Like this:

We’ve got two fans going, we’re wearing 10 square inches of clothes between the two of us, and, as Ben says, there are absolutely no thoughts of hanky-panky (side-note from Laura: who uses that word??). Ben puts our Christmas Eve weather at “blazing”, which, he clarifies, is somewhere between “broiling” and “fusion.” I would also like to add that in the past few days the air has suddenly gone from humid to gummy. Weird but totally true.

Everybody in Krachi, from our Yam Boat auntie to George Sr.’s tiny, toddling granddaughter, Deborah, has Christmas hair: intricate braids and curly weaves that each required at least two-to-twelve hours at the salon. I, on the other hand, decided to spice up my style by simply washing my hair. It has now gone from greasy to large-and-in-charge. For Bus 32 alums in our readership, I’m sporting a helmet worthy of Mrs. Dothage, circa 1989.

I let hygiene (like communication – so sorry) wane over the past few weeks as I wrestled the thing that wouldn’t die, otherwise known as the prototype victim database. I’ve seen a million different victim-tracking systems, so you would think it would be relatively painless for me to create one for the Lake Volta kids. But since I am only detail-oriented in a reactive (rather than pro-active) sense, I’ve had to do about a billion re-toolings. This morning, I finally “finished” a bona fide Working Draft and, by mid-afternoon, I had entered into it all the historic victim data that we have on-hand.

It’s strange to think that tomorrow is Christmas. Besides the weather, I think one reason I feel seasonally out-of-kilter is because, sadly, I’ve squandered Advent in over-work. But it also feels un-Christmas-y because, apart from the Christmas goat tied up in the front yard and last week’s Twi/English sermon on The Annunciation, we’ve had a thoroughly non-liturgical Advent season. There has been no Russian Orthodox fasting, no Advent wreaths, no readings of Jesus’ genealogy, and certainly no 6-foot-tall spruce tree leaning in the living room. OH – but there has been an awesome Ghanaian country-western Christmas album on rotation (think Barbara Mandrell affecting a Nigerian-British accent, and you’re not far off).

Regardless, tomorrow is Christmas, and I am thankful. We’ll go to church for a “hanging of the green”-type Christmas worship service, in which we’ll deck the open-air sanctuary with palm fronds. George, Sr. will have the Christmas cow and the Christmas goat slaughtered; the butcher will bring the fresh meat to the house and we’ll roast it on spits under the shea tree, in the grassy, gravelly front yard that serves as an all-purpose summer kitchen, parlor, and dining room.

All the kids from the Village of Life will be there, of course, wearing the matching Christmas clothes that the seamstress and her assistants have been sewing on the old-fashioned foot-pedal sewing machines set-up in her front yard. The cloth for their new clothes is glossy white, coral, and gold. George, Jr. told me that all the kids will get shiny new Christmas shoes, too.

I’m looking forward seeing the kids. But I feel sad, too, knowing that because I’ve spent the last day wading through their historic files, I will remember the hard things that each one has endured even as I greet them and celebrate with them. One of the littlest ones, Bakpa, usually spends every church service staring unblinkingly at me, as if I am the only obruni he has ever laid eyes on. I am almost dreading seeing him tomorrow because I know I will think of his story as he stares at me.

Since I was finally able to come out of the work cave this afternoon, I spent the early evening in the front yard with the family, where they usually spend the sunset hours cooking, talking, and receiving visitors. George, Sr., who is still recovering from his car accident, was holding court in a long blue dressing gown, green cast, and crutches.

I sat with George, Sr., for a long while tonight, asking him questions about his work on the lake, his childhood, and his relationship with his father, James – a brusque, Russia-educated medical doctor, a man who lived in Europe for nearly 30 years, married and divorced a Dutch woman, and finally retired to a small medical practice on the outskirts of Kete Krachi. James is known throughout the community as much for his thorough medical manner as for his brusque diatribes against Africans, even though he himself is Ghanaian.

I met James only once, as he was leaving the house after a brief, perfunctory visit to inquire about George, Sr.’s post-hospital health. Sporting mirrored Aviators, a taupe silk turtleneck, and barely grizzled black hair, he looked decidedly non-Krachi. I had no idea who he was.

“I don’t believe in your God,” he said, cornering me in the front yard. “Your God made the enmity between the white man and the black man, so I don’t believe in him. He put the devil in the black man’s blood.”

“Oh, you mean sickle cell anemia,” I said dumbly, completely confused and trying to be polite.

“No, I mean the devil,” he said; “it has been scientifically proven.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” I said.

“Well,” he said, “that is just your perception!”

Ever since this strange exchange, I have been even more intrigued by George, Sr.’s warmth, openness, kindness, patience … all of it. Tonight, sitting with him in the front yard, I asked him: “Who taught you how to love?”

And he told me about Akua, his maternal grandmother, who raised him in old Krachi before the Lake Volta flooding. She loved him very much. She made room in their home for every friend of George, Sr.’s who needed a place to sleep or something to eat. She believed in him; she had dignity, joy, and generosity of heart, and she imparted these things to him. He told me, “Someday, I will build a guesthouse and it will be named in her honor.”

I have forgotten to tell you that one of the most revered members of the Achibra household is George, Sr.’s mother, who is also Akua (that being the name given to women who are born on a Wednesday).

As George, Sr., says, “She gave birth to me at a very tender age” – so she can’t be that much older than him. But her body is wracked with arthritis and the chronic pains of injuries sustained in more than seven trotro accidents. She walks with a walker, sings to herself, and grabs Ben every time he walks by, insisting that he inspect her ear, listen to her cough, etc.

She is gentle-spirited and kind. She gave her apple-cheeked smile to George, Sr., and she spends most of the day lounging topless in the front yard while her great-granddaughters play at her feet – which, if you ask me, is a pretty great way to grow old. And even she has Christmas hair: one of her grandnieces uncoiled her cornrows and fluffed her meager hair into a sweet pageboy. It is romantic and airy around her face; I think she is pleased to be pretty.

Watching George, Sr., and the way that he cares for her and enjoys his mother, I would never guess that she had not raised him. I would never guess that there was a long swath of history in which they were, for all intents and purposes, separated. It reminds me of how, when George, Sr., talks about his father, I don’t hear him express anything other than love, respect, and, very gently, the sadness of loving someone who does not know how to love in return.

All of this is for me the mark of something very beautiful. I feel that at its root, anti-trafficking work is work of reconciliation: reconciling a child with his parents, a woman with her body, a man with his dignity.

To learn that I am supporting the vision of a man who has learned how to reconcile in even the most intimate, personal, and painful relationships of his own life gives me greater confidence that the investment is worth the victim database spreadsheet insanity, as well as the literal sweat and sleeplessness.

It is almost midnight here. I was going to try to tie all this up with some semi-incoherent thoughts on incarnation, the body, lounging topless in the front yard, etc. But I am really sleepy, so I’ll spare you the rambling and let you guess it all out for yourself.

Peace and joy to you! Merry, merry Christmas! We hope you have a wonderful holiday with your families and friends.

Love,

Laura and Ben

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