“Bitte bitte..boom boom…Bitte bitee…BOOM,” the merchant across from me said, as his palms slapped against the animal skin cover of a drum.
“Bitte…bittee…..BOOM,” The drum sang as I tried imitating the same elegant sound he had just made.
“No no no!” He grabbed my hands, moving them to the right area of the drum.
“You seem stress, you Americans are always stressed. Your friends aren’t going to leave you. Try again,” he said as he started repeating the same pattern once more on the drum.
I find my favorite moments in Ghana in the middle of nowhere. This particular moment came for me during a trip to one of Ghana’s many art markets. Ghanian markets are nothing like the Italian ones that I had grown up attending. They are crowded, tightly together and you have to keep your head down to make it past the merchants who all claim that their stand has one of a kind product, even though you just passed the same product a few stands before. People are calling for you non-stop and grabbing you in one way or another. Add in the closed-off air circulation, its easy enough to send someone in a mist of panic.
However, at this moment when the merchant approached me, he was sincere.
“Hello, are you looking for your friends?” He said. At first, my immediate mental response was, oh my gosh please leave me alone. I just want to get home.
“They are over there?” He said pointing to a different direction in the market. “By my booth.”
“Really? You promise?” I wasn’t down for any more sales tricks, but at the same time, I was getting pretty desperate to find someone else who was a part of the program. I think he liked that response because he started laughing, shining one of those contagious Ghanian smiles saying that he promised.
He was right, thankfully. He ended up showing me his whole shop, how they made each object and the history behind it. Additionally, offering me to come to film them anytime I want. Before I left, he said he wanted to teach me a little bit about his Ghanian music. He was from North Ghana, he explained to me, pointing out his tribal scares. “You go back home and play this for your boyfriend,” he laughed as he got me all set up.
“Bitte Bitte..” He said, “Now you.”
“Bitte Bitte,” I repeated.
We probably stayed out there for 15 minutes. And if I didn’t have to be back on the bus by a certain time, I could have spent the rest of the afternoon there. Every time either one of us hit the drum top, I could feel the hair stand on my arms. It was a magical sensation that engulfed my whole body. And made me smile immediately.