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Chapter Four
Lena's Inn
We landed on schedule at the Murtala Mohammed Airport in Lagos. Due to the short time at our disposal, we had not been able to obtain a transit visa. This however did not become an issue. The airline was aware of the passengers on transit to Ghana and assisted us at the immigration desk.
After spending about an hour in the transit lounge, we were called upon to proceed to board the Virgin Nigeria flight heading for Accra. A short while later we were airborne. The flight was scheduled to last about forty-five minutes.
From time to time, I took a look at my watch to figure out how long I still needed to wait till touchdown. Wasn't it strange on my part to behave in that way, having waited almost thirteen years for the occasion?
In view of the long period that had elapsed since my last visit one is bound to ask why it took me that long to visit home, considering the fact that Ghana and Europe are not that far apart. Indeed, a direct flight from Amsterdam, Berlin or London lasts hardly seven hours. On frequent occasions in the past I have asked myself the same question. Indeed, at the time I left Accra, in October 1994 after a three-week stay in Ghana on the occasion of my mother's parting from this life, little did I imagine that it would take me this long to return. Man proposes, but God disposes, the saying goes. Owing to several factors regarding my work, the growth of our family, financial constraints, etc., Rita and I had not been able to fulfil the desire in our hearts to be united with our respective families until then.
It was a few minutes past 09:00 hrs when the pilot announced our descent to Accra. A short while later we touched down safely at the Accra International Airport. It was not the smile of the morning African sun I had expected for a welcome. Instead it was cloudy and raining slightly on touchdown.
The arrival hall had seen a facelift. There were still posters and other memorabilia from the ‘Ghana@50’ celebrations to mark the 50th anniversary of the country's independence from British colonial rule on 6th March 1957.
We needed about twenty minutes to go through immigration. Finally we headed for the outside.
As Karen and I each pushed the two trolleys on which our luggage was piled, a man of about forty wearing the typical bright yellow vest of the airport security approached me and asked:
'May I help you push it?'
‘No, thanks,’ I replied, ‘I can manage it myself.'
'You just allow me to help,' he insisted and began to walk by my side, pushing the trolley from the side as we went. Reluctantly, I left the whole assignment to him. Soon he was pushing it briskly down an alley leading to the main exit. All of a sudden he did something unexpected – he stopped for a short while, pulled off the yellow security vest he wore over his clothes and squeezed it into one of the pockets of his trousers.
'What is he up to?' I asked Rita in a low voice. 'Apparently, he does not want those outside to identify him as belonging to the security,' she reasoned.
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Though away from home for a long period of time, I had not forgotten the ‘rules of the game’. It was indeed clear to me that such 'kind' gestures are not made for free and that at the end of the day, I would be required to 'do something.'
What was to be done, since we did not have any local currency?
Just as I was considering how I would resolve the problem, he stopped suddenly, about fifty metres from the main exit.
'I do not want to be seen outside the building,’ he said. ‘It could cost me my job.'
So saying, he handed the trolley over to me and began to look at me with an eager expectancy.
I pulled out my wallet, unzipped it and examined the few notes inside it. My eyes caught sight of a five-pound note. I pulled it out and handed it to him. He took a quick look at it and placed it quickly into his pocket. A broad smile on his face, he thanked us and wished us a happy stay. Soon he was heading back to where he had come from.
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His joy was not without reason, for he had received an equivalent of about 10 Ghana cedis, which, with certainty, was far above his daily official earning.
Just as I began to push the trolley, a middle-aged man broke loose from the crowd gathered at the main exist waiting to welcome relatives, friends and others and headed towards us.
'Do you need a taxi?' he inquired in a loud voice as he drew near.
'No, someone is coming to pick us up!'
'Bad luck for me! Still, I would like to help push your luggage.'
Even before we could respond he was giving me a helping hand.
'It's okay, I can push it myself,’ I protested
'Let me help you, Massa (Mister)!' he persisted and kept on pushing.
As we drew closer to the crowd, a young woman aged about twenty, a broad smile on her face, rushed towards us with outstretched arms shouting, 'Wofaoooh! Wofaoooh' (Good to see you uncle! Good to see you uncle!)
By virtue of her resemblance to Afia, our youngest sister, I took her to be Joyce and hurried towards her.
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How much the little girl of seven I had met during my last visit had changed! Indeed, had it not been for the resemblance to her mother, I would not have recognised the slim, graceful and attractive young woman before me. A period of embracing and shaking of hands with all members of the whole family followed.
Hardly had we gone through the greeting and introduction formalities than the second gentleman who had offered his unsolicited help stretched out his arms towards me.
'Massa, please give me something for my breakfast!' he began.
'But no one requested your help!'
'Massa, have mercy on me, for we are suffering here!'
'Have you got some local currency to spare, Joyce?'
'How much should I give him, uncle?’ she inquired.
'I have been away for such a long time, I have lost all association to the cedi. How much do you think we should give him?'
'One Ghana cedi, an equivalent of 10000 old cedis.'
'Okay, go ahead. I will refund it later.'
She pulled her purse from her handbag, unzipped it and handed him a bright red newly printed bank note.
'Take that; one Ghana cedi!' she said and handed it to him.
'Thank you sir, Massa! I would have preferred dollars though!'
'When did we start using the dollar as currency in this country?' I inquired.
‘Massa, some dollars, please!' he persisted.
'You be satisfied with what you have got!' Joyce told him. 'Please follow me: we have parked the Taxi several metres away from here,' she said after the stranger had left us alone.
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At that moment, a young man aged about thirty approached us.
'Come and join my car: I have parked it at the other end of the road. Wait as I hurry to fetch it.' So saying, he walked briskly away.
'Be careful, uncle! ' Joyce began in reaction to the offer from the stranger. ‘These days there are a lot of tricksters and thieves roaming the city.'
'We still need a second vehicle; one taxi will not be enough to carry the six of us plus our luggage.'
Soon we were all gathered around the cab Joyce had hired, an ageing Toyota saloon car. Moments later the strange young man pulled his vehicle alongside us. I noticed that his vehicle, a Toyota Corolla estate car, was painted uniformly red, not the traditional yellow plus a second colour associated with local taxis. Soon we began to pack our items into both cars.
We were then faced with the issue of where to go. Since there had been no sign of anyone from the hotel at the airport, we thought Kwasi had probably not accessed his e-mails the previous evening and was thus in the dark regarding the change in our flight schedule.
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That we could not follow Joyce to Tema to rest at the place where she lived was clear to me. A second year student of the University of Cape Coast, she was spending her holidays at Tema. She was staying together with several other members of the extended family in a garage assigned to Ransford’s flat. At the time when the refurbishing began on the main flat, the garage was converted into makeshift accommodation to house the few residents of the main flat until such time as a permanent solution could be found. Despite its limited space, it had in the meantime attracted several other members of the family who had moved from the countryside into the city in search of work.
In the end we decided to head for the Teshie-Nungua Estate at Nungua, a suburb to the south east of the city. Prior to her departure for Europe, Rita lived with her uncle and his German wife in one of the houses on the estate. It was a large detached home boasting a large surrounding compound. Following her uncle’s death several years ago and the subsequent return of his ex-wife to Germany, the building became occupied by several members of the extended family who had moved from her hometown to the national capital for various reasons. That would be a convenient place of rest until we were able to make contact with the hotel.
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'Okay, boys and girls, let’s get going,' I began. 'We must form two groups. The first group, including Rita, will drive ahead. The rest will follow in the second vehicle.’ The children joined their mother in the first vehicle whilst Joyce and I drove in the second. Moments later the taxi driver set his vehicle in motion.
Just then the driver of the second vehicle, whom we had taken for any other driver shuttling passengers to and from the airport, turned to me and asked, ‘Why the need, sir, to drive first to Teshie-Nungua?’
'We want to rest there until we can get in touch with the hotel where we are to stay.'
'But I have been sent by the hotel to pick you up!'
'That just cannot be true!' I cried on top of my voice.
'Yes, indeed! I am the driver of the hotel. We got the message that you were due to arrive in the morning, so I was sent to pick you up.’
'Why then didn't you make it clear from the beginning?'
'I held the board bearing your name at the entrance. I thought you understood it!'
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Yes indeed, despite the hectic excitement and confusion surrounding our arrival, I had spotted a young man in the crowd holding a board on which my name was boldly written. Thinking he was the driver of the vehicle Joyce had brought to pick us up, I did not make much of it.
'No, I took you for the driver of the cab I had asked my niece to meet me with! As it is, I saw her several years ago when she was only a young girl. I thought they brought the board along to help connect with each other!’ I had to rethink our plans! ‘Be quick! Let us chase them and give them a sign to follow us instead of the other way round.'
As we drove away from the airport, one thing caught my attention, namely the absence of a large statue of General Kotoka, one of the architects of the 1966 coup which overthrew the first post-independent civilian government headed by President Nkrumah. He was killed in a failed counter-coup in 1967. Not long afterwards, his statue was erected about a hundred metres in front of the main airport building. The international airport was also named after him.
'Where is the statue?' I asked the driver, who had in the meantime introduced himself as Tetteh.
'It was removed a few years ago to make room for the expansion and refurbishment of the airport,' he replied.
Shortly afterwards we caught up with the others.
Our driver blew his horn, signalled with his headlamps and also gesticulated for them to stop. The other driver soon got the message and pulled to a stop by the roadside. We drove past them, signalling them to follow us; the confusion in their faces was clearly visible.
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We turned right at the Airport Junction and drove along the broad three-lane dual carriageway leading towards Legon, a northern suburb of the city. I was impressed by the state of the road. Thirteen years ago, it was a one-track road used by traffic flowing in both directions.
After following the road for about a kilometre we turned right just after emerging from under the Tetteh Quarshie Overpass. The overpass was also new to me: thirteen years ago, the spot where it had been constructed was a roundabout bearing the same name and noted for considerable congestion.
The branch road we followed led to a roundabout that we left at the second exit to join a very busy road – the Spintex Road. As we drove along this road the unfamiliar scene unfolding before my eyes made me feel like someone who had just arrived in a strange city.
On huge billboards placed on each side of the road, trade names entirely new to me – GT-Mobile, Fidelity Bank, Stanbic Bank, Cal Bank, etc. – were advertising their products and services.
I was particularly struck by several billboards along the way displaying the advertisement of financial institutions urging customers to apply for a loan – 'Apply today, Get your decision tomorrow!' Thirteen years ago it was unthinkable to read such open invitations to apply for a loan from any bank in the country.
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The road was lined on each side with newly constructed buildings housing small and large retail shops dealing in all kinds of wares ranging from washing machines, gas/electric cookers, refrigerators, deep freezers, rice, flour, etc., small wholesale, retail and grocery shops as well as large wholesale shops dealing in all kinds of goods.
As we drove further and further along the road, through an area completely unknown to me, I could no longer keep my curiosity to myself.
'Where are we now?' I asked the driver.
'This area is a relatively new settlement generally referred to as the Spintex Road, though, strictly speaking, it is only the road we are driving on that is known by that name. Settlements stretch for a distance of about twelve kilometres on either side of the road.'
After driving on the road over a distance of about ten kilometres, the driver turned left into a less busy road. We followed this branch road for about half a kilometre until it ended at a T-junction. From there the driver turned right onto a rough road, the condition of which contrasted starkly from those we had so far been following.
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Not only was the road untarred, it was very uneven and on the surface displayed several large potholes. As a result of the downpour in the morning, the holes had become ponds of water. Jonathan subsequently christened this stretch of road The Muddy Street. Painstakingly the driver swerved frequently to avoid one pool of water after another.
The state of the road contrasted greatly with the buildings found on each side of it, the majority of which were mansions of the executive class.
In the course of my stay, I noticed that the situation I had just described was not isolated but characteristic of a phenomenon that could be observed in several of the newly developed areas of the city. Apparently the rate at which new residential estates are springing up outpaces the ability to provide the amenities to service such areas. Hence it is not uncommon to find areas that boast newly constructed posh mansions linked by makeshift roads of the type mentioned. Amenities such as tap water, electricity and telephone are also not always available in such areas. The builders seem prepared to put up their houses in un-serviced areas in anticipation of future service provisions.
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After travelling about half a kilometre on Muddy Street the driver finally pulled up in front of the gate of a magnificent modern two-storey building brightly painted in rose-pink. Somehow someone in the building saw the hotel car approaching for no sooner had we pulled up there than someone swung the gate open. The driver parked the car on the large paved compound within the concrete walls.
We were warmly greeted by the staff who briskly helped transport our luggage to our rooms on the first floor. Originally we were promised the semi-detached building with the self-catering facilities. We were told on arrival, however, that owing to an oversight on the part of the staff, the property had been double-booked. The only consolation was that we were promised the facility on our return to Accra to prepare for our return to the UK after our tour of the countryside.
Lena’s Inn, as the hotel is known, boasts of ten rooms. We were assigned to Rooms 101 and 110, by virtue probably of the fact that they were almost opposite to each other. Each of the spacious rooms was fully furnished and boasts floors decorated with beautiful high quality ceramic and terrazzo. The bath and toilet facilities in each room were of excellent quality.
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Each room had the benefit of satellite TV as well as wireless Internet access. The latter proved particularly useful to me, enabling me not only to keep abreast with the outside world but also to book working sessions with my agencies in the UK. I thought to myself that if the quality of the Internet facility in the hotel was a yardstick to go by, then Ghana might be considered to have positioned itself very favourably as far as the global village of the World Wide Web was concerned.
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