Isaac

A hot breeze full of sand surges across the noisy schoolyard and into our eyes and mouths as we wince in the shade of a shea tree. Tiny white flowers, caught in the tumult, find their ways under our collars and up our trouser legs, their broken stems building along hems like drifts of prickly frustration.

“Gah!” Isaac protests, shielding his face and neck with an old soft handkerchief. With a grunt he raises himself halfway out of the cracked plastic chair, sets its back to the wind, then lightly settles back down.

We sit side by side and share a friendly groan.

He has a small face, as if his brows and nose and mouth are all pressed together, despite the wide smile he seems to always wear. His laugh lines, rather than pointing to his approaching middle age, seem like something he’s always had. And his eyes, the youngest part of him, sparkle continuously with a boyish energy. He looks over his shoulder at me.

“Do you have this weather in your place?” Isaac asks, gesturing at the dust blowing around us.

“Hmm,” I think a moment. “Yes, but not in my part of the country. Some places, though, get very dusty like Ghana.”

His eyes wander to some point in the distance. “Mm. America. One day I will follow you there.” He glances at me and raises his eyebrows.

“Oh? Do you have a plane ticket?” I play along.

“Not yet, but I will become a politician. Then I will be rich, and I will come visit you.”

“Good! When you come, bring groundnut soup and shea butter.”

Before the words are out of my mouth, he’s laughing and jostling my hand, and I’m raising my eyebrows at him in a mock challenge. Just as he’s starting to respond, the breeze picks up again, and we grimace under hunched shoulders. After a few moments he begins humming good-naturedly.

A group of kids play a clapping game nearby, their shouts echoing off of sandy school walls.

Cutting himself off, he adds, “But, you know, it’s possible. Our Vice President is a Mamprusi man, from my tribe. His children don’t know this place, but he does.” Thinking for a moment, he remarks, “I’m sure his children attend a private school in Accra.”

I nod. “He won’t put them in public schools?”

Isaac clicks his tongue. “Oh, no, no. Look around. Would you send your children here?”

Satisfied with his point, he raises his phone into view and starts playing a game that looks a lot like Candy Crush. Sounds of fanfare, oohs and aahs, and cartoon explosions spill out of his hand. His face is a pensive mask. After a few minutes, he closes the game and lowers his hand to his lap, still humming the background song.

“Corruption. We have such problems with corruption.” He sighs and squints his eyes at a small stone next to his foot. “We need to elect someone who will put all of the corrupt ones in jail. Maybe a military man who’s not afraid to use the army and the police. That’s why I like your President. He likes to fight. Our own President, he made so many promises. ‘Teachers are suffering. Nurses are suffering.’ So I voted for him. That was three years ago, and the teachers and nurses are still suffering. Too many promises. Meanwhile he is getting rich. Very rich. So next time I won’t vote.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“It won’t matter,” he makes a helpless gesture. “They will always make promises. They will always be corrupt. For us Africans, it’s in our nature. It’s in the black skin. That’s why we need a powerful man, not democracy.”

“Wait – what – no -” I’m confused. “How do you know what Africa needs?”

Isaac grins. “How do you?”