Three Scenes from Ghana@50

One

Tuesday Ghana turned fifty and threw a big party to celebrate. For months they cleaned, decorated, practiced, programmed, and outfitted for the bash. Preparation included everything from the sacking of the vendors in Makola market to the purchase of 150 new luxury cars with fifteen million tax dollars to fresh coats of white paint on the curbs of every main road in Accra to the construction of mansions for visiting heads of state. It was a big party, and it was called Ghana@50.

It began just minutes into the day with a huge fireworks display blooming over the ocean, launched from the Kwame Nkrumah Memorial Park and Mausoleum. We found a spot at a restaurant about a mile away right on the shore. The show was scheduled for midnight sharp, and so when we hadn’t seen anything after a half hour we began to think that maybe we had made some mistake. Cynically we wondered aloud whether “they” would screw this up, and start Ghana@50 off on the wrong foot. But around 12:40 they came like only fireworks can.

There were red, yellow, green, blue, and purple ones that burst in perfect spheres; gold ones that spilled out in enormous fountains and left lingering tails like glowing fingerpaint; clouds of hanging glitter; silver shooting stars that each burst into three more snaking flares, tracing a gnarled tree in the sky; color-changing ones; bright red embers that stayed lit as they smoldered through the sky all the way down to the ocean; and all the other usual suspects.

It lasted about twenty minutes in all, during which time I think the residents of Accra must have been as collectively quiet as they ever have been. For the most part I only heard the spontaneous oohs and ahhs of those bewitched by the miracle that is a professional fireworks display. Afterwards everyone, Ghanaian and obruni alike, was gushing about how great it was. And really, when it goes off without a hitch, as it did, what a fine, fine thing—who can find fault with those bright, fiery spiders arching confidently across the sky?

Two

Tuesday morning I woke up at 10, quickly dressed, and made my way towards Independence Square, Accra’s main parade ground, by taxi. Close to our destination the traffic was completely stopped, so I got out and continued on foot through the street jammed with cars and streaming with people. Most were wearing some Ghana@50 regalia—t-shirts, hats, pendants, and flags as capes or skirts or dresses. In general people were talkative and excited. There were some unofficial parade groups weaving through the stopped traffic playing drums and bells, waving flags, pumping fists, and hollering exuberantly.

Approaching the entrance to the square I passed increasing numbers of vendors, mostly of small food—Fan Ice, popcorn, sausage kebabs, doughnuts, plantain chips—and finally reached the gate. It was very crowded, but people were moving, entering and exiting in what seemed like equal numbers. The program was supposed to have started “around 9”, which is Ghanaian for “in the morning”, so I was surprised to see so many people leaving. But as I came closer to the edge of the parade ground I could see that events were well underway.

Independence Square is almost a quarter mile square, and except for the north edge, which is open to leave an unobstructed view of the Arc-de-Triomphe-style Independence monument across the street, it is bordered by covered bleachers. In the center of the south edge the bleachers are interrupted by a large arch with seats for optimal viewing. These are reserved for VIPs. I had entered at the northeast corner and I walked towards the center of the north edge, where the crowd was least dense. Eventually I took my place in a throng of people pressing up against the portable police barricade that separated the viewing area from the parade ground itself. I was about eight people deep from the barrier, and just behind me the crowd was much more dispersed, leaving ample room to back up.

When I stood on my tip-toes I could see past the dark blue military vehicles parked along the north edge to the many columns of army, navy, air force, police, and schoolchildren that made up the marching corps. Various columns of schoolchildren wore different uniforms: brown and yellow, green and white, blue and white, and purple. Some of the military were in their dress, complete with white gloves, and others were in camouflage. But when I arrived, and for the first 30 minutes or so, everything on the parade grounds seemed stationary.

During that time the vast crowd must have grown bored. Most people, not being six feet tall, couldn’t see anything. There was a lot of banter, some jockeying for position, some rounds of “Happy Birthday to Ghana” (followed by “How Old Are You Now?”) and even a couple choruses of the lesser-known “Ghana oooohhh”. I was wearing a thoroughly ridiculous homemade hat that I bought yesterday on the way to work: a hand-painted affair with “50 Yrs” scrawled in Sharpie a couple times on its yellow panels. It was extremely well-received. And whenever I took out my camera, people wanted to pose for pictures.

During this time many people introduced themselves to me, a lonely obruni in a sea of black faces. One man named Johnson had his children with him: a teenage son and two younger daughters wearing cream-colored dresses that looked like satin. He was alternately lifting each daughter onto his shoulders so they could see the action (or lack thereof). Each time they got up there on his shoulders, surveying it all, they smiled so big and deep they almost went walleyed. Even surrounded by the overwhelming crowd, their expressions radiated the contentment and security that only Dad can provide. Johnson and I talked for a few minutes and he gave me his business card; then we were separated by the slow shuffling of the crowd. But our brief interaction, and just seeing him there with his children at the parade grounds, a family man doing all the things that are right and good on a national holiday, was a great gift and my fondest memory from the day.

I guess there was some point when people got too hot or too tired and so became agitated; or maybe there were just a few who wanted to see something happen, but there began some light pushing at the barricades and some loud chanting right in the faces of the police officers manning them. The barricades would be pushed back and the crowd would sway as one. The continual hollering and hissing from the few loudmouths was such amateurish goading that I thought people would just ignore it. But each time the police pushed back the barrier, the crowd would lean and shuffle, and then some more would join in the hissing and push it forward again.

I kept checking behind me to make sure I wasn’t boxed in from all sides. Meanwhile, the jostling became more spirited, and some police officers incredibly started removing their belts and whipping them (not too hard, but with the buckle out!) indiscriminately into the crowd. I even saw one brandishing a splintery piece of scrapwood, waving it around like a toy sword.

The back and forth continued in fits and starts. During what seemed to be a lull I heard the sound of shuffling feet. All at once a hole opened up in the crowd about twenty feet to my left, as if invisible, irresistible hands were pushing out from the center. People started listing like concentric rings of dominoes, then stepping, then stepping faster. I turned around to find that the open area behind me had closed in, and I was part of the tilting, moving herd. All around, people picked up their flimsy plastic chairs and held them over their heads while they pressed on; the empty area at the center had widened. It was the horrifying feeling of trying to run in a dream where you know your legs should be pumping faster, but they can’t. Hands grabbed onto the shoulders in front of them and involuntary, plaintive yelps were heard all around. The chaos was excruciatingly slow and persisted for about 30 seconds. Then the shuffling sound stopped; the crowd quieted and stood up straight. The center area began to fill in again. I continued outward made a hasty exit to the main road. In the end, I only suffered a scrape on my toe.

Three

Around midnight I was in Osu, the nightlife district, walking with Sarah and Pamela to find a taxi. The main street was jammed full of people having a block party. But it had not been closed to traffic, so despite the music blasting from speakers just beside the road and the throngs of revelers dancing in front of them, cars tried to inch through. The Silent Majority, whose representative I had met earlier at the parade grounds, was fast asleep, and the madness was that of any mass gathering of mostly drunk, mostly male young adults: generally well-intentioned, wild, and bursting with a teetering potential energy. Here were three young men writhing on the ground in front of (slowly) oncoming traffic. And here was a guy trying to grab Pamela by the waist and pull her into a small pod of dancers as we walked by. She brushed his arm away without much trouble and we continued towards the main road.