The Abeyie House
Having left the village at the end of September, we are now staying at Ishmael's house in Accra. The house sums up much of what contrasts between life in Ghana and that in the UK. Its therefore a great way to celebrate our time here before we push off.
In a nutshell, the atmosphere in the house is open. The windows and doors are always open. The windows let in a sea breeze which makes the blinds dance and the doors swing open to new visitors every couple of minutes. The courtyard is the heart of the house. This is where a crowd is always gathered to cook, sit, pray, and chew the fat. Yesterday we must've met half a dozen 'Aunties', as well as another dozen friends and neighbours including a seamstress, a masseuse, a cobbler and a government minister. There's always movement but nothing is ever rushed.
My blood being Scouse, it's the banter I like best. The hand gestures are great and would even put a Venetian to shame. I love the way you look your fellow banterer up and down to indicate the taking of measure before attack. It's mostly repetition of course, but I've been howling with laughter at the many ways people find to say the same things. The performance is the whole thing, the result is unimportant since the dispute is nearly always irresolvable abstract. Among the things up for discussion yesterday were whether King Arthur was pissed off with Lancelot, whether Ronaldinho is as good as Zizou, whether its better to shake the hand of, or hug an old friend. As I was brought up fighting four older brothers, I know how to barney and have the advantage of surprise so I can hold my own.
Talking to Ishmael's mum last night, the matriarch of the family who laughs longest, loudest and usually last, listed the eleven people who currently live under her roof. Mostly friends or relatives from the north, she epitomises the sisterly solidarity which helps up (and sometimes drags down) the African family unit.
The women wear beautiful gowns in every loud colour. Many of them have facial scarification and some have semi-permanent blue colour on their lower lip. Some of them even have gold caps on their teeth to denote that they have been to Mecca. The men squeeze their bodies into suits, the boys into clothes which hang off them like they would any teenager in Brixton. There are the occasional touches to flip the script like tying laces at the bottom but in general they look like any kid on MTVBase.
The house is fasting for Ramadan. That doesn't stop them trying to be hospitable and cook for us during the day but we normally make ourselves scarce till its time for them to break their fast in the evening. We're planning to stay with them until Eid Al Fitr on Friday or Saturday to help with the ritual scoffing. That will be our last day in Ghana but we will go with good memories and full bellies.
In a nutshell, the atmosphere in the house is open. The windows and doors are always open. The windows let in a sea breeze which makes the blinds dance and the doors swing open to new visitors every couple of minutes. The courtyard is the heart of the house. This is where a crowd is always gathered to cook, sit, pray, and chew the fat. Yesterday we must've met half a dozen 'Aunties', as well as another dozen friends and neighbours including a seamstress, a masseuse, a cobbler and a government minister. There's always movement but nothing is ever rushed.
My blood being Scouse, it's the banter I like best. The hand gestures are great and would even put a Venetian to shame. I love the way you look your fellow banterer up and down to indicate the taking of measure before attack. It's mostly repetition of course, but I've been howling with laughter at the many ways people find to say the same things. The performance is the whole thing, the result is unimportant since the dispute is nearly always irresolvable abstract. Among the things up for discussion yesterday were whether King Arthur was pissed off with Lancelot, whether Ronaldinho is as good as Zizou, whether its better to shake the hand of, or hug an old friend. As I was brought up fighting four older brothers, I know how to barney and have the advantage of surprise so I can hold my own.
Talking to Ishmael's mum last night, the matriarch of the family who laughs longest, loudest and usually last, listed the eleven people who currently live under her roof. Mostly friends or relatives from the north, she epitomises the sisterly solidarity which helps up (and sometimes drags down) the African family unit.
The women wear beautiful gowns in every loud colour. Many of them have facial scarification and some have semi-permanent blue colour on their lower lip. Some of them even have gold caps on their teeth to denote that they have been to Mecca. The men squeeze their bodies into suits, the boys into clothes which hang off them like they would any teenager in Brixton. There are the occasional touches to flip the script like tying laces at the bottom but in general they look like any kid on MTVBase.
The house is fasting for Ramadan. That doesn't stop them trying to be hospitable and cook for us during the day but we normally make ourselves scarce till its time for them to break their fast in the evening. We're planning to stay with them until Eid Al Fitr on Friday or Saturday to help with the ritual scoffing. That will be our last day in Ghana but we will go with good memories and full bellies.
posted by Luke Chapter 1 at 12:06 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home