People We Meet, Sights We See

I am sensitive when I take pictures of people and surroundings that look interesting to me. I always need to remember that what is new and different to me is everyday life to someone else. Most of these pictures were taken with permission. 

The two girls are “carriers” at Makola Market. They are from the northern region of Ghana but escaped to Accra to avoid being sold by their tribes as child brides. At the market these girls are literally hired by shoppers to carry purchases as they weave their way from shop to shop then back to their car. Sadly, most of the girls end up getting raped, resulting in another young mother with a baby living on the streets. The girls giggled and seemed happy to have a white person ask to take their picture. I don’t believe they speak a word of English. I assume their tribal language is all they know.

I walk with another senior sister missionary every morning at 7:00 am before it gets too hot, and the work of the day officially starts. We vary our route, but it usually includes the dirt path along the side of Ring Road at some point on our three-mile journey. We see several of the same faces every day either sitting or lying in the same place, so we came to understand that the low curved tree limb is one man’s home, the wide base of another tree has been claimed by another. An old cement slap under another tree is the home of a very pregnant woman and man who fashioned themselves a small two-person tent made from clear plastic during the heavy rains. The man has a newspaper that he carefully reads and rereads. Yet another man sleeps with a gray and black stripped fleece blanket stretched from his feet to the top of his head. He was awake one day as we passed and said good morning to him. He looked surprised but gave us a nod. As he learned our routine, he was awake more and more frequently.  He progressed from a nod, to a small smile, to a bigger smile with two fists in the air saying, “I am good!” My favorite is the man with the kindest smile I’ve ever seen who says “sisters, good moooorning” as we pass. He has a special tree to sit under and sometimes fresh cardboard to sleep on. If we alter our route, and miss a day or two, when we return, he’ll say, “Sisters, good morning! I have missed you. Good morning!” It seems to us that the smiles and greetings we exchange with each of these folks each morning might be the only individual personal contact they have in a day.

A man in the blue camouflage shirt is sitting on the same cement square most mornings. He also waves and gives the typical verbal, “You are welcome, You are welcome” greeting. On a morning we altered our route we were walking up a small hill only to see our friend walking towards us. He had just bought a small bread from a street vendor for his breakfast. When he saw us, he opened his sack and insisted we share part of his small roll. It was such a kind gesture.

Two mornings in a row the pregnant woman was up walking, pacing, with her hand supporting her lower back. The third morning she and the man were gone. Their blankets were neatly folded at the base of the tree, there was an ink pen lying on top. Did she go into labor? Were they using the pen to count contractions?  I assume that a baby was born, somewhere. I wonder where that little family is now and what will become of them. So very different from how we prepare to have a child come to our families. After a week we saw a woman was sitting on the concrete slab, a different woman. Perhaps it will now be her home. 

It is not unusual to see people asleep, just asleep, on the side of the road, or sprawled across a sidewalk. Many of them seem to have a pattern to their wanderings. They stay in one spot for a day or two, then cross the street, then move a few streets away, only to repeat the cycle. One dear lady has two little boys. She sleeps most of the time, the boys stay close to her still body, waving and smiling at Dale and me as we drive or walk by. Sometimes we give her food or money. The boys seem to just want the attention. One morning the youngest, about two years old, saw Dale walking, ran up to him, grabbed his hand and was reluctant to let it go.