On Yari Yari

I attended the Yari Yari Ntoaso conference which was held from May 16-19, 2013. It was held in Accra at the College for Physicians and Doctors, which is a lovely facility by the way, but customer service was lacking. Howver, the organizers made up for it by having a great team of student volunteers who really held the conference together.

The conference theme was on “Continuing the Dialogue” on engaging the past, the present and the future. It was the best conference I ever attended. All the big names in African/Global literature were there. This conference opened my eyes in two ways.

The first way has propelled me to write more, and give attention to my writing. I was mostly using this blog as my first draft. Now I know this blog can be much more. Not just me writing when I have time, but making time to provide information and writing well. This point was particularly important because attendees included great writers such as Ama Ata Ado, Veronique Tadjo, Evelyne Trouillot, Zetta Elliot, Amma Darko, Malme Kabu and other political activist such as Angela Davis. Needleless to say, it was in a sea of perfection. This group was why museums were created…to show and spotlight greatness in society. This conference was on ongoing curatorial dialogue on perfection.

The conference was perfect in two ways. The first way was that the writers were world’s best. They took their craft seriously and they mastered it.  But that was not the most important to me. The most important point of this dialogue on perfection was that it took place in Accra; a place where perfection tends to be a foreign word. Where few acknowledge it and where fewer aim for it. I hope this conference left its mark on Ghana’s landscape and start the process of change. How could one not be influenced by Amma Darko, whose unfinished work almost caused me to commit a felony? I need that book.

The second reason why I enjoyed this conference was on the social level. Nina Chachu was kind enough to email me the link for the conference, which I had not heard about. I went through the program and noticed three Haitian names. I had not heard of the individuals before, nor was I familiar with their art. But I took the liberality to email them simply because I was Haitian, and so were they. But I didn’t email to say just hello. I emailed to impose my Haitianess on them. I asked if they could do favors for me, a Haitian, they didn’t know or had heard of. They each answered categorically yes. Why wouldn’t day do this favor? It was understood. It was not a problem. If anything, this is what we do. We travel to foreign countries and bring things back for one another. We take things to Haiti for friends and those we are hoping to meet. It’s part of our socialization…cooking more than enough just in case a non expectant drops by.

Many cultures will claim to have this, in their traditions, but few live up to this the way Haitians do. It’s not “the way of the past” but the way that we define who we are, still today.

Mamle Kabu spoke on identity and how identity is negotiated. She discussed that identity is not only how you define what you want others to think you are but it’s also their willingness to take your word for it by allowing you in or keeping you out. One of the Haitian presenters I emailed was the talented and fabulous Gabrielle Civil. She responded to my email but also included that she was half Haitian. Automatically my expectations changed. My first instinct was “Oh oh.” Would she “real” Haitian? Would we just flow? Would I be able to freely/wholly be Haitian with someone who was half?

Why did I automatically question her half-ness as problematic to my “wholeness?”  I struggled with these questions in college when I came into contact with Haitians with different backgrounds than me. It turns out that Gabrielle was as fantastic as I had envisioned, and even more so. But what if my curatorial creation of Haitianess  was different from hers? Would I have dismissed her as “not enough”?  Would I have been “humane” enough to see that “one” identity did not override others?

I realized that the anxiety of difference is precisely because it is not known and familiar. I “think” I know how a Haitian would act, respond and behave. I don’t know that of another group. And because my self-seeking needs are easily met with the known, I automatically dismiss the unknown. And similar to Mamle Kabu’s story, identity has more to do with those watching waiting to include or exclude. Because who you really are, will come out, flawlessly as Gabrielle’s performance proved.

Where is the talent?

Writer, Mamle Kabu, wrote a short story entitled, “The end of talent.” This story, among other themes, reveals the competitive nature of Kente creative production. Instead of recreating the same patterns over and over again, Kente weavers are motivated to always outdo themselves. They aim to produce a better product each time and to outshine their competitors. By so doing, they attract the attention of the major patron, the king, and gain the reputation of being the best. Too bad we can only say this of Kente weavers.

No one talks about being the best any more. What you hear is the rising rate of mediocrity. Far from aiming to become the best, the current population seeks to “just get by.”  In fact, one can make the argument that competition, the idea of outdoing others and being the best is not part of the general mantra.  What you find is people trying to do less than is expected of them. The doctors not showing up for work, the nurses sleeping on the job, the teachers sending students to work farms or to the market on their behalf or the bank teller unmotivated to be of any service and of course customer service as rare as Japanese speakers. In fact, what you hear often is that “why should I do my best, this is not my father’s.” People are only invested in doing a good job if they have something to inherit from it. And even then, they don’t; let’s take a look at all the inherited family houses and gaze at their conditions.

It’s also surprising to me the rising rate of mediocrity within the music industry. For a country that suffers constant electricity problems, water shortages, bad roads, poor schools, gender imbalances, sanitation problems and so much more, I cannot name one song that has tackled any of those topics. The only recent musician who had me pay attention was King Ayisoba with his “ I want to see you my father” where he laments on his father’s philandering and irresponsible ways. We can all relate. Why only him? Where are the other voices on the vices of our society? Is this not why Fela and Bob Marley remain legends? From Ayiti to Zimbabwe, everyone can relate to their music because they speak the universal truths of some of our societal tribulations.

So where are the musicians in Ghana? What are they expressing? If my favorite Ghanaians are telling the truth, and I suspect they are, the real artists are part of an underground movement. Their music is not heard on the radio airwaves because they cannot afford to bribe the radio presenters to play their songs. The fact is the only music you hear on radio stations in Ghana are by those who can afford the bribe to get their music played. In theory, I can do a demo of my 7 year old’s guitar lessons and pay to have all stations in Ghana play it. He would become popular because he is heard over and over again. He would become the “best” based on the lack of competition. And if no one else is as heard, he becomes the best by default. This is how people get the title of musicians and artist in Ghana and ultimately win “awards.”

Musicians in Ghana, just like the doctors, teachers, nurses, and other unprofessionals realize that there is no need for competition. They don’t need to perform their best because no one is demanding it of them. No one is holding them to any standard. They are “free” to disrupt our ears with drivel because their Democratic rights, just like the journalist, demand that they just exist. Luckily the Kente weavers have not given up. They continue to outdo and outshine.

The Ghanaian unprofessional class

I have never felt more vulnerable living in Ghana. While I have taken my 8 years in this country in stride, as a trooper and dancing to the beat of no drum with glee; fear and vulnerability has finally caught up with me. It turns out it’s not the lack of water, electricity, gas, good roads and internet that has me wanting to pack up and bid farewell. It’s the idea that my health and ultimately access to good service is at the hands of a Ghanaian unprofessional. And I fear that now.

I gave birth to three children in Ghana due to naiveté. I assumed that the good health care professionals existed and that I had to find them. I realized they were not in the majority, but I did not realize how pervasive the apathy and mediocrity had become in this country. 

My son cut his toe on a broken tile in the bathroom a few weeks ago. He purposely stuck his toe into the broken tile as any experimental and outgoing 7 year old would. The cut was so bad that we ran to the hospital immediately. When we got there, I was met with more questions than answers. At least three different nurses wanted to know what happened. Not one of them volunteered to tell the other that I had already told this story and that I would prefer to know what can be done to save my son’s toe. To be honest, my biggest fear was that my son would lose his toe and that would automatically disqualify him as an Asantehene in the future. Although we are not Asantes, the mere fact that my son would be disqualified and denied due to a disfigurement sent me into panic mode.

As I sat with my son in the emergency room, fearing what the Asantehema would say to him if we were Asantes and part of the royal family, the doctor finally came in asking me for the 4^th time what happened. I did not mind this time. She was pleasant and then I reasoned that maybe they wanted to make sure that I did not cut his toe. They would have probably called child protective services, if Ghana had one. But in the meantime, asking me questions, hoping to catch me in a lie, is all they had.

Then it hit me. No matter how careful we were, eating the right foods and vegetables prepared at home, some accidents we cannot protect ourselves from. Even those people who dig bore holes in their homes, have generators or solar power, a time might come when you will need a professional and most like that person would be classified as unprofessional.

Here we were at an expensive private (which means small, not quality) hospital and there was no surgeon on duty. We had to wait close to 2 hours for one or we could drive 3 hours to Ghana’s most infamous hospital, Korle Bu hospital around 8pm. I decided to wait at Nyaho for the surgeon to arrive. What if this was more than toe?

Luckily my future Asantehene reject was not scared. He asked questions that would have made me proud if we were not in an emergency room because of his stupid prank. How many times did I tell this boy the bathroom is not a play room? He cannot experiment or touch anything beyond the soap and sponge? I left that shower minutes before this boy decided to stick his toe on a broken tile. If not for child protective services I would have shown him how Haitian parents deal with this stuff. But instead, he made me laugh. He is so funny, even with a broken toe that could potentially be his downfall if he ever wanted to become an Asantehene.

The surgeon finally arrived and he was also polite. He wanted to know what happened and I told him. My son would need stitches, at least 2. We just wanted his toe to heal and we wanted to get out of there. My son would be sent to the ward for his operation immediately. And it would take 15 minutes.

Those were the longest 15 minutes of my life. I had planned out how I would set the hospital, nurses, doctors and administrative staff ablaze if anything had gone wrong with my son’s simple operation. We have all heard the stories. Nurse forgot to do this, doctor used the wrong this and the hospital did not have this and so the patient this. Not I. I was ready for that and knew how it would all go down. My name would go down in history as the chick who made Ghanaian unprofessionals sit up. Not everyone would set them ablaze but the fear that just one more me was out there would work enough to keep some spines straight.

As I waited I had three administrative staff follow me to make sure that I paid the 600GHC for the operation. They were worried that I was no longer using insurance and wanted to make sure that I paid for fear that I might run out on them. I delivered two children at Nyaho. The administrative staff treated me as though I came in purposely to run out and not pay. My future Asantehene was born there. Luckily how I was treated was the last thing from my mind. I just wanted my son to be fine and no mistakes to happen.

Luckily no mistakes happened. The doctor said we could go home. He said nothing more. My son asked if he could swim. The doctor said not for another 5 days. I couldn’t’ think of any questions because my mind was jumbled with excitement and fear. I was so glad to see him safe and just wanted to get us out of there. Two nurses accompanied us to make sure the bill was settled and we were sent home with a pain killer and antibiotics.

A week later his toe started to bleed. Out of panic I ran back to the hospital. One male nurse wondered why I had not been coming for cleaning every 3 days. I was not told that. The doctor did not tell you? No! Not the doctor nor the nurse or the two administrative staff who shadowed me until I paid the bill. No one mentioned cleaning and no one mentioned removing stitches. I figured it was the kind that melted in. “Oh, then they should have told you because now his toe might be infected.” I cannot type what my response was to this, but you can imagine what a future mother to an Asantehene would say to this. So I leave it at that.

Once I was calmed down by three administrative staff, two nurses and one doctor, and given apology after apology, they explained that I had to return every 2 days for cleaning. I live about an hour away, but where else would I go? And although any thinking human being could do the cleaning, I was too nervous to do it with stitches in his toe. (I soon learned and began the cleaning the wound at home with aloe vera.)

The head nurse asked me to step out of the emergency room so she could mop at our second cleaning. Again, there is no need for me to state the specifics of my response. Needless to say that I did not leave my son and I told that nurse where she could put her mop.

At the third cleaning, the nurse on duty asked me why I came in so late. They don’t do cleanings that late. I did not know. No one told me. How would I know? So I stopped returning to Nyaho.

This is what happened to me at one of Ghana’s “best” hospitals. Best is defined as expensive and exclusive. Can you imagine the treatment of the average Ghanaian at the government hospitals? How many children die in their mother’s arms waiting in the lobby for a doctor too tired and apathetic to attend to his patients? How many bribes are given to nurses to please “do something.”

How many doctors fail to tell their patients what they should do after surgery? How many patients fear asking questions? How many like myself forget to ask the pertinent questions? Who makes sure they have all the information they need?

I learned that unless you come with questions, you do not get answers. And even though you may have the question, the answer is not automatic or even correct. One nurse was bent on removing the stitches. Two others said there was no need that they would melt.

The other lesson I learned is that no one is doing their job above mediocre in Ghana. No one is because there are no repercussions. No supervisors. No fear of what could happen. Everyone is getting by on prayer and some luck.

The Strike

A few months ago Ghana’s doctors went on strike. So as to not be outdone, teachers went on strike last week as well. These two professions have more in common than their love of strike. They are the two most underperforming and dangerous group of “professionals” in Ghana. One’s multitude of mistakes and apathy kill you instantly, while the other one unleashes a serum that kills you for life. Out of all the unprofessional groups in Ghana, why them? Aren’t the MPs doing even less? Yes, I agree that in a society where no one is working and where one’s apathy is measured in relation to the other that Ghana’s teachers and doctors are no worse than the system which produced them.

This is why I believe that the only group of people who SHOULD go on strike in Ghana are the returnees. This group consists of Ghanaians born or educated abroad and have returned with passion and zeal to give back. This group operates businesses in a country where quality human resource is as rare as snow. They seek to open community centers, better schools, clinics, healthy restaurants, clothing stores and more. They are experts in everything a developing country could need. They speak all the languages of the world. They seek to provide for Ghanaians the standard of living found elsewhere. They returned because of their love for their country and want to see it develop on par with other countries. To top it off, they are using their sweat and hard earned monies to help Ghana get there.

They flock into Ghana each year more than the last. They also flock out as fast. But before leaving in silence, they should strike. They should let the rest of the country know what their frustrations have been. From acquiring land, getting licenses, paying taxes, registering their businesses, finding trustworthy human resource that won’t run out with a bag of toilet roll with the same zest as a bag of money. They need to let the rest of Ghana know how long and how much money it costs them to clear anything from a package to a container. They should also let the government know how much bribe is paid just to get people to do their jobs. Not to go the extra mile, but just to wake up from slumber and actually do the job that tax payers monies already pay for.

I cannot begin to count how many people lost businesses in Ghana during 2006-2008 due to the extreme power rationing. I know many people who lost entire savings and ran back to where they came from. But the electricity is not the only problem. I know people in Adenta who never had water from the City. I know people who do not depend on the State for water, electricity, gas or internet access. And we all know how expensive it is to operate a restaurant without water. How many times have you gone into a restaurant and they have had problems getting gas this morning to cook the food? Or how many seamstresses have lost costumers because the lack of electricity meant that they weren’t able to finish an order. How many doctors have accidentally killed a patient due to electricity and or gas problems blended with apathy? These are not rare occasions. We all have those stories.

And yet the returnee is taking it. Not because they have nowhere else to go, but because they truly love this country and want to make it better. They see a future and want Ghana part of it. But before we all leave, let’s strike. I’m in!