Looking Back From The Hill (standard:non fiction, 1755 words)
Author: osofoaddo	Added: Oct 30 2002	Views/Reads: 3094/1999	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Powerful memories of home that keep coming back.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

Only the servants moved at her command as she watched like a well 
rehearsed drama. She would mix, stir, smell, but never tasted as she 
worked, relying on timing, color and texture and scent to create our 
sumptuous mid-day meal. For just a moment this memory of the distant 
past became real. I could not believe it. I had to wake up. Kukuhill 
was no more; it had become a medical center. I was choked with tears. 
It had taken me a bone-rattling three hours to drive from Accra to 
Suhum. There was an element of poignancy to the journey, and an 
uncertainty that I could not explain to myself. The family had become 
exiles in my beloved native land. Perhaps this explained why I had not 
been back until now. In spite of the way I was feeling, I was still 
stunned by the beauty of my country. I was amazed at how little the 
land itself had changed. The trees on the plains and forests weighed 
down with ripe mangoes, bananas, papayas, blackberries, coconuts, 
guavas, and cashew nuts. At the make shift stands along the route to 
Suhum, street vendors spilled out into the highway with people touching 
and jostling each other. This was always how it had been. I suddenly 
decided to take charge of our current situation and responded to the 
order of the security guard to open the trunk of the car. I got out of 
the car and said to the security guard in pidgin English, "My friend, 
how you dey"? This meant, "How are you my friend"? He replied in a 
friendly manner, "I dey like I don dey." This meant "so, so." I said, 
"Afishapa to you," meaning "A happy new year to you and a merry 
Christmas." He replied with a silly grin, "You master, you be good 
friend." He meant, "You are a good friend, Sir." I continued, "I be in 
a hurry. I dey go see my mama I no see for plenty years." As I spoke I 
raised my ten fingers. He responded, now smiling, "Yes sah, yes sah, 
yes sah, master. You go tell Mama I say her son deh come home safe." 
What he was trying to say was, "Go sir, go and tell your mother her son 
is home now." Up to now my visit was clearly not a pleasant nor an 
enjoyable one for me. Perhaps he made it bearable just for a few 
minutes. I thanked God for that. When I stepped into the half-sunken 
room that doubled as a shop for my mother, it led me straight into the 
courtyard. I was met and greeted by a portly and elderly tenant of my 
mother who ran the palm wine bar next door. He took my hand and led me 
to his palm wine bar. The bar was really a rickety verandah in front of 
a large room stacked with bottles. Over the verandah hung a sign that 
read, "Palm Wine Bar." A farmer, a merchant, a soldier, and an elderly 
man were sitting down as if waiting just for me. They spoke in pidgin 
English with me, although among themselves they spoke their local 
languages. They had no idea that I could understand them so I just 
smiled at them. The old man took over and asked all of them to drink to 
my health. "We are all different tribes here," he said, "but we find it 
pleasant to get along with each other." Pointing to me, he said, " 
Osofo," meaning Reverend, "Now that you have seen how we have taken 
care of your mother, we drink to you as you take care of the bill." 
Everyone started to laugh. I paid the barkeeper and gave each of them 
some money and left while they were still roaring with satisfied 
laughter. Back at the airport I was silent and somber as I waited for 
my return flight to the United States. The spiritual food I came to 
find in all its abundance had left most of my hunger untouched or 
abated. Like much of what had passed my lips, the trip had been both 
sweet and sour, rich and bitter. I realized that you can never go home 
again and I also realized that when I returned to the United States I 
would have a lot of unpacking to do. Not only would I have to 
physically unpack my belongings, but I would also have a lot of mental 
and spiritual unpacking to do. 


Tweet