Tuesday dawned dark and cloudy, by the time Mummy came to wake me up at 4:55 a.m., Dromo was already here. So Ghanaians knew how to keep time when they deemed it necessary? The one day I was hoping for her to be true to her heritage and be late, she comes early.... life isn’t fair.

 There was no time for me to bath or dress myself up myself, so I was bundled into a skirt and top and taken to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

 All too soon, we were in the car on the way to Nungua. Dromo was sitting beside Mummy whilst I was sitting at the back, with the empty gallons. Dromo had also brought her gallon along as she’d just finished her supply of the ‘Holy Water’ and needed a refill. I wondered how often we’d need to be drinking this Holy Water and hoped we wouldn’t be instructed to drink only that. I wasn’t going to be deprived of my muscatella, not for all the healing in the world.

 The streets were dark and there were only a few cars at this time of the morning. As Dromo and Mummy conversed, I looked out of the window, watching for the break of dawn. It was a wonder how my life had changed these past few months we’d been in Ghana; I couldn’t believe we’ve only been here seven months, it felt like seven years! I felt much older than my almost nine years. Within the past seven months, I had experienced much more than most do in their lifetime. As we drove through Teshie I saw children around my age bathing by the roadside, totally unselfconscious of the curious eyes of the passerby. On second thought, maybe mine were the only curious eyes, the rest, were as used to these scenes as those of breastfeeding market women with their breast hanging out whilst the baby took a break from feeding. Mummy and Dromo didn’t even blink when we drove past. I guess they were used to these scenes, heck, on second thought; they’d probably been one of these roadside bathing children themselves. We branched off the main road, a kilometre or so into Nungua. The road was even worse than Grandma’s road. As the car jostled over the pot-holes I had to hold on tight to the door handle or risk being thrown across the seat.

It was a miracle Dromo hadn’t had the baby yet considering how often she’d been going up and down this road. Thankfully, after a few minutes she directed Mummy to take a left turn. Though this road was un-tarred, it wasn’t pot-hole ridden and it was a much smoother ride henceforth. We drew to a stop in front of yet another compound house, with the same architecture as all the others I’d seen so far. Whoever had come up with this design should be making a fortune in royalties. Getting out, I could see a group women milling around the entrance of one of the doors. The women were in varying forms of attire but they all had their head tied with scarves; white scarves, specifically. As we approached, they greeted Dromo and Mummy. Me, they gave curious glances, a few nodding approvingly telling Mummy she’d brought me to the right place.

 We were offered a bench to sit on till the priestess finished with her current ‘client’. From out here I could hear a mixture of prayers, chants and singing punctuated with a loud voice shouting “Jesus” ever so often. It sounded as though they were competing for God’s attention instead of working harmoniously together since they were (I assumed) all praying for the same thing. Suddenly the noise ceased—for all of a minute before the praying resumed. But this time it was only one person praying in Ga. The prayer lasted three minutes (I timed it on my digital watch) and ended with a resounding ‘Amen’ from all the others. They lingered in there for a few more minutes talking with the priestess before exiting the room with their gallons—they were two women who looked to be in their mid-thirties. They smiled and said hello as they passed us, pulling off their white scarves as the headed towards the roadside. Dromo went inside to talk to the priestess briefly before telling us to come in. As we entered the dark room, it took my eyes a few seconds to adjust. What a ghastly room; the walls were painted dark green, the floor was un-tiled and there was a rather hideous looking statue of Jesus at a make-shift altar on the opposite end of the room. Sitting on a bench near the altar was the woman I took to be Auntie Ofolley—the priestess. She looked to be older than Mummy, perhaps in her late forties, and had a rotund build. She wore a red blouse and had wrapped a cloth around her waist. On her feet were green charleywote and she had also covered her hair with a white scarf. There were a couple of women and a man loitering in the doorway; I took them to be the owners of the voices I heard praying. 

Mummy greeted, “Good morning.”

 She responded, “Good morning.”

Next, she told her assistants to excuse us a little and that she’d call them back in when it was time to pray; Dromo followed them out.

 Gesturing towards the bench she said in Ga, “Please sit down.”

 Looked like it was going to be a Ga-speaking session, why am I not surprised.

 Auntie Ofolley smiled at me whilst I tottered over to the bench. As I struggled to sit, she said, “Blɛoo” which meant slowly, in other words I should take my time. I always found it annoying when other people felt they knew the machinations of my body better than I do. If I am doing something quickly, it is because at that point in time it is the best pace for me to operate at. Settling on to the bench, I positioned my crutches to lean against the bench on either side of me but they both slid on to the ground. Mummy waved her hand at me not to pick them up. I slid back on the bench till my back rested against the wall, then sat looking around the room, half-listening to Mummy giving Auntie Ofolley a run-down of our spiritual history, a large part of which includes the infamous Auntie Dede. There were a couple of wall geckos climbing the opposite wall; one going up, the other coming down and they had stopped in the middle, seemingly engaging in a discourse. They stood at that point for a while, their heads bobbing whilst they whispered to each other. Watching them, I envied their freedom and the lack of artifice which animals seemed to have, rendering them content with their lot. I am sure if I had been born a lizard or a lion with a physical defect, I certainly wouldn’t be sitting in a hideously depressing room, looking to be healed by a woman of a similar disposition. Whilst I did want to be able to run and play like any other little girl, I didn’t like what I had to go through to get to that point; why did I have to go through all this hassle just to get what I am entitled to as a human being; the ability to walk.

  With such a dour face, I wondered how Dromo and Mummy felt she could do anything for me; she looked as though she was in dire need of salvation herself—preferably a physical escape from her present circumstances. She was supposed to be God’s messenger, the spiritual pathway to riches, healing and redemption, yet it was as if she needed those things more than her followers. I had my misgivings but trusted my university-educated mother knew what she was about.

 She didn’t say much during Mummy’s monologue, just nodded at the right moments, muttered “Jesus” a few times, but mostly sat quietly with her eyes shifting between Mummy and I.

 When Mummy was done, Auntie Ofolley let out a loud, long sigh. “There’s a lot of evil in the world,” Shaking her head she continued, “They wanted to destroy her, they tried to kill her when she was in your womb, but they didn’t succeed so they set out to destroy whatever part of her they could. But they couldn’t destroy her spirit; her indomitable, fighting spirit.”

 Looking straight at me, she pointed above my head. “Can’t you see the light shining above her head, like a halo. It’s the blessings and grace. She’s very special to God, very special.”

 Mummy nodded, muttering, “Thank you Jesus.”

  I looked up to see whether I’d see any light above my head —no such luck, nothing but the wooden planks holding the rusted asbestos in place. I don’t think my mother saw anything either or else she’d have given a start. No matter how spiritual you are, the first time you see light suspended on top of someone’s head, you at the very least gave a start.