chapter 18: the paradox of being an obruni

every day, i fight an ironic battle between choosing to enjoy the advantages of being a while man in ghana, and accepting the same drawbacks that come with being a regular kweku or amma.
ducking out of the office in mid-morning for some delicious fried yams with pepper sauce, i greet the man and wife who sell them on the street just outside the office. as usual, their adorable three year old son squeals in fear when he sees me, shouting “obruni” and ducking for cover behind his father. as always i laugh, and feign a snarling lunge at the boy, which never fails to send him into delirious fits of pleasure and horror.

the white man is scary! but he's paying attention to me! wheeee!

it's okay when kids call me obruni, and i don't even mind it when adult strangers do it, even though the cute factor goes way down when that cursed word emenates from between the jack o' lantern like teeth of a wizened old market woman. call me an asshole, but it seems downright undignified. nevertheless, i shrug it off.

what happens next, however, is a whole different ball of banku, and some days i can barely contain myself. i have told my luv colleagues repeatedly i don't want to be called obruni. “i have a name, use it!” my smile is friendly enough, but my eyes mean business. a few of them don't get the message. today, one of the more stubborn members of that tribe strolls in and calls me the dreaded “o” word. i look at him and say “why do you always say obruni, obruni...that's for children. you know my name, but every day you call me obruni!”

he appears to be hurt, explaining that it's not negative, i am white man, he is black man. i explain that i know that, but why should we separate eachother based on race? he says, “that is how we do. we separate you because the white man is up here, and we are down here. you are rich, we are poor. you are better.”

i feel mortified.

trying to be treated as an equal is a losing battle. just because i'm rich (compared to him) am i better? he says yes.

“was it hard for you to get a visa?” “no,” i admit.

“you saw how bush was treated on his visit? would people care that much about the president of
ghana?” “no,” i say again.

it's hard to argue that kind of logic, even though i'm living an working beside ghanaians precisely because i don't believe race matters when determining an individual's worth.
but the truth is, i often feel like a hypocrite.

every day, someone insists on carrying something for me, serving me first, and my protests are always futile. case in point: at the post office yesterday, i arrived at 3:45, and quickly waded into the disorganized mess of humanity, intent on picking up a so-called “instant money transfer” from accra. i'd been there twice before, but had to leave because i didn't have the required information once, and because i didn't have all day to wait the second time. after waiting and watching three giggling employees gossip among themselves for half an hour, we were informed the office was closed, and told to come back tomorrow.

uhh, no. no signage and lazy employees = angry brennan.

i start yelling.

yes, yelling.

“it says instant money transfer! we've been waiting half an hour and not one person has been served. i left work early to come, and i want my money now!” they took my slip and disappeared into the back. everyone else was told to come back. five minutes later, an agent taps me on the shoulder, and spirits me around the corner, taking covert glances over her shoulder to make sure none of the angry crowd has noticed. i get my money.

i'm mollified, but somewhat guilty.

i've gotten used to the lax customer service standards here, and have often seen employees sleeping on the job. but if things don't run properly, and i get served because i'm white, am i taking unfair advantage of my status? it doesn't seem unreasonable for operating hours to be posted, for employees to work while a crowd waits, or at least be conscious.

there goes my dream of equality. i guess i'll never be a real ghanaian.