Keta Reveries

8/14/2019 Keta Reveries

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Frederick Kwesi Great Agboletey

Keta Reveries

Introduction

I have always known there was something in me seeking for away to express itself. I sought through manifold ways to let it

find expression. It found expression in short meaningful burstsof deep thought meant to serve a good end. But what I wanted toexpress was not the limited witticisms of wise men, inasmuch as

that has its purpose and found ready ears.

I hungered for the unceasing outpouring of creativity, oozing like honey from a freshly toasted honeycomb, filling the air withits sweet aroma and tingling the taste buds with its pure

sweetness. Like the honey in your mouth, I wanted theextemporaneous out flowing of words that painted a diverse

landscape on the blank whiteness of the mind, bringing form tolife and instigating evocative expression of appreciative joy tothe giver of all things.

The years of dried desert mind state, were tormenting times spent in the heat of a search of relieve for solace. The solace of the outpouring of the great opening of the sky of words that will rain down inconsolably, quenching the terrible drought of the

years of starved deprivation. Bringing to bloom memorys seedsof unheralded beauty in the forlornness of wilder regions of

scraggy desert landscape.

Like Job in his scabby dejected gown of ashes, I acknowledged

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the architect of thought and infinite continuum in diversecreation. I kow-towed and knocked on the doors of righteousness in my smutty dejection. The mighty doors opened

unto me and opened the closed doors of my heart, letting gush forth the panoply of expressive desirous outpourings of unhindered, unrealised thoughts.

The justified deceptiveness of empty wilfulness parading as shaded versions of deepened seriousness, with a scowl and a frown. We flaunt our talented frivolity, padded by time and ameaningless search for realisation, as monumental achievements of great effort. Parading down the avenues of

sunlit glory...

With monumental effort I sought and continue to seek for resolution in fulfilment, to put to rest simmering embers of hopes fire lighted in times unrecollected and in being set tolight have denied me the warmth of comfortable embrace.

The awakening to reality of dissolving landscapes of hope,where the shifting land under feet, dissolving dreams in theblinding light of the waking day. The pain of waking to painful reality, clouds minds that need to think clearly to dance with therapidly evolving non-discernible reality.

II

The midday sun beats down in blinding sheets of melting swathsof heat. The treeless streets of the city send back wavering radiated heat waves up, caught in between are the few walking outside in this intolerable heat. The sweat streams down faces

flushed a darkened blackness by the boiling blood of overheated

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skins. The gravelled asphalt is softened, and at places looked like the inside of a well-used frying pan. The sand at the edge of the streets, have gone beyond oily dirt to a sort of silvery

bleachedness. Up and down the street, in the distance theillusion of pools of water hovering over these frying streets,created a sort of distraction, where each observer worked their lucid imaginations into some ambiguous image as they,

patiently and with that quietude that the hot noonday evoked,listlessly sat through the afternoon.

In our house, grandpa's whitewashed pride, in the women'squarter under the widespread 'agbo' tree it was a cool, breezy,refreshing; a gentle breeziness of defined cool in the beating tropical heat that lulls one to a gentle state of sated

pleasantness after heavy carbohydrate laden afternoon meal.

From some room in the large house, faint notes of pachanga music seeping from an old radio diffusion box accentuate

balmy, breezy calmness in the heat of the afternoon sun. Themusic strangely evokes distant images of sun bleached islandswhere the serenity of lonely sadness that laced these notes givesone an impression of deep loneliness, a longing for something undefined that transports itself into the voices of the singers.

I was just a child, loving every moment of it. My grandma, Dada, was a bosomy mamma, a huge bundle of loving joy, whowas an assurance of loving-kindness. She was an assuredness of a loving presence that was so reassuring that I never reallymissed my mother. I knew that I had a mother somewhere but

grandma was all that mattered. In later years when I wasremoved to live with my mother, I never quite lost the deeply

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ingrained attachment to grandma. She haunted my dreams sointensely in the years after I moved to stay with my mother, and many years after her death, reoccurring images of her

blanketing evoked a sense of serene love that from another I could never experience. Grandma was unique.

It took many years to eject my dream man from the graveyard of the past in a wrenching effort of great spiritual self will. But that was still years ahead, this afternoon, as she fried and tossed sugared flour balls called locally 'botokui'. With

practised hands she expertly hoisted balls of flour that she fried to be sold.

We, the children all sat in the bleached grainy sand of the seashore that we carted to fill the compound every now and then. On one of those sand carting occasions, when the seaerosion was a real threat, and the city council had forbidden

sand carting from the beach which was right behind our

grandpa's mansion, in the early evening, among the ruins of thebroken houses that the sea had with unrelenting ferocitybrought down, as we dug and piled the sand into our trays and bowls, none of us, neither the children nor the maids saw thehuge wave that had crested the high sand ridge and bore downwith awesome onrush towards us, one moment we were chatting with childhood abandon, the next moment we scattered and being borne seaward in the huge backwash of the wave, in that

short period, I was rolled and tumbled with a tremendous forcetowards the huge broiling Atlantic, that at this time had becomea torment on the collective mentality of our town. As a child I had no concept of death, yet, I knew that this was a short ridewith no pleasant ending, the water and the sand filled my mouth

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were the outsiders who travelled from far away places for aweekend visit. Mainly from the capital. These included our

parents. Their coming was always anticipated with great

excitement, our parents were all highly placed individuals in the far away capital city, they had all been educated abroad and were the pride and joy of Grandma.

There was my mother a police officer in a male dominated world; her visits were less frequent when compared to mycousins fathers, both of whom worked in the bank. Uncle

Francis was the funny one; he had an unending accumulation of jokes and interesting stories that his ever-ready audience of kidsand adults never tired of hearing. There was the morecosmopolitan Uncle Richard, the architect who was a sleek brother with a dangerously funny side, he had spent well over

fifteen years accumulating diplomas in former communist Eastern Europe and Dutch Universities, and he was also anaccomplished journalist. Then there was Efo Kofi, the army

corporal who made sergeant before retiring, he laughed at everything and made a joke out of everything. His only problemwas that he holds an unyielding belief that his father tried tomake him crazy, and anytime the two of them came together there was certainly to be some fireworks, of course he wasknown to have tried abomsam tama the bad weed that wasreputed to get into the head of smokers, the local euphemismevokes its negative destructive potency. Uncle Prince the eldest of the group was a serious man with a high position as the chief accountant of a big state owned fishing company. After twenty

years in Britain, he had his peculiarities. He had style and dashaccentuated no doubt by his ever-shiny Mercedes 120, back at the turn of the 60s that shiny black car cut quite an impression.

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He drove at great speed, a man on the move in a nation poised for growth. We dubbed that shiny Mercedes 'shon-shoni-kel-keli' the shiny, shiny brilliance.

There are two sureties of their visits, we the kids get to get twoand half penny pieces and rush to 'Otiokpla's; the Togolese shopkeeper with a funny name to stuff up on sweetened, carbonated,mineral water and corn bread. The second was that they alwayshad to have a family squabble of some sort before returning back to their city bases.

There was Papas portion of the mansion that was fully cemented out front. The broad stretch of front yard with its flowers wasreminiscent of an Italian palazzo set on this Western Africacoast. That cemented courtyard had well laid flower beds set along the walls and had a raised a porch that stretched thebetter half of 100 metres, opposite the house at the other end of this vast cemented courtyard was the water tank, that stored

rain water, before the house was connected to the public tap system this tank held enough rain water to provide thehousehold with water year round. The house itself rose loftily,as though with a dignified sense of arrogant disdain in itshaughty whiteness. It exuded a certain reflection of itsimperious owner.

Grandpa like many great men was slight of build but had animpressive presence, as though ego made up for what nature in

stature denied him. He was a slightly built man of impeccabletaste in everything. As a head teacher he had a lot of teachersnote lying around his office, and I often wondered whether heartistically drew each letter of his stylistically moderated

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flowing handwriting. To us children, he was a distant cold and feared disciplinarian. His quarters had floors so well polished that they reflected your face in the highly polished terra cotta

smoothness of its flooring.

The hall of grandpas great house was a special room tastefullyand artistically decorated with huge solid armchairs always

sleeved with white cushion covers. But it was the wall of the hall that was enthralling, the story had it that it was painted byTeremtere;' a local painter who painted only at night, when it is said, that working under the inspiration of mermaids, hedaubed paint on the walls with his hands in consistent patternsof unimaginable beauty, a rare presentation of truly inspired creativity.

Our grandparents were serious Christians, but in a town by the seaside it was impossible to stifle the imaginative indulgence inimprobabilities, the human story making instinct flowered in all

kinds of old recycled myths and ever newer inspired inventiveones. Thus, it was that among we the children, Kwaku wasbelieved to have a friend among the dwarfs, the mythical littlemen who were reputed to capture men and take them far to theislands in the lagoon and tutor them in healing practices and herbs. Such stories were ever prevalent, but one never reallyhad the opportunity to meet anyone who had gone through theexperience. Though the storyteller always knew of a friend or arelation who knows somebody who knows one such person.

Kwaku had an artistic bent and very early began showing great athletic abilities.

I never quite fathomed what led to this conclusion but he

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showed incredible talent in art and was a fast runner whocaptured the glow of public approval early in his youth as a

sprinter. By the time he was sixteen, by which time he earned

the nickname 'bullet', he was virtually unbeatable in his races,we all expected great things of him, but he fell into bad company, which was not so difficult to do when you were in amixed secondary, brimming full with teen hormones and seeking to show you were one tough cookie. He took to smoking the'devil's weed' and lost purpose and direction in the haze of

youthful immaturity. The bad habit quickly found other mates of socially unapproved behaviour, later when he got dismissed in form three, he never got his act together and made another try. He took over his mother's stall at the second hand market and became fairly popular in the vicinity. The second-hand market was a festering den of social aberrant, it was the middle step onthe way to worthless self-destruction. There are those who timeand circumstances have denied the opportunity to maximisetheir potentials and their contribution to society, there is that

sad beginning that with focused determination become the ethosof human achievement against the odds.

There are others who being offered the opportunity refuse torecognise their unique blessing and utilise the advantageous

foothold to get a firmer grip in life, these are the tragic failures,who by their own desires and indiscipline bring pain to many.

The second hand market was a cross-road, the junction wherethe undisciplined sunk into wasteful vice (like the opium dens of the darker side of the world), the leeway exploited by theunjustly denied to claim a hold unto meaningful existence, for the former it was a joyride of death, for the latter it a fastidious

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perseverance at commerce and a hard climb to financial independence. Everyone hoped and prayed, but he became amonstrous junkie. Kwaku's mother, Uncle Franciss wife was

called 'Mamma' by everyone, she was a hardworking trader who became a fairly successful trader in the second hand clothes market and sought to provide a comfortable life for her

four boys. It was rumoured her marriage to Uncle Francis did not quite meet the approval of the family, since it was said therewas a curse in the woman's family, but in retrospect, neither did the marriages of any of my uncles meet approval and acceptance among all the family members, there was always

some lurking reason why a particular man or woman was not the best choice.

It thus did not come as much of a surprise that with all that antagonism, all of my uncles had to marry more than once.

Kwaku was the father's first born, the father Uncle Francis wasa colourful maverick, a man who after five additional children

and a 24 year stretch living in a bachelor's pad, would comehome after a good evening at the disco, from his job as anaccountant at a bank, waking the children scattered in various

stages of sleep and teach them the intricate moves of the latest disco steps. When Kwakutse, Kwakus younger brother demonstrates one of these late night dance lesson sessions whenhe thought them the basketball dance, there is hardly a straight

face left around.

Lincoln was the third boy on Uncle Franciss side, then cameTito, who passed away while still young. Kwakutse was alsocalled Churchill, while Kwaku's christian name was Kennedy.

He had a way with naming his children, avid reader that he

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was, I often thought that he relived these great men in hischildren none of whom lived to their namesakes greatness.

Lincoln stayed with the divorced mother till she died in penury,

then soon after was poisoned, dying an unfulfilled life of painand disappointment, that took him from his father's bachelor pad to the mother's faltering second marriage, her long strugglewith a foot abscess and a sad lonely death.

Uncle Prince met Esi while studying and working in the Londonof the early fifties and early sixties. There were always the little

stories that were barely told above whisper level "one dayUncle Prince caught Esi in some sort of affair with aneighbour..." By the time he came back after almost decades in

Britain, he was a different man from the young man whose tripabroad on a UAC (Unite African Company) scholarship,obtained for his flair and brilliancy in accounting, whileworking in the local UAC depot at Keta, enabled the grand old man, his father, the respected head teacher to make his first trip

to the capital city of Accra.

Papa had over the years carried on a successful import tradewith British concerns without finding it necessary to make a tripto the capital. For over five hundred years, since the first

European touched Africas shores, the ships had docked at theold harbour at Keta and done their business. Uncle Princebeing the first born of an ambitious father who had broken thecords with what he considered unpolished traditional ways to

pursue education to the highest level feasible then; a graduateof the missionary teacher's training college at Dzodze, he did not have an easy childhood. He was constantly being moved

from one place to another and spent considerable time in-

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between relations on the father and mother side.

My grandma, his mother, told of a story of which left lasting

impression of the worst realisation of separation anxiety, a phenomenon that a mother suffers when separated from the first born child. Uncle Prince had been staying with the mother's

sister at Agbozume, north east of the great Avu lagoon, wherethe earth was a salt tinged grey. On a surprise visit, sheenquired about the whereabouts of the son from the sister caretaker. She indicated that he had gone to the latrine outsidethe house walls. In grandma's own words, "something in me

pushed me to go and look for my son, as I went towards the pit latrine, I kept calling, Prince, Prince, there was no response

forthcoming, when I was real close to the pit latrine, which wasnothing more than a deep hole with some planks laid across, toenable a foothold which one straddles while letting go of the'cargo' of human waste. I could barely decipher some muffled cries emanating from within the dark interior of the palm fronds

that shaded this frightening toilet. My steps quickened as I moved in, only to see my dear son cowering at the far end of the

pit, apparently afraid of stepping across the chasm bridged bythe frail planks. I stretched out my arms and, even, I started crying myself, imagining all sorts of horrors of the little boy

falling and drowning in that bubbly living wriggly mess of foul waste. When I got him out of their, I took him along with me to

Dzodze, I just could not countenance the thought of him going back there alone." The narration of this story always brought tears to the eyes of my grandma, a sensitive and feeling soul.

Though I have often wondered what of other children and thoseother times when a grandma's timely arrival did not avert an

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eminent disaster, but these thoughts, I kept to myself, knowing that in many ways tragedy occasions the mundane in fairlyunpredictable ways. Uncle Prince is a man whose demeanour

commanded instant respect. He was of that special breed that even covered in the dirt, grit and mire of desperate want somehow, without uttering a word commanded attention, a second glance and an uninvited salute from strangers. As he stood in full western attire a single breasted Saville Row suit,brown croc shoes, beside his waxed and polished Mercedes

Benz, he was just the man who in turning to look towards hisair-conditioned bungalow in the new housing estate in thisincredibly beautiful new industrial city on the West Coast of

Africa, was had arrived. He was in a parochial way, a sign of the times, he was an African in transition, transiting fromunsophisticated childhood of a small coastal town, caught up inthe sweep of colonialism and its transformation and after a long

stay abroad, he stood unbeknownst to him at the time at thethreshold of traumatic and life changing experiences. Yet for the

time being, he privately savoured the material trappings of cultured and civilised African maleness.

In a way he was a man caught between states, he was way out of the world view of the lesser mortals who abound in his

society, yet he could not quite find it within himself to find personal equivocation with the moulders of the definers of modernity, civility, in its totality. Twenty years in England hasopened his eyes to a reality that he dared not reflect on, for it was frightening in its intensity. That he came out of it all acourtly and dignified master of his will, attested to his humanityand acceptance of the self as a variety in God's diversity increativity. The memories rolled like storm across the blue

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forest, he had been gone for three days, the palm trees had been felled, and the sweet frothing wine was irresistible, he worked hard and drank hard. On the fourth day, the executioners set out

under the orders of the priest to capture the young maiden.There was preparation underfoot for a great sacrifice. The manwho was to protect the maiden was far away in the jungle,expiated on palm wine. When the executioners came to thecottage where the maiden and 'Gbonkude' lived, they found aneasy prey, who was tussled and bundled, crying softly to the

shrine of the god. She was left tied to a tree to awaiting theeventuality of the night. She was sad, lonely and left without a

protector in the midst of great wickedness. She quietly sobbed,recalling how she felt defenceless when being betrothed to aman every one knew was a drunkard, albeit a hard working drunkard. She could not protest against her parent's decisionthen and felt helpless against her imminent, untimely death. Shebroke into a song, her voice high, lilting and clear, was gentledew that sobbed its sorrows unto a hapless village. Her song

was:-"Gbonkude, Gbonkude, when I told you a drunken man cannot

maintain a good homestead, you never believed or listened tome- Now, here I am, a worthless sacrifice, because you were not home to defend me. Because you were not home to defend me, I am about to be sacrificed to a tree

The whole atmosphere absorbed her sorrow and the birds inthe trees sang a chorus to her sad melody. A little bird up in thehigh branches took her song far into the jungle and sang it to'Gbonkude'. Hapless 'Gbonkude' drunk and drowsy, heard the

sweet song of deep sadness sang to his name, suddenly he jolted awake, apprehensive and aware that a great and tragic event

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was about to take place, because he had failed his husbandlyrole. He rose in anger and shame, slung his hunting bag on his

shoulders, tossed aware the 'wine tasting' calabash and

advanced towards the village, every time the bird chirped the song, he run ever faster. He began to recall his struggle toobtain the hands of the maiden in desperation, the beauty of

youthful radiance that lightened the face of his young betrothed. By the time he dashed into the outskirts of the village, it wasalready dark, the moon was a huge, white ashy ball in the sky,its brightness cast sad shade that intensified the quietness, herushed towards the shrine, now he could hear the young maidens voice floating gently, tiredly through the quiet night.

He roared forth, "Dearest, dearest, I am coming, I am coming,Gbonkude is not one to fail in his duties." As he entered thevillage square the executioners were leading his 'dearest' towards the execution block. The blood of warriors past, theancestral heritage rushed to his chest, there was only one thing on his mind, to free his young maiden from the grasp of cruelty,

the fight for justice prevailed over the machinations of evil, he grasp the tender hands of a tired maiden and walked into theappreciation embrace of the villagers. From that day therenever was another sacrifice, neither did 'Gbonkude' become soinebriated so as to forget his husbandly responsibilities.

The story telling often assumed an elaborate schooling process,where children are tutored on when the songs are introduced,who sings what part etc. When Grandma's sister, Danga

Agbozumetor who in those days an elegant, trim woman,visited, she never forgot to tote along bundles of the special,locally baked, starch biscuit, heavily sweetened, that was a

favourite among we children. It was during one of those evening

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meals, while we were sitting round the low wooden tables eating from the same bowl, the childhood favourite of 'akple and fetridetsi' maize pudding and okro sauce, as it often did happen,

a fight broke out over who will have what piece of meat. It wasone of those irrelevant childhood nuisances that werecommonplace among the five children who we were. Theraucous noise floated and disturbed the serenity of Papa whowas reclining in his 'akpasa' the wooden rocking chair that he

favoured. He was in the forecourt, separated from the femalequarters where we were eating. He was intolerant of noise and at that time of the evening when he was deep in a contemplativemood over his fast diminishing eyesight, the iridescent noise of children shouting and bellowing stung him like a bee, he rose inhis irritation and before we scattered from the descending walking stick that he was brandishing furiously, as his approachvirtually went unnoticed, the sudden move tilted the stools and his bad eye sight not permitting he dove headlong into the

steamy pudding and the platter of soup.

None of us children hung around to assess the damage, we spent a long time outside the main gate in the outer yard until, in thequietude of the night when all had gone to bed, we were quietlylet in, and tiptoed across the vast forecourt with great trepidation. We neednt have bothered that evening, for in theearly morning of the next day, we were summoned to the hall where we received an earful of reproach from the old man onexpected behaviour.

I remember vividly one hot afternoon, when the heat draws aquietness that is intense, I found myself throwing spoons and enamel plates on the cement floor of the kitchen, in the din of

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that irritating play that only a child can engage in, I completely forgot the 'no noise' rule, all of a sudden a flash of white and then the lashes were raining down upon my back, until the

sudden attack and the stinging cane let burst forth a gush of watery relief. I never quite forgot that and I've never liked noisyenvironments since.

Grandpa had some friends that from our child's eye were prettyoddballs, there was this one man who lived in a big house west of the little town, he entitled himself chief Agorkoli, the nameitself being an anomaly, since oral tradition had it that the real chief Agorkoli was a historically a much hated chief whosewickedness in the mythical town of Notsie lying in the southern

part of the Kingdom of Dahomey is the historical beginning of the great migration of the Ewes, who set out from the depths of the Niger delta and later had to migrate from Notsie when the

strong arm tactics of the wicked Chief Agorkoli became simplyunbearable. Yet, here in a traditional Anlo town, was an old

man who called himself Chief Agorkoli. He will often come tovisit Grandpa wearing excessively large knickers, sown in velvet material locally known as 'ago' and brilliant white tunics sownthe traditional way, a round necked light calico with threebuttons, ending in a V-split in the neck region. The funny thing or more appropriately what was 'wacky' about 'chief Agorkoli' was his belief, that he never tired of announcing, with relish,that the sea erosion could be stopped by a certain short man,who is so wicked that he wouldn't give the key that closed thedoors of the sea to the elders of the town. To our ears, aschildren it was a fascinating story that there was a door to thehuge expanse of roiling water outside the walls and that that keywas within easy reach. Each time he visited, he showed up,

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strategically to coincide with grandpa's before dinner drink of a glass of schnapps, we waited for the key to the sea to be produced but it never was.

Many years after the sea took our house, I will still return in mydreams to the shoreline of broken and breaking houses,devastated by a hungry and never satisfied sea, that in theaftermaths of its rage, tantalisingly left a string of land between

sea and lagoon, in the place where a great town once was. I would dream walking the lanes of a town that has ceased toexist, looking for the man with the keys to the sea. Sometimes mydreams would place me beneath the high, crumbling sand walls,right at the edge of the roaring and dark sea, sometimes I would be swept by a strong tide into the cold waters, yet the key wasnever there to lock the sea from eating away out little town.

One day at dusk, I had wandered out of the house through the southern gate onto the shore, by this time the sea had

established its purpose that Keta was no longer going to exist,the shoreline was a litter of broken houses, houses that wereonce grandiose laid as pitiable piles of buried cement blocks,their yellow, blue and white painted inner walls exposed to eyesthat they were not intended for. The town's people had turned down an offer years earlier by the government for a housing estate elsewhere, now they had only to watch in dazed astonishment as there houses were irreplaceably destroyed. The

slow intensity of the erosion was so concentrated that it seemed the whole town was caught in a slow spiral that loosed theedges of individuality into a collective desperation of quiet resignation. The strict authority of missionary upbringing wasloosened as we the children watch our grandparents collapse

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into stupefaction with their town. I went to the beach that evening and in a strange apprehension realised that there

seemed no other soul on the beach, suddenly, I saw the sea

emptying into a whole about a mile offshore and in its place the sand stretched for miles, and miles far into the horizon; as suddenly as it emptied, it all came pouring out again. The water came back, roiling and splashing, all along this sandy coast where not even a single rock existed along the coastline.

Grandmother sometimes allowed us the children to sit under her market stall in the Keta market. The market days were every

four days, on the north side of the market was the lagoon; a vast stretch of ancient sea, bearing boat loads of traders from Anyarko, Hatorgodo and the tens of hundreds of tiny villagesand hamlets lying on the other side of the Keta-Avu lagoon. I remembered the first time I sat with grandma on the flat-bottomed boats that ply between Keta and Anyarko, it was toattend the burial services of my father's father, he was virtual

stranger to me, I remember only the haze of intense activity that occasioned the service, he was an Agbotadua or captain, hehad to be buried like a warrior, they brought out for that occasion the warrior's drum, that unlike the normal drum that were beaten, was rubbed producing this vibrating hum of deepbass, the noise of that drum was so deeply resonating and sointensely intruding that it was unnerving.

In those days there were a few boats that had an outboard motor, but the majority used sails. Once in a while one heard about overloaded boats being swarmed and going under, but thelagoon was generally benign and every four or five years over

flooded, especially when there has been heavy rains.

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Occasionally, there were severe droughts that dries up thewaters of the lagoon, this had disastrous consequences, sincethe fishing in the lagoon was an important economic activity for

the people who lived around it. A son of the land who completed engineering in colonial England, decided to breach the piece of land that separated the sea from the lagoon at Vodza as anattempt to regulate the pumping of sea water into the lagoon, soas to regulate the water level in the lagoon to control the

seasonal water level fluctuation, the project was locally perceived as definitively great. Those were the days whencommunication links enabled black and white televisiontransmission and foreign newspapers to enable awareness that

giant sea control projects were mundane in Holland. In a way,the locals perceived this as an inspired engineering activity

springing from a local mind. The piece of land between the seaand lagoon was just that, a piece of sandbar, but solid and highenough to prevent the sea from having free access into thelagoon. As the story goes, the tunnels were dug, the pumps

installed and on an appointed, when the project was to bedeclared open, the great man; that is the engineer, descended down to the mechanically sealed tunnel, on the lagoon side,turned a switch and a great surge of sea water rushing throughthe pipes swallowed and drowned him. His body, of course wasnever found, and the flow control loosing its proponent, initiator and executor came to an abrupt end.

In a seaside town, under siege from sea erosion, water storiestend to assume unimaginable grotesque brilliance. As a growing child, any time I passed the lopsided concrete culvert over that

sand bar at Vodza, I've always wondered whether the story wastrue and if it was how come there is nothing but a bi-coloured

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water height measuring pole stuck, a few metres away in thelagoon indicated any significant engineering activity in that area. But Dr. Ayi's sea-lagoon project story, remained a

popular lore.

Between two water masses people tended to be identified aswhether their residence was closer to the lagoon or the sea. Sowe had the lagoon-siders or the sea siders. Grandpa, for instance had a 'girlfriend' on the lagoon side, but we lived onthe seaside. Grandpa's 'girlfriend' was a constant irritation tomy Grandma, but for us children, since Grandpa had sired a

son with the lady, it afforded us the opportunity to have another place to go every now and then. On the lagoon side were several interesting people; Daa Congotor for instance was socalled because she had lived in the Republic of Congo for awhile. Where Congo was, we had no idea, but we sure knew it was nowhere in West Africa, where extensive trading gave

several local women identifiable accolades like, that's Mama

Senegal, Cameroontor, or the one from Cameroon etc, thenthere were the Anagos and Fulani's who came from Nigeria.

Daa Congotor was a respected a woman until certain chain of events caused such a great uproar in the town, that she was

somehow tainted. It all started when Lasbat, a diplomat who served abroad in, Brussels, it seemed, returned home and started behaving strangely, as it turned out he had some mental problems or as some said was abusing 'egbe' or marijuana.Well, it was terrible as it was, but as his savings dried up, some

folks began spreading the world, that he had been seen carrying the tip latrine of Daa Congotor. The tip latrine, was the general

sanitary format in the days before flush toilets became vogue,and were later to be replaced by the ventilated pit latrines, it

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later the bedraggled mob came into view, there ahead of thisrestless mass of angry crowd was the carrier straining under awater laden sack of garri almost bursting at the seams. That

man was the loneliest figure one could ever imagine, tensemuscles, bunched muscles straining under the heavy load, eyesdistended and noses flaring. The bewildered man was at thehead of the mob that hadnt quite decided to take law into their own hands. An elated flaring mass herding with a strangedetermined purposiveness the carrier towards the police station.

The police had been alerted and were on hand just to ensurethat the situation did not get out of hand.

It all became clear that what started out as a chase to catch athief had become the town's people against the wiles and

strength's of the load carrier. Yet again there had been amistake, investigations later revealed, the carrier was a newman in town, who spoke a different dialect and had just been on

the job only a day. He had interpreted the command 'take theload to the warehouse' to be 'take the load to the boat' It wasthat simple, a misunderstanding but it ended up as a show of commitment, first of the loader who no matter what, was not

going to toss the load-off, and of the townspeople who were not going to let him getaway with it.

The town prided itself on its civility. There was the park, called the Keta London park, with the water tower that held piped water, and beneath the water tower on the other side of the wall

fencing the park was the post office, a hundred meters to the left facing the sea was the police station, to the right of the post office was the Fort Kristensen built by the Danes sometime in

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the mid 1500s

Grandma was a trader, she traded in all kinds of things, one

time she fried 'bofrot' or doughnuts, then another time she was selling rubber products, she bought from CFAO at Accra and retailed at the Keta Market. Another time she will be frying 'atsomo' or biscuits or retailing tobacco or snuff. She wasalways up to something. By the time we came around our

parents, were all dwelling in the capital. One time Grandmawent on an extended trip to Accra, she was away for someweeks. It was during this trip that Grandpa fell in love with

Afiewor. Afiewor was strictly speaking, a distant cousin's of Grandpa's daughter, she was in her thirties, and had that

sombre, sharp fixedness of a dedicated nurse. While Grandmawas away she ended up coming to cook for us the children and Grandpa. It was during this time that in retrospect, it was

suspected in some quarters that something might have happened between them. In any case it was the case that Afiewor decided

that in the course of time she will become not only a domesticassistance, but the madam of the house, so she arrogated herself the right to sell some baskets of nuts and other brick-a-bracksthat were stored in one of the store rooms in the house. Wheneventually Grandma returned from her trip, she detected thedisappearance of some stored goods. It was not that these

products were of any great importance, but when Afiewor wasconfronted over the missing items, as Grandma reported it, her demeanour and highhanded, arrogant, behaviour gave her course to believe that something was amiss. She confronted Grandpa, but in the typical male avoidance tactics, Grandpatook the offensive and made such a great raucous that thematter ended up unresolved and unproven. But in retrospect we

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children wondered if it was altogether unlikely that the nubile,well muscled, maiden, may not have gone astray or merelywarmed an ageing gentleman.

Conclusion

Every place is a happenstance in passing, being shaped by theevents that revolve around its inhabitants. The little town by the

sea is an eroding event that dwindles in significance in thecollective mind as the people who once lived there dwindle,diminishing in passage, like so many pebbles dropped on the

path of life and in time buried in the dust of passing time. Theimage it evokes is partially a picture painted by the mind inreflective solemnity, slowly reviewing that which possibly wasand in being re-awakened emerges as images filtered throughthe distortion of the minds windows, reflected on decaying canvasses that hardly can depict a reality veracious.

Over time the people have becomes ghostly shadows caught in

the faint recollections of childhood memories filtered throughmaturities censored and weighted by life experiences recalled capacity. In far off worlds far removed from event source, in

settings incongruent with the slippage of memories outpouring of fading images caught in the shadow of fading memories.

Bleached photographs of curtailed recollections of fading relevance garbled in wobbly memorys redress in a final spurt of enabling immortality to fragile strands of looping life find resolute expression in these tales of life as it was. Vistas of

fading lifetimes set against a background of childhood innocence.

Documents

Keta Reveries