Tragedy In Ghana, By Moyo Okediji

I arrived in Accra, Ghana, from Brussels with Belgium Airlines at about 6 pm.

It was a great flight. The flight attendants were nice and the food was okay.

The usual “Chicken or pasta?” question, to which I always answer, “Chicken, please.”

God knows if anybody ever requests pasta. Everyone in all the numberless flights I’ve taken in my life had always asked for chicken.

Chicken. That category covers all sorts of things, from true “chicken,” to edibles tasting more like plastic bags.

As I chewed what passed for “chicken” between Brussels and Accra, I longed to land in Ghana to eat true “chicken,” the Accra style.

I also watched some movies. I never have time to sit down and watch movies back in Austin, Texas. For reasons I always promise myself to overcome, I consider watching movies a waste of valuable time I could better spend writing, painting, or resting.

I must have watched four full-length features before the captain announced we were descending into Accra airport, and the flight attendants prepared us for landing.

Immigration formalities were simple and straightforward. Unlike in the US, the process was not tense. I was always sufficiently relaxed in Accra immigration ports to hold meaningful conversations.

The young immigration lady inside the cubicle, who was stamping my passport, flashed me a friendly smile, saying, she would fly back to the US with me whenever I planned to return.

“I’m an old man, young lady,” I replied. “You can do much better than me.”

“I disagree,” she said kindly. “You are not old. It’s not about age. I watched you as you approached this booth. That’s my job. You look like you faked the age on your passport. You could claim 15 years younger than what I see on your papers. It’s just your beard, which looks more like a mask.”

“You are so generous,” I responded. “Bet you say that to everyone. Akwaaba!”

“I’m the one supposed to greet you with Akwaaba,” she said. “It means welcome. Enjoy your stay.”

My baggage arrived intact, another worry I always have on international trips. I don’t know why I entertain this phobia. I have never lost a single item before, though I’ve listened to enough stories of woe.

Customs were nice in Accra. They took one look at me, and asked, “Any electronics in your luggage?”

“No,” I replied. “Just my laptop and cellphone.”

“Welcome to Ghana, sah,” he said, “and enjoy your stay.”

Darn! This feels like home, I thought. These beautiful people are too amazing to be real.

Would I have received the same treatment if I had flown into Nigeria? I wasn’t certain. Recent reports indicated that the MMA in Lagos has enjoyed a ravishing facelift. What about the men in uniform waiting for you at the airport in Lagos? Reports were not so persuasive for me to want to visit Lagos.

Besides, my Nigerian passport has expired. I was informed that the official directives encourage Nigerians in the diaspora with expired passports to return with the expired passports to renew them in Nigeria.

Would the immigration officers respect that regulation? I doubted it. The immigrations were notorious for their hostility to Nigerians in the diaspora returning home, extorting money from them, threatening them, delaying them without need.

Lots of viral videos are on social media with immigration and customs officers behaving like desperadoes as they begged, harassed and forced travelers to offer bribes just to allow passage into the country.

I had no plans to visit Nigeria. Maybe next trip. Not this one.

I took a taxi to my regular hotel away from the hub of Accra, more toward the west side of the city in Adenta.

The hotel staff welcomed me with typical dedication.

“Prof, you didn’t book in advance,” the guy at the desk said. “We would have gotten your special room ready for you.”

“Excuse me,” I said, “I was just too distracted by end-of-semester details to book in advance. Do you have something suitable?”

“Of course,” he said. “It’s not as large as your usual room. But it also costs ten dollars less.”

“I’ll take it,” I said, relieved.

They grabbed my bags and led me to a room at the far end of the building. Everything worked: AC, television, bathroom and especially WI-FI.

I tipped the guys who brought in my luggage and ordered room service of banku and okra soup with smoked tilapia, together with a bottle of chilled beer.

I didn’t unpack my luggage. I simply jumped into bed and turned on the television to pass the time while waiting for my order.

It arrived within thirty minutes, freshly prepared.

The beer was a delight. I was tempted to ask for a second bottle but passed.

I always overfed whenever I came to Ghana. At first, I didn’t like Ghanaian food. But with time, I longed for the dishes.

The beer soon sent me into a stupor. I managed to stagger up, took a shower and brushed my teeth—which I hate to do, but always do when I remember how the dentist in the US would punish you if you came in with less than perfect teeth.

Their bills would give you a nightmare for an entire year. So, I gave them their two-minute due with the brush and toothpaste before collapsing on the bed, the television still playing a game of soccer between two European teams I didn’t care about.

I remembered the good old days when we watched only Nigerian soccer teams like IICC Shooting Stars, Bendel United, Stationary Stores, and the legendary team from the East that produced the likes of Okala, that giant goalkeeper whose mere presence made strikers pee in their pants within the penalty box.

Sleep took me away. But not for too long. My body was not yet ready to accept the 6-hour time difference between the US and Ghana.

I woke up. The first thing I checked was my cellphone. There was an unusual number with a text message: I checked it.

The message was from the Dean of my college.

Did I do something wrong? It was most unusual for the Dean to contact a faculty unless they ran afoul of the authorities, or won an award.

I didn’t win an award. Therefore, I must be in trouble.

“Moyo,” the message began. “I apologize for breaking this news to you this way….”

Darn, the message didn’t begin well. As a tenured full professor, they couldn’t fire me unless I virtually killed someone. Last time I checked, I hadn’t killed anybody….

The message continued: “….I know you are very close to Christopher Adejumo. He passed in his sleep last night. The contact family number we had for him didn’t work. I was wondering if you have a number for his family member.”

This must be fake news. Christopher, the only other African professor couldn’t be dead. I spoke with him at the airport in Austin before getting on the plane. I was teasing him to come with me to Nigeria.

Since he left Nigeria in 1986, Christopher had not returned. We went to the University of Benin at the same time. He was an undergraduate studying art education while I was a graduate student studying painting.

We both ended up as professors at the University of Texas at Austin, with him teaching art education and me teaching art history.

We were indeed very close. His office was adjacent to mine. Daily we spoke before and after our classes.

But the Covid parted us in 2020. He continued to teach in the classrooms, while I appealed to deliver classes virtually.

Since that time, we rarely met physically, though we spent long hours talking by phone. We actually would speak for three hours on a single call.

Whenever he called me, I knew I would enjoy a conversation with a loved and genuine individual for the next couple of hours.

Our discussion touched on every topic on earth. We usually ended our discussions with me asking him, “So, when are we going back to Nigeria? It’s not good to stay in a foreign place forever.”

He would laugh from the guts to our feet. “Next year,” he would reply. “Next year unfailingly.”

“Ha, I heard that before,” I would respond. “Next year, when molue buses begin to run from New York to Ibadan.”

But, to my surprise, Christopher applied for a sabbatical break last semester. He decided to visit Nigeria to research art education in Nigerian universities. He was granted a sabbatical to leave for Nigeria this January.

Alas, we lost him this December.

I contacted his cousin in Nigeria, Mogaji Gboyega Adejumo, a prominent Ibadan personality, and broke the sad news to him.

He broke into tears. I informed him I needed the phone number of his family member to give to the Dean.

Mogaji gave me the number of a family contact in Dallas, Texas.

I then called a couple of colleagues in Nigeria.

They were shocked to hear the news about Christopher, who we all knew as Bunmi in Nigeria, before he moved to the United States, never to return home until his death four decades later.

We decided to celebrate his wonderful life with a party in Ile Ife. I would host the party at the Akodi Orisa, my art center in Nigeria.

Something told me that it wasn’t a good idea for me to go to Nigeria.

But how could I not go to Nigeria to celebrate my good friend?

Going to Nigeria proved one of the worst decisions I ever made in my life, as I ended up in the hands of Nigerian human traffickers in Ghana, as you will learn when the story continues.

Credit: Moyo Okediji

*Okediji is Professor of Art History at the University of Texas, Austin.