Page 77 - Obruni In Ghana | Amber Lockridge

OBRUNI IN GHANA 75
and anxious anticipation, though we do not gather to mope. I know they understand so I also say nothing. I wonder if I will miss these people more than everyone, and everything, else.
I now sit before my final evening meal in Ghana. I am distinctly aware that this is the last time I will eat with my hands...part of a massive, hungry, excited horde...shoveling in companionship as ravenously as the yam chips.
I’m reminded of Kinke. How I hated that strange bitter taste when I came and how I love it now above all other foods. Of course, what I remember most about eating kinke is sharing it with my sisters from one bowl. Hands everywhere, three black and one white, all joyously fighting for a hot bit of corn dough. I reach out to unwrap a second ball but pull back in pain as the steam burns my fingers. Everyone laughs while Maameaba deftly plucks the food from its damp cornhusk covering. She doesn’t even flinch. Laughing, laughing, and the food is gone in minutes that pass as fast as seconds. I realize