NEW DATA, NEW DATA!!!

For the past 5 weeks I quantified and analyzed previously collected data, wrote a report, and presented the findings to the board of directors. Last week, I finally collect more data, and met past College for Ama participants. It is always nice to put a face with data.

The interviewed students attended CoFA the summer of 2008. Most attend Malam Primary and Junior High School. Malam is one of most economically disadvantaged areas of Accra.

The rectangular building is school's library. The gazebo behind it is used as a spare classroom, a meeting room, a hangout spot for students, and is where I surveyed the girls.

As with most third world private schools, all students wear uniforms. Girls in dresses, boys in knee length pants, older boys must wear pants.

Access to a library in an economically disadvantaged school surprised me. As I walked around the I noticed this sign, USAID funded the building and its current supply of literature.

A University of Ashesi student, Pedal, and myself surveyed the 23 girls.We split the girls into two groups. With each of our groups we a. read the question aloud, b. explained the question, c. waited for the girls to write their answers, d. moved onto the next question.

The primary students were surveyed first, the junior high school students second. It took an hour both times to go through the survey.

Above: CoFA 2008 girls completing the survey.

To the right is Malam Primary School's Head teacher.

The entire event was organized by the head teachers of Malam School. Head teachers play an integral part of CoFA's model, they are responsible for selecting which girls should attend.

Future data collection will include teachers, and the goal is to also talk to the parents.

Lessons from John Ray

Sunday, I experience a completely different Ghanaian enclave, the African American community of Ghana. The event: a memorial service for John Ray, a 77 year old African American artist who had lived in Ghana for the past 30 or so years. The inviter: Theresa Kwekwe, a pillar in the African American community, married to a Ghanaian, and friends with my professor at the University of Michigan. I had no idea what to expect. I was told to not wear black, they were celebrating his life, and to arrive at the Debois Center around 10 am. I wore a bright yellow and orange summer dress, arrived at 10 am, and found myself surrounded by a mix of African American’s and Ghanaians, dressed in Ghanaian styled white cloth dresses. You might say, I stood out.

Finding Theresa, she politely greeted me and sent me off then told me to mix and mingle with others. The first table I introduced myself to was unfriendly and reserved; I moved on and luckily found a much friendlier table that invited me to join them. The husband was Togolese and a professor of sociology at the University of Ghana for the past 40 years; the wife, an African American researcher of women studies. They included me in all discussions, contextualized the event, and introduced me to others. Their kindness and acceptance of me integrated me in a group where I could easily have felt excluded and isolated. As time went on it was clear all the elder African Americans had played a part in the civil rights movement, vague references to the black panthers were sometimes vocalized.  Thanks to the couple I enjoyed myself thoroughly.

The event itself was unique and splendid. We sat at tables facing a stage designed to look like John Ray’s living room. Kente cloth hung on the walls, his iconic photographs hung, his sculptures displayed, but along with his art his common place loved items were shown: his plastic chairs, wooden table, bottle opener, pipe, and empty Star (beer) bottles. It was beautiful. Selected community members came forth, told a story of how John Ray touched their lives, and sat back down. Between each story a miles davis song played giving the rest of us time to talk.

The stories of John Ray evoked his spirit. The depth and breadth of his connections and the far reach of his wisdom was astounding. His nieces, a Ghanaian military peace negotiator, a chief, a Lebanese film maker, a Ghanaian beautician, a Hungarian bead maker, an African American Jazz singer, and Nina Simon’s granddaughter, all talked.  Different in occupation, age, sex, and nationality, John Ray made them think of the following things:

·         Who are you?

·         Where are you?

·         What do you stand for?

·         Focus on what you want, and forget the rest

·         Help yourself before you help others

·         Help your children before you help yourself

After the ceremony I helped clean up, and managed to meet the wife of this amazing man. We sat for an hour or so, talking about nothing important, her with a cigarette, and me with a beer. An odd day, ended well. Despite having never met him, John Ray is real to me. His pieces of wisdom, profound, silently whisper in my ear. I hope they stay there until I am also old and grey.

Who are you. Where are you. What do you stand for. Focus. Help yourself before others. Help your children before yourself.

Corruption in Ghana

While a place of wonderful and joyous people, in Ghana corruption is a bureaucratic norm. I have heard many stories, but knowledge and experience is different. Unprepared for the three experiences this weekend, I failed when needed the most.  

On Saturday the police stopped our taxi, asked for the driver’s license, and handed the taxi driver a folded piece of paper. The taxi driver slipped 1 cidi ($1) into the paper and placed his license on top. The policeman returned the license and waved us along. My friend asked why the driver gave a cidi.  His response, “if you give a cidi, they let you go. If you do not, they will look and look until they find a complaint. So it is better to pay.”  Passionate and furious, the driver continued into a twenty minute rant. We missed the details but understood his anger. It was all curious, interesting, but distant from us. 

Sunday: Twice the police stopped my “adopted” family and me (4 white Americans), driving a borrowed vehicle. Bribe total=60 cidis ($60).

Illegitimately stopped, the police fabricated a law stating that the dotted middle line did not indicate passing allowed for the stretch of road where we passed.  Intimidation tactics started with the opening line “we must take you to court”, and followed up with constant inputs of “we will have to arrest you”. Then a choice: arrested or meet the super intendment (and pay the unspoken bribe). My host father did speak to the super intendant, and ended up paying all the money in his pocket. He later estimated it to equal 50 cidis.

 While Steve, driving, charmed the police with his smiles and polite acquiescence, I was silently furious. No problem if left alone, but T-R-O-U-B-L-E when noticed by the police and an interested colleague. They switched off, both took their turn to lean close to the window, leered, grabbed my arm, asked me where I lived and for my number. What I should have done: smiled charmingly, talked to them, given a false number, ask for them to let us go. What I did: yanked my arm free, ignored their request for my number, did not smile, and refused to agree that they were doing us a kindness. Savior of the day: the fourteen year old girl sitting next to me. When at the end the policeman asked if he should take Steve’s money I answered “you should do what is morally correct”, she smiled and said “you should take the money and let us go or just let us go” and so we did.  Note to future self: charmingly bow in the face of police corruption.

Twenty minutes later the process repeated. Less aggressive, a legitimate concern was identified (the borrowed car’s registration had expired the day before), and it only cost us 10 cidis. 


Adaptation is one of our greatest traits as humans. With preparation, experience, and knowledge on my side, I expect myself to do better next time. Next lesson to learn: the nuance of when to bend and when it is better to take a stand. Accepting corruption cannot be best all the time, but I am glad no one spent the night in a Ghanaian prison. 

Ghana & the World Cup

Ghana was Africa’s last chance in the first African World Cup. To all past African travelers, you know how deeply embedded football is in the culture. If not, imagine boys in both dirt villages and any empty patch of land in the city, kicking around a round object. Shirts or jerseys are used to mark the goalposts. They run in the heat, often without shoes, and happily go at it. Despite this almost continent-wide love for football, no African nation has made it to the quarter-finals of the World Cup before. On Friday night, Ghana had a chance to do so. 

Accra hummed with excitement. For the past week, since Ghana’s defeat of the US, locals have dressed in completely Ghanaian colors. By game day, skirts were created with two flags sewn together, flag scarves were wrapped around heads, jersey shirts with the names “appiah” “muntari” and an increasing number of “gyan” covered torso’s all over the street. 

I live a block away from downtown Accra, and I was excited to take my roommate and her colleague to “Oxford” street to watch the game. Our actual location was at a local tilapia restaurant. When I say a restaurant, I mean a set of outside plastic tables covered with plastic sheets. The game is projected onto the white section of the apartment complex’s wall. You have to wait for dark, 10 minutes before the game starts at 6:30 pm before the game is visible. 

The food at this simple restaurant is splendid. Fresh tilapia, marinated, slowly grilled for 30 minutes, and served with fresh vegetables and banku. All is eaten with the right hand, fingers actively skin, and debone the fish, all of it then wrapped in the banku (a fermented starch) and the veggies. 

The game itself was the most suspenseful I have ever watched. Ghana and Uruguay were evenly matched for most of the first half. In the last minute before the half time, Ghana scored. The restaurant erupted. The waitresses, waiters, our table neighbors, and the people watching from the staircase ran all around, screaming, waving anything with Ghana colors. 

People ran up to strangers and hugged each other in shared jubilation.

Well, from here, you must know the rest. Uruguay scored in the second half. In the last minute of overtime, Ghana’s winning goal was blocked by the hand of a defender, not the goalie. So with less than a minute to go, Ghana was awarded a penalty kick. Gyan against the goalie, it seemed we must win. We held our breath, leaned toward the screen,  and watched the ball hit the pole and bounce out. Ghana missed its penalty goal, and the 30 minutes of overtime were over. In the penalty shots, where five strikers from each team get to shoot towards the goal, we lost. Uruguay missed once, Ghana twice. 

The silence was deafening. Sadness, disbelief, and rage smothered the air. Its pressing weight seemed to squeeze out the oxygen. Walking home, heads were bent, and occasional swear words, another calling out, “don’t be sad, It’s okay .”The whole weekend was surprisingly quiet in Accra.

Over the next few days, some people criticized the Ghanaian player, others Fifa, and Uruguay for citing the hand block by a non-goalie as the source of ghana’s failure. My favorite response came from a Ghanaian I met on Saturday. He said those who criticize are not grateful. Ghana played well, and we can be proud. There was no one mistake; every shot or chance we missed was a mistake. It was a game, and we played well. We should be proud. In the next world cup, watch Ghana. We will play and advance farther next time. 

On those words of wisdom, I will leave you. Below are some pictures of Friday night. Sorry I didn’t get a picture of oxford street! I was worried about pickpockets. 

Ready for the Game!: Ghanaian Trader Woman (Left), Roommate Suzanne & Me (Center)

Duncan's: Apartment Complex (right), White wall TV projected onto (center), friends & food (left)