Sodom & Gomorrah

Life got a bit busy recently, but unfortunately writing about writing applications is neither enjoyable for me nor entertaining for any readers, so I’m not going to do much more about that. Commentary on life and work in Ghana will take more thought that I want to bother with at the moment. Instead, a post mostly written a few weeks ago about visiting Accra’s most notorious slum, “Sodom and Gomorrah." The second part will come later.

Going to Benin for the weekend tomorrow.


Sodom and Gomorrah

After a shower and good night’s sleep, I set off for an exploration of Sodom and Gomorrah, Accra’s most notorious slum. I have the vague ambition of publishing an article about the slum, but, mainly, I wanted to see the place. The government had recently announced plans to clear the 50,000+ area, destroying the buildings and evicting the residents without paying any compensation or providing alternative housing. Ostensibly, the reason is the slum (which sprung up after an ethnic clash in a yam market in 1980) was supposed to be temporary, and that the residents keep dumping their waste into the nearby lagoon, preventing the completion of a restoration project. Of course, the government (or, rather, individuals in the government) would also benefit handsomely from selling the land on which the slum is built.

It turned out to be the most moving experience I’ve had here. I met up with Isaac, a technoserve driver whom I had asked to accompany me as a translator, and we shared a taxi to the slum. At first I didn’t know what to make of it, or how to start. We simply explored the area, which was a warren of wooden structures, small square boxes made of weathered 2x4-type planks and corrugated metal roofs. Here and there a concrete structure stood out, typically a mosque. Drab and washed out brown/grey in places; elsewhere a riot of colors (clothesline bending heavily under the weight of orange and green skirts, the geometric patterns fluttering against the bright blue shack).

Although I imagine that it would be wretched in the rainy season, right now it was dense-but-livable. Almost all of the narrow streets were clear of feces and rancid odors; businesses seemed lively. Street food stewed in giant vats, a hot mélange; bars played live premiership matches; barbershop window displays featured crudely-drawn smiling black models; and everywhere market stalls. In general the place hummed with activity.

Eventually I walked up to a shopkeeper and started the interview. It proved to be a bit of a struggle, because the issues that I wanted to ask about were either sensitive (how is crime and justice handled in the area, etc.) or rather abstract (property rights and land ownership). Getting poorly educated (or, more accurately, uneducated) people to speak about abstract things, or even to make generalizations, proved to be surprisingly difficult. They issue went beyond language barrier; it was at least partially a conceptual barrier to translation.

At one point he mentioned that most justice issues are handled by local chiefs, who were determined based on “who was there first.” I asked if I could meet one of the chiefs and he said yes, but very surprised. So he quickly ushered me toward through a series of twisting passageways, eventually coming up to a bit of a clearing with a relatively large, open-air tented shade structure. On the concrete floor a dozen young, heavily-muscled men sat around in various plastic chairs and a long wooden bench while a tall heavy-set figure, garbed in white linens and looking like a louche imam, held court.

The slouching disorganized crowd stiffened as I walked in, a mixture of curiosity and baleful stares. Before this ripped-shirt, muscular crowd my interpreter almost looked more out of place than I did, with his glasses, knockoff casual polo shirt and effete university demeanor. The shopkeeper launched into a quick description of what I was there to do, and my interpreter tried to follow-up with a bit more explanation, but he was immediately cut off by one of the young men.

“Yes, go ahead, ask your questions.” So I awkwardly took an empty place on the long bench, with the ringleader (who had yet to say a word) on my right and the crowd on my left. As I commenced, I looked back and forth between the two sides, unsure of where to direct my gaze. My questions were relayed by the self-appointed translator – tall, very dark and lean – to the leader, who then replied in a mixture of English and Twi, which required re-translation.

Again, I struggled with the abstract / sensitive question topics, but things went a bit more smoothly this time. As we continued, I realize that the crowd was swelling around us, and halfway through the interview I was surrounded by a dense crowd of forty or so people.

The crowd was remarkably young, all 16-25. Yahaya Mahamman, the leader, had chosen an apt title for himself: Chief of the “Zaachi” (youth). With great bravado, Yahaya explained the situation to me: “They have cut off water and electricity; when they come here we will resist and that will bring big troubles.”

And so the interview progressed in fits and starts, first I’d get a set of curt, unsatisfactory one-sentence answers and then, as Yahava grasped what I was asking about, I’d get a long bombastic tirade that gradually veered off-topic, and then I’d ask another series of questions and the cycle would repeat.

On common refrain, heard here and elsewhere, the bitter complaint that, “the Liberians [refugees] have been provided better facilities than we have. The government provides them with running water, food, security; we are Ghanaians and we get nothing.”

His answer on the topic of slum justice was disappointingly political; I asked him what he’d do if someone came to him with a case of robbery, or if it happened to him, and he said: “Oh, that would never happen here” with a half-smile. Pushed, he said that he “organize a group of opinion leaders to assess the situation” and made it clear that that was it.

Eventually I had enough material, and Isaac and I left (now pushing through a crowd) to look for the private clinic operating in Sodom and Gomorrah. We found it, long concrete blocks with corrugated metal roof, like an overgrown slum shack, but unfortunately it was closed for Sunday. Outside the clinic I met Ahlidzah Samuel, a well-fed, rounded man with a generous smile and bald, egg-shaped head.

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