Page 9 - Obruni In Ghana | Amber Lockridge

OBRUNI IN GHANA 7
price of some dried fish. The seller, a young girl, carries the goods in a large platter on her head. They move haltingly through the streets, serving to avoid pedestrians and honking incessantly. The air is heavy with the smell of food, sweat, and sewage, which runs openly through concrete gutters along the sides of the street. As I round the corner, my friend’s small store comes into view. It is really only a hole- in-the-wall garage from which his family sells cheap plastic toys and buckets of water from a hose. It is a welcome sight, however, in this strange land and a refuge from the persistent pleas of the street vendors.
As I approach, my friend spots me and breaks into a wide grin. His mother and brothers, previously lounging in chairs or squatting on buckets, jump up to greet me.
“Good Morning” my friend calls. He takes my hand, grasps it in three different ways before sliding his fingertips down mine and moving them into a smart snap.
“O te den”, he asks how I am.