Ramseyer's Ghost

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2AN OLD MAN SAT ON the ground. He was mending the fishing net that was stretched between his legs. He looked up as I approached. Kwabena had run off to join other small boys swimming in the sea, so I was alone.

“Kofi,” the old man called once and then again, more urgently.

I rehearsed my options. Should I greet him with the morning greeting, maakye, or the greeting for one who is at work, adwuma ôô? And when he answered, how should I continue? Learning a language taught in a classroom by a non-native linguist is one thing; using it in practice is quite another.

I needn’t have worried, for Kofi appeared at the door of a hut, wearing a pair of khaki shorts and pulling a faded red tee-shirt over his head. I thought I saw the glint of gold on a finger as he passed from shade to sun and wondered at the incongruity of it.

“Me papa?” I heard him ask.

The old man indicated my presence by an inclination of his head. Kofi smiled, almost as if he had been expecting me.

“Kwesi Buroni, akwaaba,” he said by way of welcome.

For the second time in an hour I was being addressed as a white man. I decided to deal with the issue once and for all.

“Yenfre me Kwesi Buroni,” I told him: that is not my name.

“Me paa wo kyew,” Kofi apologized and was asking for my name when his father interrupted him, reminding him, I suppose, of his manners.

“Kwabena,” Kofi called.

When Kwabena did not appear, Kofi went himself to fetch a stool and invited me to sit.

“Would you prefer to speak English?” he asked.

Somewhat relieved, I nodded. I made a mental note that I would have to work on my Fanti.

“My name is Ekem Ferguson,” I told him. “Back home they call me Crash. But here, since I was born on a Thursday, I guess you’ll call me Yaw.”

The old man looked up from his work and mumbled something to Kofi again.

Kofi brought an old beer bottle and a glass. The bottle looked as if it had water in it. I was thirsty after my walk, but I feared diarrhea.

“You don’t have a Coke by any chance?” I asked.

Kofi suppressed a laugh. I ended up taking some stuff from a calabash which he said was called palm wine, assuring me that it was a product of nature and guaranteed not to harm the constitution of a visitor. He lied. That palm wine was real sweet and by the time I had had half a dozen bowls, I was ready to go back to sleep. That’s something they didn’t warn me about at the Special School.

When I woke up it was past noon. Kofi explained that the Chief and Elders were in session and wanted to see me. He and his father led me to what Kofi called “the Palace,” a single storied mud building with a long veranda. A fence of palm fronds enclosed a sandy area in front of it. The Chief, or “King” as Kofi sometimes referred to him, sat on a real chair at the center of the veranda. Several old men, bare to the waist, sat on benches on either side of him. Facing this row, another bench had been set in the shade of a tree.

As we entered this space, Kofi called out, “Agôô” and those present answered, “Amêê.” I recognized the exchange and that pleased me.

Kofi led me to the bench, where I sat between him and his father. I looked around. In one corner of the yard, a woman was sitting on a low stool stirring a pot over an open fire. She raised her head, saw me gazing at her and at once looked down and returned to her work. There were several children, young girls and infants, playing quietly or just idly watching the proceedings.

The man at the chief’s right hand held a wooden staff with a carved animal of some sort, painted gold, at its head. He stood up. One of his colleagues handed him a green bottle, not round but square. From this he dribbled clear liquid onto the ground. Then he began to speak.

“He is pouring libation,” Kofi whispered to me, “Praying for the goodwill and support of our ancestors.”

“I know,” I replied.

When he finished, Kofi stood up and, signaling to me to follow, headed for the elder on the right. He and I and Kofi’s father then shook hands with each of the elders in turn.

When it was my turn to shake hands with the Chief, he murmured, “Akwaaba,” which I recalled means “Welcome.”

Without hesitating I replied, “Yaa agya,” and saw from his smile and the nod of approval of the staff-holder that I had got it right.

We returned to our seats. It was only later, with increasing experience of such matters, that I realized that at this stage it might have been proper for me to have presented the Chief with a gift. I had no gift to offer, so we moved on.

The man with the staff asked Kofi, as the representative of our party, for our “amanee,” the purpose of our visit.

Kofi spoke in Fanti but for my benefit translated everything said on both sides.

“This our visitor,” he told them, “arrived at our town of Mpoanokrom this morning, walking along the beach. He told us his name and we gave him some palm wine to wet his throat after his journey. He was tired, so we gave him a place to sleep; and while he was sleeping, my father, Opanyin Kwabena Kom, reported his arrival to Nana. Nana asked that the stranger introduce himself and that is how we come to be here. He hears a little of our language but he may prefer to use his own, so if Nana permits, he will speak in English and I will translate what he says.”

“Now, my brother,” he said to me quietly, “you must tell them your story. Tell them who you are and what your mission is.”

That word he used, “mission,” startled me. Did he know more than he was letting on? I dismissed the thought. Kofi was just a simple fisherman who had been fortunate to go to school and learn a little English.

“Nananom,” I addressed them in some semblance of their own language, “Eye me anigye se me hyia wonyinaa ha enne.”

That means, my grandfathers, or my seniors, it gives me great pleasure to meet you all here today. That was one of the speeches I had learned by heart in the States. It produced a round of applause and a string of private conversations amongst the Elders, in which I heard, again, the words Kwesi Buroni and Oburoni repeated.

I went on to request their indulgence as my friend Kofi had done, for me to speak in a language more familiar to me. I told them that I was a true son of their soil, that my natural parents were Fantis (which wasn’t quite true) and that my grandparents, on both sides, were also Fantis though they had lived for many years in Kumase, the Asante capital.

“In the year 2008,” I told them, “my father was studying in the United States. His studies were sponsored by his father who had grown rich working for the old United Nations, before returning home to retire. 2008 was the year in which I was born. It was also the year of the collapse of a great American company, in which my grandfather had invested all his savings abroad. He was reduced to poverty.”

I paused for Kofi’s translation. There were sympathetic noises.

“My parents had no money and had to go home, or should I say, to come home. They thought that my father would soon be able to return and resume his studies. So they left me, at the age of six months, in the care of friends in America, friends who came from Cape Coast. Those friends were called Ferguson. When my parents did not return, they adopted me and gave me their name. And that is how I come to be called Ekem Ferguson. However, because of the circumstances which led to my being placed in their care, they gave me the nickname Crash and that is what people call me.”

Then I told them that I was born on Thursday and that they could call me Yaw. They liked that.

I was ready to resume my seat but Kofi, who had been cutting in to translate every few sentences, whispered, “Your mission. Tell them your mission.”

That word again. I looked at him closely but saw no guile in his eyes.

“Pa and Ma Ferguson died recently,” I told them. There were murmurs of condolence.

“Before they died I told them that I planned to come here and look for my natural parents. They gave me their blessing and we pored over maps together. They recommended that I start my journey on this stretch of the coast. Ma Ferguson drew a large arrow on a map, pointing to this very village. In Fantiland, she said, I would find civilized and helpful people with a long history of friendship towards the Western nations. Indeed, she told me, Pa Ferguson’s illustrious forebear, after whom they said I was named, was a distinguished and faithful servant of the British Empire.”

I was taking a chance on that one. I had no idea how they felt about the British Empire, whatever that was. I hardly knew what it was myself. But to my surprise they broke into applause. I thought that that was a good time to sit down.

They went into huddle. I guess Africans love a story and that they found mine intriguing. The man with the staff collated their questions. One of the Elders wanted to know more about the Fergusons. I knew little about their family in Cape Coast but I dredged my memory for a few anecdotes and that seemed to satisfy them.

Then the Chief himself wanted to hear the details of my journey, how I had traveled from America, or Aburokyiri, the country of the white man, as he called it. Fortunately I had foreseen this question and prepared my answer well.

“I am sure I don’t have to tell you that there are no longer any air services to your country; and of course the old ports of Tema and Takoradi are silted up so that ships cannot dock there. The only way to get here was to hitch a lift on a passing American oil tanker. They sent me ashore in a motor boat.”

Again they consulted amongst themselves. At last the staff holder expressed the consensus. He said that their King, Nana whatever his name was (I forget), welcomed me as a long-lost son of Fantiland and was honored that fate had made his town Mpoanokrom my first port of call. Mpoanokrom, Kofi added, means the town at the mouth of the ocean.

“You will see,” the spokesman told me, “that we are poor, that apart from the sea we have few resources. Nevertheless Nana instructs me to tell you that we are resolved to do whatever lies in our power to help you to achieve your mission.”

How, he wanted to know from me, could they help?

I did my best to hide my elation. What a story I had to tell that cocky bastard Bud! I had these naïve but friendly natives eating out of the palm of my hand. I expressed my thanks with some effusion. Then I told them that I thought I should start my search for my parents in Kumase, their last location known to me.

The small boys were a trial. They followed me everywhere. I had to find a private place where I could communicate with Bud unheard and unobserved.

I found a solution almost by accident. The next morning Kofi shooed everyone away, small boys included, so that I could use the public toilet in privacy. Once was enough. The stench! And the wooden floor was so rickety that there seemed to be a distinct danger of falling into the deep pit. I pinched my nose and shook my head.

Kofi laughed. He had had nightmares about the pit latrine as a child. Now, like most of the townsfolk, he did his thing on the beach and relied on the Atlantic Ocean to wash away the waste.

“Sea Never Dry,” he told me with a laugh.

That didn’t seem to inhibit them from allowing their kids to swim in that very same Atlantic Ocean. I suppose they reckoned on a safe dilution factor. Or maybe they just didn’t reckon at all.

Anyways, I didn’t see myself squatting on the beach in company. The next morning I headed off into the coconut groves, small boys tagging along behind me.

I turned on them.

“Firi ha!” I told them, meaning, get lost.

One of the bolder souls asked me, “Wo ko he?” where are you going? “Me ko baabi,” I replied, meaning literally, I am going somewhere.

They nodded sagely and turned back. It seems that that phrase is used as a euphemism for “I am going to shit.” And it is extremely bad manners, even for small boys, to treat another’s defecation as a piece of theatre to be observed. In fact, I noticed that these people don’t even greet each other before they’ve had their morning s**t. If you say good morning to one of them when he is on the way to the beach, he’ll just ignore you.

So I found myself a quiet place amongst the coconut palms, dug myself a little hole in the sand, pulled down my pants and squatted over the hole. And while I was doing my business, I rang Bud. Trouble was, of course, that while it was dawn in West Africa, Bud, in Washington, was still fast asleep. Or if he wasn’t fast asleep, he was doing his thing with Selma. I sorted that one out by remotely setting his machine to record mode.

That way, I reckoned, I could send in my report without having to endure Bud’s short temper and malign sense of humor.

Bud, Lieutenant Colonel Bud Power, to give him his full designation, 42 years old and quite young to reach that rank, responded by calling me back, me, Crash, also 42 and still a Captain. You’d think he’d have more sense, putting me at risk. I bet he hasn’t even taken the trouble to read the rules.

Millicent thinks Bud’s right on the ball and, as for me, I’m… well never mind. How wrong can you be? So Bud called me back.

I was sitting with Kofi in the shade of a beached canoe, drinking palm wine.

“What was that?” Kofi asked when he heard the wristcom beep.

I pressed a button.

“I must have set the alarm on my watch by mistake,” I told him. “Sorry.”

That night I slipped away quietly from my hut and walked down the beach. I caught Bud in his office, just back from the usual expense account lunch.

“What the hell do you mean by beeping me like you did today?” I demanded. “That could have meant the end of my mission and maybe…”

Bud never takes criticism lightly. Before I could complete my sentence he swung to the attack.

“Crash, it seems to us all here that you are having a fine holiday at Uncle Sam’s expense. When are you going to get off your ass and start heading for Kumase?”

“Bud, I’m in Africa,” I said, “Things take time here. I’m waiting for the Chief to give me a guide and the go-ahead to get moving.”

“Crash,” he told me, “you forget that I’ve spent some time in Africa myself. Now you remember, Captain, that the Corps has entrusted you with an urgent life or death mission. There is no way that some no-good native chief can be permitted to interfere with your duty.”

“Bud,” I replied. “You been in Africa? You mean you once visited St. Thomas and helicoptered in to one of our offshore oil rigs. That ain’t Africa. Where I am is the real Africa and here nothing happens overnight. Now just trust me, will you?”

Well, I know not to take Bud too serious, but that conversation upset me some. I admit that I was a shade melodramatic. Kofi and Co. were unlikely to know the difference between my wristcom and a regular tick tock watch. But why chance it?

“Don’t call me,” I told him, “I’ll call you.”

And then I rang off.

I stood for a while, listening to the surf and looking out over the dark sea. There again were those dancing fireflies. But this time I understood what they were: the flickering lamps of the night fishermen.

I called Millicent at work but she said she was in a meeting and couldn’t speak.

Next morning I took my usual place in the shade of the old canoe and sent Kwabena to bring me a calabash of palm wine. Soon the canoes began to return. I went to help pull in Kofi’s net.

“Kofi,” I told him as he walked up the beach, leaving his meager catch in the hands of the womenfolk, “we need to talk.”

“Bra Crash,” he replied, “I beg you. Later. I tire small.”

And he tilted his head and rested his cheek on his hands.

“I go-come,” he said.

It was noon by the time he joined me. There wasn’t much left in my calabash. Kofi sent for another.

I had prepared what I was going to say to him. I would be diplomatic, thank him for his hospitality, but tell him that I couldn’t expect to depend on that indefinitely. Well the palm wine undermined my good intentions and I ended up demanding to know when the King would appoint the guide he had promised me and when it would be possible for me to leave for Kumase.

Kofi, as I recall, was the diplomatic one. He apologized for the delay. He knew, he said, that Americans were always in a hurry. However, going to Kumase was not a simple matter.

For one thing, it was impossible, or at best, inadvisable, without a visa.

“A visa?” I demanded. “There is not one single sovereign, independent state in the whole of West Africa and you speak of a visa? Who has the authority to issue me with a visa?”

“Bra Crash,” Kofi asked me, “If I were to arrive in your New York in my canoe and tell the first passer-by that I had come to look for my lost parents in Washington, D.C., what would he say, or do?”

The thought made me laugh: Kofi, unshaven for the past week, barefooted, wearing an old tee-shirt with the words, ‘KISS ME IN THE DARK, BABY” in faded luminous letters across his chest and his ragged khaki shorts, approaching a New York cop.

“First thing, they’d put you face forward, hands up, against the nearest wall and search you for a gun, or drugs or whatever. Then they’d ask you for proof of identity. Hey, Bra Kofi, you’d be in deep trouble.”

He gave me a look, curious-like.

“Body-search, eh? Proof of identity? Seems like we’ve been rather casual. But the Asante might not be. Be prepared, Bra Crash.”

Not for the first time it occurred to me that there might be more to Bra Kofi than appeared on the surface.

We had the same conversation, with minor variations, every day. Bud’s impatience increased exponentially. Some of it must have worn off onto me.

“This visa business,” I asked Kofi. “How does it work? Are there forms? How do you communicate with Kumase? E-mail?” and then as an afterthought, “You know what e-mail is, of course?”

He said nothing but the look he gave me spoke of contempt.

I tried again. He spoke to me as if I were an ignorant child.

“E stands for equine,” he said, and then, “You know what equine means, of course?”

It was two weeks before the equine mail arrived, two horses with riders, leading three more with saddle-bags.

Kofi announced, “Bra Crash, I have good news for you.

I have been appointed as your guide. And we leave at dawn tomorrow. So I suggest you get yourself a good night’s sleep.”

I think he added, “And no nocturnal strolls along the beach, mind?” but when I thought about it the next morning I couldn’t be sure. Perhaps, I thought, I had been dreaming. Had Kofi been spying on me? I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

I took my leave of the King and his courtiers who wished me good luck and a safe journey, warning me to beware of the activities of brigands and ruffians, but assuring me that Kofi would look after me.