For the first post in a series under “My life in Ghana”, I wanted to share the story of my friendship with a special person called Auntie Alice. This story begins on 2 November 2023, my very first day in Ghana. Drenched in sweat, dazed and overwhelmed, I had just left a meeting with the Government Statistician at the offices of the Ghana Statistical Service, where I would be working as an economist and ODI Fellow for the next two years. Nearby the office, outside a shop packed full of crates of water and beside a large fridge proudly displaying an assortment of local drinks, I was introduced to Auntie Alice. And so began a friendship that lasted my entire stay in Ghana — and which will hopefully last for many more years to come.
Alice dominates the little passageway leading to Rawlings canteen, an informal food court for workers at the nearby government offices, built by the former President John J. Rawlings. Hot, cramped and loud with the voices of women serving up all types of Ghanaian dishes, this little passage — unavoidable for those seeking their next bowl of satisfying waakye — is definitely her territory. Anyone who goes past will inevitably collide with her warm, welcoming and occasionally suspicious attention, the friendliness of her greeting tempered only by the effects of the brutal temperature. It was in this passage, sitting outside her shop, that I got to know Auntie Alice.
Admittedly, at first, her willingness to be friends took me aback. I was a little surprised and slightly suspicious: why was the lady so friendly and talkative? What did she want? I thought. In those first few weeks in Ghana, I received many requests for friendship from well-meaning Ghanaians. I think I gave my phone number out over a dozen times, often having to block continuous calls from people I had just met for only a few minutes. However, since Alice was working outside my office, I began to see her every day, and with each meeting, trust slowly built between us.
Then Alice began calling me. I was saved in her phone as “Gwerg GSS White Man” for the first few months, which I found very amusing. Many people may have ignored those initial calls, but I was curious. I was living alone in a country so foreign to me: who wouldn’t want a local person calling on them to make sure they were okay? Those first few months in Ghana were challenging — moving to a new country always is (I’ve done it four times) — but adjusting to life in Ghana drained me emotionally and physically and I welcomed any help I could get. The check-in each morning was like clockwork; every day at 8 a.m., my phone would ring. If I didn’t answer at first, Alice would always persist, sometimes leaving five missed calls before I even had a chance to look at my phone. Each call followed the same script, never deviating much from:
“Uncle” (to her I was Uncle Kwesi, the name of Sunday borns in Twi)
“Auntie”
“Good morning. How are you?”
“I’m fine how are you?”
“I’m fine, by the grace. Only by the grace. Are you coming to work?”
“Yes I’ll be there, maybe 30 minutes.”
“OK I’ll be expecting you. How’s Daddy and Bob?”
“They are both fine.”
“We thank God. 30 mins though. Don’t be late. I’m waiting.”
“OK see you soon.”
“You Paaaaa, see you.”
Not long after the call, I would ride my scooter to work and sit with Alice for ten or fifteen minutes, eating mango, drinking water, and discussing the day ahead. Those morning chats became part of my daily routine. We would talk about family and friends and catch up on the activities of the evening before. “Did you play football? How many goals?” Alice would ask, swinging her foot from side to side and laughing. She would always check what I had eaten for dinner yesterday, and inquire on what I would be having for lunch today: “waakye today or no? Maybe gobe?…You and your waakye, AHH” The everyday and the predictable became so meaningful in those exchanges. It was suddenly obvious that a conversation on the health of all your family members each morning was actually the most important thing anyone could discuss. She was interested in everything, never missing or forgetting an important detail. After a few months, Alice knew about everything that was happening in my life, up to the minute.
These meetings also became a place for me to talk freely about whatever was on my mind, and in her completely unapologetic and unique way, Alice would advise, and occasionally instruct me on what to do. This usually meant telling me to stop worrying because Jesus was in control: “Do you put luggage on top of your head when you go in a car? No, you don’t. You put it in the boot. Don’t carry what doesn’t need to be carried because Jesus is in control.” Her unshakeable belief in God, and her ability to lean on her faith for guidance on pretty much everything, was comforting and humbling. Although, on one occasion, when her husband’s taxi broke down on the side of the road after we were returning from a birthday party, her assurances that only Jesus knew when we would be rescued did become a little frustrating. Despite this, her faith was never overbearing or forceful, and she always maintained a prodigious ability to engage you in the simplest, most humorous, and sharply emotionally intelligent way. Each question flowed from the last with empathetic logic; it was as if she knew exactly what I needed, and what I wanted to say.
As we became closer, I started to learn more about her life. Alice has been selling soft drinks and water outside the Ghanaian government ministries for nearly three decades. She was even the main supplier of Coca-Cola to all the government employees at one point. But, recently, like most of the Ghanaian economy: “the market has been down, too much competition, it’s not good at all, at all, at all”. Alice grew up in the Northern Volta region, moved to Accra in the late 70s, and experienced the economic and social crisis of the 80s: “It was terrible, I remember lining for hours to get bread”. After meeting her husband, Lawrence, whilst working as a receptionist at a hotel and having four daughters, and five grand-children, Alice now lives in the west of Accra. She is now 67, although finding out her age took me about 6 months: “I’ll tell you my age if you tell me your salary” she joked.
As a guest in Ghana, Alice and Lawrence took their job as my custodians extremely seriously. I was invited by them to numerous events during my two years there: this included Sunday service at church, weddings, funerals, engagements, birthday parties, and public holiday celebrations. These programs, what Ghanaian call social events, were always an adventure. I often didn’t have much information on what was going to happen, but I would be picked up by Alice and Lawrence (who is a cab driver) and dropped off at the end of the day, often a little drunk and exhausted from wherever we had been that day. One very memorable occasion was a Founder’s Day celebration at Grandpa Timothy’s house in the North of Greater Accra. This was a celebration of the founding father’s of Ghana. We had food and beer, and chatted, I was given cat stew to eat.
It may seem a little odd that one of my closest friends in Ghana was Alice. But, it’s impossible to understand my relationship with Alice without seeing it through the lens of my own experience with grief. Only 3 years before moving to Ghana, aged 25, I lost my mum suddenly to ovarian cancer. In that short time I had packed my life up in London, ended a long-term relationship, moved to Barcelona to study a masters, moved again to Washington D.C. for work, and then ended up back in London. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do, but I decided I still wanted to fulfil my long-standing ambition to work as an economist in a developing country as part of the ODI Fellowship: so thankfully I was offered a position and made the move to Accra. This would be the third country I would be moving to in the space of two years. Of course, this life of constant movement and new opportunities was incredibly exciting but through chasing the next career move to searching for more adventure, I had probably neglected that part of me that just needed a bit of support and, frankly, motherly love (it feels difficult to admit that as grown man, but it’s true). And so when I arrived in front of Alice on that first day, although I don’t tend to believe in fate too much (I’ve taken too many courses in statistics), I like to think I was exactly where I needed to be, and more than willing to accept her friendship.
Of course, it was also incredibly interesting to get to know someone whose personal identity is, by all outward metrics, completely opposite to your own. According to gender, race, age, education, nationality, and religion: we couldn’t be more different. Yet, whilst these differences definitely affected our relationship, at times in challenging ways, they mattered so little in the face of our mutual love for “enjoyment”: a term used in Ghana for anytime you’re having light and funny conversation (often with a few beers and music as well).
When I was ill with malaria (twice) I had to tell her to stop calling me to see if I was okay, she almost tore my head off when I bought a motorbike, she shamed me when my shirt wasn’t ironed, told me how I should greet people at church, celebrated all my wins, and consoled me on all the losses, and laughed at me whenever I tried to eat fufu. I can’t really imagine how I could have lived in Ghana without her. By the time I had left Ghana, Alice and Lawrence had, by all intents and purposes, adopted me as their son: “you’re my last born” she would say.
“It’s not easy, it’s not easy at all” they often say in Ghana, in reference to the trials and tribulations of simply just trying to get on with your life. This is true for the vast majority of people, including Alice, whose life is definetly not straightforward. Waking up well before sunrise each day, sitting in the intense heat, selling what few bottles of water you can to make something to live from, and then spending a few hours in dense traffic to get home and do it all over again. Even with the immense privileges I enjoyed as a foreigner there, dealing with challenges was always a constant battle, but I learned a lot from Alice. Her humour, grace, and perseverance despite all the challenges, was an incredible quality of hers and something that I saw in so many Ghanaians. Yet, perhaps the biggest thing I learned was that to be a happy person you don’t need to complicate life. Bringing joy to others is something Alice did a lot, just through humour, smiling, asking people what they are having for lunch, and how their family and friends are.
enjoy music and beers, maybe thank God once in a while (or a lot). Then you’re on to something. I’ll never forget, and still find it hard to believe, the amount of hospitality I received from Alice and her friends and family. And, without trying to sound too grandiose, it’s been an important moment for me to understand how people from any country, and from any background, can help each other through whatever they need help to get through, and along the way have a bloody great time doing it.
