The Past Week: On a Lighter Note

The past week has brought one pleasant change; the hamatan seems to be coming to an end. Looking out of the window in the morning, buildings that were hidden in the haze on all sides were much more visible. For the first time in months I saw a blue sky. In my heart, and a smile ready to pour out into laughter.

As I sat in the tro tro heading to work, I could see a great deal further, and also saw some dark clouds before us. I have not seen one drop of rain since October, so the prospect of showers that would clear the remaining dust out of the air was a great one to me. I asked the man sitting next to me, “excuse me, do you think that it’s going to rain?”.

He looked at the clouds, and said, “I am not sure”. He then pulled his phone out of his pocket and began to dial.

“Hello, good morning”, he said into the phone, “is it going to rain today?”.

After a short conversation he told me, “there might be some showers, but they won’t be everywhere”. I asked him who he had called.

“I called the office. I am a meteorologist”.

I could not hold in the laughter. “What are the chances of that?”, I rhetorically insisted, “asking one person whether it’s going to rain and they happen to be a meteorologist”.

That night, after coming home, I was pleased to find a package in the mail. It was a few CDs from Gordon, some mixtapes that he made. Excited to get them, I brought my CD player with me the next morning, the only time that I have carried it with me in the city. I was walking down the street listening to a song where Gordon could be heard over the track shouting some areas along the Jane strip, when someone approached.

The guy was around 25 or so, and inquired – guess – where I am from. Rather than reversing the quiz that I often get, I answered still walking.

“Canada”, I said.

“What part of Canada?”, he asked.

“Toronto”.

He then asked, “What part of Toronto?”.

While I hear, ‘where are you from?’ all of the time, I rarely hear anyone ever ask me, ‘what part of Toronto?’. I told him a few areas that I lived in, when he told me that he was from Jane and Finch. I laughed and told him that the CD that I was listening to was shouting out the area.

I asked him, “what part?”
“Jane and Finch”, he repeated.

“What part of Jane and Finch?”..

“Oh, Driftwood”.

I laughed again.

“I work in Driftwood”.

When he started naming building numbers and names of artists from the area that most people outside of the area don’t know of, it was confirmed that he was legit.

When I told him that one of the CDs was a mixtape of artists from Toronto called “Street Loyalty”, he was eager to hear it.

I told him that I would burn it for him. Soon I found out that he lives a few buildings away from me.

We haven’t really hung out yet, aside from just chilling in the parking lot and talking after I burned the CD for him.

Later that morning, I went to visit Dr. Lokko at his house. Meeting him through Tamara was a wonderful blessing, and has allowed me to great treatment for my toe without have to deal with the often sketchy medical system.

He had asked me to come by so that he could change the dressing on the toe and see how the wounds from the surgery are healing. He took great care to clean the wound, and cautious wrap it in gauze again.

After the toe was taken care of, he then asked me if I wanted to stay for coffee. I certainly did.

The first time that I had met Dr. Lokko was on Christmas day. While hanging out with Tamara, I ended up being ushered to his house where we ate Turkey, sushi and a combination of the Christmas fare I know from my family tradition, as well as a combination of Philipino and Ghanaian foods.

The next time that I saw him, he was taking Tamara and her sister out to dinner. I had just come from the Nyaho Medical Clinic, where a doctor with a heavy American accent took 170,000 cedis to tell me less about my toe than I already knew, and had me tactfully correct her that they actually don’t put toes in plaster casts. I asked Tamara if she thought Dr. Lokko would look at my toe.

Without any hesitation or prevention, he obliged. Right away he knew the problem and the solution. He told me to soak for a few days in salt water to relieve the infection and then to come see him for a small surgical procedure.

The first day that I went to his house alone, I arrived around 10am. At that time he was sitting with his daughter Debbie, who lives in London but is visiting for a few months. We sat discussing all sorts of topics from independence and development, to AIDS and the IMF. I didn’t want to bring up my toe, or interrupt the conversation.

Let me describe Dr. Lokko. My first strong impression of him was in the car that his wife usually drives. It is a small Mercedes Benz, that is in good condition, but a few years old. He apologized to us three of us squeezed into the back seat. He said, “I’m not one of those big men, so I don’t drive one of those big cars”, adding his laugh to his statement. On that same drive, while figuring out the best way to get to the roundabout that I needed to get down at, he also told the story of how the tro tro got it’s name (it used to cost three pence for a ride).

He wears glasses that magnify his eyes, making them look quite large. While somewhere around his sixties, his sense of humor and charisma radiate with youthfulness. He speaks and acts with wisdom that age can not only be explained by age, but require attentiveness and a hunger. This is balanced with the humility to laugh and an infectious jesting personality. He is accomplished and worthy of great respect, but he does not take himself or others too seriously, giving the impression that he appreciates what he has.

Sitting that day with his daughter, we were treated to yet another guest. I don’t recall his full name, but his title was captain. He seemed to be a childhood friend of Dr. Lokko and was an airplane pilot with Ghana Airways.

Debbie and I listened as they shared stories. Among the most amusing were stories of travel. Dr. Lokko described the fascination people had with him when he was visiting Scotland. “A real African”, they remarked. He spoke of their surprise at his education, and that he defied much of what they thought of the continent. Dr. Lokko and his Captain friend lit up with the humor they saw in a situation that they had both come across quite a lot over the years.

In between their traveling stories, they would say, “travel and see!”. As one would say it, the other would repeat the same words in a different tone, “travel and see”.

While sitting there, I didn’t have much to add. While answering a question about the book that I was holding in my hands to Debbie, I mentioned the name Muhammad Ali as one of the people referred to in Maya Angelou’s biographical tale of her time in Ghana in the early sixties.

The conversation then, turned to Muhammad Ali. I asked if Dr. Lokko had seen the documentary film “Rumble in the Jungle”, and I got a stare hinting the absurd from Debbie and a grin of a school boy about to watch a classmate get into trouble from the Captain, as Dr. Lokko told me, “I have seen everything about Muhammad Ali. Don’t make me talk about Ali”.

I sat back in my chair with an embarrassed but happy smile, having expected a different answer, as he then began to tell a story of the time that he met Ali.

He had been at a party in the United States when he saw him. He was introduced to him as being from Ghana. Ali responded warmly, saying, “my African brother”, before he was interrupted and swept away by another conversation.

At the end of the event, Ali saw him again and said to him, “there you are!”. He insisted, “I’ve been looking for you, my brother from Africa”. Dr. Lokko was delighted by the memory of the warmth that he received from his hero, and man that he conceded, “sometimes makes me think, ‘why didn’t God make me like that?’”.

That day that he asked me to stay for coffee that this story began with, Dr Lokko and I sat and talked. I asked him, “what do you think of the 50th anniversary of independence”. It was delightful to sit and hear his ideas and to add to the conversation. He started of saying, “what is there to celebrate?”. He then mentioned that he doesn’t want to celebrate independence, which he doesn’t want to do, for that also causes one to remember not being free.

“I don’t believe independence made us free”, he said, “every human being is born free. How can someone make you free”.

He spoke about how Ghana used to be. He spoke of how far the country has come, and he spoke of how much of the dream has been realized and the major parts that have been squandered. At points where it seemed to be going in a far-off direction, he would restate the question, ‘and what do I think of independence?’, and then link all that was said back to the topic.

At one point, he seemed to doze off. I have to admit, that when he seemed to be dozing, I felt a few feelings. I didn’t want to make him, to save embarrassing either one of us. I also felt a bit sad, as if him suddenly falling asleep – to a degree – took away from what he was saying. Then suddenly, he opened his eyes and concluded the thought about the conflict between celebrating independence and being tied to the whims of foreign financial institutions. His thought was sharp.

Later he shared with me some words about being content with what you have, enjoying life, and about his own priorities. He told me that sometimes, it seems like he is sleeping, but he is letting his mind just work things out. He said that he does that, and sometimes solutions to a problem just come to him. “The mind is amazing”, he said.

And with that, we agreed that it was time to get on with our days.

“We can talk and talk, but we have to get something done…”, he said.

“Or your wife, be upset with you?”

“Yes. Or my wife will…”, laughing, “Okay, all the best”.