Hello, Goodbye

As my placement draws to a close, the focus I previously directed to establishing and cementing relationships in East Mamprusi has turned to closing and honouring the relationships I've formed. Some require short goodbyes, scheduled on a lunch break or afternoon before I leave for Tamale; other, more important relationships require some planning, and some quality time. When I realized the time I had remaining in Nalerigu had dwindled to two weeks, I pushed aside other concerns and arranged moto transportation to the Sakogu area: I needed to say goodbye to Sumniboma.

The three weeks that passed since my last visit had changed the place in the ways only good rains can. The maize and millet obscured the views of the village from the winding footpaths; the baobabs hung heavy with fruit where they once hung with flowers. My day-trip was poorly timed on both a Sakogu market day and a voter registration drive, and those who weren't out making their 4-day purchases were putting themselves on the political grid for the happily “compulsory activity” that is voting in their community. The Pastor had traveled to Gambaga for the periodic retrieval of the National Health Insurance Scheme hospital admission cards—we passed him on the road—but Doris, Mr. Sumniboma, the IFTs and the EQUALL teachers were all there, excitedly greeting me, happy that I had returned. It felt like an illogical sort of homecoming, so natural despite my language barriers, and so comfortable despite the lack of Nalerigu's amenities. On the way to the Chief's palace I was barraged with news: Doris' husband was returning from South Africa where he drove trucks, classes had vacated for a week, Mr. Sumniboma's mother's hut was threatening to collapse so she had to move into the spare room. For every item, I had a question—how was Doris' son? Is there any news on the Pastor's second wife? How is the teak seedling planting going? Have you been getting enough rain? The biggest news was splashed all over the village in the work and bustling activity of the women and kids. The District Assembly had approved a plan for the construction of a new 3-room school block for the community last week. In typical Sumniboma fashion, the entire community had begun breaking rocks for the foundation the next day. The many neat ziggurat piles of small stones stood like monuments to the incredible verve of this community. Especially when I realized the men had been seeding a new tree plantation, and the work was done entirely by young mothers and kids on vacation.

After sitting with the Chief, who thanked me for the mutual exchange of knowledge and asked me not to forget them, he suggested we take a photo of us together, so that they could have some record of my being here. The user-friendly nature of my camera preceded my teaching, and before I even got up to show them, they had figured it out. I promised to leave the photo with PARED; I wondered as I promised if it would wind up framed in the Chief's reception area, like the photos of his prominent brothers and sons.

The women wanted to give me something to remember them by, and to my delight, decided I should apply zaama, local henna on the hands and feet that dyes them a deep red. Doris and I talked for an hour, my hands wrinkling in the brown goo covering them. When we removed it, the colour was unbelievable, but the reaction from the women was incredible. Whooping laughter, excited hand-clapping, and the exclamation that I was a real Ghanaian woman now came rushing out of every house I went to greet. What a shame, I thought, that I only had 2 weeks.

The day was spent passing from house to house, explaining my intention and my obligation to leave, what Doris called “going to goodbye them”. Over and over, I was met with exuberant and surprised welcomes, swiftly followed by a look of disappointment that I was going “back to my place”. I left each house followed by cries of “God bless you!” and “Safe journey!”. Some even tried to give me kola—a cedi to purchase a traditional kola nut as a goodbye present, and enough money to buy ingredients for a whole meal's soup.

During late afternoon, standing by the motorbike about to depart for Nalerigu, the sadness hit me like a blow to the stomach. It wasn't like homesickness; I was missing Sumniboma already, and I hadn't even left. It was more regret that I may miss the leaps of progress that the amazing people of this village are fated for. To me, they are the poster-children for development—a whole community of Dorothys, in EWB-speak.

Remembering them cannot be difficult: they are impossible to forget.