Khalid

Today the weather wins. Shaking our heads at the hot sandy air, Khalid and I move worn plastic chairs into a stagnant featureless room at the end of the school block. We settle down, sighing, raising our eyebrows at each other: “Can you believe this weather?” On the blank wall a dirt-caked glass jalousie window glows with yellow-brown light. The smell of bats and mice sits heavy in corners and cobwebbed ceiling tiles.

When he’s not paying attention to himself, Khalid often falls into a modern philosopher’s pose. His elbow drives into the chair’s armrest, his fist nearly stifles his mouth and nose, his head perches crookedly with a brow drawn low. His eyes, large and dark, stare habitually into his lap at a phone that may be on or off.

“Excuse,” mumbles a uniformed student as she enters the room meekly. Despite her soft tone, Khalid starts in his chair as the spell of his reverie is broken.

“Mm-hmm, yes, enter,” he nods, gesturing sideways at the table against the wall. The student approaches the table, sets down a small shapeless plastic bag, and trots out of the room without another word.

Dragging his chair to the table, he invites me to share the food with him. “Today we have fried yam for lunch. Join me.”

“Oh, no thank you, I am not hungry,” I smile. “Did the student bring them from town?”

Not shy about talking through the steaming yam in his mouth, he answers, “Mm. Mm-hmm, today I saw a woman by the roadside selling them.” He gestures at the bag. “Only four cedis.”

I raise my eyebrows and make a “nice deal” face.

Khalid is young, the same age as me, with only a few years on the admittedly old junior high school students we teach. When the more senior teachers gather and talk politics, he pulls up a chair and sits as far into the circle as he can. Knowing he’ll never get a word in, he listens with a serious face – nodding, shaking his head, clicking his tongue, learning.

Swallowing the mouthful of food, he remarks, “I’ve heard there is a man in Accra who will sit in a room among friends just as we are. But before he leaves the room, he gives ten thousand cedis to everyone else in the room.”

“Ten thousand?!”

Khalid nods. “He is a very rich man. A politician.”

“Is that the only way to get rich in Ghana?” I laugh. “Being a politician?”

“It is the easiest way,” he says, not matching my joking tone. “But maybe not the best way. Our own Vice President became rich that way.”

For a few minutes the room is silent except for the enthusiastic sounds of Khalid’s meal. Thinking the conversation is over, I go back to my book. Khalid finishes the last of the pieces of fried yam then walks to the door, leans out, and rinses his hands with a water sachet. He returns to his chair and frowns at me.

“I don’t like our corruption. Politicians shouldn’t get rich. It should cost money to be in politics. Then only the right people would be in government.”

I close my book. “Absolutely. Then they would run for office for the right reasons.”

“But first we have to vote these people out.” Khalid sighs and fixes his eyes on a spot on the wall behind me. “Maybe you know that the Vice President is a Mamprusi man. So now everyone is saying that we have to vote for the ruling party. They say, ‘Don’t hate your tribal brother.’ Ah! I don’t hate him. Anyway, maybe he’s wrong.”

“So all Mamprusis have to vote for his party, just because he’s a Mamprusi?” I ask.

“That’s Ghana,” Khalid laughs humorlessly. He gestures at me with two hands. “Do you have tribes in America?”

“Yes, but they are not like the tribes in Ghana. And I am not a part of one.”

“But you have your people.”

I think a moment. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Do you vote with your people?”