In Loving Memory

My first trip to Ghana I decided, after seeing the churches built on top of the slave holding chambers at the castles in the Cape Coast, that I couldn’t be a Christian. This was an extreme response to what I now see as a horrible use of religion as a mask for inhumanity. I vowed never to take part in something that was used so maliciously to rip apart my people, to weaken them into submission and affectively brainwash them into colonial puppets. While the scars of colonialism are visible in Ghana and in the States, I have grown out of my overarching contempt for Eurocentric religion.

On the morning of June 25^th I went to church. The service was Presbyterian and held completely in Ga,  but felt like a weekly service at Victory AME or Hillside Baptist (two churches in Atlanta I’ve been to). We were there for a Thanksgiving Service in honor of Elder Mrs. Gertrude Boi-Doku. Since she was Jessye’s host mother, we were treated as family. We sat awkwardly in blue chairs at the front of the church. I watched women parade in, each one wearing some variation of their Sunday Best. One woman in an orange floor length skirt and blouse wore a gold headwrap that rivaled any church hat I have ever seen.

As the service started, a church official led the choir in carrying the bible and the church pennant. We weren’t given a program so I relied on my church memories for some clues of what would happen next. There was a call to prayer, then the invocation(?), then there was singing. The songs were always my favorite part of church ( that, and hording communion crackers). As the songs picked up the congregation danced and smiled and sang along. Some read from hymnals, others knew the words by heart. Soon a woman and a man took to opposite sides of the stage and started the sermon. They spoke with so much passion that even though their words were foreign, I could feel their testimony and I received the lesson. Their alternating voices gave room for different perspective and supported the overarching theme. I wondered how they had prepared for this “team teaching”. There was barely any overlap and little to no silence. The words just fit together in perfect harmony. There were times I felt myself laughing with the rest of the congregation as if I had understood the joke or giving off non-verbal cues of understanding  (head nods, deep grunts, and the like) almost on cue with the rest of the group. I was present at the service in ways that I haven’t been present in a while. I was spiritually connected to a whole and lead on a journey through scripture by studied preachers. Simply put, it felt heavenly. Ritual speech transcends language barriers.

When it was time for the offering, a new group of singers (there were four “choir” groups present) got up and started singing a fast pace song that sent a jolt of energy through the crowd. We stood and danced and when it was our turn, we awkwardly circled the offering pot and because I was ill prepared and only had 10s in my wallet, all I gave was love in the form of an empty fist dipped into the pot. 2 offerings later I was less concerned with the imaginary donations I was giving and more captivated with the singing and dancing of the congregation. The women, in their beautifully tailored African garments, were moving in the spirit and it was beautiful. My little side stepped failed in comparison to their mother land shuffles and instinctively choreographed waist and arm movements. After 4 hours of singing, dancing, sermon, announcements, and tribute to a retired official, the service ended and we stood outside in a line of Family & Americaness shaking hands with the first 50 people who exited the church before finally leaving to return home.

The courtyard of the school we are living in was filled with red and white chairs. Family and friends would gather here to celebrate the one year anniversary of Eld. Mrs. Boi-Doku’s death. I got my camera and took a few photos (mostly of the choir hired to perform and the Gye Nyame imprints on the chairs). There was soooo much food! After taking a phone call I returned to the table and the girls and I prepared to go inside. The elders were gathered in the living room and we had to pay our respects, by shakings hands with each one. One Aunty (who had earlier kicked us out of the living room because “the show today was outside”) Shook hands with all the girls and when she got to me she announced that she hadn’t met me. I told her my name was Ra and that I was one of the Volunteer’s with Jessye. She was shocked. Apparently she assumed I was someone’s Ghanian girlfriend (I would later find out from Nii that he’d been asked several times if I was his American wife). When I told her I was in fact American and in school with Jessye and the rest of the girls, she laughed at the misunderstanding. When I told her I was from Atlanta she tried to get me to marry her son.

The day was full (& so was my stomach). The weekend left me reeling in the spirit. I started writing this post that night but it has taken me almost a week to finish. A week. I have only been in Ghana for a week and it feels like I’ve done so much. Looking forward to what the next 6 weeks bring me.