By: Megan Russell (Published 7/8)

Oburoni vs. Accra

There are 14 of us journalism students from the United States living here in Ghana for the summer and working at various internships. In our time off we drive around the country in a very conspicuous tour bus wearing our American clothing and taking cheesy, staged group pictures as we attempt to learn our way around the bustling acropolis that is Accra, and also other various parts of the country. We have attended lectures at the University of Ghana, walked through the canopy of a rainforest, visited the castles in Cape Coast and Elmina, and played with children at a primary school.

Usually we cling to our tour bus for dear life and often stick out like sore, white thumbs in large gatherings of Ghanaians. Even when we try to use the little Twi we know (“medaase,” “me pa wo kyew,” “maakye”) people just laugh, nod and reply, “You’re welcome,” in perfect English as we walk away in embarrassment and often confusion.

During our first week here we took a bus tour of the entire city of Accra. I found it amazing that on one side of a street you could find a wealthy neighborhood dating back to colonial British times, whereas directly across there may be dozens, even hundreds of people living on the street. It was surprising to me that many buildings in Accra were unfinished, mere skeletons of houses, offices and hotels that will remain so as along as the interest rate for loans is above 25%. Young unemployed men and women darted in front of our bus, other cars and tro-tros hawking items ranging from peanuts and toilet paper to Ghanaian movies and cell phone cards. One river we saw was completely clogged with debris, and in there were many areas where unsupervised children ran barefoot through piles of metal scrap and garbage and napped on tires underneath semi-trucks.

It was truly amazing to witness the city first hand. Everything suddenly became so real when I was placed smack dab in the middle of it. However I will say that the main thing I noticed was that the Ghanaians are an incredibly resilient, friendly, and joyful people. Even though it is pretty overwhelming for me to be the only white person or foreigner for sometimes miles, everyone is extremely welcoming and accommodating. My smiles, waves and conversations are returned and often encouraged. The children stare at me at first, then burst into toothy grins when I wave or smile at them, and adults are eager to offer me advice on things ranging from the language to picking the ripest mango.

What is perhaps the most inspiring aspect of Ghanaian life is the affinity for respect and the strong sense of family. At the local football game my roommates and I discovered during our first week, there were roughly 8,000 Ghanaians in attendance and each person seemed to be connected to the next through kinship or simply because they were enjoying their favorite sport alongside each other. Despite the fact that it was 85 degrees with 85% humidity and the game was held on a large dirt field, everyone was content to just exist in that place and time amidst friends, family, music, the announcer’s booming voice and the smells of fried corn permeating the air.

Early on in my stay I was instructed to start every conversation with a Ghanaian by saying, “Good afternoon, how are you doing?” instead of the American style of blurting out a question with the aim of self-gain. I have quickly learned that Ghanaians appreciate it when I show respect, and in turn I get to experience their lives as friends, as families, as workers, and when it really comes down to it, as people that seem to know a lot more about how to treat each other than most other people in the world.

Oburoni vs. Obinini

After being here for a little over a week, I already feel like I know Ghana inside and out. I may or may not have an innate desire to call myself one of the locals, and with five more weeks to go I think I might be able to achieve this or at least learn how to blend in a little better. However, I think I am still considered a tourist… and not only that, but an oburoni.

I had heard of the notorious “oburoni” word long before I actually arrived in Ghana. My professor, who has been coming to Ghana for 15+ years, told me and the 13 other journalism students I would be living with for the summer in Accra that the word simply meant “white person” or “foreigner” and that we would be called it quite often. It was not necessarily negative or condescending; I remained open-minded.

In class we read a study that took an in-depth look at the word “oburoni,” which translates to: “someone from ‘aburokyire,’ the land beyond the horizon.” The study went on to say that the word might also be derived from the root “abro,” meaning “a bad, selfish and destructive person,” which was originally attributed to the Europeans for obvious reasons. Many opinions of both visiting foreigners and native Ghanaians were displayed in the study with the tentative conclusion that Ghanaians did not necessarily use it as a negative term whereas the majority of foreigners, especially Americans, took offense to it. It was suggested that this was because in America, racial tension is still evident and racial slurs towards any race are generally not condoned.

While in Ghana I have been called oburoni by my professors, bus drivers, random passersby, my coworkers, and evenly jokingly among our larger group of American roommates. Although many people take offense to the term because it “undermines individuality” and “promotes racial discrimination,” I find myself strangely fond of the name. In fact, I have never felt wronged by it, for it makes sense to me that without knowing our names, the term is employed as a greeting and also as identification. When my coworkers smile and greet me as “Oburoni Megan” or when Ghanaian children on the street run towards me screaming, “Oburoni! Oburoni!” while laughing and smiling, I find it hard to think of it as a derogatory or even a negative term in the slightest.

My coworker offered me a piece of advice about the expression the other day, for which I was extremely obliged. She told me that when I was called “oburoni” to simply reply “obibini!” and all would be fine. I gave it a try in the office and in return I received a laugh, a smile and a look that expressed: “Touché.”

I, for one, have chosen to accept the oburoni nickname, at least until people learn my actual name or until my skin, hair and eyes get much, much darker. In return I merely ask to be noticed not only for my foreign-ness, but also for my personality, my writing, and simply for the fact that I am a human being, just like all of the obininis out there.