When I mentioned that I wanted to go to Accra’s largest outdoor market, The Makola Market, two Ghanaian friends warned me not to go, claiming it wasn’t safe for me.
When I asked why, they said I’d probably get robbed.
To scare me, one then sent pictures of the intensely busy market to show me what I’d be getting myself into.
“Am I going to get killed,” I responded.
“Doubtful. But I don’t suggest going.”
Then when they realized I was going anyway, they told me not to eat any street food. Even before I got there, I was warned. “You’ll get sick!”
“You don’t know where that food is from,” one said.
Joking back, I quickly replied, “Yes I do. It’s from Ghana!”
I’m not gonna lie, I like most Jews don’t have the toughest stomach. I suspect most groups who have a long history of abuse in their ancestry get stress baked into their DNA, but I’m not a doctor so who knows.
I definitely know many Black American friends who have similar stomach issues.
Warnings unheeded, I called an uber and headed to the market by myself.
So we have a clear picture. This isn’t a suburban farmer’s market. This isn’t a tourist spot.
Makola is one of the largest markets in all of Africa. It stretches in several directions and alleyways father than the eye can see. It’s crowded, loud and drenched with hustle and bustle.
As my driver dropped me off, he provided an additional unsolicited warning to me. “You really should wear that bag under your shirt or something.”
I like high fashion. I was wearing Gucci sandals, and had on some nice shorts and a Supreme mesh shirt, with a Prada cross bag across my body.
Of the many lectures I got before heading to the market, I was instructed not to wear anything nice. As you may have guessed by now, I wasn’t listening to anyone. I wanted to be my authentic self and wanted to engage the market as me.
I got out of the car as my driver wished me luck with a “you must be crazy” look on his face. I didn’t stuff my Prada bag inside my shirt.
I’m not naïve. I know bad people exist in the world. I know there are thieves, kidnappers, terrorists and all other sorts of people. But in my travels throughout Europe, Africa, Central America, the Caribbean, and the Middle East, I’ve learned that most people respond with love when you bring love.
When we walk through life with genuine respect on our faces. Without paternalism. Without better than. When we look at people as fellow human beings and not the other. When we share smiles that are authentic and not contrived.
Most people respond in kind. Overwhelmingly most.
So off I went into the dense market.
For nearly four hours in the hot sun, I interacted with dozens of people. I tried every type of street food except a few types of meat I didn’t recognize.
I ate meat pies and sweet pies. I had cassava balls. Fresh mangos and Tigernut fruit. I ate grilled gizzards.
The comedy of the day happened when I realized I forgot to put on sunblock. While I don’t burn easily with my Jewish more olive skin tone, it was super hot and there wasn’t much shade. I could feel the sun.
When I stopped at a half dozen cosmetic type stands and asked for sunblock, I was met with blank stares.
“What is sunblock?”
I explained and explained, but nobody had heard of what I was asking for.
“They invented something to protect your skin from the son,” one person curiously asked.
The exchanges made me chuckle. Here I was the only white man I saw the entire afternoon in the crowded market asking for sunscreen!
Of the thousands and thousands of people in the market, I got a few “what the fuck are you doing here” stares. I was announced a half dozen times with a shouting “Oboronyi,” which is a slang term for foreigner or white man. It’s mostly used neutrally but can sometimes be derogatory and
sometimes affectionately. I hadn’t learned the word yet, but I could tell what it meant the few times I heard it.
Those few exceptions aside, I met so many wonderful people who were happy I was there. I was greeted with countless smiles, hellos and how are yous. Many people wanted to know where I was from. Several asked if they could see me again while in Ghana.
At least a dozen men said they liked my sandals. And others were just curious about me.
One person even told me they were glad I was there:
“Thank you for coming.”
I didn’t get killed or robbed. I didn’t get harassed or harmed.
Instead, the beautiful people of Ghana welcomed me with smiles and warmth.
And above all, my Jewish stomach didn’t grumble once.
Thank you, Ghana.
A lesson for all of us to practice humanism back home.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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