Piece of Me

The last week in Ghana has been characterized by African rains. The rains fall so hard that they fill the deep gutters in mere moments, and umbrellas are left destroyed by the stone-sized pellets that fall by the bucketful from black clouds. Goats huddle beneath tin roofs and chickens shake their drenched plumage like confused dogs. Three nights ago, the thirteen obronis were woken from a deep, comfortable slumber by several rude claps of thunder that sounded like metal garbage cans beating against the walls. The sky lit up in a brilliant show--it seemed that Africa was trying to show off to convince us to stay forever in its fancy light show.

Despite the great continent's efforts to keep us here, though, our time has come to an end. With only three days left, I have very mixed emotions about leaving. I miss everyone at home very much--I often find myself wishing I could link arms with my best friends when out late at night and always wish I had Mom's input before buying brilliant batiks and colorful Kente cloth. A healthy helping of Dad's clam chowder with fresh corn from the garden sounds more appetizing every day. Despite missing all of you, I feel that a part of my heart is here in Ghana. I'll leave it with the sweet children who shout "Obroni!" and squeal when I wave back, my white hand ticking in the humid air. Part of it will stay with the kind ladies who cut pieces of sweet bread and stuff them full of egg omelets for our hungry bellies late at night. I'll miss that road to work, its swampy holes a breeding ground for mosquitos and malaria but the lotus flower blossoms reminding me to stop and enjoy every step. I think I'll even leave a piece of me on the seats of the dilapidated trotros with their flaming glove boxes and rusty doors.

I know that the rain here will stop, the gutters will dry out and the Earth will crack with the heat of the beating sun. Soon enough Ghanaians will be sweating through the dry season, praying for rain again to quench the thirst of their wilting crops. I wish I could be here to see it, but it brings me comfort to know that those bonds I've made and lessons I've learned won't be washed away with the swift rain but will instead dry like the Ghanaian soil into my memory forever.