Pronounce it KO-jo. Picture me on sunny Labadi Beach (yes, pronounce it la-body). It's on the outskirts of Accra, the capital of Ghana, on the southern coast of West Africa. And picture one vendor after another approaching me with bootlegged CDs and every kind of trinket you can imagine. I'm fairly successful warding off most of them, but the ones who seem to, uh, embody the la-body image, well, maybe I let them try to sell me a little longer. Except for Kodjo. His body wasn't exactly what a movie director might consider to be top-shelf beach material, but I engaged him in conversation for a long time. There was something about the smile in his voice that more than made up for the missing tooth in the smile on his face. Charming would be the word. And I was fascinated by his stories. We ended up talking for nearly a week.
After being schooled in Philadelphia, Kodjo lived with his family in the Ivory Coast where he was employed as an architectural engineer. Now he sleeps the nights in a foreign country, in a small makeshift shop on the beach, out of which he sells trinkets to eke a living. He is separated from everything he once knew. His life changed in the Ivory Coast when his father accepted a position as assistant to the finance minister in the unpopular government there, against his mother's wishes. Trouble came. Rebels stormed the extended family's bimonthly get-together and mowed them down, 27 of them. Kodjo was in a different room, so escaped the bullets. A gunman found him and, apparently having run out of ammunition, beat him in the face, head and chest with his rifle and left him for dead. Kodjo survived with the missing tooth, a lung ripped by a rib and 90 days in a hospital. A neighbor had found his baby niece still alive among the bodies and took her to the same hospital.
When they were released, Kodjo took his niece and walked across the Ghanaian border with nothing but the clothes they were wearing. He found a woman to keep the little girl. He can't get a room for himself because he cannot afford the three years' advance rent required by landlords. (I was skeptical of this strange requirement until I researched it on the web.) He can't even afford to buy supplies for making the trinkets he sells; his shop is almost empty. Like millions of others in any large African city, he is desperate to survive.
Kodjo stood over my beach chair with his smile that’s always one tooth short of complete. The three trinkets hanging from his neck were little purse-like coconut shells with zippered lids. He makes them by cutting off the tops of coconuts and reattaching them with zippers. To thread one, he bores twelve holes through the body of the coconut with a red-hot wire.
Having a family in third-world countries is so expected that it generally renders singlehood intolerable. When the subject of family came up, as it does in any courteous conversation with people of such cultures, Kodjo didn't respond with the usual shock and disbelief that I have no wife and kids. When I asked about his, he said he was single. That shocked me. Asked why he was single, he said coolly, "Because I like men." Okaaaaaay, and why are you telling me this? Homosexuality is a crime in Ghana. No one would normally make himself so vulnerable.
"I just believe in telling people the honest answer when they ask,” he said.
By late afternoon I had also learned Kodjo was once a tour guide. After he spoke in detail of the places I wanted to visit in outlying Ghana, I began to consider hiring him for my road trips. We decided he would show me around the city that night, and I decided, to myself, that if things continued to seem copasetic, I'd employ him as my guide. Having a personal guide means never having to fret over finding the right hotel, bargain for taxi rides or study a map for an hour before getting on the right bus. And, of course, he shows you things and takes you places you'd never experience either on your own or with a group.
What a night it was! We went to the Paloma and dined outdoors under a thatched canopy while musicians performed under droopy palm trees. They featured Ghana’s “highlife” style of music, the country’s gift to the continent during Africa’s seventy years of independence efforts. The band threw in a little reggae, including Bob Marley's "One Love." Those lyrics in that setting were quite emotional. The musicians also performed a great rendition of "When the Saints Go Marching In.” Somehow they had a trumpet, a trombone and a soloist with Louis Armstrong's voice. I thought of my friends back home and wished they were there to share this experience.
When we spoke of religion, Kodjo said he doesn't go to church, although he grew up Christian with a Protestant mother and Catholic father. He was raised Catholic and became a "mass server" at about age seven or eight. He said the priests regularly fondled the children.
“But that’s not what bothered me,” he said. “What bothered me was that I discovered lies; and after that, I didn’t trust religion.” For example, when the priest said the wine literally turned into Jesus’ blood, and warned the children never to drink any of it lest they vomit blood, Kodjo didn’t believe it. He tested his suspicion by tasting some of the leftover wine on the sly. (He already knew the taste of alcohol from an elixir mothers use against measles.) It made him drunk, but he didn’t vomit blood.
Not wanting to confess what he had done, he confronted the priest by saying his father told him someone had drunk the wine and did not vomit blood. “Your daddy lied,” the priest said. Kodjo hasn’t been a believer in Christianity or religion since then. His enduring rejection of it is quite a feat in a city where the back of every taxi is painted with religious slogans or biblical snippets and many stores have religious names, such as the "Glory of God Electrical Shop."
After dinner we walked a mile or two in the dark through business and residential streets teaming with people. We hiked through a seedy area known as Devil's Island because every conceivable type of low-life hangs out there. (I found myself thinking, If my friends could see me now.... I sure hope they don’t see me in headlines.) We finally arrived at the café and bar known as Strawberry’s. It looks completely straight, but it's as close to a gay establishment as you can get in Ghana. Gay people meet there on the QT in spite of severe legal penalties for loving someone who happens to be of the same sex.
The only available outdoor table was too close to the music, but the lively atmosphere was great! During our walking tour, I'd shared more of my own story with Kodjo, so he freely pointed out which of the others he knew to be gay. My gaydar would not have been able to identify them and yet they reminded me that in freedom or not, people will always find a path to a meaningful sense of joy.
At 1:00 a.m. I stepped into the shadows while Kodjo flagged a meterless taxi and negotiated a "local price" for dropping me off at my hotel, and him at the beach where he sleeps. Before reaching my hotel, I told Kodjo I would be willing to replace his lost income from beach sales, and then some, if he would guide my road trips over the next several days. He was delighted. He agreed to be at my hotel by 7:00 a.m.
Kodjo and I traveled by bus. I'll leave that horror story for another time. And I'll wait to tell you the beautiful stories of Kumasi (seeing the king of the Ashantis) and Elmina (walking among the ghosts of the largest slave fort of the trans-Atlantic slave trade).
Back in Accra, I paid Kodjo. He agreed to accompany me back to the "Art Center," where kinte cloth and wood carvings are sold. It is a mass of 130 shops situated so densely that every three or four steps you're in front of a different one—confronted by yet another vendor promising you the lowest price because, well, you just look like a good man. Kodjo could advise me in this maze and help keep the sharks at bay.
I noticed, as we walked among the shops, that Kodjo would disappear for a few moments with some of the shopkeepers. He noticed that I noticed, and explained. He had debts to pay. Now he could pay them. Now he could buy more supplies with which to make a living. His demeanor in telling me this was straightforward and businesslike until he suddenly lost it and bubbled over with joy. "You have made me so happy! I don't know what I would have done if I hadn't met you." He really does smile with his voice when he's happy.
I had no idea when I hired Kodjo what my decision would mean to him. As we began our last meal together Kodjo reached across the restaurant table, took my hand and said a prayer. His lack of respect for religious trappings doesn't mean a disbelief in God. I don't remember the words he said. I don't think I even heard them. But I know what they meant.
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From The Kinship Connection, August, 2004. © 2004 by Larry Hallock
