No one brings wisdom to the house of Anansi.
I love this proverb. Presumably, Anansi has all the wisdom so you would not bring him any - rather you would go to his house to receive wisdom. Since I have been here, I have been thinking that all of Ghana is Anansi’s home, and therefore, one does not bring wisdom to Ghana; one comes to Ghana to receive it.
Our very first night here I received my first nugget of wisdom. Tete Cobblah, founder of WTIG, introduced us to “Agoo!”/“Amee!” This call and response is used a lot in New York both in schools and in places that teach or perform African dance and music. I was confident that I understood it: “Agoo” means “Are you listening?” and “Amee” means “We are listening.” While I wasn’t wrong, I discovered that I was only half right. Tete explained that it is also used if you are knocking on someone’s door to ask “Are you home?” and to respond, “We’re home.” In other words, he continued, that it means, “Are you present?” and “We’re present.”
This was striking to me. When I was a child, to be “present” simply meant to be physically in the room. But now people use the term “to be present” to mean to be giving your full attention to what you are doing, to be in the present moment and not lost in your thoughts somewhere else. So if this phrase was using the same words for “listening” and for “being present” then that implied that they are the same. To listen is to be present; To be present is to be listening. This seemed to me a very powerful idea and it connects back to Tete’s father’s trees. The trees are witnesses because they are always present and always listening. For us to become witness trees, we must do the same.
“Be still. Listen to the river; it has a lot to say, ” Tete told us as we prepared to walk down to the river at Donkor Nsuo. When we arrived at the river bank I was struck by how beautiful the spot was, and how incongruous it was that such unimaginable horrors occurred in such a beautiful place. What had these trees witnessed? The water was swirling as it made its way towards the coast and my mind was swirling. What is my role here? What is my role as a descendant, on my mother’s father’s father’s side, of people who gave their children middle names like “Lee” and “Forrest” generals in the Confederacy? What role did they play in this history? What is my role as a mother of a son whose ancestors are not my ancestors, whose ancestors may have passed through that very spot or else another one like it?
While we stood there, an older woman in a long light green dress came from the woods behind and stood on the opposite bank of the river. It did not occur to me to question her purpose. We were standing and contemplating the river; I thought she was standing and contemplating the river. After a while, a man and a woman came walking down the path on the other side each carrying tin pans on their heads with at least 50 pounds worth of cassava in them. When the man reached the old woman, he took her hand and helped her to cross the river. The scene was so striking - realizing the woman had been waiting for help; watching the man who had such a heavy load himself effortlessly guide her across. It was a scene of patience (hers) and care (his) that perhaps is ordinary here, but was extraordinary to me.
What words have any meaning in a place like Donkor Nsuo? Nancy, Kiyah, and Melissa somehow found the perfect ones. As I listened to the poem, the song, and the speech I was so moved, both by the words they found and by the effort that it must have taken them to find them. Thank you Nancy, Kiyah, and Melissa for the risk-taking and care that you showed.
As the guide talked about the trauma experienced by the families left behind and how that has been passed down over generations, I heard echoes of Tete’s story. Of course that would have been traumatic - and yet somehow I had only ever considered the trauma of those taken and how that has been passed down, not what happened on the other side.
As we drove off, the school day was ending, the last day of the school year. An older brother was walking his little sister home. Dressed in blue uniforms, he walked behind her, his left hand on her left shoulder, his right hand holding hers lifted up to his. Further on, a mother and her son in a yellow uniform were crossing the road, holding hands and swinging their arms in such a carefree, joyous way as they disappeared down a path in the woods. Then from another direction came a father holding his daughter's hand and carrying her red backpack over his shoulder. Behind them were two brothers in redchecked shirts that matched the girl's dress, carrying their backpacks, also holding hands. Finally, running to catch up, came the mother with a baby on her back and a big smile on her face. Everywhere there was so much love and joy, care and connection. Again, what is ordinary here is extraordinary. It is not for me to say “I am home, ”but I can say: “I am present; I am listening.