Ms Martha's Sweet Inspirations: 2013

Saturday morning I trudged up the hill to the main street to catch the bus. It was still in the early seven oclock hour and the humidity was as thick as sludge. A car squealed on two wheels in front of me turning into the service station, driver half hanging out of her window, waving her arms and shouting " Pepe!! Pepe! She circles around the lot and yelled out to me "Lady, you seen a little Chihuahua? " At that moment the object of her hellacious pursuit stood in the middle of a busy intersection, looking as if it was deciding which way to run. I pointed to the dog and the car pealed out of the service station, through a red light, in hot pursuit, she was still shrieking " Pepe!! Pepe!"A cycling club of about seven riders was also peddling through the intersection. Doesn't look good I said and winced at the sound of shouts and tires squealing to a stop. The Lady drove recklessly through the group like a ill thrown bowling ball weaving through pens, missing them all. Everyone seemed to be frozen, sweating, under a sun that looked like a giant egg yolk frying in the sky. I crossed the street and sat in the sauna, err.. bus shelter and sopped up the globules of sweat that formed on my forehead , nose, and upper lip. All before eight a.m.

You see, my car died a painful death a few months ago so I am learning to readjust to using public transportation. That in itself is a daily adventure.About twenty sultry,long, energy sapping moments later, the behemoth puffed and rolled to a stop in front of me belching more heat and gaseous fumes. The doors opened and swirls of cool, refreshing air engulf the limp, damp boarders. No one spoke for fear of adding hot air into this momentary refreshing mirage. I entered and gave the driver a hearty "Good mornin "and smile. In return she looked at me in surprise and returned the smile and greeting. We moved forward into our day that some did not wake to see.

I recently saw a minister from my past and we greeted each other and exchanged pleasantries. As our conversation ended I told him that it was a pleasure to see him. He replied, "Yes sister it is better to be seen, than to be viewed."Live each day with love, and purpose, and never doubt that you are an amazing part of this awesome Universe. Blessed beyond measure.

So many times we have so much on our minds, hearts, heads that we dont take the time to put things into perspective.We run around foolhardy like the woman pursuing the tiny dog, on a busy street with a big car, putting so many others at risk, including our ourselves. We cannot wrap our minds around how blessed we are, each day that we have a God, a Father to take our burdens, concerns , and questions to. We feel that we are better equipped to deal with whatever life rolls across our paths. Even the best computer can crash, the largest tree can fall. God cannot fail. His will shall be done. The time that you toss and turn in the middle of the night, struggling , not knowing why, is a perfect time to talk to the Master of your soul. He is always listening. In quicksand it is said that the harder you struggle , the deeper you sink and sometimes our lives reflect these struggles. God is larger than any of our problems. And just because He seems not to answer in the time that you feel is right, in the manner that you want, don't be discouraged.A delay doesn't mean a denial.

When it seems as if all is falling apart, and those closest to you turn their back, remember the disciples slept while Jesus prayed, even when he asked them to keep watch. Have an unwavering faith, pray, and believe. When you are the center of ire, when you are mistreated, and abused by word or deed, know that you are so much better than that, the attacker is telling their story, not yours . I figure that when confusion and calamity is surrounding me it is because the enemy knows that I am about to come into an amazing blessing and I am happy and expectant. Each day I awake I expect a blessing, I expect a miracle and I try to be a blessing to someone else. I try to put a smile on a few faces, joy , and encouragement in someones life. I speak not from what I have read but what I have experienced in life.

I have had disappointments and pain that cut so deep into my soul I could barely breathe. The folks that raised me, taught me, held me, loved me...all transitioned to glory and I had never felt so lost or so alone as when I looked around and realized they were all gone. My foundation, the "hand that I fanned with" the ones who really had my back. It is in quiet times, I meditate on the love they surrounded me with, the faith they had, the God that they held fast to, and introduced me to. In quiet times I wrap my mind around how amazing God is, and how through my life, trials and triumphs, he has bought me through, and has opened doors, and prepared me to handle painful, situations with grace and mercy at my side. I have suffered insurmountable loses, but the blessings, oh my Lord, the blessings are profound. As I reach out to you, I pray that whatever is troubling your heart, be moved in Jesus name, that God will touch you in a unique and special way, quickly, and you will know without a doubt that He is always with you, that God is love and you are his child, deeply loved.

Psalms 29:11 The Lord will give peace unto his people; the Lord will bless his people with peace.

My Journey to the Motherland: Excursion to Ghana

Our footsteps echo on the metal stairs as we make our descent from the plane.

“I can’t believe it.” Christine, the student life coordinator says as she squeezes my hand, tears gently pooling in her eyes. The full moon lights our way and a comforting warm breeze wrap around us. My heartbeat mimics the rhythms of native drums that have been thumping in my head, a song of welcome. Tears squeeze through my eyelids, we reach the final step … look at each other; suck in a deep breath, exhale, and together step onto the tarmac. Squealing with excitement, elation and awe, embracing, we jump up and down.

“Ms. Martha, we are here, finally here! We are in Ghana, in Africa .We have reached the Motherland! “She says excitedly.

For me, at that moment, in that time and place nothing else mattered. Not even the 18 -1/2 hours flight from Atlanta to Accra Ghana. I was astounded about how little I knew about Ghana. It was not the Africa that I had seen on television; emaciated, naked people running all over the place, men with loin cloths and spears, wild animals tearing through the savanna, chasing our bus. I had recently seen programs about guinea worms in the disease ridden water, so I was expecting to see sick, worm ridden people standing sorrowfully around bodies of dirty water. It never happened; I saw cities, people, automobiles, stores.

Soon I would walk upon the ground that my ancestors crossed, breathe the fresh air that filled their lungs, and I would be standing in the golden sunlight, cooled by the salty foaming waters, tinged by their blood, in the Motherland. I could not recall a time when I had been so excited about going somewhere. With each tick of the clock the anticipation of setting foot in the Motherland had up built like a huge balloon about to explode. My trip of a lifetime was finally occurring.

Nearly every African American that I know has referred to Africa as the Motherland. Africa is known as the birthplace of civilization and I know that my ancestors were descendants of African slaves. When attending family reunions, the elders told of Jasper Daniels, my grandfather, many times removed, that was captured in an area near West Africa and enslaved in South Carolina, Daniels being the surname of his master. Eventually one of his grandsons left the United States and returned to African and ultimately our family lost contact with him and his children. Every since I discovered this, it made me inquisitive about Africa; how did it look there, how many more of my lineage lived there? Would I feel a connection if I were to go there? The chance of ever setting foot in Africa was merely an elusive aspiration.

Spring semester had ended two weeks earlier, and I had been anxiously anticipating this trip. With passport in hand I eagerly paid for the trip. I have some health concerns and yellow fever immunizations as well as malaria medication is required. My hopes were almost dashed when I went to the health center and were told that I couldn’t take the necessary yellow fever vaccine as it could adversely interact with the other medications that I take.

“I can’t go?” I asked in a forlorn whisper to the doctor.

“You can go, I will give you a medical exemption certificate, but you must be very careful.” the doctor said.

I went home, got online and researched yellow fever, malaria and what I could do naturally to prevent contracting the diseases. My determination to go on this trip was coupled with the resolve of not getting sick while traveling. My due diligence was rewarded; I did not get bitten by mosquitoes during my entire trip, nor did I contract malaria.

That first night of our arrival, the darkness shrouded me like liquid midnight, dark, moist with a sprinkling of celestial lights, twinkling and I am basking in the aura of being in Africa. The morning greeted me with brilliance and dry heat, almost the polar opposite of the nights. Smiling broadly, as I lie in my bed, I am so grateful to make this journey. I get dressed, brush my teeth and run my fingers through the curly gold that crowns my head. I join my group for breakfast downstairs; fresh slices of pineapples, mango, and papaya are set next to covered containers of flaky and fruit filled French pastries. Large silver pots of hot water sit next to packets of Nescafe coffee and tea bags. Mango juice, orange juice and milk sit close to the bowl of sugar cubes. A woman with a sing-song voice smiles and asks us how we would like our eggs. As we eat our trip facilitator, informed us of local customs, and greetings. For example, I learned that it was an insult to hand someone something with or give someone your left hand to shake. It had a double entendre, the left hand had other uses; some were not very hygienic. After breakfast I grab my journal, cameras, sunglasses, and cash and head to the bus. I apply fragrant oils to repel any insects that I encounter.

Fred, our driver greeted us with a broad smile and begins to give us an oral history of the city and sights that we will see. I discover that some areas in Ghana are not so different from small rural towns in South Georgia, and South Carolina that I have visited, which makes it vaguely familiar to me. Some people had makeshift shacks and stands displaying containers filled with an array of vegetables and fruits; such as whole and sliced ripe watermelon, small incredibly sweet bananas, sweet yams, stacks of cassava ( similar to yams, starchy but white inside.) larger than twenty four inches in length and nearly a foot in circumference. It made me recall the roadside stands that my grandparents used to stop by whenever we took road trips through country towns. There were even live chickens in cages that they were selling and stacks of fresh and smoked fish. Children played close by, singing, chasing one another, drawing in the dirt with sticks. Babies were tied to their mother’s backs by brightly colored pieces of fabric as she sold her goods. Somewhat reminiscent of the fish and poultry markets my parents shopped at when I was a child.

In Accra and other urban areas, it was not uncommon to see men in crisp, button down cotton shirts, dress pants and shoes and ladies in beautifully tailored dresses and two piece suits ;attire that we consider dressy, or business going about their daily activities. I also learned that unlike in the U.S. in Accra you were required to pay your rent for housing two years in advance. That would explain why I saw so many makeshift lean to shacks filled with families along the roadside. In an area with so much poverty, it would be difficult to raise the money to pay for decent housing. Having a unique skill or product to sell is essential for survival.

Each day with two cameras, fully charged, my journal and pen, I charted my incredible journey. With my eyes wide open, I mentally absorbed every sight that I saw, to revisit over and over. One my third day we were traveling to Elmina and I saw many fishing boats and families along the road prepping fish to be smoked and sold. I can still close my eyes, quiet my mind and be back on the beach in Elmina, listening to the Atlantic roar upon its approach, waves frothy ,white and foamy as they crash against the rocks and shore, then softly retreat, coaxing millions of grains of sand to join them .

I saw an abundance of fruits growing wildly, lemons, mangoes, as well as banana and plantain trees scattered around the countryside to be claimed by anyone, or no one. I thought about my childhood and the bountiful fruit trees and grape vines that were available. My grandparent’s had a cherry and pear tree in their back yard and plump, sweet, juicy concord grapes growing all around the sides of their house and up the sides of the fence and garage.

I had never before seen a mango tree. When we were traveling to Torgome, we crossed the Kpong Dam on the Volta River. Just before our bus crossed the river, there were a bunch of trees, filled with ripe mangoes. Several children were attempting to dislodge the sweet juicy fruit. Each of the fruits hangs from a long stem of sorts. The golden ripe mangoes hung from trees reminiscent of a mother’s swollen milk-filled breasts. While visiting the W.E.B. Dubois Center, I saw my first cashews trees, brimming with nuts. Fresh fruits were a part of each meal and I enjoyed each bite. Pineapples with nearly white flesh were succulent, sweet, and juicy. Small but fully ripened bananas tasted as if they had been infused with honey. Watermelons, used to hydrate as well as delight the taste buds, were abundant, always juicy, sweet, and ripe.

I have always been drawn to water. When I grew up in Cleveland, Ohio I frequently went down to Lake Erie, to gaze into beautiful blue waters. When I traveled to the Caribbean at each destination I swam in the liquid firmament. It was natural for me to try to spend every moment that I could near or in the ocean, so while visiting Elmina I got up early each morning, before daybreak and walked to the shore. Unrestricted, I could walk into the warm cerulean waters, or perch upon a rock, at the water’s edge. I witnessed the fishing boats depart as the golden sun poked through the horizon. The loud brash shrieks from the beautiful peacocks pierced the dawn as villagers crossed paths along the beach; heading to neighboring villages to be among the first to display their goods for sale that day. Women balanced large containers of fruits and vegetables on their heads, some with children tied to their backs by beautiful colored cloths, striding purposely in the early morning. Perched on a sun burnished rock, wrapped in the picturesque African sunset, and cooled by the salty spray from the Atlantic Ocean, I watched the fishing boats return in the evening with their treasures from the sea.

The variation in the land was staggering; there were large stretches of barren ground next to lush areas teeming with vegetation. In Accra I saw many similar looking trees, and I was told they were Neem trees. The Neem tree is fascinating. It is an interesting multipurpose plant that has various medicinal and an agricultural benefit to humans as well as animals. The Neem tree has antibacterial, antifungal, and anti-inflammatory uses. It is also a safe alternative to deet as an insect repellant. It is almost a one stop medicine shop. The following morning we boarded a bus to head to Kumasi. On the way we stopped at a village market where huge shea butter nuts were split open and the golden smoothness was for sale. Marie took her large machete and split open the nut like it was a watermelon, We gladly purchased the rich hydrating salve from her as well as black soap, a staple of many Africans. Stalls held large vats of beans, corn kernels, grains, rice, smoked and dried fish for sell. Squealing nearly naked children ran around, dashing in and out of the stalls, goats sauntered by, munching on whatever they considered edible. The sultry wind carried the heavy stench from the drainage ditches that were close by filled with trash, excrement, rotting food. It made me very appreciative of our plumbing, and waste management facilities.

On a more solemn note, on my sixth day, my emotions were stirred, while walking through the Cape Coast Castle then again while visiting Assin Manso the site of “Donkor Nsuo”, the former Slave River and market. At Cape Coast with its infamous slave dungeons and the “door of no return” I could feel the oppressive shroud of slave trafficking and its horrors; it terrified me, and saddened me. It was incomprehensible to image thousands of human beings being packed into the small subterranean chambers, without ventilation. I slipped, walking down into the dungeon the floors thick, slick yet sticky with remnants of human blood, excrement, sweat, death. The lime, sand and time had not diminished the atrocities executed in that place. I didn’t want to stay in there, but then I also didn’t want to leave. It seemed as if everything was as it had been, yet nothing was as it had been. As I stood in the slave dungeons, and by the site of the last bath, there was heaviness, a sense of helplessness and sorrow enveloping me.

In Atonka, a small boy walked up to me and slid his warm little hand into mines and announced very loudly and happily “I’m gonna be your best friend!” while displaying a warm smile. I was visiting a school in the village of Atonka on a sunny Monday morning, day nine of my journey. The school had very limited resources; however the proud, smiling faces of the children overshadowed the lack. The masses of giggling children surrounded me, posing for pictures that I shared with them. I wanted to open my arms wide and hug them close, as if that would right wrongs, just like when my grandfather used to hold me; everything was right in the world in his embrace. The buildings were made of mud bricks and long dried grasses provided the roof. There were no air conditioners, electric lights or adequate current books or school supplies. The library housed old, sunbaked, antiquated books and a computer lab with not even one working computer.

Coming from a country with so much excess, and ungrateful, spoiled children, I found it difficult seeing children, without the basic supplies and books available to receive an adequate education. It was uncomfortable for me. I really felt inadequate, I wanted to do more, help more, give more. The school supplies that we had collected could not nearly provide all they were lacking.

My journey to what I thought would re-connect me to the Motherland culminated after I participated in a traditional naming ceremony the day before returning home. We traveled to a remote village, and were greeted by the thunder of drums, elders dressed in tribal splendor and families in traditional, colorful, ceremonial dress, dancing to commence the ceremony. Prayers were prayed, traditional libations were poured, and I was presented a handmade bracelet and a clay pot with my Akan name on it; Ama Dzifa, which means I was born on a Saturday, and my heart is peaceful. I felt honored.

During the two weeks in Ghana, I visited many of the “tourist” attractions; including the Kwame Nkrumah Memorial Park, which is the final resting place for the first President of Ghana, the W. E. B. Dubois Center for Pan African Culture, the beautiful and lush, Kakum National Park, one of West Africa’s surviving tropical rain forests. I even toured a very unique recycling facility, named Trashy Bags”, a social project based in Accra, Ghana that uses recycled eco-friendly plastic bags that water is sold in. The bags are sorted, hand washed, disinfected and dried in the sun, before being flattened by hand and stitched into sheets to be made into exclusive and useful products such as purses, iPad covers, briefcases, wallets and other gifts.

Eventually it was time to return home, and immediately I went through my house, closets, donating clothing and household items that I felt were superfluous. Nearly a year later, I still reflect on my sojourn. I am the first in my immediate family to visit the African continent.

Was there a re-connection to Africa for me? Not really, it was more of an intense, enlightening experience. I can acknowledge that my existence today was created by men and women in chains. My family is the progeny of slaves from this beautiful land. I am honored to have had the opportunity to step though “The door of no return”, and walk on the earth, breath the fresh air, feel, touch, taste and immerse my body in a miniscule portion of the immeasurable Atlantic Ocean that my ancestors experienced. The journey wove its kaleidoscope of history and cultures into the strong and varied quilt of my life experiences. The land, so very rich in history, resources, pride, and culture permitted me to sample its sweetness. This excursion has etched an indelible imprint on my mind for many years to come.

In Ghana ‘AKWAABA’ means welcome. Each smile, handshake, meal, and cool breeze echoed this sentiment. I explored a land steeped in a history of turmoil, yet overflowing with welcoming people and natural resources. I am gratified that Mother Africa opened her heart and arms to travelers from distant shores. ‘MEDASI’ means thank you.

Ms Martha's Sweet Inspirations

Sunday, July 21, 2013

Monday, May 13, 2013

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

Surrounding Radiance...Ezekiel 1:28

Reflections of my Trip to the Motherland

About Me