As I sit here in the faded yellow, dilapidated Public Agenda building, facing the cobwebs in a corner of the newsroom (my desk is the only one that is diagonal) and shivering (I am right under the air conditioner), my coworkers kindly converse and laugh in Twi around me. Sometimes I try to listen and laugh with them. My ear is exactly one foot away from an unnecessarily loud speaker crackling with the sounds of a Ghanaian radio station that interchanges between “Lonely” by Akon and an overexcited announcer with a tendency to ramble, also in Twi. A fire alarm out of batteries chirps every 45 seconds, also adding to the ambience. I am typing this on a keyboard, attached to a laptop with a broken keyboard, with no mouse. I alternately switch between typing on the extra keyboard and using the touch pad on the laptop.

With my task for the day complete (write an undisclosed amount about being an oburoni/white person/foreigner in Ghana, no particular prompt, “you decide,” “don’t know if we will publish it”) by 11:20 a.m., I now leisurely recline in my uncomfortable broken swivel chair, my phone sitting complacently by my side. With an extensive three game selection, my cellular possibilities are limitless. I have gotten to level 21 in JewelQuest and am halfway through a Sudoku game. The third option, “Carrom,” remains unexplored as of yet, more details to follow.

I am still mildly full from my breakfast (an Algerian Cheerio knock-off and some milk that was “produced in Argentina, for Denmark, and distributed by a Singaporean company.”) However, I recently consumed a mini banana offered to me by my apparent future husband. After proposing to me a second time (I rejected him the first day), my coworker Frederick has already started planning our imminent wedding (somehow involving parachuting out of a plane) so that he can move to America and “become next Obama.” I even made up a fake boyfriend back home to try and deter him, but he told me that “it is just a boyfriend” and that “our happiness is all that matters.”

Despite the long-winded list of complaints, I actually have been quite lucky with my internship situation, especially compared with that of my roommates. I am thankful to even have an air conditioner in this 85 degree heat and 90 percent humidity, and also thankful for the 1 cedi (70 cent) lunches sold just down the street. I only have to take one tro-tro here and two back, equaling around 3 hours total of commute as opposed to Shawna’s 6+. Sometimes I even luck out and get rides from a coworker who lives near me. My coworkers and boss are actually extremely welcoming and nice (despite all the Twi chatter and also despite the sign stapled permanently onto my editor’s door that reads: “Extremely Busy. Do Not Come In.”) Furthermore, I feel extremely fortunate that our bathroom here actually has toilet paper.

Finally, having been separated from my thrilling roommates for exactly five hours, I sit here reminiscing. I already miss the sound of Michael humming the theme song to “Free Willy” and am wondering how many times Neethu has been proposed to today and how long Michelle watched Neethu sleep last night.  (I am also hoping Arianne slept last night knowing my top bunk could fall through at any moment and that her death would ensue.) I reflect fondly on the time that Patrick awkwardly held his first African child at the prompting of Shawna, who’s name still means “kiss me” in Twi and who’s presence is still missed by her Ghanaian ex-boyfriend, Kabob/Kabosh. (Also Kabob/Kabosh still hates Elise for going to the bathroom too much and taking Shawna with her.) Thinking of reggae night also brings back flashes of Annie being swept off her feet by various charming Ghanaian men on the dance floor. My stomach has started to grumble and I am beginning to crave some of Jake’s curry cucumber garlic egg soup over watery rice. And now I should stop writing because my post is beginning to get as cheesy as Monica’s writing. As the grad students/Caroline would say, we truly are young bohemians. Catherine would say it in Twi.

Peace, Love & Joy,

Megan

P.S. Thank you to Joyce Fisher for the imminent blog comment! We love your daughter, you and your posts!