Asogli Migration

This year we managed to join the Asogli Chief, Togbe Effede IV and his followers on the annual Ewe migration pilgrimage to Notse in Togo. This migration marks the beginning of the two week yam festival in Ho. Apart from the chance to visit the place in history where the Ewe escaped a tyrannical ruler hundreds of years ago through a hole in the town walls, I was also relishing an opportunity to travel incognito, across a country border with neither the need for a passport or visa – a rare opportunity in this day and age. My imagination was already running riot with fantasies of disappearing, assuming a new identity – you name it – as well as bringing back memories of illicit entries into Burma and Nepal in times long gone by.
We were joined by Carrie, our American photographer friend who has now lived here for something like seven years and Abhishek, an Indian friend living in Accra. As expected the advice to be at the Asogli Offices for midday was a little optimistic – we joined many others waiting for the transport to be arranged. We were given the privilege of joining the “noteables” bus – something I found quite fitting and pleasing – and certainly a position I shall wish to uphold back home. We finally left Ho somewhere around four o’clock – a convoy of 4x4s (carrying Togbe Effede IV and assorted junior Chiefs and VIPs) and a motley collection of buses (ours being the best of course) and tro tros. We crossed the border without any checks and then had a long wait by the sea in Lome as the sun went down. The younger members of the party continued to whoop it up with abobo drumming and dancing, their relentless energy lasting long into the night.

We finally reached Notse late in the evening following further delays after a minor pile up on the road which took out several of our cars. Most people were sleeping at the school but being noteables there was supposed to be hotel accommodation for us – the only problem being that no one knew where. We then spent over an hour driving around a pitch black Notse, at one point looking for the “caretaker”, whoever he was. All the smaller lodges were full and fatigue was beginning to set in. We made a decision to return to the hotel where Togbe was staying – a fairly swish looking place that was also full. We encamped in the lobby, now joined by several other noteables – a young man from Volta Star Radio and Kwesi, a German Ghanaian doing doctorate research on chieftaincy in Ghana. Here we spent a hilarious hour while Abhishek produced a small kettle and tea making equipment, entertaining the bemused hotel staff. At one point after midnight we were invited into a banquet hall to find a large crowd of Togbes and Queen Mothers in full bling tucking into a large meal (sadly nothing vegetarian but good wine). Finally through some Asogli wangling rooms were found for us – beds for the night!

The next morning we seemed to have missed the bus – literally. No information of course but we commandeered a tro after breakfast to take us to the Durbar grounds. Already large crowds were gathered with assorted dance and drum groups and voodoo covens. We found seats in the Asogli ranks amongst the warriors and enjoyed the spectacle. Lots of speeches – mostly emphasising the Ewe shared traditions and cultures – and loads of music. Best of all there were Zangbeta, men covered in leaves and wearing hats with horns and bones and some way out singing – my kind of do! Of course in the excitement I got sunburnt, forgetting my hat but hey who cares. Afterwards we were all ferried back to the hotel where we were invited to join the celebratory banquet – as much as you could eat and just about anything and everything to drink. Unfortunately for Kiran she was on medication which meant no alcohol! She had to watch everyone around her, get sloshed. They go big time for the spirits in Togo.

Much the worse for wear, the next stop was the football match - the Asogli State team taking on the home side on a rough bone dry pitch without a blade of grass. Christian the young man who comes and helps with our garden was playing in midfield and Togbe kicked off the second half in full regalia. The teams fought out a tough draw – penalty shootout – in the last few moments of daylight Asoglis scored the winning shot – a cup was presented and you would have thought by the celebrations from our contingent that Ghana had won the world cup.

That evening was the “Grand Bal” and we devoted our best efforts to blagging our way in. Having managed to get in once, we were swiftly ejected by a stern and grumpy steward who made it quite clear that we should buy tickets if we were to attend. Sometime later Abhishek somehow managed to do what we had all failed to do and secured us all complimentary tickets – we were in and I couldn’t resist a smirk at the woman who was giving us daggers! The band was a 60s highlife outfit – a Togolese version of the Buena Vista Social Club – a delight and their mellow vibes carried us late into the night. Togbe Effede finally took to the dance floor – thereby giving permission for the lesser mortals to dance – quite a sight. We staggered back to our rooms in the early hours – shattered.

Next day we all dutifully trooped to the last remaining pile of stones which once constituted the town walls. Here so the story goes (really) the Ewe women threw their used washing water against the wall until a hole formed and the rest is history – the Ewes fled – our lot ending up in Ho and the surrounding area. Togbe and his entourage all listened patiently as the story was told while we poked around the local voodoo shrine. Then it was time to all pile back to the school for a final speech from Togbe, more free booze and one last knees up before heading home. The convoy back was keen to reach Ho before nightfall which we just about managed – one final treat – the convoy then drove zig zag through the town, horns blaring, whistles blowing and needless to say drums drumming to celebrate our safe return – wow!

Klikor Corn Festival

Through our friend Carrie we were invited to attend the Corn Festival in Klikor. The day we attended the festivities was the culmination of a month long celebrations when the men of the village enter the Sacred Forest to pray to and appease the male spirit – Kli - Adzima. Carrie’s artist friend Godwin is from this village and so we first went to his house. We met Godwin’s cousins and his wife briefly – she was busy preparing food for us before going off to her food stall in the market. While we were waiting for food, Godwin told us about the history of the festival. Klikor literally means in the lap of Kli – or the lap of the gods. There are two deities in the village – the male spirit and the twin female deity Mama Vena. Today has major significance and the High Priests will perform a number of rituals at the shrines in the sacred forest. Only men are allowed to enter the forest as is often the case when there are secret rituals to be performed. Everyone will then drink maize wine, followed by taking sacred food (Prasad) called gza made from millet and sugar. Then everyone will leave the forest as the women of the village prostrate before them and march on to the Chief’s palace.

After eating akple (corn cooked in water involving lots of stirring until the consistency forms a ball) and vegetarian ground-nut soup, we were given our “cloth” to wear. This is traditional material and basically it is two pieces of material for women – one is worn as a skirt and the other as a top. So both pieces of materials are about 2 yards long, put around the waist and under the arms and are held together by folding the top edges a few times so it does not unravel. No pins or buttons required. I was sure mine would fall of but that did not happen. Michael had a 6 yard cloth which he first put around his body and the remaining was swung over (Michael of course did it in style!) one of the shoulders. Ghanaian men usually wear shorts under this cloth but Michael had not brought his shorts so he went around in his Calvin Kline boxer shorts, not realising he was showing off his boxer shorts to all! Of course only I managed to giggle about it and the rest of the festival goers were mainly impressed with a “Yevu” wearing cloth.

The village was an amazing spectacle – just about everyone was wearing cloth and there was a buzz in the air – excitement mixed with anticipation. People were of course very curious to see our party but very welcoming and impressed too. We walked through the main street on bare feet and the mud road felt hot! Michael said he felt liberated not wearing slippers or shoes while Carrie and I just felt our feet burn!! After watching men go into forest and buying some souvenirs and mingling with the crowds, Godwin asked if he could go to the forest as only Ghanaian men are allowed in. We sat in a cool place in a small spot, people watching and waiting for Godwin.

After a little while he returned saying that the High Priest has given permission for Michael to attend. Of course Michael was going to jump at this offer. He almost ran to the forest – nothing would stop him from learning about what happens in the forest:

What can I say - this was something clearly very special and I was being honoured to enter the forest. I am probably the first white man to ever witness this ritual. I had already been told that there were a number of restrictions/rules in place – being clean of mind and body, having not killed anyone either physically or spiritually and not having had sex the night before! We enter the forest – suddenly we are in a new world away from the clamour of the streets outside. Under the shade of the trees sit hundreds of men – there is a low buzz as people speak in whispers. I am asked to bare my shoulders and remove my watch – for a moment I am totally disorientated as if I have entered another universe. I pass the sacred shrines – priests are busy pouring libations – the hum of chanted prayers – the smell of sacrificial blood. Letting go I relax and space is made for me to sit close to the male shrine. My neighbour, it turns out, is the Keta District Chief Executive. He greets me – I am welcome. I feel incredibly at ease and just surrender to the vibrations. Soon maize wine is being served by the priests from old calabashes – everyone has to drink. Then gza is served – it is sugary and sweet - after solemn warnings from the High Priest that it must be eaten in the forest and not taken outside on pain of perpetual punishment not only for any offender but their family too! Apparently the gza has very strong magical properties that can only protect you if eaten in the forest – naturally I obey!

The time is now approaching for the men to leave the forest – Godwin quietly shepherds me outside back into the glare of the street so that I can watch the procession leave. It is a truly awesome sight – the High Priests lead the way carrying the sacred symbols of their authority followed by a swarming mass of men. The women throw themselves down in supplication. There is laughter now, shouting, joking – the tension eases – the rituals have been successful, the harvest has been good. It is time to party now in the Chief’s Palace.

The end of the dream

The Blacks Stars are home again – huge crowds turned out to party and welcome them at the Kotoka International Airport. The next day the team were paraded around Accra in their bus. Each player is to receive 20,000 US$ and hefty payments have been made to the members of the Ghanaian FA, not to mention the huge sums forked out to fly government NDC supporters out to South Africa to support the boys. President Mills invited the returning heroes to the Castle and there are hints of more honours to come. Wow!! All this for a team that reached the quarter finals.

In the cold light of day it is hard to escape the despondency and disappointment after the defeat by Uruguay. There is an implicit acknowledgement that such an opportunity will never present itself again. Never mind that the team only managed two goals (both penalties) in the Group stage and to be honest only progressed to the knockout stage courtesy of the Aussies who unexpectedly and rather fortuitously beat the Serbs. Yet people really came to believe that the Black Stars would at least be the first African team to reach the semis and even win the cup for Ghana and Africa. With the whole continent behind them the Black Stars were ready to conquer the world and head for glory.

So where did it all go so wrong? The players seemed to be relaxed and confident – playing for each other. Laid back - gambling into the early hours of the morning – easy to approach - in sharp contrast to the paranoia surrounding the English camp. And then came the match – after a rather poor start the Black Stars scored the all important goal just before the break – it should have been a psychological knockout blow. But back came the skilful Uruguayans, equalising from a long range speculative shot that Kingson misjudged catastrophically – all level and everything to play for. Into extra time – the Black Stars struggling to make any impact, the Uruguayans visibly tiring and then the drama and bitter disappointment. Denied at the very last minute, betrayed by a handball on the line and then Gyan blasting his penalty against the bar. The rest is history – two poor penalties – the game lost and the dream smashed.

The recriminations continue up and down the country, throughout Africa even. Endless futile demands that the rules should be changed, that a goal should have been awarded and that no punishment is severe enough for the cheating Uruguayans. Right now the country is celebrating their exit from the tournament. But it is hard to imagine that any other player from any other team behaving differently in the same situation - the automatic response to protect your goal. If Gyan had scored nobody would still be talking about this – but nevertheless it has been a bitter pill to swallow. Others blame the penalty taker – forgetting that Gyan had the courage and bottle to step up and take the first penalty in the shoot out. But in the end it is all fruitless – the game is done – to be honest the team tried hard, they battled and at times truly shone – but sadly they could not deliver. One friend said to me if only Essien had been fit and the team had a decent centre forward – what a different story that might have been!

So what now? Some are calling for the sacking of the coach and there is much discussion about the wisdom of employing foreign coaches in favour of locals (heard that one before somewhere?). But to be fair Milo has done a great job – moulding a team together – and don’t forget the guy faced death threats and had his house burnt down in Serbia. The future looks bright – a strong squad of young motivated players –their time will come again. But instead of fat bonuses to the players and their “Handlers” there is a desperate need to invest in the game at the grassroots level both in Ghana and Africa as a whole. It is a crime to see the vast profits being generated by FIFA through this World Cup (not to mention the draconian laws being implemented to protect those profits) with such small returns for the continent. Africa remains a bargain basement supermarket for footballers and they can be found plying their trade at all levels across Europe from Bucharest to Moscow and from London to Stockholm.

It was great while it lasted – I can’t remember being so excited about football for a long, long time – it was an amazing adventure and a wonderful dream. I leave the last words to our friend Grace – “We lost because God was looking after Ghana”. Already before the Uruguay match at least 12 people had died and hundreds of others been injured in the celebrations after each game. So God conspired to save Ghanaian lives (forget the Uruguayan hand of God). Although Grace went on to tell us that so many people were in comas brought on by their disappointment – you just can’t win!!

The journey continues......

The morning after – I am still hoarse from shouting and worn out from this rollercoaster white knuckle ride. Go Black Stars, Go Ghana. Hosai Ghana! Last night battling our way through the crowds after the game – “Are you happeee? From your heart? We won your people!!” Just about everybody is on the streets – barefoot snotty kids, grandmas, Assembly members – all come out together to celebrate their heroes. Cars with flashing lights and blaring horns speed through the heaving mass of dancers - singing, drumming, screaming hordes.

“If God is with us anything is possible” – an enduring image – Goalkeeper Kingston – arms held aloft to the heavens – guardian angel of the Black Stars goal. He has become a favourite – at times brilliant, at others erratic – “eccentric” in the words of one pundit. In the game against Germany he played a blinder but in the end even he could not prevent a goal. At the other end the forwards just could not find the net. It was left to the men of oz – and the hand of God – to save the day, running out unlikely winners against a polished Serbian side, that could not take their chances. Fate again saw the Americans score in the very last seconds to clinch top spot and set up last night’s game.

Feverish speculation up and down the land about the lack of goals, the tactics of the coach – the scruffy Serb who doesn’t speak English – his loyalties questioned. The Pastors working overtime to win heavenly grace and who knows what juju sacrifices as the country prepares to take on the might of Amerika. One man tells me that he is relieved that Ghana is not playing England, “our colonial masters” so that unnecessary tensions can be avoided. It is hard to grasp how much this means to everyone – forget the happy, colourful, sanitised multi kulti Africa presented by the international greed machine – here in the sweaty heat, the dirt and dust, nothing else matters – the Black Stars carry the dreams and aspirations of the whole of Africa and they are proud.

The Minister of Communications has urged discipline and modesty in the celebrations to prevent “ill effects” – wasting time! On Saturday the town closes – the whole of Ghana shuts up shop – only one thing now on everyone’s minds – the game. The excitement and apprehension mounts as evening approaches. Flags, whistles – the vuvuzela – the hour approaches. One common belief, one faith – Go Black Stars. The game at last kicks off – and before anyone has settled Prince Boateng has run half the length of the pitch to score a cracking goal – hysteria – have to check that we are not dreaming. Someone grabs me in a great bear hug - “I love you, I love you people”. Singing, dancing, we are on the way. Half time – so far so good but then the tide turns. After the break the yanks are off the block and take the game by the scruff of the neck. A goal has to come and sure enough they win a penalty – all square. For the rest of the game the Black Stars are on the back foot, restricted to occasional counter attacks and defending for their lives.


Extra time and somehow – by God’s grace – Black Stars get a new burst of energy and within minutes they are back in front – Gyan scores a brilliant goal – brings tears to the eyes. From then on we all know they can do it. Everyone runs their socks off – this is a team that plays together, for each other – Kingston holds the fort, sinking to his knees at the final whistle, giving thanks to God. The dream a little closer, the eyes and hearts of afrika – hosai Ghana – stumbling home, shaking hands, embracing, cheering – yes we are happeeee!

Ghana 1 Serbia 0

The whole town is on the streets, people cheering, waving flags, blowing their vuvuzeola, deafening horns - yellow plastic courtesy of MTN, official sponsors . Wow – the Black Stars did everyone proud – played their hearts out and deservedly won. Heart stopping moments – Serbia down to ten men but with fifteen minutes left to play, suddenly looking dangerous – Kingston the keeper makes a stunning save – we breathe again and then the penalty. Cool as ice – our man number three, Asamoah Gyan steps forward – no mistake – he buries it away – everyone on their feet ecstatic. The whole place erupts in joy - dancing, screaming - heaven. The rain has stopped – the telly held out – no power outages today – we are on our way. Go Black Stars – Go.
Party o

We are ready - Go Black Stars, Go

It is Sunday morning - just a few hours to go, prayers are being said in churches for our heroes - don't let us down - onwards to victory and new glories. The whole place will come to a standstill, streets empty, silence except for the roars and cheers when the goals go in - we hope. A tough match, the opener, against a tough team - Serbia and mixed loyalties for the Black Stars coach - but an overwhelming confidence and anticipation that we will do well - especially after the Africa Cup of Nations.

It is rumoured that President Mills flew out yesterday to join the boys at their training camp - to motivate them and remind them of the heavy burden they shoulder on behalf of the nation - it all rests on you! Kofi Annan, big football fan was there too - he thinks that the young team have big hearts and will deliver the goods. Hard to imagine David Cameron doing the same - play to win chaps!

Football frenzy - Africa. The incessant, continual babble of everything football - television, radio, street corner - we will win, we will win. Mesmerising Messi - our arch rivals the Super Eagles played off the park by all accounts. Shaky England, poor tactics and poor goalkeeping (every keeper's nightmare - takes me back to childhood dreams and agonies between the sticks). Or is it the new fangled Ball doing strange things, flying long and unpredictably, or some terrible conspiracy - radio controlled to take out the enemy?

Everyone loves to talk and talk and shout - I have never seen people get so excited about the smallest decision, throw in, goal kick, anywhere - even by football fan standards everywhere - at one recent game someone even demanded that everyone stay for a post match review - wow and that is in the claustrophobic sweat and heat of a tin shack with fifty hot bodies pressed together in front of a small screen.

In Accra the whole city is awash with flags, banners, caps, shirts exhorting our heroes to win. Every street hawker has something football to sell - plastic hooters, wall charts, wrist bands, streamers - berating any taxi driver they find who does not fly a flag. Here in Ho it is a little more low key - people dont have the spending power of their city compatriots but it is no less passionate. Everywhere you go people want to talk about the match.

So - the minutes are ticking away, the build up is on - I have my new Black Stars shirt but first need to get to the market to do the shop. Soon people will cluster and huddle around every television and radio - Africa World Cup - we are ready - Go Black Stars - Go!

"Under Arrest"

The other day we were walking into town with our friends Theo and Nelleke. At the T junction where the Accra road meets the main Ho high street – known as “Civic” – a huge, ancient articulated truck had somehow managed to overturn, spilling its load of hardboard and blocking traffic in all directions. Quite a spectacle!

Another lorry had arrived and a gang of young workers, sweating profusely in the midday sun, were transferring the spoilt load to the new vehicle. They were keen to pose and asked me to take photos – showing off and joking. After a few snaps I walked around to the other side of the overturned lorry as the others walked on, needless to say fascinated by the huge lifeless wheels, poking in the air.

I was just focusing when two policemen shouted – stop – come here – are you a journalist – do you have permission to take photographs – you should have asked us – sit down – you are under arrest – we are taking you to the police station. I am bemused, a little overwhelmed by the quick fire orders – all a bit surreal but sit down and keep a smile on my face – plead innocence. I explain that the workers had asked me to take photos – it is not against the law to take photos etc –my inner voice telling me to stay calm, but it cuts no ice.

The smaller of the two coppers, bloodshot eyes, mean looking in camouflage fatigues – really not very pleasant at all – keeps drilling me. He seems determined to take me to the station, muttering that he should confiscate my camera. It is all getting a little weird now and it begins to dawn on me that maybe they are serious and at the very least this is going to involve some cash. By now the others have tweaked what’s going on and Kiran arrives and begins to plead my case. How can you arrest my husband – I will be alone – she begins to build a bridge with the younger, junior officer.

Then Nelleke notices his name badge – he is called Evanz – an unusual name, which he claims to be Dutch. Ah ha, we are Dutch too, handshakes and greetings – a new conversation begins. His first name in Grunski – that really does seem to be beyond the realms of probability – Evanz Grunski. No matter – the ice is broken now. While Alex, the older, mean cop grimaces and makes angry grunt like noises, Grunski loosens up – soon we are all the best of friends – or at least Kiran, Theo and Nelleke are all getting on famously with Grunski.

We have won. Now it is a matter of time – I will go free – no dash. We exchange ewe greetings. I am to be let off this time. I am even invited by Grunski to take pictures – I decline. Finally after more endless handshakes, Grunski tells me about a visit to Scotland. A similar experience – being asked by locals what he is up to. I remind him though that he wears a uniform. We smile – one final handshake and a high five. I escape and catch up with the others, hoping that we do not come across Alex again somewhere down the road and wondering if I am dreaming. Grunski Evanz indeed!