the social welfare office

7/21
Anita, my homestay mother has started an NGO which will help improve the conditions at the Tamale Children’s Home and ideally move on to help other orphanages in the country. The NGO is incorporated and certified as the Helping Hands for Need Foundation. She is working with her nephew, Sammy who works for Unicef, and a lawyer from Accra. She also has another young man, Salam who is involved in the project as well as one of the employees at the children’s home.

We set out to the social welfare office to speak with the personnel in charge of the children’s home. We took a short taxi ride to a field with a two story tan building at the end. It took us a few minutes to locate a space that was free of barbed wire which we assumed to be the entrance. We followed a sign up a cement staircase and reached a long pathway with a low fence on the left and offices on the right. I was amused to see a printed piece of paper taped in one of the windows which read something like: “God looked at the work I am doing and smiled. Then He looked at my salary, and wept”. I see that this type of work is equally underpaid in Ghana as in the U.S. and no doubt majority of the world. I lamented at the constant question of why caring for fellow humans is so undervalued.

We entered one office, a desk at the front and a couch furnished the space, while a map of Ghana on the wall was the only decoration. A man introduced himself as Fred, he had a weary appearance as if he had once been an inflated balloon of idealism which had slowly seeped out and left him deflated and dejected. He instructed us to wait in the chairs and promptly went back to reading his newspaper. Anita and I brainstormed questions we wanted to ask the director about the budget for the orphanage, its policy on adoption and healthcare, about the staff and legal
requirements.

A woman in a long traditional dress walked past with a tray of nuts on her head, she gave us a handful and asked if we would buy some. I have found that it is accepted and common for vendors to enter offices. In my own office one day a man arrived showcasing a variety of cosmetic products. Everyone was called away from their desks to see him present shampoo, lotions and facewash. He gave no samples or deal packages, just offered to sell them as if he were in a store. No one bought anything but politely observed his 10 minute demonstration and examined the bottles. I was shocked that the security guards and office staff had let this stranger come in the middle of the workday to try to sell us these products, but apparently it was commonplace.

We waited about half an hour until the director was ready to see us. We entered his office, which was noticeably better equipped. He sat behind a huge desk which had to have been about 12 feet long. John, as he introduced himself, was a man who appeared to be in his 50s who had eyes which protruded from his face and were very red. I like how people use their first names even in business interactions, it makes the person seem more accessible. He listened to Anita’s presentation of the NGO and plan with hardly any expression. When she finished, which was difficult for me to tell because it sounded like she repeated herself about three times, but he seemed to understand when she was done, he nodded. “You need a certificate of recognition to begin doing any of this work”. We tried to ask him questions about the orphanage specifically and he merely responded dryly that without that certificate we were not entitled to any further information. He instructed us to go to their other office in town to get the form we needed.

As we prepared to leave, a woman with fashionably short hair in a fitted business suit entered. She was introduced as Ann, the child rights and protection director. I wished we had met with her in the first place. Anita briefly described her plan to this woman and she looked upwards, smiled and held her hands together in prayer. “This is amazing news, you are too kind, I will help you however I can.” i wanted to ask her the questions we had prepared but it seemed as if the meeting was adjourned.

We took a taxi through the blazing midday sun and reached an area called Sakasaka. We dismounted at the indicated Shell fuel station which the office was supposedly behind. Anita stopped a butcher on the side of the road to ask directions. I tried to look away but my eye was drawn to the flattened hide laying to dry in the sun. It had a goat shape, my eye involuntarily continued along until it reached a large mass of animal innards. “I shouldn’t be looking at this, I should look away” I thought to myself. But the complex human desire to stare at that which is gruesome, the way people rubber neck on the highway to look at an accident, overpowered me. My eyes studied the white, purplish and pink intestines and organs, a wave of nausea swept in seeing the mass of flies gathered on the guts. I finally tore my eyes away and the next thing I saw farther down the line was a group of 15 goats tethered to a pole. The man Anita was talking to gestured to the right with a 10 inch long knife. I felt sure that the goats huddled there must have some awareness of what fate awaited them and had already come to pass for their comrades lying in pieces on the table. Although it is natural for animals to eat other animals, and I appreciate the way goats live free roaming lives before being individually killed here, instead of being mass produced in a factory in the U.S., I still stand strong in my personal conviction that I cannot in any way be responsible for these frightened looking goats being slaughtered with that raw blade.

We continued down the street where about 20 motorcycles were parked in some shade, and their owners, a group of young men, lay chatting amongst the large roots of the trees. They stared at Anita and I as we passed through them, not unkindly but with a distanced fascination. We entered through an opening in the cement wall into an area about 50 ft long and 30 feet wide. To the left was a small shed, to our right was a one story building, built on top of 2 feet of concrete so as to absorb less heat from the earth. The building extended the width of the area and had 4 doorways whose entrances were covered by a thin roof. We walked into the only open doorway and peered in. The room had green walls, two desks, two chairs, and a single table by the doorway. There was no indication on the door that this was the social welfare office but we would soon learn that indeed this was it. A lizard chirped in the corner of the ceiling, near the stains left by a leak. On one wall was written the word “MOSCOW” in white paint. A single window covered by a metal grate let in minimal light through the dirty brown glass. A man in his 40s sat at the desk facing us, calmly eating a bowl of gray stew with his left hand. He wore a light green button up shirt and the right sleeve hung empty by his side. He looked up when we arrived, seemingly surprised to have visitors. He had a kind face, a set jaw line, large mouth and friendly eyes.

He introduced himself as Thomas, and welcomed us to the office. He then walked out the door and returned a minute later carrying a long bench with his only arm. We thanked him and took a seat. We explained that we had been sent to obtain a form, I looked around the office; there were no file cabinets and no shelves, I wondered where they would keep a form. Thomas asked if we lived nearby, we didn’t, he asked if we came to town often, we didn’t. He asked why we needed the form and we gave him the same speech about wanting to revitalize the orphanage. His eyes brightened and he smiled, glad to hear of our intentions. He made a call on his cell phone and said that his co-worker would arrive in about 15 minutes. This was actually a surprisingly efficient interaction so we agreed to wait.

While we waited, Thomas told us his story. He was born disabled, with only a small piece for his right arm, and grown up struggling with not only physical challenges but also enduring constant emotional abuse as a result of his condition. He wanted to make a change in how him and other handicapped people were treated and began writing. A friend, he said, provided him with many government office addresses and he wrote to anyone and everyone he could. Someone responded to him, and directed him to several international organizations who worked with disabilities. He was connected to the Center for Individuals with Disabilities in the U.S. He also became in touch with the Mobility Services International group based in England. He corresponded with these organizations, telling them the conditions of people in his country, stories of people who were forced to walk on all fours for miles at a time. He explained that they were ostracized from society, and often reduced to begging on the street. He said that the people abroad were shocked and hardly could believe him. After 8 years of correspondence, he was invited to attend a conference in Bradford, England with other disability rights advocates from around the world. He spent three months there, touring and learning and meeting others like himself. The people of Bradford wanted him to stay there, they went to the mayor and asked for him to be employed as a mentor. Thomas possesses the innate and powerful skill of being a storyteller. When he speaks, you cant help but be immersed in his descriptions, the rhythm of his words relaxing you as your imagination creates the scene. He explained that articles were printed in the paper about him and he sent copies home to the offices who had mostly ignored him in Ghana, as proof since they had not believed him that he was really going abroad. He knew that staying in the UK would be more comfortable and easier, but he would feel as if he was abandoning the very work which had lead him to come there. To the surprise of both the British and Ghanians involved, he decided to return home.

In the past 20 years he has worked to established the Shakina clinic which works with individuals with disabilities and provides them with health care and helps to find them work and housing. He has also established a soup kitchen which makes meals for the disabled and has done so every day for the past two decades. I was so impressed by his work especially knowing the difficulty of making progress in the sometimes molasses like culture.

At this point a short man with a small head entered with a motorcycle helmet. He sat down and asked what we needed. Anita asked me to talk, I noticed she got nervous at times speaking with the officials. I immediately began explaining the plan for the orphanage but he stopped me saying “can I know you first?”. Coming from New York City, I am not adjusted to the slow and friendly way of conducting business. I stopped, introduced myself and Anita and then continued to inform him that we needed the form to obtain the necessary permission to begin our work. He thanked us and said he would return shortly as he had to walk to a print and copy center to duplicate the single copy of the form which he carried in his briefcase. After he had left, Anita asked if she should pay him and Thomas smiled saying that would be appreciated since it was coming out of his salary because there was no actual budget for the office.

Thomas explained that there was an elderly Nigerian man who he provided lunch for over the years, and that at one point his co worker finally informed the man that the money was not coming from the government. The man was shocked and filled with guilt and awe to realize that Thomas was buying him food day after day out of his own personal money. I then asked Thomas if he knew what the budget was for the orphanage, and he explained that there is no budget. I was sure I had misunderstood him. He smirked at my disbelief and said that there was no official amount of money allocated for any particular department within the office. “Look around at this space, does this look like the kind of place where we can really offer help?” I took in the stained walls, the desk whose surface was broken and fell down several inches when he rested his elbow on it, the emptiness which pervaded the room. He looked back sheepishly, aware of how dismal it appeared.

“Sometimes money comes in and we try to give it where it is needed, but there are many problems in this country, that is why I am so thankful for your intentions to help the orphanage. You are like me. You see I pushed my food away when you entered, because this type of work gives me much more satisfaction than any meal could. You see, some people think that those who want to help, that give, are crazy. They may think that they don’t realize the use of money. But, everyone knows that fried guinea fowl tastes delicious. Everyone knows the nice feel of a new shirt and shoes. But maybe for some people like us, who want to help, we find that there are satisfactions which are deeper and truer than ones that money can provide. I will not be here forever, so I would rather give my funds to something which will outlast me. Take this intention that you have to help those children, and even this kindness that you share may help them greater than any money could. You do as much as you can, and God will provide the rest. When you have done all that you can, look up at the sky and He will lead you to your next step. And these intentions that you have are good and pure and know that even when there is no money here, He will provide what it is that you seek. I will support you in your work however I can.”

He smiled then, and we did too. The other man returned with the form and we thanked them profusely for their help. Anita left 5 cedis on the table, though the printing couldn’t have cost more than 1 cedi at most. We shook their hands and left, a few steps closer towards helping those children in the orphanage.