My head is hard and I won't marry you

I am looking forward to a couple upcoming blog posts about my internship and about meeting the nine boys who were rescued off the lake in March.  Because of the sensitive nature of our casework, I am having drafts reviewed before I publish them.  In the meantime, here are a couple recent "life as I know it" moments....


Concussions are rough.  Two Saturdays ago, I thought I'd go for a run in my neighborhood.  It was about 10am.  It was warm, but I thought "Meh, I'll be fine."  So I took off through the streets, greeted along the way by kids and adults alike.  As I passed one guy, I got a "You look tired."  Thanks, dude.

My neighborhood, Labone.

Okay, I admit. It was dang humid.  I got home, got a slight headache and then...bam.  The next thing I know I am on my back, coming back to consciousness.  I realized I had fainted and had hit my head on the cement floor as it was throbbing like nuts.  I 'what'sapped' a couple pals who came and peeled me off the floor (okay, a slight exaggeration). I felt like a wilted vegetable.

I spent the next 3 hours in a semi-catatonic, mildly nauseous state, waiting for the periodical "don't fall asleep" as I sipped a homemade pineapple smoothie.  I slept for two days, was foggy for one and then was good to go. Lesson learned: Run at 6am. No later.

 Hot and humid this rainy season.

"You are marriage?"  It's not an uncommon question for a white girl in a taxi.  Basically, I take taxis everywhere.  Conversations with taxi drivers don't happen all the time, but when they do it's not boring.  Everything from dust storms to language lessons, Obama, gay marriage, and Jesus come up in taxis.  So do marriage proposals.  This time I was leaving the grocery store, and a parked taxi driver calls out to me as I walked toward him.

Grocery store in Osu.

I told him where I needed to go-- remember: no addresses, just landmarks.  So, in my slow, staccato American-Ghanaian accent, I say, "Ah, do you know Labone? G4S?"  I am in luck. He does and then the bartering begins:
Me: "How much?"
Driver: 10 cedis.
Me (I act appalled- it's part of the game):  "Oh too high! I will go for 6."
Driver (it's his turn to act appalled):  "Ohhhhhh..nooo....8 cedis."
Me: "Ah, no.  I never go for more than 7."  He is unconvinced.  I tell him I will go find another taxi.  Driver: "Wait, what is your name?"
Me (in my head): Ha! No way, man. But now I have another bartering chip.
Me: "If you take me for 7 cedis, I will tell you my name."

I win. I thought.  I hop in, introduce myself.  His name is George and from Accra.  Then....
George: "You are marriage?"
Me: "Am I married? No, I am not married. I have a boyfriend."
George: "If you decide to not go with boyfriend than I will marriage you. I like to marry a white woman." 

Now a veteran at the "are-you-marriage" conversation, I begin my inquisition... and my "yes, I'm sure I can't marry you." Where would we live? Why should a white girl marry you?  Do you ask every white girl who gets in your taxi to marry you? Why do you want to marry a white girl?

George's stated answer to my last question surprises me: "White women don't cheat. Once a white woman tells you she loves you, everything is fine." 
Fascinating generalization.  I do my neighborly duty and tell him that white women with rings on their fingers cheat too.  Sorry to burst your bubble, George.

Off to bed.  Gotta run in the morning... and catch a taxi. 

grateful.
alayna.