Kyabobo 4
On the whole, the discovery of my trip is a mountainside community called Shiare. It is a place I will go to again. The fact of the matter, however, is that I nearly never reached there. My hesitation was due to the tortuous terrain.
Shiare is outside the Kyabobo Park. The place is a classic case of ?Domeabra? or ?Lorm Nava?– you visit because you love the people (or because your life depends on it). Getting there means going up and up steep, narrow paths. As you climb kilometre upon kilometre, the forest beneath you becomes farther and farther below. I was told that if I was lucky I would see elephants crossing from Togo.
Ordinarily, that should have pumped up my spirit — but to be frank, I couldn?t have cared less. For, as I was soon to realise, a recent rain had made the slopes slippery. Thus, apart from the stamina I needed, I also needed a cool head; something the sighting of an elephant wouldn?t guarantee.
For more than once I was tempted to stop and go back home. What kept me going was when, once in a while, a young boy or girl appeared from nowhere and walked past. Just like that. They hummed a greeting and in a moment they disappeared into the forested curve ahead of me. I told myself that if they could, I would.
My second Encourager was Kofi Nyame, a young man who caught up with me. A native of Shiare, he slowed his pace just to chat with me.
Kofi Nyame would never say how many kilometres more there were to go. He would only tell you that you are nearly there.
?Can?t you here the noise of the village??
We kept walking and once in a while came across a small waterfall just below our path. The noise of the water-rush was a relief, only for us to enter another spell of silence in the forest deeps. When you look down, there?s the valley — hundreds of feet down, down, down below.
??Are you sure there is a town up there??? I asked my road-friend. ??Of course, Shiare is my town and that is where I am going.?? Then he would add again that we were nearly there (by now the whole thing felt to me like a scene in John Bunyan?s ?Pilgrim?s Progress?).
When I eventually appeared at the village, it was like nothing I had ever seen in my life. The entire community was hanging by the hill. We had approached Shiare from its extreme end. It stretched onwards for about 500 metres spreading downward toward the valley….and far ahead of us, mountains of green forests. In travel magazines I have seen places like that in the Himalayas or Nepal. But this is Africa: Ghana, actually.
I was received and advised to see the Chief. Incidentally, he was Kofi Nyame?s father. Serving as my linguist, Kofi Nyame (now Jnr.) led me to his old man. I was advised to buy a customary drink for him. I was soon ushered into his waiting room with very humble furnishings.
The chief emerged from an inner room. They also referred to him as the ??Mankrado?. The man is well over 70 but is like your ?old soldier?. With a small crop of beard that pointed to the ground, he appeared like a Chinese Shaolin Master.
The hat on his head was like the one that goes with the agbada, only a lot less flamboyant.
Whilst he welcomed me, we could not really chat until I presented my drink. I asked permission to join those buying the drink. This gave me a chance to see in advance how the houses are linked. It?s the kind of township that sprawls from room to room.
The houses, mostly mud, are connected by alleys. It is like your Nzulenzo carved out of a mountain. Tourism development plans for such a place should be sensitive to the people?s privacy. Visiting days and hours as well as issues of carrying capacity should be negotiated. In the absence of these, the socio-cultural aspects of their lifestyle could be damaged.
I told you earlier that things are different here. I realised that even the sweeping brooms are different. They are not made up of normal broomsticks. The whole thing is a raffia affair, cut and tied together.
In front of a room, I saw a man, bare-chested, sitting on a stone and shaving his beard leisurely. In front of him was a red Black Stars jersey with Essien written on it. Isn?t it refreshing that even in this deep hinterland one could be made to remember the famous footballer now in far-away Madrid?
I saw very old men and I saw very old women, for here people age very well. From home to home, you see men playing draughts, women pounding rice, children sweeping and others hacking firewood. I was told that Northern Togo is only 10km away.
Eventually, we met the fellow who was to get the drink and went back — and by now the chief had been joined by his elders. When I handed him the bottle, I was asked to kneel in front of him. He asked me to stretch my two hands with the back facing the heavens. He began to pour the local gin on the back of my hands in a libation. As he chanted his elders provided a humming refrain, making the whole performance a rhythmic drill.
For a moment I was lost in thought. I thought of what had led me to this point, this rather very different world. I thought of the allure of Breast Mountain, the young yam merchants of Kue; the succulently grilled akrantie; the sweet, sweet palm wine and, indeed, the rich diversity of Ghana?
The booming voice of Mankralo jilted me from my daydreams. I was still on my knees, virtually in his bosom. The chief continued to pour the libation on my outstretched hands.
?May the gods be with you, may they bring you what you desire: you are a young man, may your loins be fruitful (actually, I almost choked on that one). You are a traveller, you have come from afar; may the steps of your feet lead you to fortune. May you reap from the richness of the earth; may the skies protect you ?.?? As he prayed, I began to feel the burning sensation of Akpeteshie on the back of my hands.
The writer is author of A Sense of Savannah- Tales of a friendly Walk through Northern Ghana and Tickling the Ghanaian -Encounters with Contemporary Culture.
Source-B&FT
