A View of the Garden

by Louise Turner (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Ghana

Simon lived a 45 minute cycle from me down the red-brown road that connected our villages. A flat ride through plumes of dust frenzied by Trow-Trows. On my first visit, his guide, Michael, showed me the way. Past the elephant tree. Careful as the road turned to sand and the bike slid drunkenly on its new track. "You're welcome" said Simon as I arrived, dusty, and he held out a cup of ‘fly water’. I had been so cautious about what I had drunk in Ghana in the last month- even rinsing my toothbrush with water sachets. But after a cycle in the humid air, I took gasping gulps of the spiced drink."Come look my house" said Simon. "I'm happy you came." Simon lived in a two roomed hut with a yard and garden outside. The rooms were smoky and spotless. Simon's wife, Ama, was bent over a huge pestle and mortar, smashing the tiny bodies of dried fish for soup. When we first met, under the fans of the charity's office, Simon taught me how to help him walk around. Tapping the walking stick twice for a step up. Saying 'gutter' if there was any kind of dip, pothole or drain across the road. I learnt to offer him my elbow and I would walk him to the bus stop after our volunteering shift was over, where Michael waited to take him the rest of the way home. We often bought sachets of water from the children who loitered there. Simon would hold out a handful of flimsy cedis and the children would diligently pluck the correct note from his fingers and hand back his change. I asked if anyone had ever cheated him this way and he said he didn't know. Simon lost his sight to measles when he was 6. At 12 months old, I received my first inoculation against the disease. "Come see my garden," Simon said once I had finished my drink. I held out my arm for him but he strode out into the yard, ducking his head just in time to miss the low door. I followed, squinting against the sun. The garden was surrounded by chicken wire and was a patchwork of different plants. We approached an area covered in feathery green foliage and Simon squatted beside it. His long fingers moved across the earth until they reached the glossy leaves. "Groundnuts" he confirmed, yanking a clump into the air. Wooden figures of eight coated in dry earth jostled with each other. I took the plant from him and Simon continued through the garden. His long bare toes gripped the ground, feeling for the ridges and bumps in the soil. "Here, tomatoes" he said, inhaling luxuriously and pointing at the fleshy red fruit, heavy on spindly stalks. He took a measured stride along the plant beds and reached out to touch another furry leaf. "Okra, here" he proclaimed. He snapped a few from the stalks and ran his fingers along the elegantly tapered pod. "My wife will prepare for you." Later, with the sun low and red, Simon, Ama and I squatted in the shade of their hut with bowls of groundnut soup. The okra had been sliced, fried and piled on a plate. We ate them, sprinkled in salt and used our hands to scoop the soup into our mouths. Ama laughed behind her bowl as the soup made its way down my arm and dripped from my elbow onto the floor. Michael arrived as we finished our meal and leant against the door of the hut, speaking in Buli. "No water" Simon translated for me as I was piling up our empty bowls. "You need for journey home. I’ll fetch for you now." "Can I help you?" I asked, earnestly offering my sticky elbow. "Where do we need to go?" Simon felt for my arm. He gave it an affectionate pat and laughed, revealing white crowded teeth. "This is my home." he said. "Here, I can see." With that he strode out, his feet reading the ground like a map.