Our Return to Bagli

It has been six years since we left the village we had learned to love. Six years ago, with tears running down my face, I leaned out the window of a Land Rover and gave a gigantic two-handed wave to friends I didn't know if I'd ever see again. Then we were gone, John and I, after two years of living in the village of Bagli, northern Ghana. 

And we didn't see any of them again until this past week. In fact, we had lost phone contact as well so we had no way to inform them of our arrival. This time we weren't alone. In the backseat of our pickup were two children peering out the windows and asking questions like, "Mommy, why are you and daddy giving high-fives?" 

"Because we're getting close to the village we used to live in. This is a happy day for us." 

New trees were growing, blocking off the path we used to use to get to our former home in the teachers' quarters, a cement house the government had built to host teachers who weren't teaching in their home village. We detoured through the old market place, which, sadly, has been abandoned in the last few years and entirely discontinued. We drove past the pump where hours were spent hauling water. The women working there stopped and stared. They looked in the windows and suddenly recognition dawned as one woman said, "Mr. John." Her voice held disbelief and surprise. It broke the hush at the pump and they all started coming alive. 

"Woh! Mr. John! Madame Sayda!"

It was us. We were home. 

We parked the vehicle in front of our old rooms and walked to our neighbors' house. Their excitement and surprise mirrored the women's at the pump. Greetings were given. Everyone delighted in seeing our two children, Tyler especially. I had been pregnant with him when we left six years ago, so to them, he is a Bagli child. 

I cannot tell you how much fun it was to finally be back in our village. We greeted old friends, laughed at the surprise on their faces and joyed in the warm reception they gave us. We showed off our children and were amazed over theirs. The babies when we left were now school age children grinning shyly at us. One little tot had learned to walk in my room seven years ago. Now Sherifa was waist high and grinning at me. I knew she couldn't remember me, but apparently had been reminded of our friendship until it felt like we were still old friends. She stayed with me for most of the day. 

We took a gift to the chief's palace, accompanied by the school teachers as our mediators. It was here that I nearly cried in my gladness to finally be back in Bagli. The chief was the same as he always was, so glad to see us. We squatted on the floor in front of him to show due respect. Even Tyler lightly clapped his hands like we adults did, giving honor to the chief as he greeted us. Then, casting aside some of the formalities, the chief immediately launched into his favorite tale of when we lived among them:

IT WAS during rice harvest. John spent a lot of time out in our two-and-a-half acre field. I was walking through the village and came across the chief sitting by a friend, chatting. I greeted him politely and then he asked me something. I thought he wanted to know where John was, but then he ended with a sentence that included the phrase "rice field."

I knew enough Dagbanli to know that the word for a regular field was "pooni" but the word for a rice farm is "baani." The chief used "pooni" for the rice farm, possibly not expecting me to know "baani." But it confused me for a second. Was I missing something? Had he asked if John was eating rice in a farm? The chief clarified his question, definitely asking where John was, and in my relief to understand him I said, "Oh! 'Shikaffa baani!'" (Rice farm) For some reason my response struck the chief's funny bone. Maybe it was my tone or the emphasis I placed on "baani." Whatever it was, the chief never forgot that little conversation and would tell it to friends or remind me when he got half a chance.

Now as we sat under his royal pavilion after a six year absence, he related the story, laughing.  We chatted a bit, felt the warmth of his welcome, and promised to come back in the morning per his request. During our morning visit, the chief grinned at me and said, "Sayda! Where is Mr. John?" I knew what he was getting at and gave an exaggerated, "Shinkaffa baani!" as my response which delighted the chief as much as the original had. 

I wish I had a good picture of us with the chief, but this is the only one we have. We were all pleasant folks in real life; not sure why so glum on here.

Walking away from the chief's palace, I kept hearing our names. I'd turn to see little groups of shy teens looking at us, faces of women peering over their compound walls, or John's friends expressing their surprise at seeing us again. We heard our names and greetings of welcome at nearly every compound we passed. We sat in homes of our friends, me in the women's round rooms with thatched roofs and John with his friends under sitting places. We sat in our old compound and had handfuls of friends come to greet us there. We met up with children John taught in the school. Some of the six grade girls were married with a child. Others had learned English in our absence and were fluent enough in it for us to hold extended conversations with them for the first time ever. 

The chief gave us the largest yam I have ever seen in my life (so far it has provided three filling meals for 5 adults and 1-2 children and still a quarter of it is left!).

One dear friend of mine gave me a bag of black-eyed peas she had grown and her husband gave me some cash. We talked about the time she taught me how to make tizet, their staple food. Another friend gave me about a gallon of dried okra. 

Even the night sky felt like an old friend. In a place where there are no electric lights to run competition with the heavenly ones, the stars shine brilliantly and beautifully. We talked about sleeping outside under the stars like we used to when our rooms were much to hot to sleep indoors, but this is the cool season when it must get down to 70 at night. We were shivering and cold; not exactly conducive to sleeping outside. 

Bagli.  It was incredibly good to be 'home,' even for a too-short visit.