West African Days

Kumasi is a sprawling city of nearly one million people. Just a few hundred kilometers north of Accra, it is lush and hilly and cooler than the capital.

On the bus, Prince, my host's nephew, told me he was going back to his hometown for a funeral. Prince's mother had requested that I join them at the funeral.

So on Sunday afternoon, Prince arrived at my hotel to direct my taxi driver to the funeral. The streets in Kumasi are so confusing even the taxi drivers don't know where things are. The driver wasn't the only one confused -- at this point, I still didn't know whose funeral this was, and Prince was not providing details.

We eventually pulled up to a driveway swarming with people dressed in black-and-white cloth, with drums and singing blaring from big speakers. The big front lawn was covered in black awning, and rows of people, all dressed in black and white cloth, sat in red plastic chairs around the perimeter of the yard. The band was in the middle of the lawn and a few old women were dancing slowly in front.

Prince's mother, Sapomaa, gave me a giant hug, then grabbed my arm and led me in shaking hands along the rows of people. She then took me out to the lawn and led me in a dance, which involved another woman dancing out and rubbing money on my cheek. Thankfully, we soon took seats, and like everyone else, sat watching the band. I was served goat kebabs and a Coke. The drums soon lulled me into a trance.

Suddenly, a flurry of activity at the gates, and a big, huge man swathed in black-and-white woven kente cloth walked down the driveway. A young man walked behind him holding an enormous black umbrella over his head. A phalanx of four drummers marched behind, beating out a rhythm that silenced the band.

"The king!" exclaimed an old woman next to me. With much ceremony, the 'king' sat on a special, cushioned chair, the umbrella-man taking a seat behind him, all the while keeping the umbrella over his head. The new drummers beat out fast, mesmerizing rhythms for more than half an hour as people filed past to shake his hand.

Turns out he is the chief of a nearby town, and is Sapomaa's brother (and the brother of my host in Accra, Helena). It was their cousin who had died, and this was not the funeral, but the one-year anniversary of the funeral. The cousin, his wife and two children apparently were killed by a gas leak in their home in Ohio (ahem, Martin, Meg and the McIntoshes! Ohio, yet again the culprit!).

Sapomaa led me to the chief to shake hands and take pictures. A few minutes later, and with much commotion, the chief went into the house, the umbrella-man close behind. Another chief with his entourage and his own umbrella-man showed up (his umbrella had fringe). I was ushered into the room to join the chiefs and their entourages. Someone flipped on the overhead fan, and Sapomaa and her sister walked in with two coolers full of ..... ice cold beer!! Yes, Guinness and Ghana-made Star are apparently part of Ashanti funerals/memorials, or at least this one.

Then the food started arriving... and those of you who read my blog of March 10th will have a pretty good idea of where things went from there.

(The chiefs and Queen Mothers in Ghana hold power and have considerable influence on Ghana's internal affairs. Here are some interesting notes about the National House of Chiefs in Ghana, an institution that is written into the national constitution.)