The African Renaissance man: Preacher, Tour Guide, Dreamer, Hustler

Wisdom has a difficult name to live up to: “The quality or state of being wise; knowledge of what is true or right coupled with just judgment as to action; sagacity, discernment, or insight.”

He was the first man I met in Amedzofe. In Africa, the first person you meet can shape your whole experience. “The person who first takes you through the village is the most important,” a professor friend told me. “That will determine who will talk to you, and how you will be viewed by the villagers.”

I found myself in Amedzofe after a four hour tro tro ride over Lake Volta, through Volta villages via the Ametime Hills. Pure beauty, a part of Ghana that many don’t even know exists. I planned to get off somewhere along the way, but I was not ready to escape the comfort of the front seat, and re-enter the Africa of bargaining for a cheap place to stay amid hustlers who see the white man as a new economic market ripe for exploitation.

We drove to the the German Missionary town of Amedzofe, high up in the mountains, overlooking all of Ghana. The driver dropped me off at the end of the road, and called his friend to meet us and take me to a Guest House. I got out of the van and Wisdom was there to greet me, with a warm smile and a humble handshake. I was excited for my experience to start. Wisdom mentioned that he knew God had brought us together for a reason.

Wisdom and I talked for hours at the Christian African Mission House, the Guest House where I stayed. He knows everything about the area, and told me about the ongoing projects, the volunteers who come through the area to build roads, help at schools, pray with the villagers. About ten years ago a Peace Corps volunteer helped set up a community tourism project. Now the villagers struggle to keep it afloat.

He told me about his American friends, who were his best friends, and now barely write or call him. Of Hillary, who he wanted to marry. “She’s a doctor, and went back to the States and we realized it wouldn’t work,” he told me. He recently married a village woman who he struggles to love. She’s nine month pregnant, and he has already named the baby Chandra, after an American woman who he briefly fell for a few years back.

The next morning I went to church with Wisdom. The day before, he told me that he runs a guest house and is a tour guide. He is also a drummer and dancer. On the way to church, he told me that he is also a preacher. He is one of the leaders of the church. He preaches in English, as a way to sound important, above it all. A man translates his words in the local dialect, and there is a several second delay until the villagers respond.

It is hard to explain church in Africa, mainly because it does not really make sense to most Westerners. First, it is fun. People are happy, dancing, singing, and the smiles on the face are genuine. This church split off from the larger Evangelical Presbyterian because they tried to impose rules on how to pray. No dancing in the aisles, no waving your arms, no singing when you are not supposed to. But that is not how Africans pray, so they split off. For many Africans, church is their only entertainment, and Sundays are social, relaxing, and an important source of satisfaction. Church has legitimacy that political institutions, community based organizations, NGOs do not have, built upon the fear of going to hell. They view the entire institution as a spring towards salvation.

I envisioned a new project of looking at the politics of churches in Africa: when and why they split, how and why people stand up to authority, and how international donors affect the entire process. It could tell us a lot about politics across the continent.

And churches have money. The day I attended church, they raised 650 cedis. One villager told me that he did not have enough money to send his sick wife to the hospital. He begged me for money. He donated 20 cedis to the church that morning.

There were four preachers at the service, and they were all well-dressed in sparkling new suits. They spoke pretty good English, and they were excited to meet me, talk to me, take pictures with me. They were extremely charismatic, and connected with the people in a way that would make President Mills churn; Thank goodness he didn’t have to campaign against them. Many of the preachers had other jobs on the side, like Wisdom, but preaching paid good money. And they could be the Big Man of the community. Churches were an entire market that allowed freedom of expression, association, and mobility. For the preachers, it paid the bills.

Karl Marx was right: religion is the opiate of the masses. But it is also all these people have, and the enjoyment they had at the four hour service could well be worth it.

Wisdom told me of his dream to open an orphanage for children in the area. “I have always been the man who cares for others, and thinks about others first,” he tells me. “I am God-fearing and God-loving, and I want to care for these poor children.” He tells me of his plan to buy land in Ho, paid for by his friend Sara who is a PhD student in the US. Volunteers from the US will help run skills-building sessions and teach computers skills. The orphans will be empowered to set their goals high and be productive members of society. Hopefully they will then have the chance to visit the United States.

The more and more I talked to Wisdom, the more he reminded me of Silas and Mothibi in South Africa. Kofi in Accra. All of these Africans I met were pretty well-educated, but never had the resources to complete the highest levels of education. They entered the tourism industry, learned the basic rules and norms of American and European tourists, and were charming as hell. They could immediately put people at ease, and tourists were so excited to finally meet somebody with whom they could speak freely. Someone who didn’t initially appear to care about money, somebody who even invited them into their home. The stories were eerily similar: they fell in love with white women, showed off their white friends to their village friends as if they “had” something special, and expressed their desire to empower their community through local projects. They all had big dreams.

But they also felt cursed. Silas was accused of rape by a woman in his community; she could not take it that the father of her baby was now dating a white woman. Mothibi had to move to Pretoria where he was not hassled for money. They all expressed these concerns with me, and begged me to “help them.”

On Monday, Wisdom was not his self. For the first time I saw him anxious, not sure of what was happening and what he should do. He told me that his wife was in extreme pain, and he was horrified that something was wrong with his baby. That night, a group of Scottish missionaries came to Amedzofe, accompanied by a Ghanaian preacher from the outskirts of Accra. A city preacher. He asked us to come pray for her, so we went to his village home. His wife was clearly in incredible pain, and Wisdom told of us the problem.

“Ever since we got married, things have not been good for us. I used to be in love with a white woman, and it angered many in the community,” his voice shook. “Then I decided to marry her [pointing towards his wife] and things have not been good since. This other brother was in love with her, and was very angry that I married her. He said that he cast a spell on us, and came over many times to cause trouble. My wife said that the last two evenings she has felt somebody come in during the night and sit on her, as if they were trying to kill the baby. These spirits are real, and they have possessed us and we are scared.”

Wisdom continued, “Please pray for us.”

While village Africans were Christians, they still believed in traditional African spirits, and many are still horrified of witchcraft. George, the city preacher then quietly spoke, “I just want to be clear. We will definitely pray for your wife, but what is more important is that you take her to the hospital tomorrow. She may be sick, may have malaria, and she must be checked by the doctor.”

He then wildly began preaching, “In the name of Jesus, please dispose of the evilness from within. In the name of Jesus, may her baby be blessed with everlasting life and good health. In the name of Jesus, In the name of Jesus.” He grasped her forehead, and the group of missionaries chanted behind him. After five minutes of intense screaming and praying, they just stopped. Wisdom’s wife immediately felt better. The Scottish pastor said, “I can tell she feels more at ease. Is healthier already.”

She remained that way until we left. Then she was in pain the entire night.

On the surface, village life is much simpler, much more peaceful. More serene. I went to bed each night to the sound of the birds chirping, and children laughing in the distance. The Church and the Chief dominate, and the forces of their authority are clearly demarcated. The chief is in charge of land and small disputes, while the church provides a semblance of spiritual order. Local government does not do anything. Local traditions and culture remain intact and important, and constantly adapt to, but also re-form these other institutions. Local communities make these institutions work for them. Whereas contrasting regimes of representation complicate city life, village life appears easily understandable.

Yet hardly comprehensible.

The city preacher tells me about how many people who move to cities leave their car at the nearest town when they return to their village, because they will be expected to bring back lots of money. The jealousy of the villagers will only affect his immediate family. My friend Kofi avoids going back to the village unless he has something new and special to bring. “They just have too many expectations.”

In my interviews in the worst slum in Accra, called Sodom and Gomorrah for its filth and desperation, I ask a resident if he prefers the city to the village. He responds, “Yes, because I do not want to go backward in life.”

Wisdom’s wife did not sleep Monday night; she was in incredible pain. She had to go to the hospital. Wisdom arranged a taxi to pick her up at 8 am Tuesday morning, but it never came. The driver promised that he was “on his way,” but that doesn’t mean much in Ghana. Wisdom paced back and forth, until the Scottish missionaries were kind enough to lend them their vehicle. He was extremely grateful because now he could rush his wife to the hospital, easily, comfortably, and fast.

Wisdom picked up his wife, and four preachers got in the van, all feeling as if it was their duty to make sure the woman was safe, all craving the credit for saving her, making her healthy.

Wisdom’s demeanor then totally changed. “Let’s make money. We can make some money.” He immediately became a hustler, and tried to get as many villagers in the van as possible so they would pay for the ride to town. They squabbled for several minutes over the price, while his wife lay in pain, wanting to be at the hospital already. The van picked people up and dropped them off the entire way, turning the thirty minute ambulance ride into an hour and a half tro tro trip.

The preacher next to me could tell that I was annoyed, worried for Wisdom’s wife. He leaned over and said, “This is just how we do it up here.”

James Town Pride

“I have lived in James Town my entire life and there is no place like it. It is the center of the city; it is Old Accra,” Kofi tells me about his home. His family has been there for decades, and his father owns one of the few storey buildings in the area, with a wonderful view overlooking the neighborhood. He continues, “I am James Town born and bred.”

James Town has a charm I have not seen in other parts of Accra. People speaking Ga, children running around naked in their own way, a naked dance that is unique to this area. James Town expresses a type of poverty that is not only African, but an urban African that is only understood through the lens of an African city. Malnourished children, obese women, complete overpopulation. Kind of like India in a way: the stench, the colonial buildings, but an aliveness that inspires residents to go on, live on, dream.

But its African-ness, its Ghanaian-ness, spews out of the smelly, open sewers, the music blasting through the speakers, and the horns of the tro tros. The chief’s house up the street creates a semblance of order, while the African women pound their fufu and the youth sit on the corners, on top of run-down cars. All night. It is too much to quantify, to make sense of, to understand, but it makes you want to return. To hear stories. To figure out the “fucked-up-ness” that keeps James Town going.

We sat in a run-down courtyard at dusk, drinking palm wine out of bowls, listening to Ghanaian reggae, and watching the sun set above us. James Town was where it all started: the international slave trade in the 16th century, large migration of the Ga people to the city in the 17th century, and the beginning of the bustling metropolis of Accra. While the rest of Accra seems confused – a mish-mash of Soviet architecture, faux American influence, and the blitz of British buildings, with its own African aroma and flavor – James Town has an identity.

“They are proud people,” an NGO representative told me about the James Town residents, “They feel that the city is theirs. They feel like they have given their land to the capital city.” They have a sense of ownership: a right to the city. The Ga people settled in James Town in the 1600s, and they have been moving to the neighborhood ever since. Many of the housing structures have been in people’s families for decades, and the “family house” is still viewed as a foundation for most James Towners. “It is a safety net for the poor Ga people. There is always the house to come back to when times are rough.”

During the 1940s and 50s, James Town was the center for political independence. Kwame Nkrumah founded the Convention People’s Party at the Paladium, a central structure in the area. The struggle between the CPP and the opposition UGCC was played out in Old Accra, and it was not until Nkrumah won over the people of James Town and its surroundings that Nkrumah paved the way for his presidency. Today, the Ga Mashie district (of which James Town is a part) is considered the political hotbed of the country. The saying goes, “If you win Ga Mashie, you win the National Election.”

James Town exposes a life of endurance, of survival. Survival enlaced with pride, passion, and heartbreak. Of political apathy mixed with political heat. I could just feel the tension, the energy, the "about to break out" but a security that did not come from courts, or even the chief. Perhaps it came from history, from tradition, from somewhere within James Town itself. A mixture of it all. James Town is why I study cities. There is the “urban crisis” and the “emerging economies” that are so prevalent in the literature, the ability to form a new life but also descend into chaos and disorder. The questions just flow, fascinating puzzles are everywhere. It feels alive.

Kofi tells me of the boxers who train nearby, of the comedians who make their start in James Town. The “noisemakers” who create problems and get the public riled up. He tells me how there is a fight between chiefs, and the police had to come in and settle the dispute. Thankfully, it’s quiet now. He tells me about the parties, and says, “You have to come here for the parties. The funerals. This is the place to be.” He grew up here, and he tells me of his life going to school, and then escaping to University of Ghana. He says he could leave Ghana and study in the US or the UK, but he would not want to leave James Town and Old Accra. He does not want to leave home.

He tells me of his daughter, who is three years old. I ask him if she lives in James Town. “Oh no, of course not. I don’t want her growing up here!”