Page 89 - Obruni In Ghana | Amber Lockridge

OBRUNI IN GHANA 87
“Did I really used to be Ghanaian?” I asked instead. Maybe I had always been deluded on this point.
“Yeah, pretty much” she replied casually.
I guess that means I stopped being Ghanaian about 30 seconds ago. Although, I really did know, somehow, that it was slipping away from me. That accent that attracted so many stares and comments a month ago, now only flares up when I’m angry or unsure of myself. Yesterday I was trying to phrase something in Fanti and I had to stumble around for a minute to get the right words. It still didn’t feel right in my mouth when I said it. A part of me wanted to cry and I suppose that was the final piece of evidence. Tears were not something I searched for in Ghana.
My mother thinks it happened three weeks ago when I started wearing American clothes again. It’s a scary thought. I wonder how much more I’ll lose than a foreign accent. But that’s an overly dramatic sentiment. Whatever I may have lost, I’ve kept at least as much with me. I know there’s some tight