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Growing Up In Ghana
By Oforiwa
As I reflect on growing up in Ghana, I am struck
anew at how vastly different it is from growing up
in the USA. My two girls’ current experiences are
immensely different from mine. Life was simple,
unburdened by the constraints of time and
technology.
Ghana is a rectangular shaped country located on the
West coast of Africa between Ivory Coast and Togo.
Its south boundary is the Atlantic Ocean’s Gulf of
Guinea. Ghana’s landscape is varied: dry savannah
grassland in the north, a middle belt of heavy
verdant forest and a coastal zone of beautiful
rolling grasslands.
My parents had five children. (Five children were
considered average family size during that time.
Families were categorized as large if the parents
had eight or more children). My father was trained
as a landscape designer. This was an unusual
profession for a Ghanaian; A well-tended garden was
generally considered an unaffordable luxury in Ghana
during this period. My father was trained in the UK
and took immense pride in letting his clients know
about his European background. (This provided him
with the needed leverage to price his skills higher
than his competitor).
His educational accomplishments were also
prominently displayed on his unadorned business
cards. My father was a curator at the University of
Ghana Legon’s Botanical Gardens; he was also in
charge of the university’s well-manicured and
expansive grounds. My mother was a seamstress and
was also trained in the UK. A weather beaten
advertisement board located a few yards from our
house proudly announced this seemingly privileged
background information.
We lived in a bungalow in a residential area. This
was an annex of the University of Ghana’s Legon
immense complex. Some of the houses there were built
of cement blocks, while others were constructed out
of slate. These were simple, utilitarian egg white
structures built in the sixties. Each house had huge
grounds surrounded by mature hedges with no gates.
We had a beautiful garden in front of the house. The
flower varieties were hibiscus, bougainvilleas,
roses and canna lilies.
Since Ghana is located in a tropical zone. The
flowers continually bloomed, filling our garden with
vibrant colors and wonderful fragrances. Even as a
child, I was fascinated by the varied hues and
colors. My father had a section of the garden
devoted to a spectacular selection of potted roses.
These were carefully tended, and they flourished
under his care.
The roses were an impressive collection. These roses
were my father’s pride and joy. Occasionally, free
ranging pesky goats from the underprivileged section
of the area would wander in and sample his prized
roses. This always earned my father ire and disgust.
It was my brothers’ responsibility to head off these
bold goats by hurling stones and sticks at them. The
goal was to scare them away and not to maim them.
Normally, these goats are very responsive and they
will go charging out of the unpaved driveway,
heading for home after a day of wrecking havoc in
the neighborhood.
We had two giant gum trees and two mango trees on
our compound. The two huge, heavily scared gum trees
were the bane of my existence: as part of my morning
chores, my responsibility was to sweep directly
underneath these giant trees. On most mornings,
sweeping with a short, dried palm broom was an easy
chore. However, it became an arduous job when the
leaves of these trees gum trees turn saffron yellow
with the onset of the Harmattan season, and these
trees gradually lost all their leaves. On the other
hand, I have very fond memories associated with the
mango trees. I climbed the bigger mango tree
regularly when mangoes were in season. A favorite
pastime was lounging in the tree and eating sweet,
juicy, ripe mangoes. My mother always warned me
about falling off that tree. Fortunately, that never
happened. I became less enthusiastic about climbing
the tree when my brother told me he encountered a
vicious looking snake during his last climb.
Growing up we never expected our parents to buy us
gifts on our birthdays, Christmas, or any other
holiday. Nor did we expect lavish birthdays parties
to be thrown on our behalf. We were quite satisfied
when our birthdays were acknowledged with sincere
words of well wishes, and carefully prepared
favorite dishes. Christmas and other religious
holidays were celebrated purely for their religious
significance. It was also seen as an opportunity for
family and friends to get together. Occasionally, we
received unwrapped toys during Christmas. This
always came as a wonderful surprise and we were very
appreciative. The few toys that we had were
cherished.
Most of our playtime occurred outside. In fact, the
whole neighborhood was our playground. We only came
back home when the skies were heavy with dusk. Since
we did not have 24 hour cable or high tech
electronic toys, we were creative and used resources
around us to play. My friends and I made our own rag
dolls from old fabrics and cast off wigs; sewed
dresses for these dolls using scrapes of cloth from
my mother’s work area. My friends and I had hours of
fun just playing with these roughly sewn, ugly
dolls.
Market day for our household was on Saturdays. We
took turns accompanying my mother to the market. It
was one of the exciting events of the week for me.
Transportation to the market was either by car --my
father dropping us off, or my mother driving when
she had her battered tea green VW--or using public
transport.
With public transportation, we either used trotro, a
minivan that characteristically tends to tightly
pack people in its limited space like sardines, or
the regular big buses that ply between downtown and
the suburbs where we lived.
We normally set out in the cool of the morning as
the huge African sun begins to peek in the distant
horizon. The birds are already out chirping and
chickens clacking as they scratched under the brush,
in their constant search for food. I had a shopping
basket, and a huge well-worn bag for our purchases.
The ride down town was always short and relaxing
since there were fewer people on the road, this
early. Coming back from the market though was a
different story. As we rumbled along, I spent time
reading sayings written on the trotro vans, mentally
smiling at some of the images they conjured. Some of
the ones that got my attention were: “God will
Provide,” “The Future is Unknown,” or “Charity
Begins at Home”. My mom chatted easily with other
women, as the bus made its ponderous journey to
Accra, the nation’s capital. It stopped many times
to picking up people at designated bus-stops.
We got to Makola an hour later, a sprawling complex
of tiny shops and open-air markets. A few sellers
were still unloading their wares and others were
having breakfast or just chatting with neighbors.
Most of the traders were ready to begin their day of
selling and hoped for good luck to speed the
process.
As we hurried passed these sellers, most of them
called out to us trying to entice us with their
exotic wares. One of the things that stood out in my
reflections was my mother’s incredible ability to
bargain. She had this skill developed into a fine
art that almost always ended with success.
My mom will first ask the price of the bag of rice.
The trader would say it is 4000 cedis (about $4). My
mom’s practiced response was to gasp in astonishment
and say it is incredibly expensive. The seller would
offer the information that there has been reduction
in imports or prices of petrol has gone up hence the
high price. My mother would make an offer of about
half of the asking price.
It is now trader’s turn to be theatrical. She will
tell my mother the price she proposed is even less
that what she has paid for it, therefore, she will
be selling the item at a loss. My mom’s answer would
be to inform the seller that her plan was to buy
four bags. She has 8000 cedis in cash ready. Paying
16000 cedis for the 4 bags was beyond her limited
budget. The trader would advice my mother to take
the four bags at 12000 cedis. My mother would
counter that by saying she is prepared to pay just
10,000 cedis, that was her final offer. After a few
minutes they would agree on 2500 cedis per bag. This
verbal exchange is always well choreographed between
skilled players. The interaction happens at every
purchase and most Ghanaians take sheer delight in
the verbal battle of wits.
As the day progressed the noise level increased. The
air is filled with wonderful aroma of cooked foods.
Occasionally, nauseous odor wafted in from a
stagnant trash filled open gutter. Very soon the
odious smell is overwhelmed by the aromatic smells
of curried chicken stew. Our basket filled with
needed groceries, we head slowly to the bus-stop.
I attended a private school, which was part of the
University of Ghana, Legon system. Blue and
white-checkered school uniforms were the required
attire. Our feet were encased in Mary Jane shoes or
sandals. Boys wore white shirts, khaki shorts,
sneakers or sandals. Most of the children in the
neighborhood walked together, unaccompanied by
adults, to catch the school bus which stopped about
a mile away. The drive to school took about 10
minutes.
School always started with an assembly of students
in the spacious courtyard. The morning ritual began
with a prayer, a Christian hymn like “Onward
Christian Soldiers” which we sang enthusiastically.
The session ended with school announcements by the
headmaster. The school building was erected during
the colonial era. It was constructed out of cement
blocks with cinnamon colored clay tile roofs. The
purpose of the school was to educate children of
university professors and the university staff.
Discipline was a strong requirement. The teachers
demanded and expected the best behavior from all
pupils. Misbehavior had consequences: The
punishments ranged from a mild rebuke to spanking.
Most parents felt the punishments administered by
the schools were appropriate so they did not
interfere in the process.
Occasionally, tales of parents showing up at schools
to voice their displeasure at a mode of punishments,
were regaled to us by other students. However, that
was rare. Teachers were formally and respectfully
addressed. Students were required to greet a teacher
courteously when we encountered them in the
hallways. Parents were not encouraged to volunteer,
nor were they required to participate in the
everyday class activities. The teachers had absolute
control.
I have vague recollections of kindergarten being
filled with chanting of ABCs, and 1,2,3’s, play
dough activities, outside play, and naps. The lower
primary classes were filled with more academic
instructions. Some of the moments that stand out
were, reading to my teacher and struggling with some
of the words in a Dick and Jane book; scribbling
with chalk on miniature well-used black boards:
playing “catch” or tag, during “break time” or
recess; listening to wonderful Ananse stories.
University Primary School had a culture of reading
that I find terribly lacking in the schools that I
come across in the U.S. I saw a fraction of the zeal
for reading during the era of Harry Potter books.
This unfortunately was not sustained. In the lower
grades, I loved Enid Blyton books. We had an
informal book club just talking about Enid Blyton
books.
Enid Blyton was an English writer who wrote close to
800 books. She was a masterful storyteller who could
weave stories with such skill that it completely
engaged children’s imagination.
Most children had very few toys and no access to
electronic toys, so love of reading was a natural
development. Very few children had access to Enid
Blyton books since they tended to be expensive. The
few who had access either traveled to England during
the summer, or had relatives living abroad who sent
them these books. This small group of children,
about 15% of the student population, unselfishly
shared books with the rest of us. I could not wait
to get home to spend hours reading an Enid Blyton
book. This was a well remembered and an enjoyable
past time. Pupils in the older classes tended to
read Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys.
Self-respect, kindness and courtesy to others; the
love of reading and learning; a strong work ethnic
were essential ingredients in my Ghanaian
upbringing. These are the values I try to encourage
in my own children.
Oforowa Ballard
Washington, September 06, 2013
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