CHAPTER 5
The Ghanaian city of Takoradi is officially known as the twin city Sekondi- Takoradi, and is located in the Western Region of Ghana. Oral traditional history tells of the first settlers being Fantis who originally came from Kromantsin, near Saltpond. They initially arrived first at Adjua, which is 20 km west of the present city of Takoradi to carry out their fishing business but found that the strong tides made their settlements unsafe. They therefore decided to resettle and moved to Amanful and the area around the Ayire estuary as well as the present Takoradi Harbour area.
Much of the history of Ghana’s West Coast is about heroes, conquerors and conquests. European traders arrived in the 15th century and the area that covers the present day Takoradi metropolis and the entire southeastern part of the Western Region was a scene of immense trade between the Europeans and the settlers. The Portuguese prince, Henry the Navigator, had provided the money and resources to allow the Portuguese to land on Ghana’s shores in the 15th century. Between the 16th and 18th century, the Portuguese, Dutch, Swedes, British and Brandenburg-Prussians scrambled for control of the trade in gold, ivory, spices and slaves. Most prominent along the coast of the Western Region therefore, are European vestiges from the 16th to 18th century occupation including six European-built forts: San Antonio in 1515, Batenstein in 1656, Gross Frederichsburg in 1683, Dorothea in 1687 and now in ruins, Metal Cross in 1692 and Apollonia in 1768. During the second half of the 17th century there was an increase in the slave trade, especially in areas such as Elmina and Cape Coast. In Takoradi however, there was an increase in the trade of gold. The Dutch traders settled at Sekondi with the consent of the local chief around the year 1640 and at Butre in 1644, where they built Fort Orange. By 1872, nearly all Dutch possessions had been sold to the British. Frederick William, King of Prussia made attempts to establish trade and to colonize the area. He built a castle called Taccarary and this name later became known as Takoradi by the local peoples.
At the beginning of the 20th century a wharf was built at Sekondi to mark a significant industrial and commercial leap. The building of the wharf attracted a lot of foreigners to Sekondi and it gradually became known as European Town. To this day, many families in European town can trace their descendants back to European traders and they take pride in this. Around that same period, the railway was constructed to link Sekondi with the gold mines at Tarkwa and Obuasi as well as the bustling commercial city of Kumasi, beginning a period of marked development in Sekondi. Not to be outdone, a new and modern Harbour was built at Takoradi in 1927 and this resulted in a loss of commercial activity for Sekondi. Most telling was the removal of the main shopping center from Sekondi to Takoradi and a rapid period of urbanization began in Takoradi as new houses were built. Since all this activity took place several years before Independence, it was not unusual at all that European administrators settled at such attractive areas as the Beach Road and Windy Ridge neighbourhoods; infact this was the norm.
Over the years, with the construction of the railway line connecting Takoradi to the hinterland, all commercial activities at Sekondi gradually ceased leaving certain areas looking like ghost towns. The Ghana government in 1969 issued what they called “The Aliens Compliance Order of 1969’ requiring all foreign traders to leave the country. Those left behind were the fisherman since the coastal location made it easier to eek a living. It was now very obvious that Takoradi had surpassed its neighbour Sekondi in commercial and economic importance and in 1956, the authorities voted to include it in the Town Council as the twin-city of Sekondi-Takoradi.
KM Gas, an upstart Canadian company first came to Ghana in 1999, making some initial contact with the ruling National Democratic Congress. Nothing much happened in those meetings except to alert the Canadians to the hostility that awaited them if they wanted to do business with that government. Unusual on the African continent, is the concept of democratically elected leaders who gracefully exit when their mandatory maximum of 8 years comes up. Rawlings, a military leader who had forcefully taken over the reigns of government in the late seventies, surprised everyone by handing over peacefully to the National Patriotic Party when his party, with a new leader, lost the election. KM Gas visited Ghana again and this time, found a willing ear in FlagStaff House - at the time, the offices of the Government of Ghana. Slowly, they started working through the process of getting permits, hiring consultants and setting up feasibility studies. By 2008, they were firmly established in the city of Takoradi with a large office space just off Market Circle in the center of the city. Three stories high with pink stucco, the building stood out among the grey and dark brown bricks around the circle. Everyone in Takoradi knew KM Gas and it was not unusual to find children waiting outside their offices to murmur greetings to visiting executives or those semi-permanently stationed there. Oftentimes, these visitors would ask the children why they were not in school.
“We have to help our parents sell things in the market”, they’d reply without an ounce of regret in their voices.
“Well, when you are done, do you get to swim in the ocean?”
The children would laugh at these white men who seemed to love the water so much. For them, the sea would always be there – what was the point of spending all the time at the beach? This is because children in Takoradi are never taught to swim, they just know how to swim and along with this recreational sport – its difficult for Ghanaians to see this as anything but recreational – coconut tree climbing is also popular. Dotted along the coastline, as if planned, are huge coconut trees that stand majestically at attention, swaying and waving their branches in the wind. One can almost hear them whisper words of beckoning if one were to stop and listen.
It was to this metropolis, bustling with life, history and much poverty that Jason Arthur- Beck had been posted and on this typical sunny morning with temperatures hitting thirty-five degrees Celsius, Jason walked gingerly up the flight of stairs leading to the offices of KM Gas. With the humidity, Takoradi felt easily like it was forty-five degrees. He was glad to be wearing a short-sleeved shirt and light khaki’s; how the locals endured this heat boggled his mind. Only one month here and he was sure he’d lost more weight just by being alive in this sweltering heat than he’d have lost in Canada on the treadmill for a week!
“Hello Sir,” murmured the caretaker of the three-story building.
‘Good morning Kwame – how are you?”
“Please I am very fine thank you.”
Since Jason arrived in Ghana just last month, he couldn’t get over the ultra-polite attitude of the typical Ghanaian. Every sentence seemed to be preceded by ‘please’ and he was greeted at every turn. He could almost bet that Kwame had swept through the meager office space Jason had, dusting every crevice and making sure there was a pot of Earl Grey Tea on his table. He could almost get used to this – the servants, the politeness, the respect – even if it was bought…
“Please Sir, some man come look for you – he say he be your old friend,” Kwame continued in Pidgin English - the local English variation that was mostly spoken by those with little schooling or those with so much schooling that speaking pidgin English became oddly cool.
That was descriptive, Jason thought. Every Ghanaian he’d met would call him his friend so that definitely made it difficult to narrow this friend down. He wondered if he should continue to engage Kwame in conversation since he was beginning to get used to this Pidgin English.
“Thank you – I will be in my office trying to get some work done before leaving for the Oil Rig so should anyone come by, please let them know I am busy. I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“Yes Sir!”
Kwame saluted and walked off to resume his position in front of the gate. He was an average sized man who had obviously seen better days. His hair was partially grey and yet his limbs were very strong. Before getting this job with KM Gas, he had labored with several other men on the construction sites that had sprung up around Takoradi when the oil find was announced at the tu
rn of the millennium. They worked for minimum pay but compared to the fishing industry, this was far more reliable and for Christmas of 2003, for the first time in an incredibly long time – actually since 1962 - Kwame and his family had had chicken for the Christmas meal. He wasn’t about to complain. Out in the courtyard, he looked up to see Jason opening the louvers to let in some fresh air through the mosquito netting lining his window.
“ These white people paa…how hot is it kraa?” he murmured softly to himself while smiling.
Jason couldn’t believe how hot it still felt in his office despite the air conditioner blasting off at maximum. He checked his desk, seemingly looking for a particular letter. After three minutes or so of shuffling, he gave up, sat on his chair and reached for his hot cup of tea. Why he was drinking hot tea in this sweltering heat, he had no idea. All he knew was that for the past month, he had tried so hard to get used to his new environment and any chance he got to get a taste of Canada, he grabbed it with both hands.
He cupped his mug, staring straight ahead towards the door. KM Gas was based in Calgary, drilling oil in the area unpopularly or popularly – depending on your perspective – referred to as the oil sands in Northern Alberta. Although he’d been born in Ontario, his degree in Engineering from Queens University in Kingston assured him of numerous opportunities, in Canada and worldwide. After graduation, he had worked with Stanrick Gold in Toronto, traveling to some of their sites in Elko, Nevada and Veladero in Argentina and countless other sites all over the world. He had enjoyed the travel, not the work and when the trips extended for more than two weeks, he had missed hockey, hot dog stands and the interminable discussion of whether Quebec would cease to be part of Canada or not. He had avidly watched the 2010 Winter Olympic Hockey Finals between Canada and the USA from his hotel room in Porgera, Papua New Guinea. Alone and bored in a mine site that was far removed from the capital of Port Moresby, Jason wondered what had brought him so far away to Papua New Guinea, way out in the South Pacific and millions of miles away from anyone; his student loan, that was what. Queens Engineering was not cheap and since he’d been a lazy oaf all through university, he had maxed out on his student loan from The Bay Bank, every year of his four years in University. This amounted to approximately sixty thousand dollars that had to be paid back at an astonishing interest rate of eleven percent. This was his sixth year out of school and he had barely paid half of it. Of course he could have paid it off earlier if he could curb his tastes and desires – in women, cars, alcohol and stamps. The latter was a secret hobby no one but his brother Philip knew about. Currently, he had in his collection, a stamp from 1950, printed by the South African apartheid government of Daniel Malan just after the Population Registration Act was legislated in 1950. Much as it disgusted him each time he looked at the picture of a white male holding a cross in one hand and a whip in another, standing on a map of South Africa, he hoped that several years from now, people would be shocked that such thinking was allowed to run unchecked for at least two generations.
Brrrrrr!
The ringing phone interrupted his reverie. He reached into his shirt pocket to dig out his iphone.
“Hello, Jason Arthur-Beck here.”
“Jason my friend, how are you?”
Had to be a Ghanaian – he was being referred to as ‘friend’. Well…the accent too.
“I’m very well – may I ask who is speaking?”
“It’s your friend John Quayson from the district surveyors office”
“Oh Mr. Quayson, forgive me – it’s a very hot day!”
“Yes I know, I know, especially for you white people. I have been waiting to hear back from you regarding the site plans for the proposed building. Do you have it?”
Jason paused, not quite sure how to continue. Quayson wanted to be bribed. Jason didn’t have any moral qualms about the bribe part, he just didn’t want Quayson to get money that easily, without doing anything but sit at his colonial era desk yelling at his subordinates. He’d seen some of the poverty around him and wished he could avoid paying bribes and instead use the money to develop the communities in which KM.
‘Ah yes,” he continued. “I am still waiting to hear from my boss – he has returned to Calgary for an important meeting and will not be back for a couple of weeks.”
He scratched his forehead nervously. Just buying time, that’s what he was doing.
“Oh okay, we are here to do your bidding so just let us know when you are ready okay?”
Jason put the phone down and got down to clear some of the paper on his desk. He had to be at the Military Airbase before 2 PM so there was no time for dilly-dallying.
By midday, he was sufficiently pleased with his work and bundled a wad of papers into his briefcase. He skipped down the stairs – 2 at a time – like a bridegroom late for his wedding - and jumped into his Honda Civic. He zipped through the traffic arriving at the main roundabout that would lead in different directions to the Beach Road and the former Princess Theater, Windy Ridge and Accra. He made his way to Apremudo where the military base was located and after a few quick questions to the soldiers of the 2nd battalion, he was led to the helicopter that would take him to the Freedom Oil Rig.
The trip took less than an hour and Jason found it exhilarating. The noise level was excruciating so he had large ear muffs but he was fascinated by the scenery beneath him; vegetation that seemed to stretch for miles in one direction, blue, sparkling ocean that did stretch for miles and a very crowded city on the verge of exploding – population wise - in the aftermath of this oil find. Beside him in the helicopter, apart from the pilot was a Blow-out Specialist who was going to replace the one already on the rig who had come down with a serious flu. It was inconvenient to chat in the copter so neither man tried.
They landed on the rig platform and handed the earmuffs back to the pilot. Holding their bags, they made their way, on a ladder, to a lower deck. Chris, the Blow-Out Specialist was American, from Louisiana and he regaled Jason with stories about rig life as they made their way together to the bunkrooms; this was his third rig job after stints in Alaska and in the Gulf of Mexico. Jason’s room was not much bigger than his childhood room and since he was only going to be there for two nights, he stopped his mind from making unfair comparisons. He was here to see the work going on at this rig and bring that information to bear on KM’s plans for their own rig.
By dinner time, he knew where the recreation room was, had seen the distillers for turning salt water into water that could be used for everything but drinking – unless in an emergency – and had been fascinated by the map of the sea floor that the Offshore Installation Manager, a burly man called Jack had shown him. Jack was in the group of workers known as essential personnel; these were the men who would be last to leave the rig in case of an emergency. His job was to make the essential decisions regarding the operation of the platform and so he was the ultimate authority during his shift. The offshore operations engineer, a well-built Latino man from Arizona was the Offshore operations engineer and he walked Jason through the process of drilling, showing him the pipes that lead from the rig into the sea bed and explaining the drilling mechanism that was controlled by state of the art computers in the control room. It was Chris the Blow Out Specialist’s job to ensure that the oil didn’t come out too fast; this was obviously critical and in light of all the previous disasters – especially in recent memory – Jason was relieved that Chris knew what his job entailed.
The following morning, Jason woke early to wait on the platform as the crew boat brought some workers in from ashore. The air hugger swung precariously at the side of the rig but the men didn’t seem to be afraid. Slowly, one by one, they jumped out of the basket and proceeded to their various workstations. A bemused Jason turned to Jack to explain something he thought was unusual.’
“You have Chinese workers?
“Yes, a few. Why do you ask?”
“Well, isn’t this an American operation?” Jason queried.
br /> “Yes, I guess so but you’re not American either, are you?”
They both laughed easily.
“I guess Freedom is a sort of International Oil Rig, sort of like the International Space Station. We are trying to collaborate with everyone in the spirit of glasnost…”
“So where are the Russians then?”
“They’re coming bruv…they’re coming. Hey, get into your work clothes – we plan to get you dirty today before we release you back into the wild.”
The two men laughed raucously as Jack slapped Jason on the back and the two men proceeded down the ladder to the lower platform. A shrill siren blew as they walked through the double doors leading to the kitchen. Jason instinctively flinched and turned to Jack who with a wry smile, explained.
“That’s the last call for the boat leaving the rig. It won’t return for another two days so if someone needs to be on shore, this is the time to dive into it otherwise, adios amigos!”.
“How long is your shift then?”
“Maximum of three weeks but it’s okay…you get used to it after a while.”
“Do you have family…you know, back home in the States?”
“Spanish Inquisition? Yes, I do – well sort of – a girlfriend. She’s flying to Ghana at the end of the month and we plan to spend some time together for a week or so. Its all good…”
Jason nodded and smiled. It was definitely a tough job on this rig – the storms, the feeling of dangling in the middle of the ocean, the backbreaking and mind taxing work. There had to be a payoff – a large one, to make this worthwhile. For the umpteenth time since taking up this new position, Jason was reminded that this was the reason why oil was called black gold.
It was that precious.
Jason shoved the stack of papers behind the picture of the Maple Leaf in its cheap Walmart Store frame. Just three days away and paper had piled on his desk like another layer. He had come back exhausted but so enlightened, stayed up all night writing up his report and then early in the morning, had felt compelled to start another one on the environmental impacts of oil drilling. By the time he reached the office, his windows were already flung open and the door was open. Suspicious because he had not sent advance notice to Kwame, he walked carefully into the room, wary and yet feeling stupid for feeling wary. Who would want to do him harm anyway?
He had nothing to fear – there was no one in the office except for a friendly wall gecko that kept bobbing its head up and down. Feeling like he’d done enough work for the day already – he’d woke up at 2 am - , he picked up his handset and dialed a number.
“Hello?”
“Can I speak to Gerry?”
He took another sip of his still hot tea and stood up to look outside at the bustling Market Circle just two storeys below him.
“Hey bud.”
“Hey wassup?”
“Not much, just needing to crush some brews this weekend. You up for a trip westward?”
“Yah, crushing brews anytime but westward where?”
“I hear there’s this place called Busua Akwaaba Beach about half an hour from Takoradi. It’ll take you just another hour and a half to get here from Elmina after the rush hour has died down and then we can take a leisurely ride to the resort. I seriously need a break from the heat and I hear there are some hot girls there.”
“African hot or like white man hot?”
“You mean big butts or no butts? I have no idea!”
The two men laughed loudly. Jason knew Gerry was into big butt hot – he’d been privy to some of the salacious gossip that was traveling round the expatriate community in and around the capital city of Accra as well as Takoradi. Gerry was Canadian and in Ghana on a CRIDA funded project, monitoring schooling for girls as the country tried desperately to reach the Millennium Development goals set forth by the UN General Assembly at the turn of the millennium. He’d been in Ghana for six years and did not look like he ever wanted to leave. He was in his mid-thirties, loving his job and all the perks that came with it, why on earth would he want to come back to Canada to shovel snow for almost four months of the year?
“I’ll bring the jeep and we can set off just after five – how does that sound?”
Jason spent the early part of the afternoon preparing for the late day meeting with Nana Katakyie Bosompra III, the chief of Takoradi Traditional Area. Today, they were going to discuss the acquisition of certain lands that KM Gas was going to use for a technical school to train local engineers and technicians. He quickly gathered his papers, stuffed them in his laptop bag in no particular order, grabbed his mini sombrero and sunglasses and proceeded to leave his office.
Rat-tat-tat. Someone was at the door.
“Yes come in,” he said impatiently. He didn’t want to be late although he knew there was no way the Ghanaian chief would be on time.
In walked four men in traditional cloth. They all looked serious, like someone had died. He smiled broadly at them but they didn’t return the sentiment.
“Mr. Arthur-Beck?” the man with the white Adinkra cloth said firmly. Adinkra was composed of symbols that had meaning and the wearing of said cloth indicated a thoughtful and elderly mind.
Jason nodded.
“Please have a seat,” the man said.
This was odd, Jason thought. You come into my office and ask me to take a seat? He sat down without a word since one of his training manuals had asked him to quietly assess situations before taking any action in a foreign country. Besides, these men did not look harmful; they just looked like they had a major bone to pick with them. He had no idea why, although…did he sleep with any of their daughters perhaps?
“It has come to our attention that you are planning to buy some land on behalf of a local NGO? With money from your company.”
Jason nodded.
“And you are about to go and see a Chief to expedite that process?”
This man spoke excellent English, Jason thought.
“Yes I am actually. I have a meeting in’ – he looked intentionally at his watch – ‘fifteen minutes at the Chief’s house.”
The man continued.
“And this chief, where does he reside?”
“Off the Beach Road.”
“Really?” the man asked sarcastically.
“Yes, really,” Jason mocked back. Where was the man going with this?
The man sighed deeply, adjusting the traditional cloth around his covered shoulder. The other was bare as was the norm for men wearing the traditional cloth.
“The Chief of the Takoradi traditional area does not live there.”
“Yes he does – I’ve passed by there myself and my contacts are sure of this.”
“Our chief is not Nana Katakyie Bosompra III. Obviously your contacts are not very good are they? If they were, they would have told you that there is no Nana Katakyie Bosompra III since there wasn’t a Bosompra I or Bosompra II so how could there be a third? The man masquerading as Nana Katakyie Bosompra III is really Dr. Kingsley Quainoo, a medical doctor from Atlanta who belongs to one line of the Takoradi Royal Family. Since returning to Ghana in 2007, he has gathered enough power hungry maniacs to his cause, claiming that he is the rightful owner of the stool lands in this traditional area. However, until the kingmakers and other elders in all the clans agree to his claim, it is null and void. So you see why you cannot go and see the chief? There is no chief.”
The blood drained out of Jason’s face causing the men some discomfort. They hadn’t planned on causing illness to the white man so why could he not stop his face from turning pasty white?
Jason was livid with rage. What the hell were they talking about? He stretched himself to a respectable pose and pretended to disbelieve them.
“I’m not sure if I get this. You are here to tell me that the man with whom I’m about to have a meeting to discuss the sale of land has no right to sell the land?”
“Exactly,” said man with the Adinkra cloth.
>
“And who the hell are you?” he said angrily.
At which point, the youngest looking of the four, also dressed in local cloth walked up to his desk and stared him down.
“Keep your foul language to yourself Mr. Beck. We are elders in the local council and part of the king making committee. It would be a good idea to apologize to Opanyin Brafour for that rude outburst.”
Jason struggled to maintain his composure. There was a part of him that wanted to continue with the foul language and tell them all to go to hell. Another part realized he was in a foreign country and needed to play their game…safely. He got up from his desk, raised his hands in mock give-up and apologized.
“Please forgive me for my outburst. I am obviously in shock at what you have to tell me”.
“We understand,” said Opanyin Brafour. What a nice man, Jason thought sarcastically.
“So, if this so-called Chief cannot sell the land to me, who can?” Jason asked, pretending to care deeply about their concerns.
“At the moment, no one, until the dispute has been settled.”
“And how long do you think this may take?” Jason asked.
“We can’t say but it’s into its third year so we should be wrapping up quite soon.”
“THIRD YEAR? WHAT THE HELL DOES THE PROCESS INVOLVE FOR IT TO TAKE SO LONG?”
There was a heavy silence in the room as Jason realized he’d put his foot in it again.
“Ok, ok. I know…I’m sorry…again. But this is incredibly frustrating. Listen…thanks for the tip but I do need to keep my appointment. I will definitely keep it in my mind.”
With that, he picked up his briefcase, stood at the door to let the elders out, locked it behind him and headed out towards his Honda Civic that Kwame the caretaker had shined to a hilt. He could see his face in the driver side window and it was not a pretty one.
He honked his way out of the partly covered garage, onto one of the main arteries out of market circle. The crowds seemed restless and with the sun at its highest, there were many sweaty faces along the road. As he crawled at a snails pace through the chaotic traffic, he realized his shirt was wet. He checked the AC and noticed it was on but the humidity was so high he felt a migraine coming on. He rolled his window down and called out to one of the street hawkers selling water. At that, four other street hawkers rushed to his car, begging him to buy their bagged water.
He resisted the temptation to give them each the equivalent of one dollar; the large basin of several water bags on their heads - at the price they were selling each bag - wouldn’t amount to more than one dollar. When he’d first arrived in Ghana and been overwhelmed by how little the sellers made, he’d always paid twice the price of anything he was quoted knowing full well that seeing a white man, the price was already hiked up anyway.
He leaned out of the window and paid the equivalent of five cents for the bag of cold water known locally as ‘pure’ water. He laughed on the realization that it was anything but pure! He tugged at the tip with his teeth and felt the lovely cool water kiss his throat with longing. He then squirted a few drops onto his face and this made the onlookers laugh; they wondered why the white man would waste the expensive ‘pure’ water on cooling his face. He smiled back at the pre-teen boy who had sold him the water and asked for two more bags of water and this was hurriedly given since the traffic was beginning to move along.
He made it to the Chief’s house but was late by fifteen minutes. A servant opened the ornate gate to admit Jason’s Honda into a beautifully landscaped compound with a two storey building and two strong greyhounds lurking, chained to the lower wall surrounding the porch. Jason got out of the car and waited to be told where to go. The houseboy beckoned with his hands and Jason followed him to a well-appointed living room decorated tastefully in African prints, carvings and traditional symbols. He sat gingerly on the edge of the leather sofa, looking warily around him.
The houseboy entered with a bottle of water and a clean glass. Without a word, he placed it on the side table and softly said to Jason:
‘Massa coming.”
Jason thanked him and waited as he took a quick glance around the room. Unlike most Ghanaian homes he’d visited – in Accra, Takoradi, Tema and a few towns on the Western coast, there was no noise in this house. He wondered who lived here and why there was no sound of fufu being pounded, maids being scolded or children running around chasing lizards. Intriguing.
Nana Bosompra III entered gracefully. He was of medium height, wearing a short-sleeved Hugo Boss shirt and Dockers pants. His face was clean-shaven and the few strands of hair still on his head were grey, giving him the look of wisdom and integrity. He smiled revealing sparkling white teeth as he proffered an outstretched hand to Jason. Jason promptly got up – Ghanaian manners he’d picked up – and clasped Nana’s hands firmly.
“Thank you Sir for seeing me. I apologize for my tardiness…I had some last minute business to take care of and the traffic was just a little bit crazy.”
The two men laughed knowingly
“And no doubt, you assumed I would be late eh – African time?”, Nana said in English that was more American than Ghanaian.
“No, no, no”, Jason lied, “Not at all.”
“No problem – take a seat. So tell me Jason – may I call you Jason?”
“Yes of course, Nana.”
“Then you must call me Kingsley.”
Jason was cool with that. He drained the rest of the bottle of water causing Kingsley to call out to his servant boy to deliver another bottle.
“Mumuni! Fa nsuo bra!”
Within thirty seconds, Mumuni had materialized in the living room with another bottle of cold water on a tray. Jason marveled at the efficiency of the process…if only he could get others to do things that fast, he could be out of here and back home in Toronto in no time!
“So how long have you been back in Ghana, Kingsley?”
Kingsley paused as if to calculate the tortuous years.
“Since 2007. Before that, I trained as a medical doctor but left medicine to work with the Ministry of Defense in Atlanta. My family has lived in this part of Ghana for as long as anyone can remember and when the opportunity presented itself to come and work on developing the area, I jumped at it.”
“Just like that?”
Kingsley laughed.
“Yeah, just like that…well, sort of. I’ve been coming to Ghana on and off since I left thirty years ago, preferring to raise my children in the US during those turbulent years of Rawling’s military dictatorship in the eighties. My wife is African-American so it wasn’t easy to just pack up and say ‘hey, we’re moving back to my country’ you know? As the children grew older – I have three of them – I started taking more and more extended trips back and with the more stable economy, it became easier to see myself participating in a credible endeavor. What about you?”
Jason smiled. Kingsley was a decent guy.
“I’ve had one of those ‘I can’t believe he’s so lucky’ kind of lives. Engineering at Queens University –
Kingsley raised his eyebrows in admiration.
“- a few stints with Stanrick Gold and Kline Gold in far flung places all over the world. Now I’m in Ghana doing God knows what – enjoying myself most of the time but frustrated at least half the time – “
“- I hear you!” Kingsley laughed a deep throaty chuckle and Jason joined in.
“KM has done very well here hasn’t it?” Kingsley continued. “The locals respect them and actually like them so I’m sure you will be able to accomplish whatever you came to do. Has KM decided what to do with the crude yet?”
“We’re still in talks actually. Typically, it should be produced into and sold from the FPSO ‘Osei Tutu’ which we purchased from Singapore’s Jurong Shipyard. We’re also in the process of investigating methods for flexible deepwater subsea architecture and that involves all facets of the industry – the design, engineering, component procurement, construction, i
nstallation – the list is endless!”
“But you seem to know what’s going on so that’s a good thing!”
“I guess so”, murmured Jason. “Only one thing bothers me…”
“And that is?”
“Well, not much talk is circulating about environmental concerns. We do have policy papers and such but you know how it is…it’s all on paper. Each time I broach it, even with local groups that purport to support environmental concerns, I get the cold shoulder”.
Kingsley stroked a non-existent beard.
“Well – do you have any one particular environmental concern? You see, for people here, their first concern is food to feed their families before they think about the environment. If they sense that it’s important to you, they will walk the walk and talk the talk…but do nothing meaningful. You’ve got to make it crucial for them to pursue action – hit them where it hurts, on the kitchen table or in their pockets”.
“Well to my knowledge, there is no well developed and comprehensive baseline data concerning ballast water – something that will have impact on the ground as we drill for oil. Current explorative activities while commercially exploitative make it difficult to assess impacts on biodiversity and livelihood. Ballast water comes with invasive species that can predate on native species and potentially eliminate complete portions of the indigenous food chain, causing economic and environmental damage. The salinity of the ballast water may not be friendly to the marine environment and its continuous discharge may impact negatively on the marine ecosystem”.
“But that is all environmental speak Jason. Tell me – what does the regular guy have to fear from this? Why should he care?”
“Well for one, fishing would be heavily affected. In the past, some species have been deleted, some invasive ones added and the whole balance of the ecosystem affected”.
Kingsley was smiling at the young man.
“You’re very bright Jason, very very bright. Fishing is critical to my region so I am likely to sit up and listen to you. But since I’m better educated than the typical fisherman, tell me, why should I care so much about ballast water since that is an issue concerning ships and we’ve had ships coming and leaving our shores for a very long time and haven’t once been ‘invaded’ by a non-human specie?”
“Well, Ghana has for decades been a net importer of goods which means ships have left Tema and Takoradi ports with more ballast water than goods for export. With the oil exploration in full gear, ships that leave Ghanaian shores are going to be carrying hydrocarbons as export, which would call for less ballast water on the way out. What I’m worried about is what comes back”.
“Imported goods?” Kingsley countered.
“Maybe. And maybe not. Studies in various parts of the world have shown us that when exploration occurs at the rate at which we’re anticipating in Ghana, the import export balance shifts in favour of net exportation. Ghana is likely to be receiving copious amounts of ballast water and that may damage the environment more than we’ve thought of”.
Kingsley was now all ears.
“So what would you suggest, Mr. Engineer-with-a-degree-from-Queens?”
Jason laughed.
“Perhaps in the absence of baseline data, a comprehensive FIA for oil exploration must be properly interrogated. We need to map out protected marine zones…or maybe that’s been done already?”
“I’m not sure but now that I’ve been alerted to it, I will certainly look into it. Is KM Gas sensitive to your concerns?”
“Yes and No. I’ve prepared a detailed management plan for ballast water and submitted it to the VP for Sustainable Development but have not heard anything back”
“Ah…Sustainable Development. Such a buzzword…tell me, have you had a break since you’ve been here?”
“Not really but when I leave here, I’m meeting up with a buddy of mine – Gerry Carruthers – and we’re heading towards the West to sample the night life and other delights”.
“Good for you Jason, good for you”.
Kingsley got up and slapped him on the back as he retrieved certain documents from a desk drawer on the side of the north-facing wall. Jason grew nervous. He walked over to the couch Jason was sitting on, sat beside him and spread a large sheet of paper that looked like a land site. On it were boxes sectioned out and labeled with numbers along with ‘Takoradi Traditional Area Stool Land’ written on it.
“Lets talk business now Jason. You want to purchase fifty plots of land off the beach road right?”
“Um…yes…is that available?”
“Yes it is but the price is quite high. It is after all close to the beach and that is considered prime property”
“And if you don’t mind me asking…you do have permission to sell these lands right?”
Kingsley looked up from his drawings and smiled at Jason.
“Of course I do, I’m the chief.”
Jason looked at the man, trying to ascertain the truth of the statement. Thinking back to every encounter he’d had with a chief in Ghana, it struck him as odd that this chief had no hangers on. He didn’t have an okyeame, the man who spoke for the chief - and he didn’t have anyone holding his hands up, as Jason had seen happen at festivals and durbars. Where were his people? Besides, Kingsly hadn’t asked for ‘amanie’, the often long-winded process of having a visitor recount what brought them to visit you followed by another response by the host of what was happening prior to the visitor arriving at their door. Often times, gifts would be exchanged at this point, thanks given on each side and then the actual business could begin.
“Forgive me for being so nosy but from what I’ve seen of chiefs and the whole pageantry thing, I would have expected to see some hangers on and lots of fluff”.
Kingsley smiled a knowing smile. Very softly, as if in pain, he continued.
“I know. And this is the reason why I’m facing so much opposition everywhere I turn. I have no doubt that if you haven’t received a visit from the ‘four wise men’, you will pretty soon. They want things done the old way – a lot of red tape, an inordinate amount of customary rites and just plain wasting of time. I’m not into that at all and have told them time and time again that the world has changed…we have to move on. Needless to say, I am seen as an American interloper…isn’t that funny? Because I speak with an American accent, I am no longer considered Ghanaian enough and therefore they do not want me to be chief. Since when was that a criterion for chieftaincy? I speak the local language Fanti, I can trace my roots to a time before the Europeans first landed on our shores, both my parents are still alive and support my claim to the Traditional stool…heck, I even went to school here!”
He paused in frustration.
“Listen Jason, it’s up to you what you want to do here. I’ve come back to make a difference to my community by sourcing out the best possible partnerships that will benefit the city. Manufacturing, construction, and education – these are industries I am eager to encourage and to support. They’ll bring jobs and face it, at the end of the day, everyone wants the opportunity to take care of themselves and their families. I find a warmth in tradition but when tradition gets overbearing and begins to overtake commonsense causing us to delay progress for the joy of doing things the way they were done five hundred years ago, I’m afraid that’s where I draw the line”!!!
Jason looked at the man and saw someone dedicated to bringing about change. He felt sorry for him because those ‘four wise men’ also looked dedicated… to keeping the status quo. Who was going to win in the end? Who should he align himself with? As these thoughts flew threw his mind, Nana Katakyie Bosompra III slowly folded his site plan neatly and placed it back in his desk drawer. Jason got up from the couch, still cradling his bottled water.
“Thank you so much for your time. I’m sorry I can’t make a decision right now but I will let you know by next Tuesday at the latest. How much was each plot?”
“Five thousand dollars”
“So $25,000
dollars for the land and approximately how much for getting the title and all the other supporting documents?”
“It’s all included in the $5000. That’s the beauty of transparency Jason. You calculate everything and give to the buyer instead of the piecemeal affair we’ve been used to which allows for some fluffing depending on the time of day the buyer approaches the seller or whether the seller feels like fufu and goat meat today or can only afford gari, no?”
Jason smiled in understanding at the clever comparison Kingsley had made. Having goat meat for lunch was a luxury but most lower class families could only afford the cheap cassava derivative called gari. He thanked Kingsley sincerely, clasping his hand in what he hoped indicated understanding and camaraderie. Mumuni led him out and opened the gate for him. Then his phone rang.
“JAY – SON!”, said Margaret yelling down the phone lines and putting as much stress on every syllable as she could muster. She like Philip’s younger brother Jason and was always happy to speak to him.
“Hi Auntie Maggie, how are you?”
“I’m fine my dear – just these aches and pains you know?”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. How was your trip to Canada? Is Philip doing better?”
“Ahhh…I’m not sure. He is still weak but unlike here in Ghana, the drugs are all available in Canada so we are hopeful that the Lord will continue to use the drugs to heal him.”
“That’s good to hear. I spoke to him last week and he sounded faint.”
“Yes but did he tell you that I took some herbs to him? I know Sarah will throw them away but I’m going to visit them again next month and then I will take some more…maybe a suitcase full!”
Jason laughed so loudly he thought his ribs would crack. Auntie Maggie was like a gale force wind that didn’t stop for anyone.
“ Are you going somewhere for the weekend Jay-son? Every hard working man needs a rest ohhhhh?”
Jason laughed. Maggie had been trying to get him to Accra every weekend to spend some time with Sarah’s family. He’d gone one weekend but didn’t want to impose. Of course Maggie had told him that was utter nonsense ‘…in Ghana , visiting someone is not imposing…’
“Yes Auntie Maggie – I’m actually going to meet up with a friend and then we’re heading towards Busua”.
“Ei, that is good. But be careful ohhh…there are many prostitutes there and they like white men. I trust you because you are Philip’s brother and he is a good Christian man”.
Jason winced at that endorsement. He was sure Philip would do too if he could hear it.
“Thanks auntie – I will be careful. How is Uncle Peter?”
“Not bad at all. He just finished a conference in Abuja for some dignitaries so he is back home recuperating from Nigerian politics. He makes me laugh when he says he wants to run for President of Ghana you know? He can’t even handle low level politics!”
And you can, Jason thought. Maggie could definitely run a country.
“Listen – when you get back, be sure to give me a call. We want you in Accra next weekend because we are having a surprise birthday for my sister Belinda’s husband. You remember her don’t you?
“Your sister Belinda? Isn’t your sister Auntie Ceci?”
Margaret laughed.
“Another African thing Jason – anyone who is a close friend can be referred to as a sister. You’re right – Ceci is my sister proper – you know, my real sister but Belinda and I went to school together so we’ve been through a lot too. Her husband Kwasi Prah is the Minister for Energy”.
“Well sure…I would love to. How does next two weeks from now sound? I could come down to Accra on the Friday after work”.
“I will prepare some piping hot soup for you and make sure there is plenty of good entertainment…did you know Al Jazeera is in Africa now? And they have white newscasters so there is no need to fear that the news is biased. Take care my dear and remember what I said – plenty of rest and no prostitutes!”
Jason laughed and hung up.
Gerry drove, as Jason regaled him with stories of how his day had gone, every so often stopping to allow Gerry to add what he called his ‘nuggets of expatriate wisdom’. Gerry had been through almost everything Jason was going through and his nonchalance at Ghanaian norms, behaviors, idiosyncrasies and both major and minor irritations did its magic on Jason. It calmed him down. Every few minutes, they would take a swig out of a water bottle that Gerry had filled with Star Beer and Vodka…an incongruous mixture that had to be a college concoction capable of killing a freshman.
The road from Takoradi to Busua was decidedly creepy and about ten minutes out of the city center, past the army barracks and away towards the dense forest, all movement seemed to stop. After the sun had set around six thirty, things had started slowing down as the men and women walking home from office jobs or coming in from the farm were replaced by night sellers, their eerie candles and kerosene lamps inadvertently lighting the way for nighttime travelers. About half an hour from Takoradi though, even the guiding lights of the kelewele vendors was no longer available and the two men, safely in their Jeep with plenty of gasoline to take them another four hours anywhere, drove silently through the Ghanaian night, worried that all the wild stories they’d heard outside Africa, about Africa - the untamed beasts, the thick impenetrable forests and the demon possessed villagers who could boil you and eat you were probably true. Without a GPS – and if they even had one, would it work here?, - how did they know if they were heading towards the tribal cooking pot or the Busua Akwaaba Beach?