Saturday Night at Rhapsody

Dr. Sussou’s niece, Edith, took us American girls out for a wild night in Ghana. I knew we were in trouble after the seven of us poured into the car (meant for four), and Edith (who was driving) asked us to find the bottle of wine in the back.

Edith had brought her friend Emma, and both women were incredibly beautiful. Ghanaian women have exquisite features and unbelievable figures. Their makeup was applied brightly, and their outfits were very sexy. I already felt like a total hillbilly, but it was confirmed after I got out of the car at the club parking lot.

Emma told me she hoped I was not wearing “those shoes” (Nike flip-flops) into the club. Now, in my defense, I do have a twisted ankle so I really needed to be as comfortable as possible. Plus, I was not planning on dancing or picking up a date. I had no other shoes, so Emma just sighed and lead us to the door of the club, where the bouncer confirmed my hillbilly status again. “You ah not ALLOWED to weh such shoes een the club,” he informed me, in a slightly disgusted tone.

Edith ran out to her car, where she had a pair of beautiful white gladiator sandals with gold detail. I quickly switched shoes, and we got in. The club was very modern, but very strange to me because of the large tvs which screened images of white women in lingerie all night long. Emma and Edith were amazing dancers and insisted that we join them on a mostly empty dance floor. I drank one delicious daiquiri, and took lots of photos of the girls dancing.

Around one, my ankle was really hurting and I was very tired. A few other women from my hostel were also ready to go home, but Edith insisted that we go on to another club. “You will thank mee, you do not know Ghanaian fuhn!”

I tried to explain that we really appreciated her hospitality, but that we were still jet lagged and needed sleep. “You are making mee very sad,” she pouted. “Why do you want to make mee sad? I thought, you are making my ankle very sad.

Although I kept insisting that some of us really wanted to go home, Emma simply refused to take us home or even to let us out of the car so we could get our own taxi. I was feeling beyond frustrated when we were pulled over- by the Accra Police. (Sidenote: everyone I’d spoken to advised me to avoid the police at all costs, because they are very corrupted.) Emma had had too much to drink, we had too many people in the car, and if that wasn’t enough… her tags were expired.

“This is very serious,” said the officers.

I couldn’t stop looking at the sticks on their backs. These men could keep us here for hours, or days. We might be arrested. This could be the end of my trip, I thought angrily.

“We ah begging you, deeah offisas. I will goh Mohnday, yes massa, and renew de tag. Please meesta offisas, we ah begging you,” sang out Emma and Edith. They were very flirtatious with the police, laughing up into their stern faces. I thought their behavior was a result of their drinking, and I was afraid they were angering the officers further.

After about ten minutes of back forth between them, Emma reached out and grabbed the hands of one cop. She looked up into his eyes, giggled coquettishly, and batted her eyelashes. She’d slipped him five cedi (about three American dollars), and he examined it.

“Now you can goh. Goh, goh. Get out of hea, bad gahls. Good bye, ladieees!”

***

We drove on to Osu, the wealthier and trendier part of Accra. My relief over not being arrested did not last long. The streets around the second club were jammed with hundreds of cars and pedestrians. I saw many small, unkempt children wandering in crowds, begging for money. One little boy reminded me of my brother at a younger age, with his small, thin fame, caramel skin, and dark features. He was about eight and dressed in rags, opening car doors for the glamorous men and women entering the club in hopes of a tip. His right eye bore a large purple bruise.

I was advised not to give to begging children, by a professor at UK who had lived in Ghana for many years. She told me that most street children run in groups organized by older teens or adults, who take the alms from the children, barely feed them, and often beat them.

It felt impossible for me to stay there any longer, let alone to enter the club where we had just arrived. My dear roommate sensed my exhaustion and pulled Edith aside, trying to explain that we really needed to go now. Edith was angry with us and would not hug us goodbye, but we left anyways. Our taxi was stuck in the street for about ten minutes because of a fistfight up the road. When we finally drove, I tried to turn back, but I couldn't find the little boy in the swarming chaos.

Although we got back to the dorm around two, and although I was completely emotionally and physically exhausted, I could not sleep until after four. The image of the thin, beaten boy in rags kept popping up every time I shut my eyes, and I couldn’t sleep for wondering where, or if, he might get find some rest.