Ode to an Old Soul : For the Grand Mother who has gone

My grandmother died last night.

Most will send condolences and imagine the cordial service at a local church.

Some will picture her 93 year old frame, frail and dusty, giving in without resistance to the reaper’s grasp.

None will imagine her as the hero, bagging carrots in a factory until each finger bent irrevocably under the burden. Single handedly putting two boys through school on a pittance wage.

None will know how she loved Boy George later, his energy and crazy hair, and kept his poster on the back of her guest bedroom door in her tiny apartment with the slanted walls…

They will sit quietly at her funeral service, hands in their laps, listening to the generic words of the priest - not knowing that she was vibrant and alert, not so long before, and painfully aware of the limitations of her failing parts.

They won’t realise that she kept the family memories alive and well in her mind – she had the sharpest memory I’ve known. S at up in her hospital bed two months ago, head crusted with blood from where she’d fallen, body hunched and dry and so tiny… she said to me matter-of-factly:

“I’m 35 years old in here” (pointed at her heart)

“Getting old is annoying. People talk loudly to me. But I’m the same person I was at 35, just got stuck in this old body”


And it struck me.

So many are afraid of old people. They fear the fragility, as like a mirror, it fortells the future. It forces us to face our own mortality and the sickly smell of urine, warm and without dignity, that characterizes the demise into old age. It repells us.

We see them so often as already gone – mentally, physically. Many will not look for that flicker in their eye, that could reveal a person to relate to and understand. A person who has loved and been loved.

But it struck me when my gramma said this to me. I looked deep into her eyes, and there she was. Lover of shortbread cookies and the best baker of them in the world. A mother, a sister, a soul that I could relate to. It was a reminder that one day, this could be me.

I wanted to reach out to her, to hug her so tightly. But she’s never been the affectionate type. And her body had grown so skeletal (from the bad food, according to her), that I had to resist. To just be content to be in her presence. A woman who I’d grown up with. Who I had always loved, and who in that moment, I was so connected to.

And then I had to fly away, as I do, and the news came of her continued weakness.

The nurses hovering around her, a patient number on their rounds, chatting amongst themselves, lifting body parts and replacing them mechanically.

They didn’t know who she really was. I suppose they didn’t have time to look.

And as the talking around her got louder, she became quieter and more still. Her breathing got more shallow and her body started to shut down.

She slipped into a sleeping state. She was tired. I wasn’t there, but I know she was too tired to carry on. What with the annoying oxygen tube they put across her little face, and the sores on her legs refusing to give her a moment’s peace.

She decided to go, my grandmother did.

And as with everything in her life, she knew her own mind and she did what needed to be done.

But for us weaker ones left behind, I only hope we can do her legacy justice. Her soul escaped our world and left an emptiness we now hold.

Go well Gramma, we will remember you for the wonderful woman you were. No generic lip service from me. I love you forever.

Lives Apart: comparing Canada and Ghana

Happy belated New Year – can you say that? Like with Birthdays?

I have been home – across the world and back – for the holiday season. It’s surreal to visit your family as a guest, a fly on the wall of their collective reality, when mine is so different and so far away. I pick and choose which parts of home to embrace, and which to leave behind; remove my emotional investment.

There is a price to be paid for this definitely. I think over the years it has eroded my sense of home in it’s entirety. Sentimentality is replaced by a certain cynisism and the problems of the West seem to pale in comparison to what I see on the streets of Ghana. I am left in limbo. Not truly immersed in or entrapped by what being here means to it’s people, yet so far removed from what it means to live in a Western society, with reliable water and power and shopping malls on every corner.

I found an interesting website, If It Were My Home, that points out how different our lives are, based on the ‘lottery’ of where as a human soul, we are born.

It’s very North American centric, but allows you to compare the standards of living in Canada or America to most any other country in the world.

Below is a snapshot of a comparative analysis between Canada and Ghana.



What strikes me is what the statistics don't say. What they cannot. Like the fact that if you are in Ghana in January, you will wake up to a sky full of sand, blown far from it's home in the Sahara desert - it is in your teeth, all over your home. You wake unsquinting to a sun that stares back at you - calmly and defined like the moon, easily visible through the haze. The light of the day like a permanent twilight will guide and mold your mood. This is the unknown season of harmattan...

The stats cannot explain the fact that you will have no idea, no concept of what it is to walk outside to the assault of a Canadian winter morning cold. The kind that takes your breath away and brings you to tears instantly. Your eyelashes, coated with your tears, instantly become icicles. The tips of your ears, if uncovered, begin to lose feeling and you are overcome by shivers.

Life in two places can be so very different, and living between the two is a surreal experience indeed.

Up in The Air - Observations of a traveler

I’m in an airport again. Ran around like an absolute mad woman at the office today, delusional in the belief I would get all the loose ends tied up and leave early. Got home the usual time, threw the last things into my bag (realized the humidity in Accra is rotting the zippers of the luggage), and had a shower. Then ran around the house trying to organise food for the boys at home for the week, and had about half an hour to unwind. Now I’m sitting in Accra’s International airport. It’s 33 celcius outside and it’s 9pm. The air-conditioners are not working in the airport today. Little tickly beads of sweat are gathering into fluid streams, and find their way down my temples, behind my ears, under my bra. I feel soggy.

An hour ago I was fresh and clean.

This scenario plays out about twice a month. I travel a lot for work. Every chance I get, I travel for pleasure as well. Sometimes I like to combine the two. I probably travel too much but who’s to say what’s too much. Last month it was Sierra Leone, now it is Canada, later this month it will be Lebanon and Jordan (but that one’s for pleasure!), and then the day we get back, we’re on a plane to Nigeria.

Whenever I am in transit I find myself considering my identity, my place, my cultural constructs of the world. Where do I belong?

I’m looking down at myself. My t-shirt was bought in Houston while at an Oil & Gas exhibition. My jeans were bought last year on the trip to the PDAC show in Toronto. My shoes were bought when down in South Africa last year for a wedding. We got my watch in Los Angeles on Rodeo Drive (which was a bit surreal). My laptop from a mall in Germany, my phone on a trip through Dubai.

Living in Ghana, where adventures with local salons have led to disaster*, I even have a hairdresser in Dubai! Go to her every time I’m passing through. I think that might be an indication that I travel too much.



This trip is taking me via Heathrow, back ‘home’ to Canada. The term ‘home’ doesn’t really fit into my reality. Though Toronto is my birthplace and I grew up in the surrounding suburbs, I have lived in a completely different world for close to 15 years. I’ve spent 14 of the 22 years of my adult life (that’s 63%), on another continent in a world so far away on so many levels. My concerns are not the concerns of anyone I know in Canada. My day to day reality, something so different, so removed. And now that has become the norm for me.

I think the day I first realized the extent of my alienation was when I arrived at Pearson International some years ago, carried along by the drowsy crowds of arriving passengers, and noticed acutely the accents of the immigration officers. I picked up the certain nuances that characterize a Canadian accent - something I didn’t realize existed before I left her shores.

In the expat world of Ghana, I spend time amongst Ghanaians, Nigerians, British, Germans, Jordanians, Polish, Lebanese, South Africans, Americans, Spanish, Italians, French - and the odd Canadian.

For now, that life is home. Our house, a 70’s monstrosity, was once the Libyan Embassy. With company furniture and a few local nick nacks, we have no sentimental connection. Our next home will be a boat, and we will take it where our whims carry us.

Over past few years, whenever I arrive back in Toronto I find that I’ve lost the connection to the city. It has become like so many others – arrive one week, notice the new buildings, smell the unfamiliar air, off to another destination the next week.

With an outsider’s eye, the city no longer feels comfortable. It has no spark, no recognizable beauty. It is a suburb. Life goes on here, mothers take their kids to school in their 4x4s, each neighborhood has it’s chain store mall, the sidewalks are straight and the grass is cut. There are laws and rules and things work. Elevators go up and down, water comes from the taps. In winter a grey hue descends and covers everything. It wills people to hibernate against it’s grizzly embrace. In summer it is peeled away and people live more each day for those few ‘thawed’ months, when the sun visits.

All of this is a foreign world to me. At ‘home’ in Accra I dodge potholes in the road, look away at traffic lights, as the beggars push their thin babies to the car window. I argue with the house cleaner/cook about putting mint instead of basil in the spaghetti sauce and for forgetting that bleach isn’t to be used on the coloured clothes… I worry about the generator not starting or the water supply being cut off for weeks. I worry about the malaria spreading mosquitos every night when we’re out past 6pm. I consider 26 degrees celcius a cold day and 38 degrees a hot day – and I can expect the average temperature all year to be 30 to 34…



11 hours have passed and I’m in another airport. I’m surrounded by a whirlwind of colour and sound – undecipherable chatter and coats and bags and parcels and the swoosh of late passengers dashing toward gates.

I sit quietly and am very aware of myself as one among the many. Just another passenger headed to another destination.



But my trip is not like any other. I happen to be heading to Toronto. Though I don’t live there anymore, it is my family that draws me back. I am lulled by their welcoming arms at the airport. The delight and excitement in my mother’s eyes when she first catches sight of me among the crowd. I am attracted to the nostalgia, to the din of the family’s chatter on a Sunday afternoon, while my sister cooks up a gourmet meal. There is a tenderness and a level of comfort that has no equal. When I am back in Ghana I keep the memories of these visits in a place deep within me. Mementos. They remind me what the term home actually means.

Penguin wedding - step parent wedding etiquette goes south

We're in the last throws of packing and closing up everything in the house. In a few hours we'll be above the clouds, heading south. All the way from Africa's west coast to it's southern most tip.

This weekend my stepson is getting married. Not only does this make me feel old! It is also a sentimental occasion and one of those important life defining moments. The children are growing up!!!

The wedding will be very non-traditional which suits me just fine - never having been a traditionalist, nor remotely religious.

Family members from both sides will gather, some from the other side of the world - as the bride is American.

They are having the wedding and reception at a national park - home of the African penguins. You gotta love that. A bunch of guys in tuxedos and matching penguins wobbling about. I'm looking forward to that.

But there is the minor issue of being the step-mom', It's not the most highly regarded position in a family if you know what I mean. Yesterday - when I had WAY more time, I had the idea of writing some witty post about the topic but then I got sidetracked when I found a number of websites outlining the etiquette for step parents at a wedding!!

I couldn't believe it - but if you go HERE you can see a good example.

Who knew I was supposed to sit on a back seat, bow out of the receiving line and most probably wear beige.

The bottom line is that you should try to blend in with the surroundings. In this case, maybe I should go as a penguin?

Well - etiquette and family feuding aside, I'm excited for the young couple - all those hopes and dreams ahead of them!

I plan to have a stiff cocktail near the very beginning and enjoy the day in their honour.

Be back in a week.

xo

To Catch a Thief - A follow up to the Guard and the Gardener

Over the past few days I’ve read two blog entries from fellow foreigners in Ghana. Both concern the serious betrayal and incredulousness they have felt as sentimental things have been stolen from under their noses by the Ghanaians they know and trust. My close friend was also over a couple days ago and told me the same thing. The most disturbing aspect of these stories is that each person had demonstrated time and time again that they were happy to share and if asked would give the shirt off their backs for the people they share their personal space with.

The first blog entry I’m referring to was by Barb – an American married to a Ghanaian, living in Ghana with her husband and kids. The second entry was by Wes, an American secondary school student who is spending a school year in a village in Ghana.

Both people are quite open-minded and trusting.

Both have the very best of intentions in Ghana, and neither have flaunted wealth nor treated their Ghanaian families with anything less than respect and love. Yet both are finding themselves reeling at the ability of the people around them to steal and lie, straight faced, with no remorse.

Both stories are so sadly familiar to me. They reminded me of the story I posted a year and a half ago, regarding the ongoing theft of diesel from our house by our trusted gardener Eric and the guard who represented a highly respected and trusted security company. During that whole fiasco our gardener defiantly protested the accusations and insisted he was innocent. He counter accused our cook, who has since been let go.

The whole thing was sad for me. He had been someone I had a soft spot for, and I commonly gave him cash advances which we both knew would never be paid back, as well as clothes, food etc etc etc. Once he was gone the letters started. First was a letter in his broken and pleading English, asking for his job and housing back. He insisted that God would redeem him and one day we’d regret accusing him. Next came a letter from a lawyer’s office in Accra, threatening us with legal action for dismissal without cause. That we laughed off, but I took the time to write to the lawyer to explain that we had witnesses etc. and they backed off.

A few months later Eric came back with a vengeance, waiting at our gate as we left for work in the mornings and leaving letters with the (new) guard. These letters continued with the theme that he saw us as his family, as his mother and father, and that he would never have betrayed us in the way we accused him. He wrote that he had been praying every day that we would one day see the truth of his innocence and let him return.

Now in our relationship, JW is the softie at heart. One of the letters got to him and he called for Eric to come and see him. The next week Eric was back. Smiling as ever, ready and willing to help with anything, assuring us it had all been an ugly misunderstanding with the evil, jealous woman who had been our cook. He assured us God would bless us for seeing the truth and giving him this new chance.

I was skeptical, given what I’ve seen happen in Ghana, but yet I went along with it, and to this day, he is back at the job and staying in a room at the back. I still give him little presents etc.

Yet a week after his return a friend of mine who has a gardener that had filled in at my house during our months without Eric, casually mentioned that Eric had admitted to the other gardener that he had indeed been stealing the diesel, with the guard, just as we’d suspected, for over 2 years. He however told the guy he was happy we’d taken him back and wouldn’t do that again…

So where is the deterrent to stealing again? How does a Christian who references God and the bible and uses his religion as a tool, then live with the lies? Is it simply a matter of poverty?

As both Wes and Barb's stories corroborate, this is not always the case... Is it a cultural acceptance of dishonesty? Why is it ok to betray people who trust you? Where is the remorse? How can we expect anything less than corruption at a national level when this is the behaviour you find inside homes? Who is brave enough to talk about it, to confront it? To change the culture that expects and condones it?

It’s a case of honesty in Ghana – or lack there of…

Happy Birthday Shiloh

My amazing boy Shiloh died 4 years ago at 6 years old. What a statement, yet it's true. Today he would have been 10 years old. I can barely believe it.

I am crushed at times by the bitter sadness of not having him around us everyday.

But there's nothing better than celebrating those you love, and today I send all my love out to the universe for Shiloh.

A very special person sent me some words to live by today, that I share below:

Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal. ~From a headstone in Ireland

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. ~Kahlil Gibran

Now blow out your wishes and make a candle...

Birthdays, like New Years Eve are always anti-climactic. Everyone wishes you the best, and says have a great day! But what if it isn’t a particularly good day? Afterall, anything could happen. You could get your period and feel like a ten ton truck with a couple extra water filled tires hanging heavily around your waist, for example. You could get up, look in the mirror and see the dark circles of life settled deeply under your eyes.

You might just be facing a work day that is particularly stressful and have a pounding headache, and not enough time to grab a sandwich even for lunch.
It might just be that you find yourself completely alone on that particular day with nothing to do but contemplate all the far flung well wishes and your own self pity.
You might come home to a quiet house with yesterday’s chili in the fridge and reruns on TV…

Happy Birthday! I’d like mine postponed this year, and while you’re at it I’d like the number adjusted by 10 years.

I’d like a big surprise party so I could blush and feel special and then diamonds and other extravagant unnecessary luxuries to prove I’m loved. I’d like a chauffeur to pick me up and whisk me off to a spa for a day of full pampering and self indulgence.

But I’d settle for good health and savings in the bank. Uh oh, both those are in jeopardy this year as well.

Probably a good idea to skip the cake too, as the number of candles needed at this stage could crush the cake and start a fire!

Birthdays put so much pressure on you to be happy, be honoured and be remembered.

But what if deep down you know that you have a great family and friends who love you all the time and that you might get a random gift on an off day when no one is expecting you to, and won’t ask if you got spoiled on the big day?

Isn’t it just as good to have a great child, be in an amazing relationship, have a challenging job and dreams that are forming into tangible future plans? Is it not good enough to wake up to sunshine and warmth and two fried eggs on a plate?

Birthdays should give you a chance to reflect on how the year has disappeared and ask yourself what special moments you can remember. And then keep them with you. Birthdays should remind you that time is short and precious and irrevocable and that every minute, day, month, year you have should be filled up with your best. Loving those around you and laughing as much as possible.

I think I’ll dust off that bottle of champagne at the back of the liquor cabinet, pop it open and celebrate near 4 decades of an excellent life, and toast the effort to make the next 4 decades even better.

Highschool Graduation offers more than a Diploma Paper in Ghana

I am nostalgic and emotional and basically choked up. A great song will bring me to tears today. And yesterday. And the day before.

This weekend was Graduation.

Not mine – in fact I didn’t even attend my own, way back in the 80’s from my ghetto fabulous highschool. There just wasn’t that feeling of closeness as a whole class. There were cliques and segments, and like the street gangs of L.A. we moved through the halls of the windowless day prison, carefully eyeing the enemy. The uncool, the rockers, the ‘Enriched Program’ brainiac geeks, the Punjabis with the knives in their socks. There were the mysterious smokers who hung out at the back of the school, all pencil thin in jean jackets and Farah Fawcett hair – both the guys and the girls. There were the unwritten rules of segregation in the cafeteria and the danger of being in the wrong locker bay at the wrong time. It was a rough and tough school and no one really shed a tear at leaving.

On the last day of classes we all walked down the tree lined suburban side streets to the ‘right’ or the ‘wrong ‘ side of the main road – the classist line that divided the properties and caused further divergence among the students. We never looked back. We were grateful it was over and none of us had a united future, or common goals to look forward to. We passed the grade and did our time and it was over.

This scenario could not be further from the reality of the kids we watched through their Graduation ceremonies this weekend. My tears were brought on firstly by the reality that I’ll be losing a surrogate son – surrendering an amazing child to adulthood and the big world.

But what struck me during the numerous events arranged around the Graduation, was the amazing comraderie and sense of purpose among a class of 50. All alive and vibrant and determined. All of them convinced they will be great. None of them weighed down by the soul sucking weight of reality. None of them obsessed about themselves in that negative, self loathing way that is exhibited in the attitude of so many teenagers in the west today. The class has been together like a force, a swarm, for years. The friendships developed will span their lifetimes and have etched memories into each other forever.

All of these kids are forced upon each other, all taken from the comfort zones of their own cultures and dumped into a mixing pot called an International School, while their fathers do the daily grind with infinite frustrations and their mothers try to find women’s groups for tea and oversee the servants and try not to lose their grip on reality.

They come from everywhere – Denmark, Sri Lanka, Lebanon, Korea, America, Australia, South Africa ... the world.

Still, what comes out of this experiment in education abroad is an amazing self esteem and sense of purpose the children gain. They are privileged but not spoiled, they travel the world and they are responsible. They are tolerant and open minded and they see the world far beyond country borders. They become leaders from within.
So at the graduation ceremony there are hundreds of photos and speeches and hugs and tears and the sentiment is real and the kids are all headed somewhere with purpose. But will definitely miss where they’ve been.

And the parties afterwards are shared with parents and families and everyone has fun. No one is too cool to dance with their mother, too bored to talk to their uncle, joke with their teachers, enjoy the love that surrounds them.

And the songs that serenaded the kids as they threw up their caps, and at the parties later will hold memories for all of us, and remind us that it is possible to have a positive outlook and have pride in the generation that we are raising. And years down the road I will undoubtedly be driving along and hear the song that pulsated, “My dream is to fly over the rainbow so high”, and I will see in my memory’s eye, the crowded dancefloor and the jumping bodies, all excited and hopeful and alive, and I will get all choked up and nostalgic and remember this graduation as if it were my own.

Ageless vision

Sometimes you meet a person who puts your life in perspective. Someone who challenges your beliefs with their smile and handshake and general existence.
There are times in life when you realize that you have been limited – boxed in by your experiences – to the point that you have not imagined beyond the invented boundaries.

Last weekend we left the chaotic reality of Africa – left the stench and pulsating rhythms - for the peaceful crisp cool of the Avon river. We followed the smooth highways and combed the fresh green paths, far outside the confines of grey grimy London, to the South coast of England.

We arrived at my cousin’s place – a distant relative tied to me in loose yet inexplicably binding ways. The whole plan was orchestrated by e-mails and reassurances from family members that this would be a wonderful reunion. And it was.
He greeted us at the gates of the old mansion – his smile resounding, the smell of nearby pastures permeable. I instantly felt welcome. Within minutes we were seated around the table on the back porch, overlooking the duck pond, in the late afternoon sun, sipping fresh raspberry daiquiris and champagne, discussing our extended family’s convoluted history.

This cousin of mine has made a point of asking and gathering information and is now quite a source of information about our shared grand-relatives’ lives. For some reason we all want to know as much as possible about where we came from, what has contributed to make us who we are – sinew for sinew, trait for trait. I guess I am no different. We drank up all the information he could share and soaked up the sun, the spirit, the delicious pink of his cashmere sweater and the soft, lulling voices of the gang seated around us.

This cousin of mine has left quite an impression on me. He is an inspiration. A life that keeps living, hopeful, alive, exciting. The first thing he told us was his age. We spent the next two days disbelieving this statement in every way.
My cousin is 69yrs old. He has recently married and is the typically giddy, goofy newlywed with the grin of a 21yr old. His dress sense is the sophisticated cool of a 40yr old who has learned enough but still takes chances to look young and hip. His smile has the genuine surety of a 12yr old boy. His zest for climbing and biking and exploring his world are the defiant ready for the universe edge of a 19yr old.

My cousin and his new bride defy all the notions I’ve blindly accepted about age and limits and life’s predetermined steps. By 69 memories are life. Daily routines involve soft cereal and teeth floating in murky water. Power over bodily functions is not guaranteed and neither is recognizing ones’ self in a mirror. Dressing involves polyester and elastene. There are special stores that cater for this sector – churning out man made monstrosities that make the statement – I am old and hunched and dull pastels keep me comfortable. There are no vacations – barring the adventurous who make it to Florida annually. Decisions are influenced by the proximity to a health facility and a public restroom.

This cousin of mine met his bride online. They travel globally –enjoying good wine and gorgeous sunsets, after completing challenging treks and trails. They climb mountains and plan for the future. They appreciate beauty and indulgence and they watch TV with limbs intertwined. They wake up and dress for the day – jumping up to the possibilities that lie ahead.



My cousin is maroon and fire in the face of oatmeal grey. He is a deep magenta with olive undertones. He answers life’s rules with a vitality unknown to me before now.

And I thank him from the heart for proving what I forgot I knew – that rules are limited and small minded. That life is immense and multicoloured. That every day and week and month and year we have are blank canvases we fill in whichever way we choose. Life continues as long as you want it to. If you keep loving and tasting and smelling and stepping forward into it – the mist yields a new experience every single day.

Maybe it was the cool sea air or the pungent gardens but I woke up last weekend a little more. I appreciate the colours around me. The soft hand of my lover, the bright deep eyes of my son.

I see just a bit more clearly what life holds in store.
Life is about love and self confidence and good friends. And that does not change at any age.