Sights and Sounds

The sun is still asleep when the call to prayer rings out, sounding Arabian and exotic in the wan light of 4:30 in the morning. It floats through the windows, and subverts the crowing of roosters and braying of goats that precedes it at 4am and continues well into the night. It is the sign that the day has begun, and everyone, Muslim or otherwise, listens. Soon, as the sun creeps slowly up over the ridge of the Gambaga escarpment and floods by small trickles into my window, the sounds of compound life begin to awaken, and amplify.
Through closed eyes, clinging hopelessly to the last vestiges of sleep and relaxation, I hear Silas release the goats. The clacking of hooves on concrete floor and the distressed clucking of the chickens running for cover as they evacuate the compound is not buffered by the thin curtains on my windows and door. I can hear the splashing of Arija fetching water from the pump embedded in the floor, and the deep pouring sound as she transfers it to the rainwater drums, from which the cooking, cleaning and bathing water comes. The cooking fire heating the leftover TZ from the evening's dinner cracks quietly, and I can smell the smoke of the young wood feeding it. I hear the shuffling of extra feet; the school kids know that breakfast is coming, and the morning is a busy time.
I open my eyes to the thin scratching of the reed brooms expertly wielded by Salima and Afia against the concrete floor. The sound moves systematically across my hearing, from one end of the compound to the door, taking dust, debris, and animal droppings with it. The mewling of the house's kitten shows he has been disturbed. Through the clucking of the chickens I can hear the scraping of the dog's nails as she meanders around the compound, looking for a place to go back to sleep. I can hear 4 voices at once, arguing, laughing and giving instruction in Mampruli in all kinds of tones.
The sun streams through my windows; my cell phone clock says 5:45. Nematu and Jen are singing a song outside in the way that only those under four can; I peek out my window with just enough time to see Afia leaving to feed the pigs, a large bowl of spent pito millet balanced on her head. Arija and Salima are bent over one cooking fire, tending to the leftovers. Joyce is standing in a yellow, blue and orange patterned cloth, full bucket in one hand, on her way to bathe. As I wrench myself from bed and wrap myself in the cloth of my own, a shrill scream erupts—the toddlers have broken their peace treaty, and someone has landed a clumsily-aimed punch at the other over a cracker, or a bag of dawadawa powder. I put my feet into my sandals amidst the booming cries of matriarchal power ringing through the compound: Doris is mediating the conflict in no uncertain terms, laying down the law in Mampruli at 80 decibels, and distributing verbal lashings as punishment for the breach of peace.
I leave my room to greet everyone, and as always am met with a chorus of “Sister Ashley, good morning!” before I can squeak out a word. The Ghanaian tempers have cooled with the swiftness in which they flared, and everyone is happy. The sun is kind and not too hot; the day is fat with possibility.
I reach for my bucket, draw some water, and wash myself into the day.