By: Megan Russell (Published 7/11)

Oburoni vs. The Fufu 

You would think that after a week in Ghana I would already have a handle over much of the cuisine. So far I have sampled various dishes of chicken, fish or goat with groundnut soup and banku, a plethora of fruits and vegetables, many combinations of beans and rice, fried plantains, and a grand collection of spices. I have since come to the conclusion that Ghanaian cuisine is about as far from good old American hamburgers, hot dogs, and apple pie as you can get. While I sometimes miss the simplicity and general unhealthiness of various American food items, much can be said for the robust flavors, antagonizing aromas, intriguing textures and relative creativity of the food here in Ghana.

Up until this week, my ever-growing Accra palate was missing one of the most integral items of Ghanaian cuisine: the infamous fufu.

On the first day of my internship, a charismatic and extremely persuasive male coworker told me that as an act of initiation I needed to consume a plate of fufu for lunch. Everyone in the room laughed so I laughed and agreed to the apparent joke. But by the time 1 o’clock rolled around I realized he wasn’t kidding and I had unknowingly committed myself to a real rite of passage. A co-worker named Philo offered to take me to lunch, so after a quick spritz of hand sanitizer I followed her down the road like a lost puppy as she lead me in the direction of the foreboding fufu.

The place we went had no obvious name and seemingly no menu either. As my eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight on the street to the darker interior I took note that seemingly every pair of eyes in that small, roadside restaurant were on me. Whether there was an unspoken “locals only” rule, I still do not know but I confidently strode through the crowd (cowering behind Philo) and up to the counter.

After a short exchange in Twi, Philo motioned for me to follow her and follow her I did. We went out a back door that led up to a courtyard where two boys were pounding a thick, off-white, doughy substance with a wooden mallet. Philo spoke to a girl sitting next to them who then put a large blob of the stuff into a bowl and handed it to us before she promptly trotted into the restaurant, a small dog trailing at her feet.

We re-entered the restaurant, relieved for the shade, and leaned against the back wall to wait our turn. Somehow Philo knew when we were next and gestured for my bowl, which quickly disappeared behind the counter and then reappeared with most of the white dough covered up by a reddish soup and adorned with a small chunk of fried chicken. Before I knew it I was eye-to-eye with the fufu.

The bowl was on a tray next to exactly three napkins and a metal bowl of water. No silverware in sight. I was told to go find a table, so I picked one next to a young woman who was also eating fufu so that I could maybe learn by example. I had previously learned that gesturing or eating with your left hand is not polite, so I put it in my lap and picked up my right. After a sneaky side-glance at the young fufu woman to my left, I looked at my plate and dug in.

The spices in the delicious soup immediately made my eyes water and my nose run, but the fufu itself was soft and bland and slightly sweet tasting. As I struggled to pull meat off the chicken with just one hand I simultaneously splashed a good amount of the soup onto my tray and attracted attention and also several laughs from the people at the table across from me. I was excited because I thought I was getting the hang of it as I was breaking off pieces of fufu and soup and meat just like the girl next to me was. A feeling of self-satisfaction washed over me as I thought, “Hey! I’m practically Ghanaian.”

However, when Philo came over to the table she started laughing and offered me the next three pieces of advice:

1. Do not chew the fufu.

2. Eat the fufu from the side closest to you then outwards.

3. You must finish the entire thing, or else you are wasting the food.

I looked at her in disbelief, then down at the fufu. There was no way I could finish it all.

I took a chunk off and hesitantly put it in my mouth. I tilted my head and squinted my right eye as I tried to force it down my throat without chewing. It went down and I smiled as Philo laughed – at least I had completed step 1. Step 2 was a piece of cake, but step 3 was a little more daunting as I had only consumed about a third of it at that point. I began to wash my hands in the water bowl, hoping Philo wouldn’t notice. Of course she ended up noticing, but only laughed and said: “You don’t have to finish it this time, but next time you will.”

So that was the end to my first fufu experience and that was also around the time that I decided to start packing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every single day. I know that I can finish those…

Oburoni vs. Ghanaian Children

Ever since that fateful moment when I first found out I would be living in Accra this summer I made a mental list of things to look forward to. Said list ranged from a canopy walk through the Elmina jungle, to attending “reggae night” at the local beach, to getting to know the indigenous critters. However, none of these hopes and dreams surpassed that of being surrounded by little Ghanaian children.

I have always loved kids; my interest is piqued by their iridescent smiles and cheeky personalities. It was just my luck that during my first week here my study abroad professor informed my group and I that we were going to visit a primary school. The plan was to watch them perform, to learn about their school, to bond with the kids and also to donate various school supplies and gifts we all brought from the USA. I, for one, brought about 20 sheets of stickers to hand out, as I had heard these were the children’s favorite.

When we got to the school we were immediately brought into a room with around 150 children ranging in age from 2 to 15. Their eyes lit up as we sat down across from them and were introduced. They performed poems and dances for us in small groups and I can honestly say I have never been more impressed with a performance in my life. The poetry was read in up to three languages by each child, and every age was represented in a variety of African dance numbers aided by three percussionists. The entire school sang song after song for us, with even the littlest toddlers singing and dancing along.

After the performances we all went out to the courtyard and handed out school supplies and took pictures, then had time to just play. The students all spoke French so I used my limited knowledge to communicate my name, how I was, and where I was from. They asked me for pictures, tried on my sunglasses, and practically ripped each other apart just to be picked up and hugged. They played with my blonde hair, pointed at my blue eyes, and were captivated by the blue veins showing on my wrist –novelties I realized were a rare sight. Even a freak monsoon could not deter their amusement.

The real fun began the second I thought it would be a nice, pleasant, and even peaceful experience to hand out my stickers. Boy was I wrong. The second one of their little eyes caught sight of one of those small, sticky pictures it was all over for me. The first shrill cry of “STICKERS!” bounced off the walls of the courtyard and what ensued can only be labeled as chaos. Children came from everywhere – doors, windows, the sky – pushing and shoving each other, reaching in my pockets, struggling for even a glimpse of a sticker. They backed me against a wall so I panicked and threw the remaining sheets into the air, and all was calm again.

They stuck them on their faces and on their notebooks and on each other, laughing the whole time like it was the funniest experience in the world. The amazing thing I learned was that the kids in this particular school were extremely lucky to even be there, as it was private and there was a yearly cost. Many children in the area could not attend school not only because of the cost, but because they were needed to help their families during the day. As we were all having the times of our lives on the inside the walls of the private school, dozens of children who could not attend school were lined up against the windows, peering in with eyes eager to learn and experience everything their peers were.

Call me a sappy oburoni but that more than any other day made me appreciate the simplicity and happiness of children. All they want is to learn, love and have fun. No matter how much money they have, what clothes they wear, what their home looks like or how many stickers they own… Kids are kids all over the world.