I was mesmerized by the baby sleeping in a sling against her back.

Most Ghanaian babies are cute, but her child was particularly adorable with a slight bubble of drool resting against his purple lips and curly baby fro dampened with sweat. I stopped to take a picture of this baby and as I did his mom stopped me and said, “hey am I not pretty enough to take a snap of, you just want my baby?”

I was caught off guard by her sassiness and pleased with her friendliness. Not only did I continue to take her picture, but I also started a conversation. Her name was Cynthia.

Cynthia’s warmth was overwhelming. We met her at the first soccer game that we attended and she was clearly the respected figure among the crowd of young men. They gave her a small stool to sit on and the men often kneeled down to talk to her quietly among the rumbling of the game.

The sense of family was present, but we never expected to become part of that family.

She had told us to come back the next day. “Same field, very big stars,” she said.

We did come back and the crowd had multiplied by twenty. There were between 5000 and 8000 people, but Cynthia found the Obrunies (foreigners). Those with cameras were lead through the sea of people to the very front where they could sit and take pictures. It was treatment that we would and could not expect back home.

I wasn’t on time to the second soccer game and Cynthia was instantly worried. “Where’s my sista, my sista where is she?” Cynthia asked. Michelle informed her that I was at the phone store and I was on my way. That really wasn’t enough information for Cynthia; not when it came to someone in her family.

During the game I was sitting on the bus with several people from our group. When Cynthia and I saw each other we both lit up. She hurried over to the bottom of the bus as I leaned forward to say hello. She asked me how I was doing that day and made sure that I was happy with my seating choice for the game. Just like my mom would, Cynthia double-checked that I was not sitting with any strangers. “This your bus? Who is he?” she asked pointing at Eric our bus driver. “You ok? You happy? Ok my sista, I’ll go check on my child but if you need me, find me.”

I thanked her and as she left, the others on the bus asked me how I knew Cynthia and why she liked me so much. I didn’t have many answers for I was just as surprised. Between just a few hours during two soccer games, I was part of Cynthia’s Ghanaian family.

– Neethu