Meet Michael of Sankofa

As I tumbled out of a taxi onto the street of Eguafo, Ghana for a day of teaching at Sankofa, I felt tired. Maybe part of it was that the whole cram-six-people-into-Kojo's-taxi-for-an-hour stint was getting a little old; I love my husband, but sitting half on his lap and half on the metal wire sticking out of the taxi seat was not my idea of quality couple time. Glancing back at the other volunteers extracting themselves from the car, I could tell they were a little sick of it too.

After paying Kojo, we all began to troup down the street toward the trail that would lead us into the village and thence to school. While kicking up orange dust and shouldering my backpack, I was hissed at by a man nearby. Don't worry; hissing is simply a way of getting attention in Ghana. I once saw a Ghanaian man do it at the New York airport. He got pretty frustrated when the airline attendant didn't seem to pay any attention to his obvious efforts to get help.

But I digress. I turned my head to the hissing man, who held the hand of a tiny, chubby-faced child. He spoke to me in Fante, then tried to pass the child's hand to me. I looked at him blankly until he managed to say, "School. You take."

I smiled and nodded, reaching for the little fingers. They were yanked away and I was given a glower all the more impressive considering the giver was maybe three years old. I tried to comfort him by saying, "Bra. Yeko skool." (Come on, let's go to school.) Giving a half-angry, half-fearful squawk, he shrank against his guardian's legs. When I squatted down and held out my hand again, the little man bravely stepped forward, waved a hand at me, and declared loudly, "Ko!"

I began to laugh. He was telling me in no uncertain terms to go away and I couldn't help but admire his tenacity. His guardian shrugged and grinned, taking the little hand again and following us to school.

That wasn't the last time I saw Michael, as I learned he was called. His cheerful, determined little demeanor was very endearing and he became my favorite of the younger children. My husband also came to enjoy the little one. Here he is playing with Michael, in the red and white, before the PTA meeting.

It seems I am destined to love little boys named Michael. I have a little one at each orphanage now, though New Life's Michael is grown to a young man of 14 and doing well in junior high school. Sankofa's little Michael still has many years ahead of him. Please donate to save Sankofa today, and help Michael to be a young man who goes on to get a good education.

Elizabeth- A Virtuoso Pianist in the Making

One of the things I wanted to do on this most recent trip to Ghana was to teach the children to use the keyboard I knew another volunteer had left. I spoke with my old piano teacher, bought the beginner books she recommended, and had high hopes of eager and proficient students. I'm always an idealist.

Of course, things never work out the way you think they well-- especially in Ghana. It wasn't until my last day at New Life I actually managed to find time to pull out the books, bring in the batteries, and dig up the keyboard. I knew there wasn't much time, but maybe, I thought, I can at least teach them enough that they can use the books to teach themselves.

Most of the kids were either too busy or not interested to sit in on the lessons. Belinda, Elizabeth, and Ophelia were the most interested. I taught them about the different beats each note gets. We clapped through several sections, trying to get the timing right. To my surprise, Elizabeth could clap out each pattern almost flawlessly.

And that wasn't all. As I began to teach them which keys were which note, she began to zip through the songs that labeled each note. She wasn't actually reading the music, but she was able to read the labeled notes and remember exactly which ones were which on the keyboard. And she kept perfect time. Belinda and Ophelia did pretty good too, but whenever they got the timing or note wrong, Elizabeth immediately corrected them. I was astounded. She was a natural.

Belinda, Elizabeth, and Ophelia check out the next song in the book.

We played through some more songs, and I let them look at the part that began to explain the actual reading of music. Elizabeth was fascinated, and delighted with herself for being good at something naturally. We weren't able to get far, but far enough that Elizabeth at least would be able to follow the simple instructions in the book to continue learning. I don't know if she will, or if the others will either. There are many things they need to do with their time, but I hope Elizabeth and any others who desire are able to keep learning. If any volunteers go back who know how to play, see if you can pull out that keyboard, pull up the piano books I left, and give it a go!

Letters from Ghana-- The Orphans Speak

I have received a few letters, as I'm sure many of the volunteers have, over the last few years from the children at New Life International. I have transcribed a few below to show the children's personalities, and especially the love they hold for so many people.

"Dear my lovely Shally,

I am very happy to write you this letter. How are you? I hope you are fine by the grace of God almighty. Shally I am very happy you write us letter. Shally I pray for you every day. I am 12 years old and I am in class six. My favorite food is rice and chicken and my favorite colours are red, yellow, green, black, purple, and orange. My favorite game is ampa. My friend's names are Dora, Grace, Mary, Pernal, John, and Small Elizabeth. I was born on 3rd August 1996 that is my birth day. Please I want to write a song for you.

How sweet the name of Jesus sounds

in the believers ear's. It soothes his sorrow

heals wounds and drives away his fear.

This is all I have for you. I love you very much.

Your Friend,

Elizabeth Mensah"

Elizabeth mends a hole in her school jumper.

"My Lovely Shalee,

I am very glad to write you this letter how are you I hope you are fine by the grace of God Almighty. I have miss you so much. I hope you are come back. Thank you very much for your letter it was very grateful. Did you have wonderful wedding on 7th May...I love you so much. Thank you for teach us song Christ Jesus Help Me! May God bless you and your family everything is going fine...God is your havenly father, he loves you and care about you to have faith in him and pray to him any time any where, he hope you will keep the coment [commandments] of Jesus Christ. He has given you the gift of the holy ghost. In the name of Jesus Christ Amen.

Love love love from Belinda. Good lot of love. bye."

Belinda sneaks a snack of kube-- coconut.

These children have very little, but they have love unending-- especially for the Lord.

I Love you Forever

I dream about Ghana fairly frequently. Usually, I dream about going back, like last night. Sometimes it's a good
Michael, appx. age 12/13, summer 2006
dream, and sometimes a bad one. Last night, I dreamed about my Michael, but despite that, it was not a good dream.

Like most of the volunteers, I came back calling the kids "my kids." After loving them so much, I couldn't help but feel they were a part of me enough to call them mine. But more than any other, Michael is my Michael. He was only 10 when I was there, and at the time, he didn't live at the orphanage. He lived with his mother and came to school at the orphanage. I never really knew him until the day he began throwing up at school. He asked for a cup of water, which he used to pour over his feverish head, then promptly proceeded to shiver uncontrollably. With help from a local villager named Patrick, I took Michael home. Michael was so ill, Patrick had to carry him on his back most of the way. I swallowed as I ran through the symptoms of malaria in my head.

I had heard stories from others about poverty, and even seen bits of it my self up to this point in Ghana. But Michael lived in poverty; to him, it wasn't a word spoken with disgust on the tongues of those who may or may not understand it. It wasn't poverty for Michael, it was life. I stared mutely around the mud shack, barely as big as my bedroom, glancing up at the sky through the bamboo roof. There was no furniture but a low stool. Patrick to laid Michael down on the concrete floor in the half of the room shielded by hanging clothes: the bedroom. Michael's mother, Grace, didn't speak much English, nor did her brother, who had helped take care of the family since Michael's father had died. Patrick was my translator, as I explained how he had gotten sick and gave them clean water. Then, I took a deep breath and asked if I could pray for Michael.

He was roused to sit on the one stool, looking ready to fall over as soon as he sat. I began to pray as Michael's small family stood over me. As I prayed for Michael to get well, listening to the gently murmured "amens" coming from his mother and uncle, I suddenly felt the greatest outpouring of love I had ever felt for this small boy. It was as though I was feeling God's love for him, and I knew that, whatever happened, everything would be alright.

When I returned to check on him the next day, I saw the first miracle of my life: Michael's beaming face as he peered outside, then ran to give me a hug. From that day, I loved Michael as deeply as though he truly were mine. We played together, read Love you Forever together, and loved each other. I helped his family buy food, and gave them money to start a small business selling banku. But then I had to leave.

Michael (far right) with his mother, uncle, and cousins.

As I stood crying the day at the tro-tro stop on my last day, Michael held my hand and cried too. The tro-tro came, and I knelt to hug my Michael.

"I love you," I whispered.

"Forever," he whispered back.

Since that day, I have had a constant subtle ache in my heart that reminds me to pray for my Michael daily. Not too long ago, I received a letter from him through another volunteer, asking me to help his mother build a house. Having just married and needing to get my husband through school, I had no money to send, and my heart broke trying to explain to Michael through a letter that I could not build a house for his family then.

And so, the source of my dream. In it, I was playing with some of the children when I saw Michael. Bitterly, he upbraided me for forgetting him, for not helping him. In his voice I heard anger, and his sweet face looked full of hate and loss. I woke up and wanted to cry, and have not been able to stop thinking about it all day.

There has to be a way to help my Michael. God made a way for him to be healed. God can make a way for him to soar out of his poverty. And I will find that way, because he is my Michael, and I love him forever.

Me with Michael, May 2005

The Sounds of Music: Bonding with an African Orphan

One day, I took my host brother and sister, Kofi and Nana Esi, to the orphanage to play. While the children played, I came to the shocking realization that Kofi and Nana Esi were much bigger than the orphans around their age. As they played, I took this picture of Nana Esi and Adjoa, one of my preschoolers. Nana Esi, on the left, is four in this picture. Adjoa is three, maybe four. There were no birth records to confirm a date.

Adjoa Elizabeth Eghan was shy; at least towards the volunteers, anyway. I tried not to sit her next to Ruby during class, because the two of them never shut up. For such a small person, she could certainly laugh and talk up a storm. She was never naughty, though, never violent and didn't throw temper tantrums. Though some of the kids, even Benjie, who was younger than she was, picked up on English very quickly, Adjoa never really seemed to care about learning it. However, she did good work in class-- at least, most of the time she tried to. She loved dancing, and grinned with delight whenever she joined the other girls in an impromptu dance fest. And as time went by, I learned a funny little truth about her.


Every day as we pulled out our workbooks, Adjoa would sing.

She sang all the songs I taught the kids-- Three Speckled Frogs, I'm a Nut, Love You Forever, Amazing Grace, and others-- as well as songs I assume she'd been taught by other volunteers. However, her favorite by far was La Bamba, the first song I taught them. Despite her seemingly stubborn refusal to learn English, she mastered the Spanish words and mumbled them to herself as she colored, traced letters, and played with puzzles. Sometimes, her classmates would join in, but often, Adjoa sang to herself. She seemed to do it purely out of the joy of singing, and I smiled every time I heard her innocent three-year-old voice begin to hum.

Adjoa sang with the other children, she sang to herself, and occaisionally sang with me and the other teachers, but I couldn't understand why she never seemed to care about being near the volunteers. Most of the children loved to get hugs, play with us, and talk to us, but Adjoa was usually casually indifferent, as though her songs were all she really needed. I never understood it until the day I found out where Adjoa came from.

As near as I could tell from the somewhat confused, short summary in the orphan's profiles, Adjoa was born when her mentally retarded mother was raped. She was abandoned by her mother to be raised by her grandmother, and the old lady was simply unable to care for her properly. Only a year or two later, Adjoa was brought to the orphanage, small and malnourished. In a few short sentences, I saw a history of abandonnement, and realized that may have been why she refused to bond with the volunteers. We came in and left after only a few months, and she had been through the pain of torn bonds before.

Near the end of my stay, I was playing with some of the children on the shady verandah during break time. Adjoa had pulled herself onto the verandah wall with the help of some of the older children, and I was surprised when she raised a small hand and waived at me to come to her.

"Do you need something, sweetie?" I asked as I came and stood in front of her.

Without a word, she put out her skinny little arms and wrapped them around my neck, laying her head on my shoulder.

I was so surprised, it took a moment before I returned her tight embrace. I began to rub her back, humming the tune of the song "Godspeed" that I often sang to the children when they were especially upset, tired, or just cuddly. Every few minutes, she would sit up, look around the verandah or into my face, then lay her head on my shoulder again. I began to cry as I hummed.

Adjoa was my friend after that. She would give me hugs every day, hold my hand, and was willing to play with me. I never figured out why she suddenly attached to me, and my closest guess is because of the songs. I sang often in class, and taught the children dozens of new songs, and perhaps it was our fondness for music that brought Adjoa to give me that first hug. It broke my heart that I had to leave so soon, in a sense abandonning her too. Now that I am home, I miss Adjoa, but I hope she doesn't miss me. I hope she doesn't even remember me, because I would hate for her to have another sense of loss in her short life. She was a happy little girl, and I'm sure she still is. I want the memories she keeps to be happy ones, worthy of the dance she dances and the songs she sings.




Adjoa, far right, with Sara and Ruby.


Adjoa and I balancing cups. Despite looks to the contrary, she was actually a lot better than me.




The day Adjoa gave me my first hug.

I Want: Dreams of Ghanaian Orphans

There is a game in Ghana called "I Want." It's very simple, and we played it at New Life all the time. The children gather in a circle, and one goes to the middle. They begin to sing, "I want...I want...I want (insert name, i.e. Gifty), I want Gifty, I want Gifty to come and dance with me." And then Gifty comes from the circle and the two in the middle bump hips and do various dance moves as the rest of the circle sings the ditty. The first child then goes back to the circle, and Gifty begins the song again. It is generally cause for a lot of laughter as the circle watches the antics of the dancers in the middle.

Of course, we all want things-- whether it be a friend, like in the game, or a new X-box, or something much more basic. Right now, I want Gifty. I want Benjie, and Michael, and Ophelia, and Pernel, and Belinda, and Emmanuel, and all my children, new and old, at New Life. I want to see them, to hug them, to dance with them. I want them to go to school, and I want them to have the things they want.

Last summer, a volunteer in Ghana asked the children what they wanted, and wrote down their replies. This is what they want-- these are their dreams. (Note: all ages given are very approximate.)

Ruth (age 7): I'd wish for a ball because I can play with a ball. I'd wish for a school bag because we need school bag to go to school.

Comfort (age 8): First, I'd wish for rice because we don't have rice. Then, I'd wish for socks. Then, I would wish for a camera because I want to take pictures.

David (age 10): I wish for a shirt. I wish for soap so I can bath.

Amos (age 8): I wish for an airplane beause I can go to America. Then I'd wish for a Bible because no Jesus no life. I wish I could be a doctor.

Belinda (age 10): First, I'd wish for my own bed because now I share a bed. I wish that I can be a bank manager.

Pernel (age 10): First I'd wish for food because I can fill my stomach. Then I'd wish for an airplane because I want to sit in an airplane.

Ophelia (age 11): I'd wish for Madame Jacklyn, Madame Ruby, and Madame Grace [the directors] to get money because they will use money to look after us. Last, I would wish for people because the people will help Madame Ruby to build a house for us.

Emmanuel (age 11): I wish that God should bless me to have a long life on the earth. Then I would wish to be a big man because I would love one to another. Last, I would wish I should be a good person and God should take me to heaven because I would be a good person.

Agnes (age 12): I would wish for shoes. Then I would wish for sugar because we need some sugar.

Mary (age 9): I'd wish for a pen and pencil because we can use it to write.

Grace (age 13): I wish for work because I want to help my country. I'd wish for work at a hospital because I want to help other people.

Abraham (age 13): I will wish to become an astronaut because I can be the first Ghanaian in space.

Michael (age 12): I'd wish for plaster [bandaids], because when people get sick I can pray so that person get well. I would wish for money because I can help people who are poor. After that, I would wish for love because when people do a bad thing I forgive him. Then I would wish for a mind because I can use my mind to help people when they are in big trouble.

They want necessities. They want a happy life. And they want not only to be loved, but to love others in return.

photo: from left to right: Dora, Pernel, Daniel, Ruby, Ruth, Ophelia, Grace, Doris.

This is Real Life

Cape Coast, Ghana, 4/9/05: "For the last few weeks, I've been gaining a greater sense of reality, as though the adventure aspect and novelty [of Ghana] have given way to the dep, intrinsic knowledge that this - is - real - life. For the people that live here, it is all they know, just as, before I came, Utah was all I knew. For Michael [a student at the orphanage school, pictured above], his everyday reality is hunger and cramped quarters and sleeping on concrete and a bamboo roof that leafs in the rain and he knows nothing else. And in a month, I'll go back to my everyday reality of fast food and five bedrooms and a daybed and red brick and shingles, and I'm so afraid that I'll forget, amidst the glamour of $10 DVD deals and the pink skirt I'm dying to have, that there is a village called Efutu where a 10-year-old boy and his family are still living just where I left them. And there is a part of me that wants to forget, the same part that wants the DVD's and the pink skirt and doesn't want to think about the ones who have nothing so I can enjoy my comparative wealth in the bliss of ignorance.

So the question becomes, where do I draw the line? I can't subject myself to poverty merely to dole out money to a world that needs so much-- for Efutu is one tiny village in Ghana, and Ghana is one tiny country amidst all those suffering in poverty. I can't save the whole world, much as my idealistic heart wants to, and it makes no sense to deny myself the things I wish for others. That being the case, I can't do nothing, not when I'm in a position to give. So I suppose that means for me to choose-- choose one aspect of the world that is within my power to help bring about positive change and progression."

I wrote this in my journal as I was nearing the end of my stay in Ghana. I grew afraid of forgetting, of returning home and doing nothing further to help. But I couldn't forget, not completely. Not when I had found a love for these children so deep it felt like it couldn't come from my own small heart. And yet, sometimes, I do get caught up in the $10 DVD deals, because that is real life too. I've realized that part of my fear of forgetting was the fear that as I forgot them, I would forget why it was so horrible to forget.

Then I remember the last paragraph of that journal entry. DVD's don't mean I have forgotten my children. I can't do it all, and I can't do it all the time, but I can still choose to remember, choose to do something. I have chosen a part of the world that I have the power to help, something that I chose to love, and I give out of that love.

So choose something. Choose someone. It doesn't have to be New Life Orphanage, or Ghana, or solving world hunger. Just choose one thing, one person, and make a difference in that person's life-- because it is as real as yours.

Photo: Michael (age 10) at a volunteer's goodbye celebration.

Agekow's Story

Last night, I dreamed about Agekow.

He was only about three or four when I taught him at New Life two years ago, but in my dream, he was maybe ten. In my dream, I had gone back to the orphanage, and as I stood talking to Madam Grace, the caretaker, Agekow came through the door. I was surprised, because Agekow no longer lives at New Life; an uncle took him in. I cried in my joy to see him, and I cried because he spoke to me in fluent English. And I cried to see that he remembered me.

In my dream, he had grown and learned. In my dream he was healthy, and his little legs were no longer little, and no longer bowed with rickets. In my dream, I hugged my Agekow and he returned it fiercely, just like he used to.

But it was only my dream.

I haven't seen Agekow in two years. I will probably never see him again. Nearly all of the volunteers that have come and gone since my time don't even know Agekow, since he left just after I did. So many children are at New Life, and so many volunteers have come, and yet only a few of us remember this child.

He was the first to fall asleep in my arms, as I sat in a chair on my first day, feeling overwhelmed and inadequate. Agekow cried, and I took him in my arms and sang to him until he fell asleep. He wore a little blue shirt that day, and I almost never saw him in anything different. As I began to teach the nursery class, I found that they still had much to learn. The day I showed my yellow flashcard and Agekow cried, "yellow!" I was thrilled. He was a sweetheart, and his face would light up in his angel smile to hear his work praised. He could also throw tantrums that put the devil to shame. Sometimes it seemed more than just normal child mood swings; he was teased sometimes because of his legs, and would sink into depression. It would sometimes be days between when I saw that angel smile.

I think of him when I look at the moon. When we read Where the Wild Things Are, he would shout out "Moon, moon!" at every page. I think of him when I see butterflies. He loved to count the butterflies on the flashcards, saying, "Butterfly!" and after ten, his counting would digress from actual numbers into "fourteen, seventeen, ten-teen..." I think of him when I have dreams of Ghana and hear his voice that isn't really his voice talking to me in flowing English.

It seems sometimes like no one knows Agekow, like he has been forgotten. One day as I crammed myself into a Ghanaian taxi and was berated by the driver for not greeting him, it occured to me that this taxi driver was once a child. I had a momentary flash of a would-be day twenty years down the road when I returned to Ghana and sat in a taxi without acknowledging the driver, and when he looked at me I saw that it was Agekow, all grown up, and that I hadn't even greeted this child I had loved so long ago. That sudden glimpse of what could be shocked me as I realized that these children wouldn't always be young and innocent. As they lost that innocence, the world that seems to care so much for them wouldn't care for them at all.

I don't know what will ever become of Agekow. He is with family now, where he should be, and where I hope he is happy. He is where someone knows him and will care for him even when he has lost his child-like ways. Though he is unknown by many who come to New Life, he is still loved by me and the few other volunteers who remember him. And there is a God who still hears when Agekow whispers "amen."

Playing at a nearby football park.

Standing on my shoulders-- he loved feeling tall!




Agekow and his good friend Phillip.




Agekow shows his angel smile with volunteer Becky.







Working hard at a puzzle next to his friend Elizabeth.