Kawukudi junction

by carmela mancini (Italy)

I didn't expect to find Ghana

“Ghana? But there is an outbreak of Ebola in West Africa” … “ok, if the health department says there is no risk there” … here I am, leaving the sunny and windy Swan River to go on a long work mission to Accra. At the arrivals I am a bit lost in the crowd, but a small bulky man comes towards me with a wide-open smile: “Madam, I am John, I will be your driver”. After an intense week where I just walked 20 meters from the hotel to the office and ate at a French bakery, I ask John to leave this piece of western Europe transplanted in Africa. First stop, Makola Market where tons of colourful fabrics piled up everywhere, mingle with the smells of karitè soap and fried plantains… I learn the difference between batik, GTP, Vlisco and I can’t hold buying some yards. Wandering in the alleys, we get to Jamestown, the historical Portuguese colony where in the streets there are still some manhole where they used to store goods waiting for the European boats. We step up the red and white lighthouse that looks at James Fort one of the main actors of the slave trade along the Gold Coast. Released from the 90% humidity by the breeze, my eyes get caught by the fishermen rituals. They use long, narrow boats carved from wood log and once they are close to the shore they line up on the beach and pull rhythmically the heavy nets. Women are responsible to collect, separate, clean, and dry the fish. You must watch out while walking to avoid stepping into the sardines laying in the sun. Close by there is a small kiosk. “Fufu, banku, is too much for you Obroni as first Ghanaian meal…jollof rice would be ok”…I learn eating with the right hand, pulling the food into the mouth with the thumb; “never use the left” they warn me, “left is for other stuff”. On the way to Legon University, I see some kids playing basketball. “John, could you turn there? I am a coach, maybe I can play with them”. At Kawukudi junction, the basketball court rises in reddish soil, the burning sun cracks the cement, reminding of an old woman face. John is worried: “This is the Muslim slum, you must not trust, they are known to be thieves!” Under the mango tree some kids are singing in a circle, a little one takes my hand: “wea wea u ko ko, everybody, bring your calabashe…” Two young men come from the barracks at the back, they look like giants surrounded by a positive light. We get into a small room, lights off, the fan does not work. A shelf full of all sizes worn sneakers behind my shoulders, many cups in the upper left corner. “Who sent you to our NGO?” “Well, actually we were just passing by and as I coach…” "Coach? Good! Would you like to support the female team training? It starts in 1 hour, so we can test your skill". "Testing my skills?" I thought between myself, "are they serious?" “Coach Eric will help you preparing the lesson”. “Help me?” I was astonished. Not very tall girls timidly approach the court, I'm introduced as a "guest coach" who will run a clinic. With some communication limitations, given my Italian accent, I start to lead the warm-up: "Two lines, pass and go, lay-ups". Quick, smart players, good shooting technique ... I must sharply raise the level of the exercises. The girls are committed and willing; they listen to me without prejudice. It is a pleasure to train them. As soon as our session ends, the under 14 team prepares for a match. Before the jump ball, the players join in a circle and pray. In the slum, there are not only Muslims but also Christians. “No matter if you call it God or Allah, the only important thing for them is to be together and compete” says coach Eric. While watching the match the senior coach approaches me: "You seem very comfortable with the girls, would you like to come next week?" "Of course! I cannot wait".