God Bless Kwasiada

Accra doesn’t sleep on Kwasiada, or Sunday. It prays. Then parties. “God’s Gift” Hair Salon is closed; “Providence” bar does not service customers. The morning is drenched with Hallelujahs and spurts of rain, while the day is spent watching football, barbecuing, and spending time with family. Then drinking into the wee hours in Osu, Central, or Labone. “Ghanaians work hard, long hours,” a restaurant owner told me. “But on Sundays, they relax with their friends and family.” Even the Nigerian migrants take a day off.

People from all over West Africa come to Accra to work. Sundays are their resting days.

My friends from Gabon came to Accra to learn English. Stepson of the President, Yannick’s brother is now in line to become President of the country. He came to Accra to learn English and get away from it all. Who needs African royalty? He wants to be independent. Become a rapper. His brother Stephan dons a New York Yankees hat, flat rim and all. They rap in French, play pool, smoke cigarettes. Ami, the chick who “hangs around” is from Mali; she’s here to learn English as well. “I want to make lots and lots of money, that’s why I’m here,” she tells me.

Peri rented me my apartment. Classic, professional businessman. He’s Ghanaian, but grew up in the UK. He worked as a teacher for many years, then was an administrator in a few different technical schools and colleges. He moved back to Accra four years ago for business. “This is where the money is now,” he says. “The US and the UK had their days in the sun, the opportunities are here now.”

“With my music you gonna feel alright…everybody wanna dance all night…” Shepherd sang to me as he watched his friends barbecue beef kebabs. His pseudonym is “Shephdon.” His reggae tunes span from “Situation,” where he explains the political situation in Nigeria – full of corruption, false promises, and chaos – to “Who be this guy” where he gently tells us who he is. “I want to be a reggae artist, a big star,” he told me as I sat next to him drinking a beer. He took Sundays off from his grueling job of selling ice cream out of a cart at the market, Monday through Saturday. Shephdon is Igbo, but he lived in Lagos for many years. He loves Nigeria.

He recorded a few singles there, but ran out of money. “I had no money, and trying to become a star there, I could not sink to the level of selling goods on the street. People would have laughed at me. So much shame.” So he came to Accra. He makes 10 cidis a day, on the good days. Barely 8 dollars. On the bad days, he barely reaches five. He gets to Central Accra around 8, and works until 10, then goes to Osu, where the night crowd hangs out and sells until midnight. “I’m just trying to save enough so I can go back, home. I need $1,200 to be able to produce a quality tape that will make me a star.”

I have a house boy too – Appiah. He’s from the north, as so many people in Accra migrate from the less-developed, poorer Northern regions. 17 years old, lives in a small room out back. His English is not very good, but we manage to have broken conversations. “My family lives in a close town, but I am here to work.” I asked him if he goes to school, and he said he finished basic schooling. He would like to continue to college, but it is too expensive. “I need 300 cidis (about $200) a year to pay for school, he told me, “and my family doesn’t have it.” He does my laundry, sweeps and mops my floor; he even ran to get me cooking oil this morning. I give him $4. While he irons my shirt, I sit and read my book.

He had to work on Sunday.