They say maltreatments at one’s current place of abode or work is sometimes the mighty finger of God disguised as a mean boss or guardian, nudging one to upgrade, break camp and advance to some new place, higher heights.
Usually sounds a nice philosophy to share but hard living it.
I had plenty of misunderstandings with my parents and I couldn’t pinpoint the fire below it all stirring up the sparks. Arguments and complaints that I felt were either needless or baseless.
Those are days you hoped parents could be renewed like driving license. Once the current one expired in a few months, that would be it. Done for good.
But family is family. A cross to be carried daily, with smiles, even when the bones in one’s neck are freaking and creaking from the excess load.
In order to not explode, I decided to take a little break. Travel. Wherever parents weren’t spitting fire, weren’t doing fireworks as a lifetime vocation.
But where to go?
I thought hard. Every place I plant a call with the hope of it germinating into a favorable response, I got a cold response. No room. No heart was willing to accommodate me. Makes you wonder how many teeth smiling at you everyday are genuine.
Then came the breakthrough idea : Togo.
I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of the place. I had the invitation a long time ago to visit the place. Now was the ripe opportunity. The stay, no matter how brief, will be a great source of relief, besides helping me polish my French.
Of course my parents needn’t know where I was really headed.
Just headed back to the city was all I said. And I had to make it look like some urgent business.
First, I had to send a message to my host, who was more than eager to welcome me. An influential man in his society and yet so humble to invite an ordinary young man like me for a brief stay at his end.
I indicated my day of departure and was given directions on what to do once I crossed the Ghanaian border.
Couldn’t wait to step out of the country for the first time, although it was just to a neighboring country.
I counted my pennies. And off I went to get my ticket. I noted the time and signaled my host, who put his son on alert to meet me at the border and take me home.
The D-day arrived.
The journey reminded me of my long lost dream of traveling to many places to discover cultures and languages.
Beautiful scenery along the way. Many of the travelers were market women crossing the border to purchase items to sell in the country. I heard goods were cheaper in Togo.
We got to the border after a little over two and half hours.
Apparently, it wasn’t as long as I expected. I took many clothes than necessary and was overly dressed. Too formal for my own liking.
The border control guards were not at all friendly, squeezing every cent out of us to pay for any document we lacked. And asking questions I wondered how they intended verifying.
Can you believe I was asked, “Who are you going to see there?”
In my mind I was like, “Will you come with me to find out? “
The expert liar I was, these were good moments to remind myself that my talent was still intact and hadn’t become dusty from inactivity.
Luckily, I found my host’s son just in time. He was driving. A big car. Much to my surprise. He was my former student and so it was a delight seeing him. But I had shocking revelations ahead of me I was blind to for the time being. A few cracks of it was beginning to show, though I wasn’t really paying attention.
My host’s son wasn’t particularly excited to see me. It was unlike him. He was always happy to see me back in the days I used to teach him. He seemed very humble and obedient and cool. Now he looked different. He didn’t seem happy I came to live with them for a while.
Then we got to their home. A very beautiful home in a residential neighborhood.
No one was at home except his mom. And I overheard them speaking in French about my visit. His mom asked why I had come and he said, “I don’t even know why he is here. Father asked him to come.”
I felt offended. They appear to have forgotten I understood French, though I wasn’t fluent.
Then my mind went back to a previous conversation with him while we were in his car home. He had asked how many days I intended staying with them. I had thought he was just being curious. No I understood why he said that.
Then came the woman, his mom, out of her room. It was a large house and everyone seem to have their room. I was shown my room. I noticed they had two maid servants who had their rooms too. There was free wifi in their home and I was delighted to connect to it and browse freely.
His mom asked if I was allergic to any food. I politely told her I eat everything, no allergies. She repeated my response, in a rather awkward way, more like a sneer. But I brushed it aside.
I was so eager to see my host, the man who was kind enough to invite me to his home.
The man of the house arrived in the evening, full of smiles. Delighted to see me. He was different from everyone. Radiating warmth and kindness. So different from his son and wife.
“How could such a kind man be married to mean wife? “ I wondered.
Evening time, we were to take supper. And I wasn’t used to eating as a family around the table. I usually ate my food alone, in my corner, masticating as loud as I please without any table manners to knock out the delight from under my feet, and jaws.
I tried my best to fit in. We prayed first. Then my host’s wife served. We ate, while my host reintroduced me, asking many questions about my visit. He spoke relatively good English but prefered interrogating me in French so his wife could follow the dialogue.
He tried his best to shield me from seeing the coldness of his wife and son, but I saw through it all.
It was Covid time. Perhaps, his wife and son saw me as a corona virus, either coming to infect them or suck their family wealth.
I had to cut my stay short and cook up a good reason to leave.
My host was mostly out to work during the day time and his son wasn’t willing to take me anywhere around to discover town. I explored Lomé their capital on my own. I am quite good with exploring new terrains all by myself.
I remember the little English the cashier at a supermarket I entered had to cobble to interact with me when she discovered I was Ghanaian, an “anglophone” like they like to say over there.
One evening while I was staying there, the man and his wife were out and wouldn’t be back that night. His son sneaked in his girlfriend for lovemaking sessions on end. I guessed perhaps that was part of why I was a nusiaance there.
I rounded up my stay there. And my host handed some money to his son to be given to me to cover my transport and a few expenses back home.
I couldn’t tell if what I was given was what he actually gave me or his son and wife had deducted some charges for hosting me.
But I couldn’t ask the man how much he actually gave his son to be given me. It would have looked like I went there solely because of the money.
My stay in Togo was brief but full of useful lessons. Lessons which prepared me better for my later travel to Ivory Coast, a place I loved so much when I traveled there.
#WinterABC2025
#afrobloggers
Email:Benjaminnambu1@gmail.com
WhatsApp: +233 541 824 839
Mowabites Worldwide 