Right Back Where We Started From

Sunday, December 17^th

Since the day I left for Ghana in the closing days of July, I’ve wondered what this last piece of writing would be like. I didn’t know what my feelings would be coming here, and leaving here now, I don’t know if there is one clear-cut sentiment.

On the one hand, I am so ready to come home, to be home. I’m ready to get back to the “normalcy” of the high-speed, high-priced American life. I’m ready to get back to my friends and my family. I’m ready to sleep in my room, in my big bed. I’m ready to be cold again, strange as that seems for a boy who loves the heat.

And to be quite frank, there are things that I, without question, will not miss about Ghana and West Africa as a whole. I won’t miss the mosquitoes and the incessant heat and humidity. I won’t miss cold showers and backed-up-for-weeks toilets. I won’t miss being called an obruni and feeling left out of conversation after conversation because I don’t speak Twi or Ga or Ewe or Fanti. I won’t miss hearing Shakira’s “Hips don’t lie” and James Blunt’s “You’re Beautiful” – the only two English non-rap songs played in the country.

At the same time, there are things that I will miss from this place that really has come to feel like home over the last twenty weeks. Coming back from Egypt, I distinctly remember how normal it felt to be in Ghana, soaked by humidity at 5:30 in the morning. I will miss the kindness of Ghanaians, and their bright white smiles that are flashed when saying “hello.” I will miss eating with my hands and sitting down at tables with complete strangers and having conversations like we’ve been friends for years. Undoubtedly, I will miss the beautiful women and adorable children. I will miss how mothers carry women babies on their back, regardless of the work that must be done. Even though I hate being called obruni, I will miss the children chanting in unison: “Obruni, how are you? I am fine. Thank you!” I will miss groundnut soup and rice balls, glass-bottle sodas and tro-tros

For every thing and for every person I’ve missed at home and look so forward to seeing, there is something or someone that I will miss. And while I never quite felt complete without my everyday things or people, I don’t know if I will quite feel complete coming back. I don’t know if coming home will feel “normal.”

There is so much that is being left behind. But there is so much that I am coming home to, and more importantly, there is so much more that I am bringing back with me. And I don’t just mean the physical items: the bright-colored clothing and the woodwork, the chocolate and the akpoteshie. There are memories and moments that can never be replaced, but will always be replayed.

I’ll be bringing back the pride of knowing that I made a difference in the life of refugees. With me forever will be an education that can’t be taught in a classroom. It is a different kind of education, one with lessons in patience and in kindness, in communication and in appreciation for how people live so happily with so little.

I remember before leaving, when telling people that I was going to be in Ghana studying abroad, I would get two questions: “Where is Ghana?” and “Why are you going to Ghana?” I felt somewhat insulted by both. After all, Ghana had just beaten the U.S. in the World Cup. And I felt like people thought I was crazy for going to Africa. And yes, maybe I am a little crazy. Not everybody would give up the good American life to live in a developing country. Not everyone would take a risk of going to a country with countless diseases and crazy driving. But if you never took a risk, you would never be living.

The last five months have been invaluable. There is no price tag that I could put on this time. There is no way that these experiences, these sights and these sounds can be replaced. There is no atlas, no television show, no encyclopedia that can do this justice. In countless ways, this has been a life-changing experience.

Even when I get home, I know this experience will continue to impact me. I will be able to look back on my experiences here, and compare them to life in the U.S. I know I will be more patient. I know that I will smile at people at school when I walk by them. And I know I won’t be scared to sit at a table with a random person and strike up a conversation. That, to me, is now normal.

Normal, I guess, is relative. What is normal today will seem foreign tomorrow. Regardless, it will always be a part of me, even though I must leave it. As much as I have loved my time here, it must come to an end. All good things do.

LDG