REFLECTING ON THE JOURNEY

It is Friday, December 29, 2006. I have been in Ghana for 166 days. In that time I have seen many parts of the country. I recall steeping off of the airplane into the warm humid arm, that seemed to drape itself around me like someone else’s blanket; if you use someone else’s blanket long enough, it comes to feel like your own.

That first evening, arriving at the JHR house in Osu Re (an area of Accra) and heading for a drink at the bar that sits below the JHR office sits before my minds eye like an enlarged photograph.

That week, I moved with the entourage of fresh JHR staff through Accra on a combination of business and pleasure outings. That was the beginning of our orientation. We arrived on Monday, but by Friday we were all sent in different directions. My direction was north to Tamale.

Thinking back, it amazes me. Tamale is a city that most of the people on the planet will never see. It’s combination of Dagomba heritage, cultural influence from Southern Ghanaian influences, and the remnants of the reach of the Islamic empires – set in motion by the prophet Muhammad and stretching to circle the Sahara – overwhelmed my senses at first. Actually, the flat land and fields decorated by trees, and the rural village life that a I passed like pages in a magazine in my ride from the airport were my initial impression. Later that evening, I was led on a tour threw the city, and that was where y senses were overwhelmed. The streets and sidewalks zig-zagged with bicycles, motorbikes, woman carrying huge loads on their heads, roaming hawkers, and small farm animals. To the soundtrack of Dagbani banter and car engines, the setting sun cast the scene in shadow. Without streetlights and much of a sense of my surroundings, I felt visually impaired.

When I arrived at Radio Justice, it took some time to assert myself. There were so many things that I was contending with. For one, I was not sure of where I would be living and I was adapting to life in the village compound that I was staying in for the time being. The week long orientation, and the previous week of training in Toronto had a dual effect of preparing me, and highlighting that most of us didn’t fully understand what we were really supposed to be doing. The organization itself had only been operating for two years, and while I believed that I had the necessary qualifications, I had never actually done what I was now charged to be doing.

I got along very well with the people in the office, and they were patient with me as I learned what life is like for Canadian (and for a foreigner, White male) in the Northern region. I wanted to learn about the country, the city, the station and the staff before I asserted myself. I just did not feel ready to come in there and start telling people how it is. I know I had a lot to offer, and a job to do, but the thing about this job is that it requires adaptation to the particular media house and staff that one is working with.

I spent most of my time listening and observing: two eyes, two ears, and one mouth actually reflects the ratio that I probably spoke one-fifth of the time and absorbed what was around me four-fifths of that. Conversations, music, arguments, newspapers, local television, and scenery took my attention captive.

Within a short time of my arrival in Tamale, Pierette was set to touch down in Ghana before returning to Canada after a few months in Kenya. Because I had flown with my luggage to Tamale, opting not to make that first trip alone through a countryside I had never seen on a bus with so many bags to manage, meeting Pierette in Kumasi was my first opportunity to venture out. I recall that morning, leaving the Mr. Fresh’s house before sunrise; I was nervous and excited. I had been offered so much advice and given so many warnings about the highways, about traveling abroad, and about my destination of Kumasi.

The trip went quite well, and I waited in the Kumasi STC station for near two hours before I met with Pierette. When I saw her walking through the parking lot, I could hardly believe what I was seeing. We had sat in the basement of a Scarborough church on a Saturday afternoon some months ago when I had told her that I could see that she needed to step out to see what was next for her: “you need to go somewhere, like Kenya”, is what I said, not knowing that she had applied for a position teaching in that very East African country. My statement was as much intuition, confirmation (for her), and a double-edged sword that also fell upon me. She did not know that she would actually being going to Africa that day, nor did I.

A couple of months later, I left the Office of the Registrar at York University where I was working as a temp. I swung by the Tennis Canada offices on the campus to pick up Sharifa, who was working there to drop her at Highway 7, where she would head home to Brampton. Just as she had stepped out of my car to the bus stop, my cell phone rang. I began to drive as I spoke to a woman named Emilee from Journalists from Human Rights. She told me that my interview with them had been successful and she was offering me a position to work in the Northern Ghanaian city of Tamale for 8 months, and that she needed an answer by Monday.

By the time I hung up that phone call, I was out of the parking lot and in the left turning lane. A huge decision, a huge opportunity was sitting before me. Even now, I feel like I can return to that very moment, sitting there at a redlight that was about to change, and I was moving forward into the next level of my life.

I wasn’t sure that I was going to go though. I had applied for the position, but I had not expected to get it. Not that I was expecting not to get it. I just had not really thought about really leaving Canada and working in Ghana.

There were a few people laid upon my heart that I wanted to speak to. The thought of going was like a mountain set before me, but the thought of not going was terrible - I couldn’t entertain it for even one solid moment. It seemed that God had reached out to me with the blessing I needed, and to turn it away would mean that everything would be harder. I thought of the challenges and sacrifices of getting up and leaving, but they paled in comparison to what it would take to regain what I would be throwing away by saying ‘no’.

So there I was, in Ghana and Pierette on her way. When I saw her in the parking lot, we began a short but powerful journey. For the next few days we would move through Kumasi, down to Cape Coast, Elmina, and to ‘The Last Bath’ which is just north of the coast.

Returning to Tamale, the next few months contained a wide spectrum of experiences. I got to work on my workshops and human rights stories, I was experiencing volcanic personal growth, and I was getting to know the place that I was living in. I went from being hospitalized and three weeks of recovery, to standing twenty seats back from Jay-Z in Ghana. I did all that I could to help a young girl that had come to our station with razor blade cuts all over her body, I was busy producing “Freedom Thursdays”, I was navigating the plentiful obstacles in the way of progress, and enjoying my time with everyone at home (Aunite Wakila, Layata, Sister Saphora, Mr. Fresh , Chelpong and Melimba).

I went from what was a discouraging misunderstanding with JHR, to a renewed motivation. I even got to meet the Governor General, Ms. Michaelle Jean.

Amidst it all, a number of factors came together bringing about a new arrangement. I had been hospitalized again for four days to be treated for malaria (though it had not shown up on any tests…once again). There was also the fact that I was the only person on the current wave of JHR staff that had an 8 month contract, everyone else was scheduled for 6 months. With that, new placements would be coming to all of the media houses working with JHR in January. Those two factors (my health and the possible overlap) led to an offer to start a new placement.

I had planned to be in Accra for the Christmas holidays, but was told that I could stay in Accra and begin a placement at the radio station at the University of Ghana. With that news, I felt abundantly blessed. I recalled the few times that I had visited the campus in Accra, and the deep desire I had to explore the grounds. During one of my visits to Accra, I had gone into the library and the book store and had driven around with Kweku, but had not spent much time there. I was not sure when or how, but I intended to spend more time there.

With the offer to establish a new placement at the University, I filled with gratitude for God’s orchestration.

During the days when my circumstances were discouraging, I was really affected. I would lay awake thinking about the situations that I was dealing with. My mind would not let me sleep, searching out an answer to it all. While I felt like there was a heavy stone in my heart, I also had the determination that I was going to give my best and work at turning things around.

A few years previous to that very month, I think it was Novemeber 2004, I had been working at the Air Canada Centre. I was working in the Executive Suites as a Concierge. Early on there was a major misunderstanding. I had requested a shift exchange with another employee who agreed. Being new on the job, I did not know that I was supposed to have the manager sign a shift exchange form. I had requested the Friday off in order to attend the viewing of the Uncle of my girlfriend at that time. While at the funeral home, I had switched off my phone. When I was on my way home, I turned my phone back on top find that I had a bunch of messages. My supervisor had called demanding to know why I was not at work. When I called her and told her, she accused me of being at a club. In actuality, I was riding the rocket (taking the TTC). She refused to believe that I was at a viewing, and then questioned me about the name and address of the funeral home. Later on I found out that her mother had passed away a few months before I started working there, and she had thought I was using the funeral story to touch a soft spot with her. As ridiculous and insulting as that situation was, it changed our relationship. For the next few months, I was under a microscope. Every mistake I made (and there were a few too many) was blown up. One suck-up who actually made up lies about me to gain favour with our manager added to the mess.

The problem continued for months, and even led to my supervisor trying to convince me to quit, as the union was too strong for her to fire me. Eventually I met with the supervisor of the supervisor about the situation. She really wanted things to get ironed out and insisted that I weather the storm. I appreciated her support, but decided to give my supervisor what she needed to let me go, by not showing up for any more shifts.

When I thought back about that situation, I always felt bad. I would imagine doing things differently; I would imagine giving my best, striving for excellence, and rolling that boulder of disdain uphill.

Walking down the street in Tamale two years later, I had the chance to right my wrongs and continue to give my best my clouds were making it hard to hold to hope.

I could feel God’s guidance to continue to give my best, and to make my best better, and I could feel His hand on a turnaround which occurred quite suddenly.

With the offer to take a placement at the University, I had just over a month left at Radio Justice. While the days were long (early beginnings and later endings), the raced by.

When I look back, I see that I could not have arranged a better plan. I was faced with adversity, but given the strength to overcome it – and was blessed in the process. I was able to experience the North, and to see a much less developed and much more rural aspect of Ghana, and now I have the gift of being in an environment combining the media and academia.

A few days after arriving in Accra, I decided to visit Radio Univers, though the placement was still being negotiated. I took a tour of the station, got a copy of the program schedule, and left with a sense of how the station operates.

Though I have been given time-off for Christmas and New Year’s, I am preparing. Part of my preparation is for my new placement, part of my preparation is for my remaining eleven weeks or so in Ghana, and yet another part is looking to what is next.

I see more now. By God’s grace, Ghana has been good to me. It’s funny, I met three women around my age from New York yesterday (two of whom are of Ghanaian parentage). They were visiting for the funeral of their Grandmother, and brought one of their friend’s along. They conveyed stories from the past week and a half, and insisted that they were looking forward to going home. When I think of the two and a half months ahead of me, it seems like a drop in the ocean that will pass like a rapid wind, though it also feels like a storehouse full of priceless treasure. When I see airplanes in the sky, excitement of my impending return stirs a thick stew in my heart. There is joy and sadness, and so many other feelings inside.

I have been brought a long way since that May evening that I answered my phone to be offered the chance to take a step that would change my life, and being where I am with respect for the future, rather than letting time pass focused on the future has been one of the keys to that progress.

I remain, by God’s grace, focused on where I am and each step ahead for me and this path that I treasure.

THE DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS

It’s Boxing Day, and in my Jordan shorts and a white t-shirt, I walked through the hot sun and cool breeze to the internet café.

It has been a few weeks since I have sent emails to friends and family of much substance. I have mostly just given short replies to what I have found in my box. That has not changed today, but I do hope to begin sending some thorough messages and some thorough reflections.

As it stands, I have 15 minutes on my time left, before I head out to get some lunch, and to figure out whether I am going to a small party or to the beach.

On Christmas Eve, I had planned to go to church, but brushing my teeth with tap water caught up with me in the form of diarrhea. So, instead of leaving the house, I stayed home. As it turned out, everyone in the house went somewhere, except for me. That left me home alone. It was nice though, as I have been around people in such close quarters. I watched ‘The Sound of Music’ and drifted asleep on the couch. When the family started coming home, I got up and headed to bed. Part of why I slept on the couch was to open the door for whoever was first to come home.

On Christmas Day, I woke up and decided to take Tamara up on her offer to come by her uncle’s house. So, I got ready and jumped into a taxi heading to the Airport Residential Area (known as an upper-middle class part of Accra).

When I found the house, Tamara was out, but I made myself comfortable with the family members that were there.

When Tamara did come, I was really happy to see her. Within about ten minutes, we were ushered into her Dad’s car with her sister Tania and Tania’s fiancée Derek. We headed over to a friend’s house and enjoyed an eat-n-run dinner with turkey, lamb and sushi. With desert in my hands we were told Dr. Sam (Tamara’s Dad) was in the car ready to go.

We then headed back to the house, where there was another dinner – this time solely Ghanaian food.

For the rest of the day, we danced, watched TV, played with the children, and caught up.

It was a really nice day. At around ten, I left the Monday night football double-header and took at taxi back to Sakumono.

At the house, everyone was sleeping, and so my first Christmas away from home came to a close...just like my internet time.

THE HOLIDAYS BEGIN

My first day in Accra was spent in the house. I ate, slept, and watched movies. That’s it. It was a well needed rest. I went to bed late though after watching Duke squeeze out a win versus Kent State in NCAA basketball.

The next day, however, I headed to old Accra where the post office is. After about an hour of delays, a lady finally found my package (which was right where everyone else was searching). It was actually funny when one of the staff asked me where the girl at the counter was in reply to my request for my package. I looked him in the eye with a grin, “Are you really asking me where she is? How would I know? You work here, not me”. The look on his face seemed to agree.

When we finally got the package, which was full of Christmas items from my family, the customs lady punched some random numbers in the calculator and asked me for 571,000 cedis as tax. First of all, that tax is not correct. Secondly, it’s not going to the government. Eventually, I got her to accept 100,000, which is just over ten dollars Canadian.

While waiting, I also got my first taste of a sour coconut. I was really looking forward to eating fresh coconuts, but I’ll find some better ones.

From there, we headed to the university to see my potential placement at the University of Ghana radio station. I took a tour of the place, and I really like what I saw. I am still waiting to find out from Ato (the country director) whether or not that will be my placement as they are still in negotiations.

By the mid afternoon, I was back at the house. While I am getting holiday plans in order, I spent most of the evening just relaxing. Then it came, Mama Ackerson returned. We brought a whole bunch of packages up the stairs into the house. With her came Micheal and Francis. All together in their two bedroom apartment are:

Mr. Ackerson, Mama Ackerson, Sister Dada, Kwesi (the other one), Emmanuel, Anita, Irene, Micheal, Francis, and – quite often – Kweku. All of that, plus me.

We manage though, and we each have a place to rest our heads.

The holidays are going to fun and full. I am waiting to see Tamara who flies in today (we worked together at Canada Basketball). I will be going to lunch at a Caribbean spot on Friday with Adwoa and Idrissa, and their friend Sandra is doing a lunch on Saturday. I am going to meet up with Fiona this evening before she heads to London, and on Friday I’ll meet up with Ossei before he heads back to Tamale. I am also supposed to go and see Bella, as well as Yaw, Anokye and their family. Levida and Edith both have extended invites, and I have plans up in the air with Denis…so, there is lots to do. On Christmas though, I will stay here with the Ackerson’s. I also want to find an Anglican church for Christmas Eve service. Lots and lots to do.

BACK IN ACCRA


Late Monday night, I arrived in Accra at the Ackerson house. Yesterday, being Tuesday, I stayed home all day, rested and just took time to breathe Though it was a rest that was in order, it felt a little bit odd to be inside all day (though it was odd in a sweet, enjoyable sense).

Just over a month ago I found out that the New Year would bring a new placement – that news meant four weeks to complete the tasks that I was engaged with and to wrap-up in a manner that would make for a smooth transition for the next placement at Radio Justice.

We had just begun to make progress on a series of human rights public service announcements to be translated into the two major regional languages (Dagbani and Gonja). At that time, I was in the process of completing a review of the news department, full with obstacles face the station staff and suggestions in the form of an action plan. While times were busy, I continued to organize workshops and to work with various reporters at the station on an assortment of stories. A major part of each week was focused on producing “Freedom Thursdays”, which is the human rights show at the station. Training, networking, arranging interviews (which entails a lot in Tamale…), and assisting with script writing are all included in producing the weekly program. Due to the adversity that we were facing in having Layata hosting “Freedom Thursdays”, arrangements and preparations for the life of the show after I was to depart from Radio Justice was a priority to ensure that some of the major gains made were not immediately lost. The human rights case with the young girl that was cut up with a razor and had her life in danger was also taking a lot of energy. While a few of us were involved with her situation at it’s beginning, I became the only person that was doing anything to ensure that she was meeting the right people in Tamale and that her case was being taken seriously by the authorities. While I did ALL that I could, her uncle who assaulted her left town after the police waited nearly three weeks to attempt an arrest, the station was avoiding putting in a complaint to the human rights commission so that her case would be investigated (eventually, I just filed the complaint independently), and she moved back to the house that she had fled around a month ago. That was hard to hear. She doesn’t know if and/or when her uncle will return, and what – if anything – he will do if he finds her there.

Over those weeks, I spent growing amounts of each working with Samed, who was what they call an attachee to the news department at the station (an attachee is basically staff that is not paid). We worked on a lot of stories together, including a number of reports that were also broadcasted at our partner station (the most reputed station in the country) Joy FM. From traveling to Bolgatanga together for the Access to Justice conference to investigative reports on the state of the hospitals in the region, his drive and insistence added to a very full plate.

On top of it all was the handover document for the Justice placement and producing a placement plan for the new placement that I was to be starting with.

The days started early, and finished late. The days before leaving Tamale, as their number became smaller, seemed to evapourate. With so many tasks before me, and being in the dry, dusty weather that Northern Ghana receives from the Sahara desert, the approach of December and the holiday season was almost unnoticed by me. It wasn’t until I saw Home Alone 2 on television, which is full of Christmas carols and sentimental moments, that the time of year hit me. Nothing around me fit with what makes the season special to me. I found myself reminiscing and reflecting, but it feels good to be able to appreciate where I am and enjoy the Christmas season in Ghana (that will be much more attainable in Accra than it would be in Tamale).

On Friday, December 15th, I worked my last day at Radio Justice. I was there by 730am as I was to host Ms. World “Beauty with a Purpose”. She came with her sister and the morning went very well. We had some good conversations and plan to meet up again down in Accra.

As for the rest of the day, it was mainly about cleaning out my office and tying up a few loose ends. Razak, the General Manager, made it known that he would be organizing a going-away party for me when I come back to visit (most likely in February), before I leave from Ghana. Due to the delay on the going-away party, the day was very simple. While some expressed sadness that I was going, others wanted to make sure we stay in contact. Samed was pressing me to work on another story on that last afternoon. I assisted him, but my focus was on how much had happened over the past months, what was now before me, and how time seems to both speed by and stand still in my memory.

From one journey to another, my time at Radio Justice closed, and now new doors are opening.

GUESTS IN TAMALE


One additional item on my long list of things that were to be done before leaving Tamale was hosting Adwoa, Idrissa and Kary for the weekend. They were initially going to visit the north the week before I left, but the last minute announcement of a Sean Paul concert in Accra changed their plans. Instead, they would come on that last weekend and we would all leave together for Accra.

That Friday, after my last day at Radio Justice, I went into town to do some grocery shopping. I picked up some juice, some snacks and breakfast materials for my guests. I was also busy making arrangements for transportation out to Mole National Park, which is a wildlife reserve about four hours away from Tamale.

I then went home, took some fufu and paw-paw (papaya) and fell asleep on the couch waiting for my guests to get to Tamale. Somewhere around 3am, I got a call from them and I instructed the taxi driver to a major intersection in my area where I went out to meet them.

It was great to seem them all again. After some time, they were settled in and we went to sleep for the next day.

The next morning, we woke up around 9am. I made a breakfast of oats, paw-paw, tea, bread and milo. After eating and boiling water for each of their showers, we were picked up by the driver for Radio Justice who was using a friend’s taxi to bring us to Mole.

Our plan was to stop at the STC station to get our tickets to Accra, then to hit the road. That ended up going differently than planned. All the tickets up until the next Friday were sold out…we didn’t factor in the additional Christmas traffic on the already iffy government run bus service. Followed by Mohamed (a fifteen year old who I respect for his hustle, though I am not willing to be a willing sucker to his unofficial tour guide movements), we maneuvered through the congested tro-tro yard and then through the shaded and dingy corridors of the outdoor market in search of transport to Accra. Our best option was to come back the next day to purchase an overnight bus ticket from one of the alternative bus companies. The frequency of car accidents and their looming threat of armed robbers on the roads ruled out that option. Mohamed, apparently, had a friend named Fred who works for an orphanage with a van that we could hire to Accra. At that point, we considered his hook up to be an option.

Still uncertain of our method of return to Accra, we decided to head to Mole and work on that issue when we got back home. The ride to Mole was amusing. The taxi was not in the best shape – we lost the sign on the roof about twenty minutes into the ride, and I eventually found the handle for Idrissa’s window beside my seat. Along the roadside we passed many bush fires. Though I have heard a few reasons why people light the bush on fire, I really don’t get it. We actually came to one heavy blaze that brought visibility down to zero on the road. As we passed through the cloud of smoke, we saw a large gas tanker parked on the roadside only a hundred metres from the fire. Looking back, as I was astonished at the sight and the dangers of the situation, I could see the large painted words, “highly flammable” on the back of the tanker that was fading from out sight in the smoke.

We drove along the highway making steady progress until we had to take a right turn onto a dirt road. That is where the journey really began. For the next three hours, the car swerved and bumped and sped through the dust. About forty-five minutes down that dirt road we realized that we were becoming covered with dust in the small vehicle without air-conditioning. By the time we reached mole, we were covered in dust, which made the hair of the ladies that I was traveling with look like it had been dyed with reddish streaks.

The timing of our arrival at Mole was ideal as the guides were just getting ready to take groups out on a walking safari. I began to inquire about what the guides’ gun was needed for. He mentioned that there were a few lions, some hyenas and some hunting dogs in the park. He also noted that any animal can be aggressive towards people (from small crocodiles and antelopes, to baboons and elephants). That conversation was missed by most of the group, but was overheard by Adwoa. At that point, she didn’t want to go and was scared. A couple of times along the beginning of our descent down into the nearby valley, she jumped at the snap of sticks.

However, she soon realized that we were not going to see more that a couple of monkeys, some antelopes, two tiny crocodiles, and a couple of warthogs. While not seeing any elephants was disappointing, the quiet of the place – especially when we all stop walking and stand still – was astonishing. It was deeply refreshing to the core of my being, and made me aware of how precious such silence is. I don’t know why it was so quiet there, and I do not remember another similar instance, but when we stopped, there was the feeling of complete stillness.

Without incident, we walked through the valley full of elephant footprints and elephant crap, and climbed back to the Mole motel restaurant. As the sun set over the valley, and night crept over us, we sat and waited for our food. Though it took a long time, and almost spawned an incident when we saw people that came long after us eating long before us, the food was good. Well the garlic butter fish that Kary, Idrissa and I ordered was delicious…Adwoa’s hamburger…not so much.

The road back was as long as the road there (obviously), but the sight of stars captivated my attention for much of the ride. The trip began with Adwoa’s rendition of her favourite Whitney Houston tracks (she is adamant that she can sing…in the shower…and if she had some lessons), but after that initial burst of energy, we each spent the rest of the ride drifting in and out of sleep.

Touching down in Tamale was a relief, and we settled in again with mandatory showers to get the dust off of us. I could actually feel dust on my gums.

The next morning, I put together breakfast again with some help from Teresa who was back from school for the holidays. We all were busy getting ready for church, which we reached quite late. Though we weren’t on time, we did get there – by God’s grace – in time. The service was focused on thanksgiving, and was beautiful. A number of stories from the pastor about car accidents was also kind of eerie given the travels behind us and ahead of us. We all enjoyed the word and the praise and worship. While the ladies were being treated as first-time visitors, I made my rounds saying ‘farewell’ to the friends I had made in the church (including the pastor).

Our plan was to take a taxi out to Paga where we would visit a crocodile reserve. However, that did not work out. What I thought was a hour and a half drive was said to be, by the driver, six hours. I don’t know if that was one way or if it was two ways, but I do know that he said the place is near Togo. We decided to cut that plan out, and pick up some lunch and head home instead. It turned out that the taxi driver who was going to bring us to Paga was willing to bring us to Accra. That worked out the issue over a ride, which was a relief.

Back at the house, we ate our orders of a burger and fries each (though Idrissa had the chicken burger). After eating, we were going to go to town, but we decided rest instead. The afternoon nap was short, but sweet.

That evening, we headed to the internet café, and then when to a place called Titi’s Inn where I was having a small going-away get-together. It was nice, as a good amount of people passed through. I ordered some kebobs, but they ran out after ordering five. I also had arranged drink coupons to give my guests so that they could get a soda. Some how they were ending up with malts and alcohol from those coupons. Three of us ordered pizza with pineapple, but half an hour later they said that they had sent someone to town to get a pineapple. That meant that they still had to come back with it, cut it up and add it to our pizza’s…but we were hungry. I opted for the vegetarian pizza with corn on it that they made from a request that said “vegetarian pizza with NO corn”. It wasn’t bad and I thought it to be amusing that I am coming to like pizza with corn on it. Oh, among highlights was smoking Adwoa on the ping pong table until she hit the ball toward a gutter and we lost the ball.

After a couple of hours, we headed to the road to catch a taxi home. Even though we had a full car (plus 1), we had great difficulty finding a car to bring us home. Eventually, this driver who always calls me “PPAG” (after the main junction that I lived by) promised to return in ten minutes to bring us home. We waited, and he came.

The next morning, we rose up around 5am to get ready for our trip to Accra. After 630 and no sign of our car, I called to find out. The driver’s phone was off though. When I reached my friend that had recommended the driver, she told me that the guy had spoiled his car the night before, but he couldn’t reach me. She said she had wanted to call me, but she had no units. So there we were, all packed, ready to go – with no ride. I spoke with Mr. Fresh about the situation, and after that one driver had sent another taxi to come to our house (which they actually found by asking, ‘Where does the Silminga live?’), we decided to go with Mr. Fresh’s friend…in a brand new Nissan SUV.

Having so much luggage, and with the roads being so dangerous, it really was the best option. We had a professional driver, we would travel during the day, the chances of that vehicle breaking down were small, while the taxies always posed that threat. So, we headed to Accra in style.

The ride was actually enjoyable, rather than exhausting. We talked about all kinds of things, enjoyed using the CD player, slept, read, and just chilled. The driver, near the end of the trip, needed to be warned a number of times to take it easy after pulling what was like a movie stunt passing a truck and having to squeeze between another truck across the road that had broken down. We must have seen at least ten accidents along the way, and God has too much for each of us to do to put ourselves at risk.

When we got to Accra, we went from house to house dropping each of us home. The last stop was for me at the Ackerson house.

It was Monday night at around 11pm. Most of the family was still in Takaraodi, so I went with Emmanuel and one of the neighbours to get a burger and fries.

Back at the house, I settled in watching Monday Night Football (Colts vs The Bengals).

It felt good to be ‘home’.

AS ONE DOOR CLOSES, ANOTHER OPENS


As the end of the week approaches, so to does the end of my placement at Radio Justice and my time in Tamale.

A few weeks ago, when the Canadian Governor General Michaelle Jean came to visit, Somed and I headed to the airport in Tamale to meet the entourage, which we would join in a tour around the region for that day. That trip out to the airport was my first return to the area outside of the city since my arrival in Tamale in late July. Arriving in Ghana the week before was already a major step into new territory, yet the steps down to the Tamale tarmac was an even further leap.

I recall sitting in the back of a car that had come to pick up fellow JHR’r Janey. I spent most of the ride gazing out over the grass fields that stretched as far as my sight did, and picking out the well spaced trees and termite castles.

Staring out into those same fields months later brought me back to that moment of arrival, yet it also put right in front of my eyes how much has occurred over the past five months.

When I was dropped off at the Gariba Lodge that day of arrival to wait for the station car, I was eventually met by Ramadan. I had been told by the previous JHR staff at Radio Justice that Ramadan was who I would most likely work with on the majority of stories. Before finding somewhere to stay, we went to the station and I saw where I would be working for the next few months.

Now, when I sit in that very same office space, it is an intimately familiar space. While Ramadan and I have spent a lot of time together since that first day, I have also worked closely with many more members of the station’s staff.

In producing “Freedom Thursdays” (a weekly human rights focused program), I have worked closely with Layata. She has been hosting the show, and is constantly thinking about the show and presenting ideas for ‘next week’. While working on the show, much of what has been discussed in workshops at the station was brought to life. Layata, while growing in confidence as a radio presenter, has constantly sought criticism and guidance for growth. Her progress is a visible as anything one can fix their eyes upon.

Over the past few months, I have also been pushing to overcome – and to even topple – some of the obstacles sitting in the way of the station’s news department. The primary issues are as follows: a lack of resources (no microphone for the mini-disc player, no mini-discs, no editing program, no fuel in the station car and no funds for taxi fare), a low morale (the news department does not feel supported in the task of producing the best material possible), and comfort with doing the bare-minimum. One member of the station who has joined me in this effort is station attachee, Somed. He has been eager to collect reports from distant regions (even if it means taking a dusty, prone-to-break-down bus), he has been dedicated to moving beyond the web site collection of artitlces and attending programs where government representatives and other dignitaries talk about the money they are giving to the cause of the day, and he has been thoughtfully connecting current human rights issues in the region and the daily needs of the news department.

Mr. Kalala (I call him Mr. because he could be a Grandfather to me…at least a Great Uncle) has been memorable. He is either recently wedded to his second or third wife; I am quite sure it is his third wife. Apparently he has almost fifteen children. It is hard to tell when he will be at the station or when he is away, but his job gets done. When he is to be found, his calm personality and professionalism have been refreshing. He heads the Dagbani department, and plays a key role in ensuring that all of the news that is reported makes it’s way into the minds of our many listeners that speak little or no English.

All of those listed, and many more, have participated in my workshops. While promises of refreshments (soda and biscuits) have an allure, I like to think that the attendance ranging between 8-15 per workshop had to do with other factors. Information about the fundamentals of human rights and journalism skills have been our focus all along. One highlight was an activity where I asked each person in the room to right down three rights that they believe each person should have. After collecting the many small sheets of paper with each participants list, we took turns reading them aloud. Upon finishing this task, what I revealed to them (most of whom had never seen the Universal Declaration on Human Rights before) is that almost all the articles were covered by what they had combined to contribute.

Another highlight was after our “How to use your Voice: Maximize Strengths and Use Apparent Weaknesses in Your Favour”. One point in the workshop was that “when you know your material, you own the material”. A couple of weeks later, while working on a story, I heard those very same words spoken back to me. It was a surprisingly sweet moment.

The stories that I have been involved with at the station have covered an immensely broad range. In October, after attending the Jay-Z concert, the complete void of all information regarding his Water for Life campaign was a great topic of interest, next to the seemingly greater void of the falsely promised attendance of Beyonce. We have done heart warming stories about men and women finding a new grasp on their lives through projects aimed at economic empowerment through harnessing unique elements in the Northern Region (locally produced shea butter soap and original African cloth designs). There have also been stories that had a tone of sorrow, and others that could make your blood boil. One such story was of an 18 year old girl who was cut all over her body with a razor blade at the hand of her uncle for refusing to marry an old man that she didn’t even know; the saga of officers being assaulted by the community, the uncle getting a few weeks to prepare to leave the region and avoiding arrest, and her most recent return back to the house that she had run away from. Another example was the expose of the Tamale Teaching Hospital, whose morgue has been out of order for four months, leaving the bodies of poor families to rot in the heat, the and the bodies of wealthy families to be shipped two hours North for refrigeration in Bolgatanga.

In addition to doing stories, almost all of the station were involved at one point or another in our Human Rights Public Service Announcement Project. Some sat on a committee that reviewed the Universal Declaration on Human Rights and pinpointed key articles of relevance to the community in Tamale. Others took the legal language of those articles and turned them into creative and relative scripts. A team was also assigned to translate the three scripts into the Dagbani and Gonja languages. Still, new participants contributed by having their voices recording reading the scripts, and the editing of those recordings into final products. Office staff, presenters (senior and junior), the language departments, and even the marketing department have all been represented along the way.

I look back and wonder: Has Radio Justice been changed by my coming here? As I ponder this question, I know that the answer is ‘yes’. The changes are both tangible and intangible. I then wonder: Will the changes be lost and forgotten? Thinking upon this second question, I am also certain to say ‘no’. I do think that the changes could easily fade though, if the work is not continued.

Deep impressions have been made, on me and upon the station. I have also felt the quakes and tremors, sometimes subtle and sometimes strong, from my counterparts across the country.

And a moment that made me smile. Yesterday, I was monitoring the news to hear a story that Somed and I worked on for our partner station Joy FM down in Accra. While tuned in I heard a report from a conference held for journalists across West Africa. The summary stated that conscientious reportage, and exposing social divisions and injustices before they become mass scale could help to avert grand-scale crises on the continent. This sentiment is one of the key points that I clung to when learning about what JHR stands for. I believe this to be true and to be visionary. To know that there are others with the same vision makes the potential of progress all the more possible.

I now prepare to continue this work in a new environment in Accra. I also await the next person to step into Radio Justice. It is of great importance to me to know how that next placement goes, and it is my hope to contribute to continued success at a station that has a big name to live up to – ‘Radio Justice’.

THE HAMATAN THAT STOLE CHRISTMAS

Today has been the first day of my last week at Radio Justice. I had a plan of just coming in and getting a lot of the documents that I have to finish completed. I got a few documents finished and I feel good about it.

At the same time, I really want to get much more finished by the end of the day, as I am sitting before is the reality of the days passing rapidly. In one way, I am grateful for this transition as it is giving me perspective on the grand exit. What I mean is that in March, when leaving Ghana, I can feel that it will be a time of so many conflicting, almost contradictory, feelings. I know that I will want to feel like I have done everything that I was supposed to do. If I was leaving Ghana right now, wow, I would have a lot to do! Leaving Tamale is already enough.

Though, today the idea and my feeling about leaving is not so bad…not that I want to go.

Let me put like this. Today is December 11^th. This afternoon, just after taking my lunch the movie Home Alone 2 was on TV. As is the case with the first Home Alone, it is set over the Christmas season. It is also a movie that is full of sentimental moments and life lessons articulated by Kevin who is wise beyond his years (realistic or not).

I remember watching the first version of this movie at the Scarborough Town Centre (before the theatre was transformed to The Gap). I went to watch it with my family right before Christmas; we loved the movie, and noted that Dylan was quite similar to Macauley Caulkin.

Watching it, with the Christmas theme, made me realize that it’s December 11^th…14 days until Christmas. See, right now it is really hot outside. And it is really sunny. It is watermelon season, we are just passing papaya season, and we are approaching mango season. The air is dry and the ground is dusty.

While there is the odd Christmas commercial with a cheesy Ghanaian Santa dancing for a so-so chain of department stores, but it is just that…cheesy. Really though, I don’t mind the ads at all though, I love the fresh fruit and I am enjoying my extended summer (I had never skipped the winter season before).

In Home Alone 2, Kevin’s family was in Miami, while he ended up alone in New York City. When I saw the rest of his family in a Florida hotel room watching, “It’s A Wonderful Life” en Espanol, I wondered why? Why would you want to be in the tropics at Christmas? It’s supposed to be cold. There is supposed to be snow. The days are supposed to be short, so that the Christmas lights actually add brightness and warmth that you can feel. None of the above are true of Tamale…the odd store playing Christmas carols has a really different feel that what I am used to.

I should add that I will be spending Christmas in Accra, and there is a notable difference. Christmas is much bigger in Accra, and everything from the churches, the decorations, the feeling amongst people, and even in the streets and the stores, I am sure the season will feel much more festive.

With that said, it is more than the festivities that I miss, it’s the family and friends that I miss. As busy as my Mother can be, she always finds time to decorate our house from the bathrooms to the bedrooms and every room in between. She pulls out decorations she has had, some since I was a child and some since she was a child. There are so many stories and memories that we revisit putting them up.

Seeing my cousins, Aunts and Uncles, my brother, my Grandmother – the whole family – doing the whole Christmas celebration is a regular part of the passing of a year. Now that I am an ocean away, I see that even more. Throughout my time being here, I am really finding a deep appreciation of so many aspects of my life. Not to say that I didn’t appreciate it before, but I appreciate it more.

While I know I am supposed to be here, I do feel sentimental. I know that my time in Accra over the holidays will be great. There are so many friends to visit, and the Ackerson’s are definitely family to me. It will be great to be with them. This very day, I have been making arrangements to bring yams and smoked guinea fowl down for the holiday season…I wonder how that combination will taste with some cranberry sauce?

All that said, at this time there are many people that I am feeling deeply in my heart. Everybody’s house that I usually come by over the holidays to eat…of course Mom (and the rest of the family) cooking at my house, Grandma’s house, the Bramwell’s (lollipop), the Ezemenari’s (Chin!!!), Weir-Howell residence (G!!!!), the Byam’s (Kembino!!), the Samuels (you know I would be there!!!), the Balamos family (it’s a tradition), Auntie Gloria and Auntie Janet, Auntie Norma, the Ishmael’s (can I have a moment of silence for the plate that I would of ate), the Thompson’s (you told me to bring the Tupperware!), the Isaac’s (even if Frank isn’t home), the Clarke’s (gotta get that breadfruit)…all of these houses are the guaranteed spots. Of course, there are other unexpected invitations, but these are the regulars.

So there I sat, in my office in West Africa, feeling the weather system caused by the grand Sahara desert, watching Home Alone 2, feeling quite emotional…thinking of all that is special to me at this time of year. I know many might say that I should be grateful at this time of year to be out of the cold, but Christmas in Toronto is not cold, no matter what the temperature is outside; even in the most bitter winter weather seems to just intensify the love inside.

To my family, and to my friends (who really are family to me), I deeply miss you all. I am thankful for the understanding that I am doing what I need to do, and I am where I am supposed to be, but I miss you all and would love to be there with you…especially during Christmas.

Working for JHR can be like the NBA:
I feel like the Raptors!

While I appreciate most sports, basketball takes most of the time that I set aside to follow professional athletes. Being in Northern Ghana, we don't even get highlights or scores. From time to time, I go online to check the scores and standings and to see how my hometown squad is doing.

After an era of crumbling, the Raptors are now in the midst of rebuilding. There's a hint of optimism in the air. I have stood by Head Coach Sam Mitchell, even when he was unjustifiably named as the NBA's worst coach by Sports Illustrated. Furthermore, I see a major link between my position with JHR as a Journalism Trainer and Sam's role as an NBA coach.

It is about giving as much as you can off the floor to your players, as well as finding their strengths and addressing their weaknesses. By the time a player reaches the NBA, they are pretty much already formed. This is similar with many journalists working in the field. However, as is true of Sam's roster, there are many young and impressionable journalists eager to get a chance to prove themselves.

Like Sam, my role here is not to play. Sam had an NBA career. He has the skills, but his job is not to play, it's to coach his players to a winning record. You have winning streaks and losing streaks, injuries and other unexpected challenges, and great turns of fortune in your favour. Once the tip-off occurs, though, the ball is in the hands of the players.

Continuing with this metaphor, I feel like a combination of the Toronto Raptors and the Dallas Mavericks. The Mavs, because they are on a 12 game winning streak. The Raptors, while they were looking to lean on the play of team vet Mo Pete (who is in his contract year), they are finding W's from the play of guys like Jorge Garbosa.

At Justice Radio, there are core staff who, based on their positions and skill sets, would seem to be the ideal canidates for the work that we are sent to do with JHR. Instead of those top prospects pulling through, the greatest contributions are coming from some unexpected names on the roster.

If you have been following the articles that I have been publishing, you will be aware of Layata Issa-Haque. She is the station secretary who is now hosting "Freedom Thursdays" (which is bringing her expontial growth). She has also been one of the main contibutors to our Human Rights Public Service Announcement Project.

While her performance has been clutch, another key contributor has been Samed. He is a critical component to the news department, but he is not actually being paid. Samed is refered to as an Attachee. While he really should be an employee, as the news would not get done properly without him, he is making great sacrifices and doing excellent work without compensation.

I had been focused on working with other staff members recently, but have found Samed's eagerness and passion to be infectious.

I continue to work with staff throughout the station, but my two key players right now are an attachee and the secretary...and that's why I feel like the Raptors.

After writing this piece, I went to check how my squad was doing. On a four game losing streak they were going to play the confernce leading Orlando Magic on the road - not a good recipe for a 'W'. However, I was grinning from ear to ear when I saw that they had won by seven.

The smile reached heart level when I read the article which touched on Sam Mitchell, who I have a great deal of respect for. It echoed a lot of what I have come to see.

Raptors 91, Magic 84

Bargnani buries Orlando with 4 three-pointers in final quarter

Dec. 14, 2006. 06:05 AM

DAVE FESCHUK
The Toronto Star

ORLANDO, Fla.—In the quiet moments of the NBA road life, Sam Mitchell, the Raptors coach, has been reading a book about David, the biblical underdog who made a hero out of himself by slaying the formidable Goliath.

"I read it to remind myself that when you're going through tough times, what they're about," said Mitchell last night. "Everything you go through in life, there's a lesson to be learned. ... And I keep telling people, `There's a reason why I'm here. There's a reason I'm a coach.'

"You've got to be resilient. You've just got to keep believing, keep hanging in there, and things eventually are going to turn around."

These are tense times, indeed, for the third-year coach whose contract expires at season's end, but his short-term job security was buoyed by some welcome contributions in a 91-84 win over the Orlando Magic that snapped a four-game losing streak.

...

Mitchell was in an introspective mood last night; he'd spent Tuesday at his aunt's funeral in his native Georgia, a family death that perhaps put his professional troubles in perspective. "I'm proud of our guys," he said. "When we get our backs against a wall and people start doubting us, we find a way."

A FIRST


When I decided to come to Ghana, I could feel that I was moving into the next level of my life. The reasons for this are numerous, but I can see I could just feel it.

With that said, I have a story to share with you all.

Sunday morning was a first for me.

I was invited by John for Winning Life Chapel to minister at a church that he is pasturing. I knew very little outside of it being at a school in Tamale and that I was to be ready at 7:30am, when he would pick me up on motorbike.

Earlier in the week, when thinking about what I would speak about on Sunday, the word that came to me was “Love Yourself”. Over the past few months, I have been making notes about different message ideas; some the messages titles are “Time”, “What is this Life?”, “Revisiting the Prosperity Message”, and “Parents”. One that has been on my heart lately is “Love Yourself”.

Within the week, the passing of Denis has been on my mind and heart a lot. The tragic situation in my old neighbourhood of Andrea Johnson has also been on my mind.

With that said, I was up early to the warm and bright setting of Sunday morning, where I waited at the roadside where the majority of people were not going to church. People were passing back and forth in regular morning routines; carrying firewood, taking porridge, going to work, and visiting friends. I sat there on a stone at the roadside, Bible and notebook in hand, reading from Matthew. After a few minutes, John approached and we headed on our way.

The dryness of the air was intensified on the back of the motorbike with no helmet; my nostrils felt like sand, almost immediately. The ride was about 20 minutes, and took us a ways out of town, to a rural area, mostly grassland with very few buildings.

The school grounds were still under construction, and it was difficult to tell where the classes actually took place. Outside were many teenage girls doing their laundry, some of whom greeted John saying “Good Morning Pastor”. We parked the bike and headed through what looked like a construction site, into a partially constructed building. There were walls, floors, and a roof over the structure, but no windows and no doors. We passed through one room, down a hallway that was partially outdoors, and into another room. There were two young women and a number of wooden benches. There was also a desk at the front of the room with two chairs behind it.

It was great. It was wonderful. It was a beautiful morning. In my mind, I just thought, “as long as there is three of us believing: me, John, and someone else”. A light breeze came through the room, and I sat behind the desk, setting my Bible and notepad on the table, feeling so grateful.

Within a short time, a few more young girls came. The actual location was beside a girls school and the church that John was pasturing was for the students of the school. I would estimate that the ages of the students was from about 15-21. With about seven young ladies in the room, we began service.

No microphones, no speakers, no band, no banners or decorations – we had nothing fancy. Just our voices, the fellowship of each other, and the presence of God.

One of the more senior students began to lead us in song. The singing continued for the next thirty minutes or so, beginning with some slower worship songs, to some high-energy, hand-clapping praise anthems. More and more students continued to file into the room, until every bench was full (and many were being shared) and there was just under thirty students in the room.

After some time, the singing turned to prayer. John then took some time to introduce me, and his words were flattering.

As I began to speak, I really felt drawn to share with them the significance of the previous week and that very moment to me. On my mind and heart, and in my prayers was Denis, his family, and all my friends from that time. I told them that his life had been taken that week. I also told them that ten years earlier, he had taken a life. Standing their as a minister (they did not know yet that they were a part of the first time I had been given such an honour), a university graduate and as Canadian human rights journalist in Northern Ghana working on a wonderful opportunity, I told them that I did not feel so different from Denis. I conceded, that looking at our lives you would see the huge contrasts, but that I had wanted to go the same route. I stood there as a testimony of God’s grace, of His protection and His wonderful blessings. Grateful is the word, as I could have been a lot of other places.

I then introduced the topic: “Love Yourself”. I shared with them a question that Christ was asked, about how to have eternal life. His response to the man listed a summary of the commandments. I then showed them so many instances where we are shown that we are to ‘love God with all of our hearts, and to love our neighbour as we love ourselves’. This is fairly commonly known: love God and treat others as you want to be treated. Christ and other involved in the revelation of the scriptures show us that to love God with all of your heart and your neighbour as you love yourself fufills all of the commandments, and brings us to a life leading to salvation.

My question at that point was this: do you love yourself? Can you look in the mirror and say “I love you”. Could you stand before the world and say ‘I love me!’?

The response in the room confirmed that, for most people, this is not their reality. I asserted that in order to really fulfill that “highest commandment”, to love our neighbours as we love ourselves, we must love ourselves. Given, all kinds of people have differing ideas about what love is, we must love ourselves the way that God loves us.

I shared with them a word that says that “the thoughts He has towards us are of good and not of evil”. So if God has good thoughts towards you, where do the bad thoughts come from? I insisted that we each take the time in prayer to really seek out what God’s thoughts towards us are.

To smiles and laughter I asked them what they thought God’s response to that question would be: would God say ‘you’re kind of ugly’ or ‘you’re pretty dumb’. It’s absurd to think such would be the case. We went through words through a number of scriptures: you are fearfully and wonderfully made, that God spoke the whole creation into being and then formed humankind with His hands and gave us life with His breath, that His will is that we are all saved, that He knew in our Mother’s womb and even before the foundation of the Heaven’s and earth being laid, that – like Joshua – he encourages us to be strong and courageous to be prosperous and have good success, and that even evil men can be good to their children, so how great is God – a good father – to us?

I did not use most of the notes that I had made, which were many, but taking the time to look through the word and study put it in my heart so that it could be shared in a real, living way.

After speaking, we prayed with many of the girls and closed. One highlight was when, a John’s urging that they be a family to eachother, a girl who had refused to even talk to another girl went over to her and gave her a hug. Even as we left they were still jubilant about the rekindled friendship.

As we drove along the rural roadside to Winning Life Chapel, and then after service concluded at that second church for the morning, heading to my house, I felt very humbled. I thought about many pastors and ministers that I know and have come across with a new found respect. I was also acutely aware how God’s grace, guidance and mercy make such endeavors meaningful, and how empty the same practice can be without Him.

When I got home, I went to take a nap. While sleeping I had a dream about Rhema that was showing me a lesson about people receiving the word, guidance and instruction that they need and that makes a difference in their lives.

When I awoke, I continued to think about it all. Ministering, pasturing and all of those areas are quite serious. It is really only something that I would want to do as God’s call and design for my life. To even have that one chance on a Sunday morning in a half-built school house to share God’s word with that group of young ladies is a wonderful gift that has is humbling.

Good Afternoon...

One week left in Tamale and the days go by rapidly. The sun is already setting here. The yellow disc is friendly to the eye due to the dust in the air. As it sets, it turns orange, red, then - the odd time it is strong enough to cut through the clouds - violet.

I went to the office early, got lots done, and there is tons more to do.

Currently, I am watching Al Jazeera English to see Kofi Annan give a farwell speech. I am also seeing my mind in a farwell state.

For the first time, I felt the frosty sting of missing family, friends and snow for the holiday season.

Anyway, Kofi is beginning his speech...so....later!

Stay Blessed

oh, lots to be posted tommorrow!

FULL CIRCLE AND THE PATH THAT WE TAKE

The road back to Tamale from Bolgatanga is a long flat pavement strip that cuts through what one would describe as savannah. In all directions, grasses singed brown are surrounded by well spaced trees, still green in their foliage. The trees provide pockets of shade in what can be very long, hot days.

Along the roadside, there a great pockets of charred fields. People set fire to the fields around this time. As for why? Some want to catch bush meat. Some seem to like fire. Some do it because that’s what you do at this time of year. The problems that this causes are numerous (including damaging the fertility of the land in a region over 90 percent of the population are farmers), but people still do it.

Along the road, we pass small villages, people walking along the roadside, and hugely over packed trucks coming to and from Burkina Faso.

As we headed south, we could see the setting sun out the passenger side of the SUV. In the comfort of our vehicle, we watched the fiery sphere become gradually muted by the haze on the horizon which seems to be a mixture of the dust in the air and the smoke from burning fields across the region.

Early in our journey, I was also surprised to see a trio of mountains, in an area which – otherwise – is completely flat. At first, they were barely visible through the haze. As we got closer, I could see the golden sand that housed the brush covering the surface. While they became clearer, they remained mysterious as the visibility was not high.

When I returned to Tamale, my stomach was not feeling very stable. Levida, who was also raised in Scarborough, was in the SUV with the driver, Somed and me. Somed was going home, but Levida needed somewhere to stay in Tamale, before heading to Accra the next day. I made arrangements for her to stay in the spare room in Mr. Fresh’s house.

That evening, we went to get a watermelon, hung out at Layata’s house and watched a film called Capote.

The next day, my stomach was acting up, so I got a slow start to the day. By the evening, I headed to town and went to the internet café. While there, I opened an email from my Mother titled “Full Circle”. I had absolutely no idea what I was about to read. I thought that it might be something about seeing God’s hand in day-to-day life, or an interesting story about our family (I have gotten lots of those over the past five months). The contents were neither.

I was shocked by what I read:

“Twenty-six year old Denis Oppong was fatally shot just after 3am, Sunday morning”.

My mother knows Denis. She did not know him well, but she knew him as a regular fixture at our house playing basketball in the driveway, playing video games in the basement, eating and listening to music at the house, hanging out at Snappy’s, or as one of many who would tell my parents in their green Ford Taurus wagon driving around the neighbourhood, that they didn’t know where I was (even if I had just darted behind a fence, knowing I was supposed to be somewhere else).

Ten years ago, in September 1996, my parents moved my brother and I out of Scarborough to Richmond Hill; more me than my brother. We had been living in the subdivision at Ellesmere and Morrish at the time. We actually lived in three houses in that area alone. Denis lived just down the street at Ellesmere and Meadowvale.

Most of the people that lived in the area went to Morrish Public School. Before moving from the south side of Ellesmere to the north side, I had been going to Highland Creek; after we moved, I stayed there. A lot of the friends that I made in the area went to Cardinal Leger. Pretty much everyone from what we called ‘turf’ fit into one of those three schools.

After school, on weekends, in the summertime and at basement jams, people from all three schools interacted. I got to know the Cardinal Leger people through Justin who lived across the street from me in our second house in the area. Over those years, we spent most of our time with aspirations of being DJ’s, enjoying summer (hanging out by the store, riding our bikes, going to Scarborough Town Centre, meeting up with girls, and going to whose ever house had no one home), and getting into more than our share of trouble. In that sense, we were kindred spirits.

However, the summer that we finished grade eight, things became less innocent.

I had just finished grade ten and had already found myself in a few situations with the police. Things were changing fast in the area and in my life, and my parents could tell.

A lot of us began to find our way into crime. Over the next two years, a lot intensified, and it continued to intensify after that, but that is another story.

This story took place ten years ago on an autumn morning in Richmond Hill. It was a morning that I have not forgotten.

I was sleeping and my Mom rushed into my room to wake me up. She was almost stuttering and was highly emotional. I am not sure if she knew what to say, but as she woke me from sleep she said to me, “It’s Denis”, holding the front page of the newspaper in her hand.

The cover story was about a fatal stabbing that had taken place at Kennedy Station. After being unable to find the suspect for the murder that had taken place a few days earlier, the police received a go-ahead to publish his photograph even though he was 15, and still a young offender. In the hopes of finding him, his photograph had been placed on the front page of the paper. My mother recognized Denis immediately as she sat down to read The Saturday Star.

I remember laying in my bed and looking at that page. The photograph that they had of him didn’t really look like him, but suspect pictures rarely ever do; not like a friend, or person with loved ones, but still, and cold like the monstrous act he had committed. I had heard about what happened at Kenedy station in scientific detail on the news, but it was different reading what happened when I knew who did it.

I thought about days when we would hang out in Anthony’s basement, or when I would be practicing my DJ’ing while Denis and who ever else he was rolling with sat on the couch playing videos games. I thought of the time we went out to a dance at some Catholic Girls school, St. Joe’s, and his girl at the time got us all into the jam. I remembered trying to get him to sell me the first album from The Alkaholiks, 21 and Over, for less than he bought it for; but he didn’t. I remembered when Flynn (who we called Goggles) told Denis that this White kid called him “nigger” and Denis grabbed that kid by the neck and walked him, not loosening his grip, across the street until he pressed the kid’s back and his own fingertips to the door of a stranger’s garage.

I remembered days, after school, when kids from all over the borough would pass through the Kenedy station, a lot of them meeting up and lingering. I remembered a lot of the older guys in the area, and how Denis passed us all in gaining their respect: he did it without saying much

I visualized him there, and those guys that he started chilling with, and him doing it. I could see it. It effected me.

After that, I still spent every weekend in Scarborough, mostly at Peter and Victor’s house. We would stay out until the early hours of the morning, and walk down Port Union to the area where the bus didn’t run and fill a plate with their mother’s cooking that she left on the stove for us. Their Dad would often lecture us, and many times just me, for hours at a time about life. All I remember about what he would say is that he used to work for the United Nations. I wish I could recall more; I’m sure it was wise.

About Denis though, the story that I heard from most people was that he made a mistake. I had heard that there was some mix-up over a girl, and combined with the associations he was making at the time, he did what he did. The mistake was that he stabbed the younger brother, not knowing the difference. I am not even sure if he knew he had a younger brother. I am also not sure if that story is really true.

What I do know is this. A couple of weeks later, while in Richmond Hill a new kid came the school that I had just started attending. When I heard that he was from Scarborough, I wanted to find out where he was from. What I soon found out was that he was the guy that Denis had intended to stab, and that he had just lost his younger brother.

We spoke a few times, but I never told him that I knew Denis. For unrelated reasons, it wasn’t long before both of us switched schools.

Being a young offender, Denis got just over three years of confinement. Every once in awhile I would hear something about him, but not often. Then, one day at York University, I was walking by the student centre when I heard someone call out “Chris”. That was common as I knew a lot of people at York, but when I saw Denis, it surprised me.

After everything, I never expected to see him again.

I asked him what he was doing at York and how he was doing. He answered me, but I don’t remember what he said, except that he was going to meet someone. Then he left. I know it happened, but it almost seems like it didn’t.

When I opened that email “Full Circle”, it was the last thing that I expected to read.

Once again, my main source for what happened is the scientific description in the newspaper that describes a gun shot wound to the head. The description said he was laying on the sidewalk, bleeding and that he died on his way to the hospital.

I printed the story and went home, but I didn’t read it again. The words were already in my mind, and the images were in motion in my imagination. I could see it.

Before I slept, I prayed. I prayed for his family, that his life could be a testimony of God’s glory, and the he is met by God’s mercy.

I then slept after a few hours. Most mornings, the call to prayer over the mosque speakers wakes me up around 4am. I rarely ever get out of bed at this time, and usually fall back asleep. This morning however, I could not fall back asleep. I sat up and I was thinking. As I looked through scriptures, I heard a tone in the Word that I had not heard before: “O Lord, thou hast brought up my soul from the grave: thou hast kept me alive, that I should not go down to the pit” (Psalm 30:3). A sobering word full of love, truth and reproof.

I did a lot of things in my life that I should not have done. I have done things that no one should do. I never did what Denis did, but I don’t feel so different from him.

At one point, for a few years, I wanted to go in that very same direction. I wanted to let my heart turn cold. I knew in that life you had to be willing to kill first, and your heart had to die to do that. I wanted to let it go. I remember a moment on the couch in my basement, when I could feel the allure and wanted to let my heart go, but God’s hand – the very presence of Christ was there with me – and held onto my heart, not letting me go.

Years later, after my share of charges, community service and court dates (along with a number of close calls), my direction changed. That is also another story of prayers from so many. Of a letter from my Grandmother and distrust from my family that was losing patients with me. It is a story of phone calls from my Dad and some weeks in the mountains and wild beauty of British Columbia. It is a story of the tears, arguments, fights, sacrifices, and persistent love – a I Corinthians 13, longsuffering, patient, never failing, bearing all things love – of my parents. It is a story of divine intervention, real life miracles. That too is another story.

I describe that time like I had reached the edge of a cliff, and a step or two more and I would have tumbled down it, and then I was turned around.

I remember one winter evening in a Tuxedo Court high-rise. In that cockroach infected apartment, there were a few bags of crack rocks, one friend on bail for substantial cocaine possession, another friend going from robbery to credit card scam to break and enter, and another – one that I used to tease and chase around in those summers, now carrying a loaded gun.

As we spoke about what we each were doing now, they were amazed that I was thinking of university.

I still remember, in that conversation, Justin dodging eye contact like he always did, telling me, “from where you were headed, when we hadn’t heard from you, we thought you were dead or in jail”. The impact of those words still has not left me. To this day.

I know where Denis grew up. I also know where he died. My car got around there towed while I was at one of the weekly meeting for the Harry Jerome Awards. I can see it in my mind.

At this point, my mind goes back to something another guy from the area, Anthony, once said to me. Anthony is the guy whose basement we spent the most time in. We would mostly watch music videos and movies, and get out of the summer heat. It was on his street that I first smoked weed (though he didn’t smoke with us…I think it was Peter, Richard, Denis, Brian and me). He hung out with all of us, but was able to stay very clear of the trouble that we had been finding ourselves in. We were good friends.

A few years after not seeing him, we crossed paths again. We caught up on a few things and he told me that he had read some of the articles that I wrote for Word Magazine. He then told me to that, “we’re watching you”. I know what he meant; to keep doing right, and not to forget where I come from. You know, I always felt that; that people were watching what I was doing.

In that email that my Mom sent to me, she wanted to make sure that I found out from her first. She offered words of comfort, and hoped that I could be grateful for where I am. She knows that could have been me. I am beyond grateful, but that is not how I feel. I don’t feel so different from Denis.

God has been so graceful to me. It really is incredible. I was so stubborn with some things that it took me about a decade to realize that I had been stubborn. I had so many chances. God has stayed with me through so much. My family stayed with me through so much. The pressure that I put on my Mom and on Drew, only they could really tell you about that.

I remember Kristina and Cheryce, two Christian girls at York that used to call me ‘Brother Still-Runnin’. They used to always ask me when I was really going to live my life for God. I would always be like, “I don’t know”, and with a smile, “it will come”. There was one day in the food court at York, and with the deepest concern and a powerful word of truth, they told me, “Chris, when you live for God you are going to effect so many people’s lives. God is going to do so much through you”. I could feel what they were saying was true.

As I sat up at 4am, and night was turning to morning, I could feel the weight of all of this. His life on this earth is over. I have had so many chances. I am in Africa, in Ghana, with so many blessings. The storehouses of this planet could not store the love that I have in my life. God’s grace, His power, and His anointing are with me. This very weekend I am scheduled to minister a message to a small congregation.

So I sat there thinking of so many people: Justin. Peter. Victor. Richard. Flynn. Tommy. Lee. Wayne. Bryan. Flo. I would be at that funeral if I could. I would just like to offer his parents a word of comfort. I would like to be there with my friends.

I pray for his family. I pray that his life is not lost in vain; I pray that it saves someone, and that it wakes someone up. I pray for mercy, that he is met by God’s arms of mercy.

I am here, though I could have been there. God knows best. His plans for my life, for your life, are better and greater than what we could ever dream or imagine.

While those words, I know, are true. I wonder why they don’t quite fit as the close here. I want to say that the tragedy that befell that young man does not escape me. The pain of his older brother is not missed by my understanding. God knows how deep my love is for my younger brother. I pray that he does not carry any guilt for the loss of his brother’s life, though I imagine that he has battled with that.

I am sure that they are aware of what has happened. I don’t think it brings much comfort.

Recently, I watched the movie Menace II Society again. It actually came out around the time I was referring to earlier, those summers I mentioned. If we didn’t watch at Anthony’s house, then we watched at mine or Justin’s. Really though, we probably watched it at all three of our houses. There is a scene when Larenze Tate, playing O-Dogg, is insulted by an Asian storekeeper who tells him “I feel sorry for your mother”. O-Dogg’s response is a cold-blooded murder, shooting him numerous times, then shooting his wife after collecting the video tape. There was something attractive to us about that. O-Dogg spends most of his time with his friend Cane, who sells drugs in the area. After Cane is almost killed while in his cousin’s car as it was jacked, Cane ends up going with some friends for revenge, which they get. Cane notes of having killed someone that, “it wasn’t the last time”. Near the end of the film, Cane is planning to move to Atlanta with a girl that he has come to love. While packing the car, he and another friend are shot to death. To a black screen, his voice concludes the story saying that “I guess it all comes back to you”.

There is no glory there.

I also think of The Autobiogrpahy of Malcom X. At one point, when Malcom was known as Red, he barely escaped Boston with his life, when he was almost killed for ripping off a fellow criminal. Years later, as a minister of the Nation of Islam, he returned to see how that man who had all the respect, all the fear and had easy money coming his way was doing. He was alone, old, and despondent. There was no glory in it. Even Biggie said of the life selling crack, “I don’t care who you are, eventually, you end up one of two ways: dead or in jail”.

I don’t know what chances Denis got. I have no idea what he was doing with his life. I know it is not my place to judge. I know that it is God’s will that all be saved.

With all of this on my mind this morning, I went to the internet café with the intention of sending an email to Victor, the only person from that circle of guys that I know how to contact from the other side of the planet. When I signed on to my MSN account, he was logged in. Though it was almost 4am in Toronto, and he was just about to go to sleep, we spoke briefly about what happened. I asked him if he was going to the funeral, and he didn’t know when it was, but said he would. I asked him to pass on my love to everyone, and he said, “for sure”.

Of his own, he said very little; actually, though he may have been tired, he simply put it, “it’s a shame”.