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Tayari's Blog: Snapshot From Ghana

Posted by TayariJones on November 17, 2008 08:36 AM
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The beaches of Accra are haunted.

I was walking along the shore as the tide was coming in, feeling not like myself, better than myself, actually. Although this was a November evening, the weather was warm enough for me to wear a light-weight sundress, which I’d gathered and tied over my knees. I was in a good mood. My date- who at 25, was way too young and handsome for me- said something corny and perfect like “You really are beautiful, you know?” Also, it was a magical moment in history: Barak Obama has just been elected president of the United States and every ten minutes or so, someone would stop to personally congratulate me as though I had single-handedly elected a black man to the most powerful office in the world. Wednesday was Reggae Night at the Labadi Beach and I knew that someone would ask me to dance.

Ten days before leaving for Ghana, I had gone out with my friend, Krista. As we sipped on twelve-dollar cocktails, I showed her my travel brochures. “Did you know that Ghana is famous for its beaches?” Krista shook her head and said, “Well I guess it makes sense. It is a slave port.”

Holding Cudjoe’s hand, I walked along the edge of the ocean. He stayed away from the water not wanting to wet his new sneakers. I was barefoot; my strappy sandals were stashed somewhere under the bandstand. About three glasses of wine into the evening, I understood why so many African Americans “repatriated” to Ghana. The tide washed over my feet and I smiled up at Cudjoe, feeling pretty, like an ex-pat and a girl-next-door all at the same time.

As the water rolled in again, Cudjoe sprinted out of its way, concerned again over his shoes. I laughed some more, not being flirtatious, but because it tickled me, watching him worry for his Nikes. So young, I thought. Then, I felt a pressure around my ankle, a grip as solid a man’s. Looking down, jerking my way free, I saw nothing but sand, clear water, and my own naked foot. Too much wine, I told myself. I walked a few more steps and I felt the hand again, tighter this time. I let out a little scream, kicking hard enough to splash my dress and face with warm sea water. “Cudjoe?”

He trotted back to where I was, taking my hand again, as the tide rolled the other way. “So tell me,” he said. “Are you enjoying your trip to Ghana? Are you happy to be home?”

November 18, 2008 06:54 PM

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