.
My camera–smile soon turned into a grimace as I felt the pan driving my baseball cap’s top button into my skull.
Noon’s pitiless sun made everyone call it a day. That night, at dinner, some of us questioned how much we were helping the people of Tsyome Afedo.
“I think we may just be comic relief for them,” I told Richard. “We’re funny to watch.”
“Your coming here wakes them up,” he insisted. “Too often, our people wait for a miracle. They go to these new evangelical churches that promise them the Lord will find a way. We can’t wait for God, or for the government, to build the school.
“You guys are part of the motivation for these people,” he went on. “They say, ‘If these Americans can travel three thousand miles to our village just to move concrete, why shouldn’t we do it?’ ”
We returned to the work site pumped up. When the masons called for mortar, we scrambled to get it. Eamon and Wyatt shoveled cement like a couple of Local 147 sandhogs.
There seemed to be more villagers on the site. Even their queen mother was carrying planks. Maybe Richard was right about our inspiring them. Only . . . we may have inspired them too much. Now they were hogging all the aluminum pans, leaving us to watch.
“They don’t want you to get tired,” explained Robert.
We needed more pans. The next morning, we stocked up at the hardware store in Ho and marched onto the work site like Spartans, flashing our gleaming shields. That day we showed our grit—covering ourselves, if not in glory, then in a lot of dirt.
We did get breaks. The village boys showed Eamon how to play the talking drums, and Eamon showed the boys how to throw an American football. One big Ghanaian kid was soon drilling perfect spirals into my gut. (Is it any wonder the country’s Black Stars soccer team booted us out of the World Cup?)
On our last day, more villagers showed up to work than we’d seen all week. The ladies were lined up like ballerinas with fifty–pound cinder blocks on their heads. In between loads, the women would lob taunts at the male masons about their productivity. The men growled back. But the bickering always ended in laughter—the Ghanaian rule.
Where did Eamon go? He’d been sawing iron rods—his greatest feat of independence—but now he’d disappeared. I found him in a school classroom. Three concentric circles of kids hovered around him, or rather around the glowing screen of his Nintendo. They’d never seen a computer you could hold in your palm. Introducing video games to the village made me feel a bit like a playground drug dealer. But maybe this was the shape of things to come, once their computer center opened. And Eamon’s eye candy did open a discussion. Watching the tiny Nintendo skateboarder, one boy asked, “What is skateboarding?”
“It’s like surfing, only on the street,” I said.
“What is surfing?” asked the boy.
After lunch and an impromptu international soccer match, Richard asked us if we wanted to visit a Vodun village.
We started down a path into the forest. Tagging along was our ever–present cowbell banger, Teddy Bones—lured no doubt by our offertory bottle of gin. Having forded a stream, we came to that group of thatched huts I mentioned at the beginning of this story—and that little stone man. “He defends the village from Christian enemies,” said Robert, who warned us not to touch the carved fetish.
The village seemed deserted. But Richard and Robert soon located Hunor Thomas Kwami–Ahli, fetish priest of the Mina Mavo (translation: “Free Me”) Healing Center. A handsome, bare–chested man in his thirties, the priest wiped his brow with an American flag handkerchief. He asked us to take off our shoes and shirts, and he gave us sarongs. Then he invited us to the “power house,” where we found his center’s patients—forty or so men, women, and children—gathered on a veranda. In one corner were several percussionists. With a wave of his hand, the priest beckoned the drummers to play. The faithful began to chant and sway and dance with precision. I’m not sure what they needed healed; their limbs seemed to work fine.
We were invited to take part. At first, I joined in just to be polite. But before I knew it, I’d slipped into rapture. The rhythm took me down a stream where Mami Wata, the python–handling water goddess, throttled me as if I were a garter snake. Thankfully, one of the priest’s acolytes guided me to my seat before my fellow volunteers could videotape too much of the spectacle.
Back in Tsyome Afedo, the chief invited us to the house where we’d met him at the week’s start. The queen mother and the council of elders were all there. The chief’s linguist acknowledged that the computer center was far from finished. “This is not the end of our work,” he said. Nor, he hoped, was it the end of our acquaintance. Two women tied a string with a trading bead around each of our wrists.
“We do this,” said the linguist, “so that you may go back safely and so people will see your connection to us.”
We offered a few words of our own gratitude. But the love–fest started to go awry. Teddy Bones, who’d had a few too many ceremonial libations, kept chiming in. Finally, someone dragged him outside.
When we came out of the chief’s house, Teddy was sobbing. Jodee gave him a hug, and I slipped him some beer money, which cheered him up immediately.
I was feeling a little misty myself as we drove back to our dorm. I felt like I’d known the people in the village and the people in this van for much longer than seven days. The previous week’s breakneck sightseeing had filled my memory card. But I’d had a deeper encounter—and, frankly, more fun—hauling cement and being humiliated by old ladies. Eamon had risen to the challenge. He’d griped every day about missing his pets and his mom, but even he had to admit, “This was a pretty good trip.”
When we got back to Ho, the people in the Vodun village called Richard to say that they’d found my BlackBerry, which I must have lost during my trance dance. I took it as a sign. Maybe I should be grateful to the fetish priest for ridding me of the wireless tumor–giver. Who wants to be buried in a cell phone?
“I can get it,” said Richard.
“Don’t,” I said. “I can buy another one.”
But, naturally, Richard wouldn’t hear of it. He got up early and fetched the infernal device, giving it back to me at the airport. I hugged him and, once again, tried to give him the Ghanaian soul–shake. The jets were roaring overhead but, so help me, I heard our fingers snap.
THE END (Credit: http://www.globeaware.org/cond%C3%A9-nast-traveler-globe-aware-ghana)
****For more information about Globe Aware and their Volunteer Vacations visit: http://www.globeaware.org
Saturday, 12 February 2011
Buy Ghanaian, buy Kasapreko Dry Gin
“Kasapreko Dry Gin is popular for its distinctive fine taste. Its crystal-clear appearance has an attraction of it's own. When and where tradition demands the use of a gin, Kasapreko Dry Gin is the first choice. It can also be mixed with Kasapreko Lime Cordial, soda mixers or ice cubes.” Kasapreko
***I was researching and searching for wine makers in Ghana for a project I’m working on, when I stumbled across the Kasapreko brand, and was wowed by how professional this brewery looks. I discovered that they do indeed make their own wine (Kasa Vino) -and it looks good but what has truly inspired me is Kasapreko’s Dry Gin. And its got me thinking, are they stocked in the UK, if not, then why not? For more information or to become a distributor visit: http://www.kasaprekogh.com/cms/
Friday, 11 February 2011
Wow look at the new Vodafone Headquarters located at Airport City, Accra, Ghana…..
**I read the following information about Vodafone’s new head office via myjoyonline.com -and thought of you. Its good to see this kind of dedication by a global telecommunications giant to provide jobs and boost the Ghanaian economy…
Title: Vodafone relocates to ultra modern headquarters Dated: Thursday 10 February 2011
Accra: In a significant move that indicates its determination to provide world class services to its customers, Vodafone Ghana has relocated its Headquarters to an ultra modern office at Airport City, Accra.
The nine storey building, which is to be commissioned on February 25, 2011, can be described as a work of art displaying work from some of Ghana’s most talented artists.
The workspace is laced with adinkra symbols and artwork that reflect Vodafone’s local flavour. The open floor plan promotes optimum productivity for the Vodafone employees and also reflects the company’s culture of open and instant communication.
Each floor of the building is designed to reflect a region in Ghana with artwork representing movement, and vitality with a touch of Ghanaian history.
The building has a total gross floor area of about 5620sqm, planned particularly to meet its work place standard and health and safety concerns. The ground floor features an 80 people-capacity restaurant and five meeting rooms, and the terrace has been designed to efficiently utilize the outdoor space.
According to the CEO, Kyle Whitehill, ‘the move to the new premises is to assert ourselves as the world’s leading mobile telecommunications company; we are committed to providing world class products and services to the people of Ghana and one of the most important steps to doing this is to provide a high class environment for our employees.
The telecommunications giant, can be said to have truly put the welfare of Ghanaians at its forefront. This significant move marks the beginning of an exciting year that Vodafone has purposely planned out for the benefit of its valued customers and Ghanaians at large. The new Vodafone Headquarters is located at Airport City, Accra.
(Credit: http://news.myjoyonline.com/business/201102/60878.asp)..
Fashion: Dee Poku looking fabulous at the 2011 Golden Globe Awards After Party…
With thoughts of finally turning Ghana Rising blog into a high fashion/lifestyle lead glossy, it dawned on me as I complied a list of who this said magazine was aimed at (the professional, savvy woman and man of Ghanaian origin -globally etc) -and what/whom embodied the this woman etc, -the likes of uber movers and shakers like: Dee Poku, Karen Cummings-Palmer (health, beauty, style commentator and the founder of the Core London fitness programme), June Sarpong et al sprung to mind and I realised that I haven’t googled Ms Poku for some time. Anyway I did, and stumbled across the above lovely images of: uber connected stylista, ex Paramount film publicist, marketing and branded entertainment guru, and one of the founding members of Wie Symposium (an annual event that takes place in New York and brings together the world’s most dynamic and powerful women -please google this organisation, -I promise you’ll be blown away) -and all round amazing British Ghanaian girl now ‘doing’ NYC/LA -fabulous. Dee Poku is beautiful, stylish, at the top of her game -and one of the many successful women of Ghanaian origin that Ghana Rising is inspired by, keep up the good work Dee.
Fashion: Emily Okoampah
I stumbled across the following piece about Emily Okoampah, a Ghanaian designer, new to Ghana Rising’s radar via http://79.170.44.105/fashionsfinest.com/ -and just had to share. I hope to see a lot more of this exciting designer…
**Emily Okoampah is Ghanaian and a student, currently based in London and studying dressmaking and fashion designing. She has always loved sewing since she was a child back in primary school in Ghana, where she had her basic and senior secondary school education in clothing and textiles and then at the polytechnic where she achieved a diploma in fashion designing and dressmaking.
Emily Okoampah is inspired by the things she sees around her like the trees, the blue sky, the birds and the people she comes into contact with in her everyday life. She adds up bits of everything she picks from these to create her designs.
As we endure the mood of others for both good and bad, we also endure the mood derived from colours. In her collection she prefers to use colours which are appealing, flattering and feminine at the same time. They are for women of all figure types who want to look good, feminine and flaunt their God given figure to be proud of their womanhood.
(Credit:http://79.170.44.105/fashionsfinest.com/index.php?option=com_k2&view=item&id=442:emily-okoampah&Itemid=110)
Fashion: Is Leila Adu the most fashionable woman of Ghanaian origin in the world?
I stumbled across these fabulous images of musician, Leila Adu via http://www.thefashioncult.com/, they were shot by Leon Dale (http://leondale.blogspot.com/) -and I just had to share them! Looking beautiful and uber chic, -I also discovered that Leila latest CD, ‘Ode to the Unknown Factory Worker’ has just been released . You can listen and download the album at: http://www.leilaadu.com/
Thursday, 10 February 2011
Jon Germain’s Reckless Dolls are officially Ghana’s first girl band -and they’re hot!
Reckless Dolls -Ghana's first girl band is made up of: Fidelia Ankomah (Ewurama), Dharyann Bryan-Ghartey (Dharyann) and Tosan Scott (T.Scott) -and as their manger and creator, Jon Germain said of this trio, “they are exceptionally good”-and Ghana Rising agrees and looks forward to much more from these hot gals!
Personally, I really like these girls. They are sooo much hotter than I anticipated -and are fabulous enough for the international market/stage, -but to achieve this goal, they seriously need a tight media/styling/ PR team/machine to handle them. Please note the following important points.....thanks:
Make consistent HOT Music…
The girls need to up and keep up their game, -collaborate with other hot (choice) artists from around the globe, work with only the best in the industry or those up-and-coming artistes that are doing amazing things outside of the box…and release the hottest ever album to come out of African -ever…
Styling
Fashion/style is everything and without it -they will not succeed. Cheap stretchy Primark wannabe dresses and tacky wannabe leather plastic shoes -won’t work. Jon Germain needs to provide the Reckless Dolls with a serious styling team consisting of hot stylists/MUAs/hairstylists -and an established designer (maybe Christine Brown) to kit them out for all those special occasions. These girls must never be spotted out-and-about looking less then perfect… Jon will know when he’s got it right because -the girls will look flawless, -with no cheap plaited hair, over plucked eyebrows, patchy skin, cheap looking clothes or shoes in sight.
Image
The girls/Jon need to control their image -and can not afford to have less than perfect images of themselves out there. For example, the above film clip has some images that should never have seen the light-of-day! The girls need to know that to be fabulous -the ordinary will never do. Jon Germain needs to set up numerous photo shoots with the girls -produce really hot, on-trend images and use them to promote the girls. These images and nothing less should accompany all press releases/ media info etc.
Serious Promotion/PR/Exposure..
Ghana doesn’t have a real PR/Media industry/machine in place, but Jon’s management team can make a start and set the standard by compiling a conservative list of all the relevant media agencies (for example, magazines, newspapers, websites, blogs, radio & TV etc) -and send all these agencies -the relevant information/Press Releases etc. They need to travel to all the hot spots in Africa like: South Africa, Nigeria, Rwanda and Botswana are hot -right now. They also need to target the seriously glossy magazines in Africa like Marie-Claire South African, Elle South African, GQ south Africa, Cosmopolitan South Africa and whatever hot magazine exist in Ghana, Nigeria, Botswana and Rwanda etc.
Create a Buzz then go global…
By the time Jon and the Reckless Dolls have achieved all the above, they will then have the gravitas to go global -and target the ethnic press in the west before they hopefully take on the mainstream press etc.…God bless girls, you can do it -and do it beautifully, -and put GH on the map.
http://www.facebook.com/lynx.gh
*** At the time of uploading this piece I couldn’t find a website for the Reckless Girls or Jon Germain's but I have a funny feeling that if you want to book the Reckless Girls etc -you can most probably reach them via the Lynx Record Label (Facebook only) -as they were representing Jon Germain the last time I checked.
Music: M3NSA’s ‘No One Knows’ has warmed the cockles-of-my-heart…arrrrhh
Taken off M3nsa’s ‘No.1 Mango Street’ album, ‘No One Knows’ is an upbeat, ray of sunshine that has made my day -and the video is soo lovely and beautifully shot by Sam Kessie, -seriously, this tune is now on repeat. You can buy this single via itunes at: http://itunes.apple.com/us/album/no-one-knows-single/id406771273 For more information on M3nsa visit: http://www.m3nsa.com/
Music: Slimbo -I think he has the X factor…producers take note..
(Slimbo is the second rapper)
I enjoy the numerous messages and film clips of GH artists I get via my facebook account -even though I’m rarely moved or impressed with said artists, -but step forward a young man called Slimbo, a rapper based in Ghana. He tagged me the above film clip and I must confess -I’m impressed and believe that he has the X factor and needs a good producer and management team -but who can do the job in Ghana? I have suggested Slimbo tag and contact: Reggie Rockstone, Mugeez and the boys from R2Bees and Jon Germain (Reckless Dolls) -but what do you think? Who should talented artists contact in GH? God Bless Slimbo -Ghana Rising is rooting for you. For more information on Slimbo visit:
http://www.myspace.com/slimboxxx2
http://www.facebook.com/sLimboslim
Wednesday, 9 February 2011
I am shocked and devastated over the death of Claudia Adusei
I got home at 3.45pm after picking up my little man from school, made sure he was fed and watered -bless him, then had my ubiquitous ginger & lemon tea, finally sat down to watch Sky news -when I heard about a young British lady who had gone to the States to have the newly popular buttocks enlarging operation and couldn’t believe that she died -hours later. I don’t know, -but I just couldn’t shake it off, - it’s just too sad! I guess I’m especially affected because plastic surgery is very real in my life. I have tons of friends who have had (very) successful plastic surgery and a very close friend who’s about to be operated on -plus I have a few bits that I also want done but to think that someone’s beautiful daughter will not be returning home -because she paid to have a nonessential cosmetic procedure done, far away from home is devastating.
When I first heard the news they were not giving out the young ladies name/details etc -but at around 5pm she was confirmed as Claudia Adusei -and as you can image it brought this sad accident even closer to home, -as I recognised the departed’s Ghanaian surname. Ghana Rising would like to take this opportunity to send our condolences to the Adusei family. God Bless and keep you all..
Saturday, 5 February 2011
Film: Prince Adu plays Lucky in Prince of Broadway….
“Prince of Broadway is the story of Lucky and Levon, two men whose lives converge in the underbelly of New York's wholesale fashion district. Lucky, an illegal immigrant from Ghana, makes ends meet by soliciting shoppers on the street with knock-off brand merchandise. Levon, an Armenian-Lebanese immigrant, operates an illegal storefront with a concealed back room where counterfeit goods are showcased to interested shoppers. Lucky's world is suddenly turned upside down when a child is thrust into his life by a woman who insists the toddler is his son. While Lucky copes with his new domestic dilemma, Levon struggles to save a marriage that is falling apart. The seedy side of the wholesale district is revealed through a journey that continually confronts the interplay between what is fake and what is real.
Set in the shadow of the Flatiron building and soaked in the colorful bustle of Broadway, the film is as much a brutal drama as it is a tender comedy. Shot in a fast-paced guerilla style that is akin to the hustler lifestyle, the film reveals the lives of immigrants in America seeking ideals of family and love, while creating their own knock-off of the American Dream.” princeofbroadway.com
***Its happened again people, another ‘of-the-moment’ film starring a fellow Gh-er, Prince Adu and I’m only just finding out about it now -what’s going on? Called the Prince of Broadway -I stumbled across the above film clip by chance and I‘m truly grateful. It has received some excellent reviews and I hope to watch it soon, you can visit: http://www.princeofbroadway.com/ -for more information…
R.I.P: Dora Kwatiorkor Opoku OBE (Midwife & Health Educator) 14/4/1948 -17/12/2010
Title: Dora Opoku: Midwife and nurse educator who became an authority in the field of medical research ethics..
From: The Independent Newspaper (Obituaries) / By Helen Roberts / Dated: 27/1/2011
Dora Opoku was an African Queen – not by birth, but by comportment. She was an academic nurse, midwife and medical ethicist; her formidable character, combined with a boisterous laugh, commanded respect even in the most unpromising situations, including a Research Ethics committee dealing with the delicate ecology of scientists who are leaders in their fields.
Readers who do not work in health might be surprised to know that not every applicant whose work is looked at by these committees is of an unassuming disposition. So crafty were Opoku's chairing skills that even the haughtiest of colleagues was led gently towards principles they didn't know they had, and some went on to espouse these principles enthusiastically themselves. Opoku was aware of the part that laypeople, usually women, play in observing, diagnosing and caring for those with health problems. She promoted the importance of listening to patients and carers not simply because it is right, but because, if done well, it leads to better science.
When Opoku came from Ghana to train as a nurse and midwife in the 1960s, London was vetoed by her mother, who realised the temptations that might await. She was sent to train in Dundee, and retained an affection for Scotland for the rest of her life. Although one of only a handful of black people in Dundee at the time, she claimed always to have been treated with respect as the "wee African nurse" (though as she pointed out, "I never was 'wee'"). Her subsequent education included training at St Thomas's and a masters in medical ethics and law from King's College, London.
Dora Opoku was born in Accra into a large and accomplished family. Her mother Barbara was a social worker, mainly with underprivileged children and those in trouble with the law. Unusually for the time, she had trained in Europe. Dora's father Ebenezer was head nurse at the main Korle Bu Accra hospital and later Health Centre Superintendent in the Ashanti Region.
Dora's secondary education was at Ghana's posh boarding school, Wesley Girls. Without being a goody-goody – no one was less judgmental – the "Speak True" and "Right Wrongs" aspects of the school motto informed her values (the easy part) and her behaviour. She was a feminist, with political instincts on the left, but toeing any party line was foreign to her.
Her work as a midwife and a midwife-academic in the East End of London gave her opportunities to challenge injustice, in part through training students in some of the most ethnically and economically diverse areas of the UK. She could not be pigeonholed. She was on the Department of Health's consent advisory group, was active in her local Methodist church and was a trustee of the British Pregnancy Advisory Service. She loved football, and was forlorn when Ghana lost to Uruguay in the World Cup quarter-finals last summer.
She ensured that colleagues who worked with her, people she met on her extensive travels, and those who cared for her in her final illness felt included and valued. She would winkle out the given name of the cleaner, driver, nurse or health care assistant and then use it, charming, teasing and encouraging them, sometimes in one of the several African languages she spoke.
After practising as a midwife and a midwife manager, Opoku became head first of midwifery, and more recently head of midwifery and child health, at City University, London. In 2004, her contribution to her profession and to medical ethics was recognised with an OBE. She was justly proud, but the irony did not escape her. The Gold Coast, (as Ghana had been until she was nine), was the first Black African country to become independent.
There are few people in academic life of whom one can say, "they never said a bitchy word about anyone." This one really didn't. While Opoku did not fail to observe abuses of power, racism or sexism, she would find a kind way to challenge – recognising that no one changes bad behaviour by throwing a brick through the window with a message saying "Stop that" tied to it.
In Ghana, funerals are an important part of life. Opoku's own Methodist funeral in East London on Christmas Eve included a Christmas carol, fitting for a midwife, and afterwards, led by her sisters and cousins, a traditional Ghanaian funeral dance. On her final visit to Ghana, she had shown me the Ga coffins crafted close to the house where she grew up, designed by carpenters to commemorate the life of the person who had died (an example is in the British Museum). As a health professional, she especially liked the packet-of-cigarettes coffin for someone who had enjoyed a smoke, but the one that might have suited Dora was a beautiful mother hen with a clutch of chicks.
Dora Kwatiorkor Opoku, midwife and educator: born Accra, Ghana 14 April 1948; OBE 2004; died London 17 December 2010.
Opoku: She was a feminist with leftist instincts, but toed no party line
Dora Opoku was an African Queen – not by birth, but by comportment. She was an academic nurse, midwife and medical ethicist; her formidable character, combined with a boisterous laugh, commanded respect even in the most unpromising situations, including a Research Ethics committee dealing with the delicate ecology of scientists who are leaders in their fields.
Readers who do not work in health might be surprised to know that not every applicant whose work is looked at by these committees is of an unassuming disposition. So crafty were Opoku's chairing skills that even the haughtiest of colleagues was led gently towards principles they didn't know they had, and some went on to espouse these principles enthusiastically themselves. Opoku was aware of the part that laypeople, usually women, play in observing, diagnosing and caring for those with health problems. She promoted the importance of listening to patients and carers not simply because it is right, but because, if done well, it leads to better science.
When Opoku came from Ghana to train as a nurse and midwife in the 1960s, London was vetoed by her mother, who realised the temptations that might await. She was sent to train in Dundee, and retained an affection for Scotland for the rest of her life. Although one of only a handful of black people in Dundee at the time, she claimed always to have been treated with respect as the "wee African nurse" (though as she pointed out, "I never was 'wee'"). Her subsequent education included training at St Thomas's and a masters in medical ethics and law from King's College, London.
Dora Opoku was born in Accra into a large and accomplished family. Her mother Barbara was a social worker, mainly with underprivileged children and those in trouble with the law. Unusually for the time, she had trained in Europe. Dora's father Ebenezer was head nurse at the main Korle Bu Accra hospital and later Health Centre Superintendent in the Ashanti Region.
Dora's secondary education was at Ghana's posh boarding school, Wesley Girls. Without being a goody-goody – no one was less judgmental – the "Speak True" and "Right Wrongs" aspects of the school motto informed her values (the easy part) and her behaviour. She was a feminist, with political instincts on the left, but toeing any party line was foreign to her.
Her work as a midwife and a midwife-academic in the East End of London gave her opportunities to challenge injustice, in part through training students in some of the most ethnically and economically diverse areas of the UK. She could not be pigeonholed. She was on the Department of Health's consent advisory group, was active in her local Methodist church and was a trustee of the British Pregnancy Advisory Service. She loved football, and was forlorn when Ghana lost to Uruguay in the World Cup quarter-finals last summer.
She ensured that colleagues who worked with her, people she met on her extensive travels, and those who cared for her in her final illness felt included and valued. She would winkle out the given name of the cleaner, driver, nurse or health care assistant and then use it, charming, teasing and encouraging them, sometimes in one of the several African languages she spoke.
After practising as a midwife and a midwife manager, Opoku became head first of midwifery, and more recently head of midwifery and child health, at City University, London. In 2004, her contribution to her profession and to medical ethics was recognised with an OBE. She was justly proud, but the irony did not escape her. The Gold Coast, (as Ghana had been until she was nine), was the first Black African country to become independent.
There are few people in academic life of whom one can say, "they never said a bitchy word about anyone." This one really didn't. While Opoku did not fail to observe abuses of power, racism or sexism, she would find a kind way to challenge – recognising that no one changes bad behaviour by throwing a brick through the window with a message saying "Stop that" tied to it.
In Ghana, funerals are an important part of life. Opoku's own Methodist funeral in East London on Christmas Eve included a Christmas carol, fitting for a midwife, and afterwards, led by her sisters and cousins, a traditional Ghanaian funeral dance. On her final visit to Ghana, she had shown me the Ga coffins crafted close to the house where she grew up, designed by carpenters to commemorate the life of the person who had died (an example is in the British Museum). As a health professional, she especially liked the packet-of-cigarettes coffin for someone who had enjoyed a smoke, but the one that might have suited Dora was a beautiful mother hen with a clutch of chicks.
Dora Kwatiorkor Opoku, midwife and educator: born Accra, Ghana 14 April 1948; OBE 2004; died London 17 December 2010.
Objects of Desire: Hemma’s ‘Empire Collection’ Classic Skinny Kente Ties..
COURAGE TIE -Price: $69.99
SUCCESS TIE -Price: $69.99
DUALITY TIE -Price: $69.99
Yep its that time of the year again, -and your wondering -what to buy the man who has everything? Well feast your eyes on the above on-trend skinny Kente [with silk charmeuse lining] ties; lovingly handmade by Ghana Rising favourite, Hemma. I’m especially loving the ‘Courage’ tie -and I’m not alone because La Obama himself's an avid fan. -And I’m predicting that, like Hemma’s much coveted Asante Jacket, -their men’s ‘Empire Collection’ ties -are future classics…. For more information or to purchase the above ties or visit: http://www.thehemmacollection.com/Friday, 4 February 2011
Dylan Kwabena Mills aka Dizzee Rascal is on the cover of Esquire magazine’s March 2011 Issue…
Check out the behind-the-scenes cover shoot at Esquire magazine….
Esquire - Dizzee Rascal from esquireuk on Vimeo.
***A choice of two Esquire March 2011 covers featuring Dizzee Rascal is out now http://www.esquire.co.uk/
Esquire - Dizzee Rascal from esquireuk on Vimeo.
***A choice of two Esquire March 2011 covers featuring Dizzee Rascal is out now http://www.esquire.co.uk/
D1 Models -representing hot models of Ghanaian origin
Model: Akos Asumadu-Sakyi at D1 Models
Model: Daisy Kuorkor at D1 Models
Model: Jeremy Boateng at D1 Models
As you might have guessed by now, I’m compiling a list of possible models of Ghanaian origin to work with on a new venture -right now (I’ll tell you all about it soon), and happily stumbled across the beautiful Akos Asumadu-Sakyi at D1 Models. Standing at 5’9 and fabulously high fashion (check out her stats), I’m predicting big things for Akos and hope to work with her in the near future. But she’s not the only hot ‘Black Star’ model at D1 Models! -They also represent Ghana Rising favourite, Daisy Kuorkor (we named her one of ‘Ghana Rising’s ‘People-to-Watch’ in 2011‘) and (new to Ghana Rising’s radar) gorgeous male model, Jeremy Boateng. For more details about D1 Models or to book the above models visit: http://www.d1models.com/
Model: Daisy Kuorkor at D1 Models
Model: Jeremy Boateng at D1 Models
As you might have guessed by now, I’m compiling a list of possible models of Ghanaian origin to work with on a new venture -right now (I’ll tell you all about it soon), and happily stumbled across the beautiful Akos Asumadu-Sakyi at D1 Models. Standing at 5’9 and fabulously high fashion (check out her stats), I’m predicting big things for Akos and hope to work with her in the near future. But she’s not the only hot ‘Black Star’ model at D1 Models! -They also represent Ghana Rising favourite, Daisy Kuorkor (we named her one of ‘Ghana Rising’s ‘People-to-Watch’ in 2011‘) and (new to Ghana Rising’s radar) gorgeous male model, Jeremy Boateng. For more details about D1 Models or to book the above models visit: http://www.d1models.com/