Shake the Dust

I remember our first day in Ghana. Still a bundle of emotions, trying to remember names for orientation, fighting dehydration- we headed off on our campus walk. As we left our hostel and walked towards the academic buildings, we crossed a large dirt field. Slightly more orange than the color of rust, the Ghana dirt stretched out before me.

It didn’t take us long to realize that despite all efforts, this dirt stubbornly attaches to everything. Pant hems are stained and shoes leave trails everywhere. Since the dry season was upon us, the dirt blew everywhere, becoming the dust that left a thin reddish tinge over all surfaces.

Sweeping was mostly fruitless, as more would blow in after a few hours. Showers allowed for only a temporary removal of the dirt film covering your skin.

Regrettably, sometimes a little extra grit in your bowl of jollof could probably be attributed to the environment.

It just seeps in. Everywhere.

Transferred from Kissehman children as they learned, played and were held

Blown everywhere in the wake of the 4x4 on our safari

Covering the documents lying in the repository at the archives

Preventing our white shirt dance uniforms from ever staying the correct color

Yellowing the pages of lecture notes

Stamped beneath the feet of Rusty the elephant

Eroded by the spectacular might of waterfalls

Collected in the corners of slave dungeons

Serving as impromptu football fields

Woven into the beautiful Kente

Coating the tires of tro-tros as mates cry out destinations

Vastly changing our standards of dirty and realizing the beauty of how you will never quite be clean

And as I am taking down my suitcases to pack, I must use the broom to sweep off all that has collected on them these months here in Ghana. And I realize that I too have collected Ghana but that it can never been shaken out of my being. Like the dirt, it has seeped in, changing my perception of beauty and shaping the woman that I am supposed to be.