Seliminga

When I first see my home, I am relieved, then immediately disappointed. Driving north, I watched the land become sparse, the manic rainforest greens of the south becoming subdued yellows in the dry north. The houses change, too. From concrete blocks with tin roofs come structures so basic the ground itself may have grown them. Round huts, orange red as the dirt, set low in to the ground and then topped with intricately woven thatch. It’s the Africa of magazines, of safaris and elephants, though I’m told that any big game has been hunted out of the open spaces.

My home is south Ghanaian excellence, out of place in the north; a reflective tin roof, concrete walls (four, not circular) and windows bearing smudged glass. I’ve seen rougher apartments in Denver. My home has a bathroom, complete with porcelain fixtures, and I stand in it, turning the faucet on and off in awe; running water.

My home is the only square one in my village, the only one made with concrete and not clay, the only one with doors that face east and west, instead of a careful north and south, to discourage the sun. It is also the only one to contain a seliminga, a white person. It’s the only one whose walls protect not just a person but a laptop, an iphone. It is the only one where shea butter is kept fresh in a Maxwell house coffee tin, the only one where a hand-thrown pot contains pens and stickers I initially bought to give as gifts, but now can’t bring myself to lose their hopefully bright colors, their American efficiency.

I recall my uncle scoffing at people who requested a village without electricity, in order to have a real peace corps experience. If you are in the Peace Corps, he’d said, then it’s the real experience.

Remembering that tempers my disappointment. I’d hoped to blend, I think, forgetting that I wear my differences on every inch of my skin. I think my community forgets, too. When people excitedly shout “Seliminga!” I am not the only one to look around, confused, to see who they’re talking about. “O ka seliminga” I’ve heard them explain “O nyela dagbang paga” She’s not a seliminga, she’s a dagoma woman. They paint my face with tribal markings, long liquid eyeliner lines down my cheeks, dots between my eyes. They ask to trade my American pants for their ankle length cloths. I can dress up and pretend, will speak the language and curse the children, because at night I come home to my four walls, my window and curtains, and watch the sun set while I hug my differences close.