Driven up the Wall
on Anthony Lovat in Bolgatanga (Ghana), 30/Oct/2010 11:57, 34 days ago
It was an eventful evening for poor Mr. Thomas, our mild mannered neighbour, and, perhaps more to the point, his mother. He lives with his large family in the house immediately opposite our own, across the dirt road next to Hananah’s shop so, quite naturally, we talk relatively frequently. He’s always exceptionally polite and well spoken. He smiles and even produces a slight bow that encourages, almost demands reciprocation. We usually discuss local news – when we might expect the electricity to be reconnected, the roads to be improved and the schools to restart or whose house has been burgled recently. His two or three (or four?) children run about the street, often in various states of undress, mingled with the other local kids, alleviating their boredom by playing with sticks, bottle tops or plastic bags. Mr. Thomas lives with his wife, recently returned from an extended stay with extended family in Ouagadougou, a revolving door of brothers (one of whom, like our dog, is called Boris – much to the amusement of the children) and, of late, his mother. He has, for at least the past thirteen months, been selling a random array of half dead plants from a rickety wooden construction on our roadside. We barely receive any traffic but Mr. Thomas faithfully brings his spindly offerings inside his compound every evening and carries them back out every morning, displaying them in their pots behind some rustychicken wire. In the dry heat, he keeps them from expiring by frequently watering the thirsty pots so he is often outside on the road, always ready for a smile, a small civil bow and a chat about local developments.I like Mr. Thomas and I usually see him when visiting Bolgatanga Senior High School (Big Boss) sat outside the administration block with the other three or four drivers. To be a driver is considered excellent employment– regular pay, tempting perks, job security and, above all, not much to do. Both Culture and Kwesi have asked me to teach them how to drive. All government offices, schools, NGOs and even many individuals employ a driver. When walking the dog one morning, a young man I’d never seen before approached me in a suit and tie to earnestly shake my hand.“Good morning,” he beamed.“Good morning.”I replied.“How are you?”“Fine. How are you?”“Oh fine, thankyou.” He paused. “I have seen you around this area, driving your car.”“Oh yes?” I enquired suspiciously.“I am glad to see you out. I have wanted to speak to you.”“Oh yes?” I repeated.“Please, I am a driver. I wanted to know if you need a driver for your car.”“But you saw me driving. I am able to drive.”“Yes master, but perhaps you want someone to drive you.”“Erm...” The thought of being driven about in my own car horrified me. I wasn’t entirely sure if this was a wind up or not. I thought it was only royalty and celebrity that might qualify to be driven. I decided to be polite. “No thankyou. I think I’ll be able to continue driving the car without any help.”I don’t know how Mr. Thomas found his job as a driver. It is likely someone ‘recommended’ him to the headmaster who employed him as a favour. This is usually how such jobs are administered. Who you know is everything. A district director for education in the Upper East has his son employed as a driver for the office. He receives his salary every month, along with six or so other ‘drivers’, despite being a student in Cape Coast. There’s only one vehicle anyway.Josephine, Laura’s veterinary colleague, had very kindly organised a meal in honour of me being awarded at teachers’ day. She invited the cheery and charismatic Zaare chief, who I’ve met several times and whose brother is a vet; the president of the old students’ association at Big Boss, a plump and political man called Peter and the slim and serious Didacus, the Big Boss headmaster. She ordered guinea fowl from Priscilla’s spot, just opposite our house next to Mr. Thomas’ place and told us to be there for five.On the dot of five o’clock, three huge 4x4s, complete with drivers, pulled up on our road and deposited their big men. Didacus was dressed in matching turquoise and yellow shirt and flared trousers emblazoned with “Big Boss at 40”. He would have looked fabulously gay were it not for his steely features, like Clint Eastwood in a mankini. Peter was dressed in a colourful yet smart and faintly nationalistic smock. The chief was in a scruffy shirt and jeans.We greeted each other on the road, Peter quickly running over and craning his fat neck upwards to shake hands and look adoringly into the calculating eyes of Didacus. It was unfortunate, therefore, that Mr Thomas chose that moment for his life to implode.Raised voices are nothing particularly unusual. Debates, as with so many tasks here, are carried out with as much noise as possible. It was when I heard Hananah scream that I knew there was something out of the‘ordinary’. I glanced in the direction of the scream and saw the small courtyard between Mr Thomas’ house and the shop crowded with twenty or so people. An unpleasant-looking argument was taking place. Within seconds, a crowd had gathered on the street. I asked a few individuals what was happening and, after some short consultation, gathered the story. It’s incredible how quickly gossip spreads.Mr Thomas’ mother had accused his wife of being useless and unworthy. She doesn’t work, the mother said, and doesn’t do sufficient tasks around the house. From what we’d heard previously on the local gossip mill (and might well be untrue), the wife had run off with another man to Burkina Faso, leaving her children behind, but had returned to Mr Thomas when the fresh start turned sour. She is, we have been told, a social climber – somewhat too eager to befriend white people before later taking advantage of the ‘friendship’. We try to judge people as we find them and not listen to the opinion of others. Mr Thomas’ mother, however, wanted the entire neighbourhood to hear her opinion.She swore and cursed the wife loudly and publicly (in Guruni so Laura and I didn’t have a clue what was being said) until the quiet, polite and reserved Mr Thomas, under what must have been immense emotional strain, finally cracked. This was unfortunately the exact same time that his employer, Didacus, turned up in his car to meet us for a celebratory dinner. As Laura, Josephine and I politely greeted the three invited guests, Mr Thomas let out a roar and tried to attack his own mother. It took several onlookers to hold him back. His usually serene and smiling face was contorted in rage, the emotion appearing more potent due to the unfamiliarity on his features. He tore forward, lashing out at the old woman who continued to abuse his spouse. In the melee and the confusion, the mother lost the wrap-around fabric that covered her body. Wearing nothing but a pair of knickers, Mr Thomas’ mother pointed a finger at her son, pouted her lips and continued telling theworld loudly and single-mindedly about her daughter-in-law’s shortcomings. There was no embarrassment from the old woman. She thrust her saggy and wrinkled tits forward passionately, perhaps obliviously; she planted her chunky legs solidly into the dusty ground and kept shouting. The crowd swelled. Someone tried to cover her nakedness. Children abandoned their bottle tops and ducked through the forest of legs to see what was happening. Didacus, the Big Boss headmaster, had not yet realised that this conflict involved one of his workers. He tutted at the disturbance and shook his head. We tried to lead him away. Mr Thomas, perhaps realising that the man across the road in the matching turquoise and yellow suit was his employer, decided to kill himself. He screamed manically and rushed over to the nearest wall, smashing his skull into the hard concrete. We hurriedly beckoned the guests into Priscilla’s bar while a number of neighbours rushed to prevent the suicide attempt.“Who is that man?” Didacus asked.“Oh, just a neighbour,” I replied casually.“He looks familiar. What is his work?”“A driver, I think.” Quickly adding: “Would you like a drink?”“A driver...” Didacus ignored my question and stroked his chin, looking in the direction of the chaos. “Where does he work?”“A school.”“Really! Do you know which school?”I couldn’t lie. “Your school.”Didacus decided to go and mediate in this dispute. As an employee of Big Boss, he explained, Mr Thomas cannot be involved in such disturbances in the street– smashing his head on a wall indeed. It reflects badly on the school and may affect his driving ability. I assured him that Mr Thomas is a lovely man who is behaving quite out of character. He walked across to the commotion and came back ten minutes later saying, in grave and sympathetic tones, that the mother was still naked and still behaving irrationally. Mr Thomas, however, was calm and any suicide risk was over, he told us. I hope this won’t affect his employment, I asked. “No no,” Didicus reassured us. “A man cannot help having such a mother.”Mr Thomas provided an unusual but effective icebreaker to the evening. The conversation flowed as freely as the beer. We discussed how extended families can cause such problems in African society, how traditional forums for addressing familial disagreements are being eroded by modernity and how smashing ones head against a wall is far more likely to cause madness than death. I don’t usually enjoy formal dinners with middle-aged guests I barely know but I found myself having a good time. They are members of the educated African class – a rarity in their generation. At independence in 1957, there was just one secondary school in the entire Upper East Region. Peter kept trying to draw the conversation to mutual friends and contacts, many of whom live in the UK. I found such name dropping boring and so tried to steer the conversation towards how education in the Upper East was in the past – when they were growing up. It was clear that despite all the improvements still to be made, despite the everyday frustrations and calamities with working here, massive progress has been made in the past thirty years, let alone fifty years. The situation was desperate and the early trickle of well educated Ghanaians in the remote Upper East, of whom Didacus, Peter and Josephine are examples, were often taught by British and American volunteers and colonial hangers-on. They knew British language and culture intimately. They kept using English anecdotes and sayings. It was clear from Peter’s name dropping that many of their precious few educated contemporaries chose tomove to Europe, never to return.We ate a huge plate of guinea fowl each, drank plenty of beer and, in the Ghanaian style, had an opening and closing prayer, a welcoming address, a toast to the host, a vote of thanks and a chairperson. We agreed to do it all again soon.On the way out, I saw Mr Thomas sat with a bottle of coca cola held in both hands. His wounded head hang defeated, embarrassed and immensely sad. I went up to him, smiled, bowed slightly, told him I was sorry for this evening and asked him if he was fine.He said he was fine but, despite visibly trying, couldn’t return the smile.