Ho, Ghana October 4, 2005

Sean and Tuuli were in a mood that I didn't share. There are still a few more nights that I can use to enjoy the safety of Ghana, so I wandered off. Ho is four or five big streets on a series of hills. A lattice work of undriveable roads and businesses contained in colorful, upright, wooden boxes fill the space between larger compounds or noisy "spots"—places to be. My fried rice and chicken is poor, though there is an astonishing quantity of meat on the chicken's neck—a portion that I have somehow not previously received. The starlings in Mali and Burkina did not contain this much flesh on a cleaved half carcass.

The cassette player just ate the sentimental american soft rock that scarred the peace here. It was left unmolested as it chewed and choked over the wind beneath my wings, which it swallowed after three amusing minutes. Now it is quiet. A man just approached me and asked if I was an american peace corps volunteer (I am not); he tells me of how he worked with them (he may have). His name is Wisdom. He is proud to say so and waits for the effect. Observing none, he continues his interview. People generally shuffle off when I say I've lived in West Africa for three years since it means that they have nothing to gain from me. He seems to draw a similar conclusion and leaves. Then I almost chase him down the street because his name is Wisdom. I imagine that I am missing an opportunity, that he is a messenger, a guide or a ghost. I have to focus on his baggy jeans and loose fitting nylon sports jersey, his noisy phone, pendant necklace and wrong guess.

I remind myself that Ghana is a giant miscast morality play. Sean's recent friends have included Promise, Wonder and Compromise. The more commonplace virtues and powerful nouns like Patience, Grace, Confidence and Glory are (nominally) all around us. We joke about meeting Thoughtfulness, Trickery and Incontinence; but, I am not Everyman and these poorly named people are not here to mold or inform me. All the same, I failed to invite Wisdom to have a seat or to drink with me. I didn't try to extract from him some sense of purpose or direction for my life and that seems daft.

The silent darkness of this place is more noticeable now. Everyone nearby was listening to our interaction; they learned that I am not particularly approachable; so, I now possess the immunity that I often seek and will not be bothered. But, I see my surroundings as if with thirty-five or forty-five year old eyes. I feel like the seedling of a lonely old man. I don't know why it feels like failure to imagine that I might become that: a middle aged man sitting alone on a quiet road, eating evening street food in a marginal city of the developing world.

The lights of distant and inaudible passing cars, children who shift their weight and stare at me from their places in line, other people speaking: none of these things diminish the impression that I will become this man who looks like failure.

I find a large receipt in my pocket, take my pen and start to cover it with words. It makes me feel better. When it is covered, I pay for my dinner and go to where my empty books are. There, I am thrown off to find that my friends and their mood are waiting where I left them, unchanged and jarring. In my head the phrase "like an old man" floats like small debris in bathwater, impossible to catch and dispose of.

A businessman today explained how he sustains a network of three hundred and fifty people living with AIDS. Organizations with millions of dollars are comparatively pathetic. His story will be in the Ghana section under a title referencing counseling networks or the Volta region. I don't know yet, because I have to write it tomorrow.

"God Will Provide Banku and Tilapia"—a restaurant.
* posted by Nathaniel at 5:25 AM