Page 49 - Obruni In Ghana | Amber Lockridge
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OBRUNI IN GHANA 47
Clearly it was far past the typical closing of the shop and everyone was making ready to go home. As promised, someone flagged me a taxi and gave the driver instruction to take me to my house. I thanked them all many times on my way out.
“Medassie. Medassie.”
As I stepped across the threshold, one of the girls handed me a pick-comb. I looked at her inquiringly.
“For the itching,” she said but disappeared again before I could ask what she meant.
