The assault on your senses. The oven-hot heat. The dampness. The sickly-sweet smell of flowers, of something deeply tropical. That’s what hits you when you step off the plane. Then you enter the air-conditioned lounge and you think, ah yes!
No hassle at immigration, if you have your papers in order. No intimidation at customs. Of course, there’s bound to be that sly official who gives you the longing look, eyeing your bulging suitcases in hopes of catching you with commercial goods. That way he/she can extract a “gift” from you while smiling with benevolence. If you stand your ground, the smile wilts to a sigh. Shoulders drooping, they let you go.
When you step outside, no men converge on you to grab your suitcases in their determination to earn tips; progress! You get into a taxi with joy, and then you notice the bluish smoke and oil smell from the exhaust of vehicles and you wonder, how is everyone not dead from lung cancer? Perhaps it’s the casual attitude, the belief that life is in God’s hands, the belief that nothing is a big deal. Whatever the case, you might be tempted to fear breathing this fetid air for the rest of your life. Don’t run away. Be a part of the solution. Because here’s the thing, your blackness is not an offence. No one grabs her purse tighter due to the vicinity of your blackness. No one flees from a shopping aisle because you’ve entered the same space. In fact, you’ll get tired of the madaming and sirring. Besides, where in America can you go to a clubhouse and strangers buy you fried yam, fish, drinks, and offer to drive you home?
That’s what it feels like to return to Ghana, this pampering, this belonging. Sure, it’s the honeymoon phase, but who cares? Just spray your legs and arms with the insecticide you must always carry with you. Stretch out your legs, sip on your passion-mango juice, savor the spicy kyinkyinga (grilled grass-fed beef), and laugh at jokes. You are home, baby!