24 July, 2009
I'm a closet feminist. Don't tell anyone.
Heard this on Sweet Melodies Christian radio while I was in a waiting room today.
After returning home from church, a man immediately approaches his unsuspecting wife and hefts her up onto his shoulders. He then proceeds to go about his normal business around the house. Eventually, the man’s wife asks him what, pray-tell, is going on. “Pastor,” he replies “ has told us to always carry with us our sorrows and our burdens.”
Which reminds me of the Akan proverb: “If you stumble upon a brawling couple, don’t make any hasty judgments, for it is only the husband who knows what the wife has done to him.”
Most of my perceptions of relationships here have been in the negative. That is, the guys I live with at the hostel are away from their wives. In the case of my roommate, because traveling four or five countries to the left is prohibitively expensive, he won’t see his wife or two year old daughter for two years. And I have the nerve to curse the stars for being separated from my girlfriend (who doth teach the torches to burn bright) for five month intervals.
There are chauvinist elements of Ghanaian culture just like there are chauvinist elements of American culture. A few months ago, I rode to a beach party on a bus with a group of guys from Commonwealth Hall and three or four female residents of Volta Hall. Commonwealth boys’ moniker, the Vandals, is pretty accurate. From campus to the beach, the bus roared with bawdy and aggressive songs, some pretty clever, others less so, especially, I imagine, if you were one of the young women in the backseat. One song involved a call and response, and guys took turns ad libbing a quick line about what they “do.” Eventually a finger speared out in my direction; the song’s familiar and now dreaded refrain crumbled beneath me: “Oboruni, what do you DO?” Heads swiveled towards my rapidly shrinking person. My head feels empty, like Dodge City before the shootout empty. Then a mental spasm and tentatively: “I steal your girlfriends?” That satisfied them. They went back to singing. I went back to looking inconspicuous. Judge me if you like, but “I respect all women as equals” didn’t fit the beat.
Gender equity under the law and in political representation is a big issue here. A large coalition of groups secured the passage of a domestic violence bill just a few years ago, and a law providing women some protection of their inheritance rights is on the books. President Mills pledged to fill 40% of appointed government posts with women. Last I heard, he was well short of that number, though that could’ve changed by now. The Speaker of Parliament, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, and several ministers are women. 19 of Ghana's 209 MPs are women (9%), which is just slightly below the percentage of female representatives in the legislatures of South Carolina (0 in the Senate, 17 in the House, 10%, rank among US states: 50) or Pennsylvania (Senate: 10; House 34; 14%; rank: 46).
You can’t study agricultural policy here without taking gender into account. The majority of food crop farmers are women, and food crop farmers are the poorest segment of the population. Male farmers have greater access to land, labor, capital, and extension services. Men are often responsible for providing the starch in meals (like maize), but women are expected to produce the food for the soup (vegetables, leaves, etc).This is on top of any labor obligation they might have to family members or a husband and on top of the tremendous amount of labor necessary for the social reproduction of the household.
There are direct implications for development policy. Take for instance the use of Gross Domestic Product as shorthand for the extent of country’s development. Ghana had set a goal of becoming a middle income country with a GDP per capita of $1000 by 2015. (I think that target has been put aside; the current GDP per capita is about $500.) The government is going to prioritize those activities that contribute to GDP, that is to national aggregate growth. That means that women’s domestic work isn’t considered work. It has no “value” because it hasn’t been assigned a monetary value. Cutting the health care budget might make sense from the aggregate growth perspective, but only if you ignore the fact that it’s going to increase the burden on primary care givers, who in most cases are female. The examples go on, from promoting cash crops over food crops to moving from traditional to freehold land tenure.
I just say good thing gender isn’t an issue in America. Right?
After returning home from church, a man immediately approaches his unsuspecting wife and hefts her up onto his shoulders. He then proceeds to go about his normal business around the house. Eventually, the man’s wife asks him what, pray-tell, is going on. “Pastor,” he replies “ has told us to always carry with us our sorrows and our burdens.”
Which reminds me of the Akan proverb: “If you stumble upon a brawling couple, don’t make any hasty judgments, for it is only the husband who knows what the wife has done to him.”
Most of my perceptions of relationships here have been in the negative. That is, the guys I live with at the hostel are away from their wives. In the case of my roommate, because traveling four or five countries to the left is prohibitively expensive, he won’t see his wife or two year old daughter for two years. And I have the nerve to curse the stars for being separated from my girlfriend (who doth teach the torches to burn bright) for five month intervals.
There are chauvinist elements of Ghanaian culture just like there are chauvinist elements of American culture. A few months ago, I rode to a beach party on a bus with a group of guys from Commonwealth Hall and three or four female residents of Volta Hall. Commonwealth boys’ moniker, the Vandals, is pretty accurate. From campus to the beach, the bus roared with bawdy and aggressive songs, some pretty clever, others less so, especially, I imagine, if you were one of the young women in the backseat. One song involved a call and response, and guys took turns ad libbing a quick line about what they “do.” Eventually a finger speared out in my direction; the song’s familiar and now dreaded refrain crumbled beneath me: “Oboruni, what do you DO?” Heads swiveled towards my rapidly shrinking person. My head feels empty, like Dodge City before the shootout empty. Then a mental spasm and tentatively: “I steal your girlfriends?” That satisfied them. They went back to singing. I went back to looking inconspicuous. Judge me if you like, but “I respect all women as equals” didn’t fit the beat.
Gender equity under the law and in political representation is a big issue here. A large coalition of groups secured the passage of a domestic violence bill just a few years ago, and a law providing women some protection of their inheritance rights is on the books. President Mills pledged to fill 40% of appointed government posts with women. Last I heard, he was well short of that number, though that could’ve changed by now. The Speaker of Parliament, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, and several ministers are women. 19 of Ghana's 209 MPs are women (9%), which is just slightly below the percentage of female representatives in the legislatures of South Carolina (0 in the Senate, 17 in the House, 10%, rank among US states: 50) or Pennsylvania (Senate: 10; House 34; 14%; rank: 46).
You can’t study agricultural policy here without taking gender into account. The majority of food crop farmers are women, and food crop farmers are the poorest segment of the population. Male farmers have greater access to land, labor, capital, and extension services. Men are often responsible for providing the starch in meals (like maize), but women are expected to produce the food for the soup (vegetables, leaves, etc).This is on top of any labor obligation they might have to family members or a husband and on top of the tremendous amount of labor necessary for the social reproduction of the household.
There are direct implications for development policy. Take for instance the use of Gross Domestic Product as shorthand for the extent of country’s development. Ghana had set a goal of becoming a middle income country with a GDP per capita of $1000 by 2015. (I think that target has been put aside; the current GDP per capita is about $500.) The government is going to prioritize those activities that contribute to GDP, that is to national aggregate growth. That means that women’s domestic work isn’t considered work. It has no “value” because it hasn’t been assigned a monetary value. Cutting the health care budget might make sense from the aggregate growth perspective, but only if you ignore the fact that it’s going to increase the burden on primary care givers, who in most cases are female. The examples go on, from promoting cash crops over food crops to moving from traditional to freehold land tenure.
I just say good thing gender isn’t an issue in America. Right?
04 June, 2009
Fog of Field Work
Tamale has very wide streets. So wide I imagine that if I do melt under this sun – which is seeming increasingly likely – the puddle of me will roll out and out until one of the Chinese made motorcycles with the Japanese sounding names zips across me and tracks me back towards the city center.
I was trekking up the Bolga Road towards the Northern Region’s Ministry of Food and Agriculture offices. This was my first attempt at field work, a somewhat flattering title for the jumble of interviews cobbled together over two weeks in Tamale, Nyankpala, and Zebilla in Northern Ghana. After repeating my topic (perceptions of food insecurity) and my questions (Is there a food crisis here?) to several different interviewees, I actually began to convince myself that I was not just pretending to be a researcher. I don’t know that I convinced anyone else, but still farmers merchants, development workers, and government officials were extremely generous with their time and candor. Because of that, I have started to see something of the lean season.
Small farmers, the majority of which are women, grow about 70% of food crops in Ghana and a similar proportion in most of the nations of Sub Saharan Africa. Small farmer is not synonymous with subsistence farmer. A small farmer may grow only cash crops. Most of Ghana’s cocoa is grown by farmers with only a few acres. The fully self-sufficient farmer, growing what he eats and eating what he grows is also the stuff of myth. Food crop farmers may derive a sizable portion of their calories from their own fields, but the economy is too monetized for them not to enter the market by selling their surplus crops or labor. Inadequate storage facilities and the need for immediate cash (credit is too scarce and expensive to be accessible to most) force small farmers to sell their produce right after harvest. The glut on the market means they take a low price, knowing that a few months later they will buy food for their families and seeds for their farmers at prices inflated by shortage and demand. Profits go to those traders who have the capital to store food. They buy low and sell high and move the food to markets with the most attractive prices.
Yields here are already comparatively low. The savanna of Northern Ghana sees only one rainy season each year. The South has two. Moreover, food crops, especially roots and tubers, have been “orphaned” receiving little of the research and extension lavished upon export crops like cocoa. The part I need to conduct more research on is the role played by the political and economic marginalization of the North. By blocking freehold tenure and investment, the colonial government kept the North as a labor reserve for Southern industry. Attempts in the 1970s to commercialize agriculture in the region were aimed more at enriching a well-connected elite and providing cheap food for the South than at improving livelihoods in the North. Over the past two decades, national poverty rates have dropped, as they increase in the three northern regions.
One consequence of these interlocking factors – environmental, technical, political – is a perennial lean season. In May, June, and July, many of the families which were eating three meals a day cut back to two. Vulnerability expands and deepens. A flood or a drought, illness or loss of income – under these circumstances, a hardship can become a disaster.
The plight of Ghanaians living in the North hasn’t gone unnoticed – though I think you could argue that the same can’t be said for the structural aspects undergirding the plight of the North as a whole. A host of government interventions has attempted to boost production and reduce poverty. Most recently, small dams, fertilizer subsidies, and a school feeding program aimed simultaneous at encouraging school attendance and supporting local farmers have met with varying degrees of success. A new government initiative funded by IFAD and ADB, the Northern Regional Growth Program, promises a new tack. It eschews the narrow focus on production, assesses the entire value chain, and assists farmers in meeting the demands of national and international markets. In addition to government efforts, an army of NGOs has fanned out across the three northern regions. World Food Program, World Health Organization, CARE, and World Vision all have outposts in Tamale. There must be as many pick ups and SUVs plying the roads of Northern Ghana in the service of “development” as there are for private purposes.
I’ve been asked several times how I see the North. There’s no good way to answer a question like that. I usually say, “It’s nice,” and go on to speak favorably of the absence of Accra-style traffic. One of my friends in Tamale took issue with my response. It’s not nice. It’s not nice that so many people here don’t have access to clean water or adequate medical care or a decent way to make a living.
So if you ask me how I see Northern Ghana now, I’ll tell you that I see it as a violent place. Not because there are chieftancy and land disputes in Yendi and Bawku. Not because armed robbery is prevalent. I bet it’s more common in Accra. I say it’s a violent place because violence is an exercise of force, an act of power. It is also an exploitation of vulnerability. Violence requires, thrives on vulnerability. Northern Ghana, like any place where poverty is deeply inscribed, is a place where people are vulnerable and so subject to a high level of violence. When the White Volta breaks its banks. When another child dies of malaria. When work goes forward on an empty stomach. When a farmer sells his sweat and blood and calluses at a pittance. When extension agents siphon fertilizer coupons to the highest bidders. When government knocks down trade barriers so subsidized American rice can flood out the local crop. This is violence. It is the hand of the stronger raised against the weaker. We may not like to see it that way because it says something about us.
The Ghanaians who struggle daily are not victims. They are survivors. First and foremost, they deserve respect. They deserve a level playing field.
I was trekking up the Bolga Road towards the Northern Region’s Ministry of Food and Agriculture offices. This was my first attempt at field work, a somewhat flattering title for the jumble of interviews cobbled together over two weeks in Tamale, Nyankpala, and Zebilla in Northern Ghana. After repeating my topic (perceptions of food insecurity) and my questions (Is there a food crisis here?) to several different interviewees, I actually began to convince myself that I was not just pretending to be a researcher. I don’t know that I convinced anyone else, but still farmers merchants, development workers, and government officials were extremely generous with their time and candor. Because of that, I have started to see something of the lean season.
Small farmers, the majority of which are women, grow about 70% of food crops in Ghana and a similar proportion in most of the nations of Sub Saharan Africa. Small farmer is not synonymous with subsistence farmer. A small farmer may grow only cash crops. Most of Ghana’s cocoa is grown by farmers with only a few acres. The fully self-sufficient farmer, growing what he eats and eating what he grows is also the stuff of myth. Food crop farmers may derive a sizable portion of their calories from their own fields, but the economy is too monetized for them not to enter the market by selling their surplus crops or labor. Inadequate storage facilities and the need for immediate cash (credit is too scarce and expensive to be accessible to most) force small farmers to sell their produce right after harvest. The glut on the market means they take a low price, knowing that a few months later they will buy food for their families and seeds for their farmers at prices inflated by shortage and demand. Profits go to those traders who have the capital to store food. They buy low and sell high and move the food to markets with the most attractive prices.
Yields here are already comparatively low. The savanna of Northern Ghana sees only one rainy season each year. The South has two. Moreover, food crops, especially roots and tubers, have been “orphaned” receiving little of the research and extension lavished upon export crops like cocoa. The part I need to conduct more research on is the role played by the political and economic marginalization of the North. By blocking freehold tenure and investment, the colonial government kept the North as a labor reserve for Southern industry. Attempts in the 1970s to commercialize agriculture in the region were aimed more at enriching a well-connected elite and providing cheap food for the South than at improving livelihoods in the North. Over the past two decades, national poverty rates have dropped, as they increase in the three northern regions.
One consequence of these interlocking factors – environmental, technical, political – is a perennial lean season. In May, June, and July, many of the families which were eating three meals a day cut back to two. Vulnerability expands and deepens. A flood or a drought, illness or loss of income – under these circumstances, a hardship can become a disaster.
The plight of Ghanaians living in the North hasn’t gone unnoticed – though I think you could argue that the same can’t be said for the structural aspects undergirding the plight of the North as a whole. A host of government interventions has attempted to boost production and reduce poverty. Most recently, small dams, fertilizer subsidies, and a school feeding program aimed simultaneous at encouraging school attendance and supporting local farmers have met with varying degrees of success. A new government initiative funded by IFAD and ADB, the Northern Regional Growth Program, promises a new tack. It eschews the narrow focus on production, assesses the entire value chain, and assists farmers in meeting the demands of national and international markets. In addition to government efforts, an army of NGOs has fanned out across the three northern regions. World Food Program, World Health Organization, CARE, and World Vision all have outposts in Tamale. There must be as many pick ups and SUVs plying the roads of Northern Ghana in the service of “development” as there are for private purposes.
I’ve been asked several times how I see the North. There’s no good way to answer a question like that. I usually say, “It’s nice,” and go on to speak favorably of the absence of Accra-style traffic. One of my friends in Tamale took issue with my response. It’s not nice. It’s not nice that so many people here don’t have access to clean water or adequate medical care or a decent way to make a living.
So if you ask me how I see Northern Ghana now, I’ll tell you that I see it as a violent place. Not because there are chieftancy and land disputes in Yendi and Bawku. Not because armed robbery is prevalent. I bet it’s more common in Accra. I say it’s a violent place because violence is an exercise of force, an act of power. It is also an exploitation of vulnerability. Violence requires, thrives on vulnerability. Northern Ghana, like any place where poverty is deeply inscribed, is a place where people are vulnerable and so subject to a high level of violence. When the White Volta breaks its banks. When another child dies of malaria. When work goes forward on an empty stomach. When a farmer sells his sweat and blood and calluses at a pittance. When extension agents siphon fertilizer coupons to the highest bidders. When government knocks down trade barriers so subsidized American rice can flood out the local crop. This is violence. It is the hand of the stronger raised against the weaker. We may not like to see it that way because it says something about us.
The Ghanaians who struggle daily are not victims. They are survivors. First and foremost, they deserve respect. They deserve a level playing field.
Two pictures
Coming to Ghana, I was confident that I was going to become an accomplished student of local culture. Of course, I was contractually obligated to make at least some efforts in that direction. Rotary’s purpose in sending Ambassadorial Scholars all over the world is to promote cultural exchange in the noble belief that building people-to-people connections is the key to lasting peace. But my goals as a Rotary Ambassadorial Scholar were far loftier than world peace. Stuffed somewhere between my boxers and tooth brush, I had packed an agenda for personal aggrandizement. I viewed myself as the savvy, thoughtful world traveler - the polar opposite of the stereotypical American tourist. Instead of doing drive-bys of the pre-packaged sites pointing, and taking pictures, and being loud, I would work myself into the corners of this place. I promised to “get out into the community,” search out the Real Ghana. I would settle for nothing short of cultural enlightenment.
Look closely enough at these two pictures and you can get a sense of where that misguided project has taken me. The first was taken in Madina market, a few minutes up the road from the university. Before I explain my grimace, a few general comments. Maybe you’ve never been to an open-air market like this. They’re not as common in the States. Such a dizzying mash of smells and noises and cash and people pump through the veins of this place so that sterile words like “economy” and “commerce” don’t come close to untying this knot of power, culture, struggle, work, life. Which makes the prospect of going back to Wal-Mart that much more depressing.
You might notice that aside from my big red self, everyone else in the place is a woman. The market is a woman’s space. Ghanaian women are legendary for their trading prowess, and “market queens” have amassed a great deal of wealth and influence for themselves. The liberalization of Ghana’s economy starting in the 1980s resulted in a contraction of formal sector employment (like factory jobs) so that more and more Ghanaians – men and women – earn their living in the “informal economy,” a phrase referring to untaxed and unregulated exchanges . (For trivia buffs, the term “informal economy” was coined by a guy doing research in Accra’s Nima market in the 60s and/or 70s.)
You might also notice what’s being sold. The green pods in the foreground are okro, a vegetable with a lot of seeds, which is why it’s used in some ceremonies to symbolize fertility. For practical purposes, it makes your soup slimy which can be a good thing, believe it or not. Behind the okro there’s what looks to be yellow tomatoes. They’re called garden eggs. I thought that they were, in fact, yellow tomatoes until a friend used them in a stew, and I found out that they’re actually stiff inside. I wish I could tell you more about how this produce got to market. I would frame it as part of a larger commentary on the political, technological, economic, and social constraints on small farmers throughout Ghana, but I have no idea where this food came from.
And I couldn’t have asked it properly even if the question had popped into my mind. Because I haven’t learned Twi. Now we can take a look at the people in the photo. You’ll notice that the woman selling okro looks a bit upset and me a bit pensive. I had asked a Ghanaian friend to take some photos of the Madina market because people don’t particularly enjoy being filmed by foreigners as if they were part of the scenery. He suggested a picture of me, which I rightly suspected wouldn’t end well. For me this is an image of frustration. She’s frustrated because the picture is coming without her permission. I’m frustrated that I haven’t become enough of an “insider” during my time here to make this situation anything but extremely uncomfortable.
Despite my best intentions, I haven’t learned the most common language. I have a pile of well-rehearsed and very reasonable excuses for this omission, but at the end of the day, I can’t expect to walk into Madina market deaf and dumb and not experience some cultural alienation. But that’s not right. I was supposed to be the good foreigner. More on this after we consider the second picture.
This is me pounding fufu (here, cassava and plantain, though it could include yam, pounded into dough and eaten with soup). I’ve included a picture of my friend pounding so you can get a clearer idea. Now I’m sure you’re struck by my focus, hand-speed, raw strength, etc. all on display here, but I ask you to look beyond those extremely striking features (you can return to admiring them in a moment) and take note of the surroundings. I’m in the kitchen of my friend’s sister, and I’m being assisted by another friend (the young woman at right). The young woman mostly obscured does domestic work. In the market, I was an intruder. Here, I am a guest.
My fufu was awesome, by the way, mostly because I did almost none of the work involved. I do believe, however, that the few strokes which I delivered were decisive in the preparation.
I’m offering these two photos for contrast because they depict the opposite of what I expected coming into this experience. 10 months ago I would’ve thought I’d have a picture of me skillfully negotiating the anonymous market space and being more uncomfortable trying to observe decorum as a guest in someone’s home. In other words, I thought I would be the half-Ghanaian dialoguing and debating in Twi as I mingled with the people in out-of-the-way places never frequented by the culturally uninitiated. And I didn’t really stop to think that I might make friends along the way. Actual people who have enriched my life not because they represent some abstract slice of Ghana, some moral I can condense and distill for this blog or footnote in a term paper, but because they offer companionship and ask only for as much in return. So yes, in the second photo, I’m doing something “Ghanaian,” but if you look closer you can see that I’m really just making lunch with some friends. I will leave here regretting that I don’t speak Twi (or Ga, Ewe, Fanti, Dagbani…), but I won’t have any regrets about the relationships that I take back with me.
Look closely enough at these two pictures and you can get a sense of where that misguided project has taken me. The first was taken in Madina market, a few minutes up the road from the university. Before I explain my grimace, a few general comments. Maybe you’ve never been to an open-air market like this. They’re not as common in the States. Such a dizzying mash of smells and noises and cash and people pump through the veins of this place so that sterile words like “economy” and “commerce” don’t come close to untying this knot of power, culture, struggle, work, life. Which makes the prospect of going back to Wal-Mart that much more depressing.
You might notice that aside from my big red self, everyone else in the place is a woman. The market is a woman’s space. Ghanaian women are legendary for their trading prowess, and “market queens” have amassed a great deal of wealth and influence for themselves. The liberalization of Ghana’s economy starting in the 1980s resulted in a contraction of formal sector employment (like factory jobs) so that more and more Ghanaians – men and women – earn their living in the “informal economy,” a phrase referring to untaxed and unregulated exchanges . (For trivia buffs, the term “informal economy” was coined by a guy doing research in Accra’s Nima market in the 60s and/or 70s.)
You might also notice what’s being sold. The green pods in the foreground are okro, a vegetable with a lot of seeds, which is why it’s used in some ceremonies to symbolize fertility. For practical purposes, it makes your soup slimy which can be a good thing, believe it or not. Behind the okro there’s what looks to be yellow tomatoes. They’re called garden eggs. I thought that they were, in fact, yellow tomatoes until a friend used them in a stew, and I found out that they’re actually stiff inside. I wish I could tell you more about how this produce got to market. I would frame it as part of a larger commentary on the political, technological, economic, and social constraints on small farmers throughout Ghana, but I have no idea where this food came from.
And I couldn’t have asked it properly even if the question had popped into my mind. Because I haven’t learned Twi. Now we can take a look at the people in the photo. You’ll notice that the woman selling okro looks a bit upset and me a bit pensive. I had asked a Ghanaian friend to take some photos of the Madina market because people don’t particularly enjoy being filmed by foreigners as if they were part of the scenery. He suggested a picture of me, which I rightly suspected wouldn’t end well. For me this is an image of frustration. She’s frustrated because the picture is coming without her permission. I’m frustrated that I haven’t become enough of an “insider” during my time here to make this situation anything but extremely uncomfortable.
Despite my best intentions, I haven’t learned the most common language. I have a pile of well-rehearsed and very reasonable excuses for this omission, but at the end of the day, I can’t expect to walk into Madina market deaf and dumb and not experience some cultural alienation. But that’s not right. I was supposed to be the good foreigner. More on this after we consider the second picture.
This is me pounding fufu (here, cassava and plantain, though it could include yam, pounded into dough and eaten with soup). I’ve included a picture of my friend pounding so you can get a clearer idea. Now I’m sure you’re struck by my focus, hand-speed, raw strength, etc. all on display here, but I ask you to look beyond those extremely striking features (you can return to admiring them in a moment) and take note of the surroundings. I’m in the kitchen of my friend’s sister, and I’m being assisted by another friend (the young woman at right). The young woman mostly obscured does domestic work. In the market, I was an intruder. Here, I am a guest.
My fufu was awesome, by the way, mostly because I did almost none of the work involved. I do believe, however, that the few strokes which I delivered were decisive in the preparation.
I’m offering these two photos for contrast because they depict the opposite of what I expected coming into this experience. 10 months ago I would’ve thought I’d have a picture of me skillfully negotiating the anonymous market space and being more uncomfortable trying to observe decorum as a guest in someone’s home. In other words, I thought I would be the half-Ghanaian dialoguing and debating in Twi as I mingled with the people in out-of-the-way places never frequented by the culturally uninitiated. And I didn’t really stop to think that I might make friends along the way. Actual people who have enriched my life not because they represent some abstract slice of Ghana, some moral I can condense and distill for this blog or footnote in a term paper, but because they offer companionship and ask only for as much in return. So yes, in the second photo, I’m doing something “Ghanaian,” but if you look closer you can see that I’m really just making lunch with some friends. I will leave here regretting that I don’t speak Twi (or Ga, Ewe, Fanti, Dagbani…), but I won’t have any regrets about the relationships that I take back with me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
