A first chapter...

Last July, I went with my mother to a rural village in Ghana where she had lived and worked in the 2005-2006 school year. As a nonfiction writer interested in social and political issues, of course I was thrilled to accompany her, and to be exposed to a world so different from the upper-middle class, White suburban world I came from. However, since my return, I've struggled with writing about Africa (not least of all because of the famous essay by Binyavanga Wainaina found here: http://www.granta.com/extracts/2615). How do I address the vast differences, the stark poverty, the subtle beauty, the colors, without being simultaneously preachy, overbearing and ineffectual.

My decision to finally begin writing about Ghana was preceeded by an idea, harshly thrown into my world by the Godfather of creative nonfiction: Lee Gutkind. Scenes. Work only with actual scenes, real moments, dialogue. Detail the setting and characters in depth, as in Dickension fiction. Do not waste any time whatsoever on explanation, interpretation, extrapolation (ok, that last bit isn't Mr. Gutkind, it;s me, for this essay only and in particular).
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So, this is the first installment of a series of short scenes, which will hopefully become one full essay about the electricity problem in Africa. Rather than being overbearing, I am simply telling the story of the times of intentional electricity shutoff I experienced during my ten day trip. Let's see what happens...

Light Off, part one.

Sweat pools in the crevices of my body--most noticeably and uncomfortably in the curves beneath my breasts. I threw on a polyester sundress, which, I'm learning, does not breathe, even at seven p.m., even though it is dark. I am sitting on the concrete painted floor, my bare white legs shining in the flourescent glow of the single, battery-powered lamp in the room. It sits on the coffee table, and Cosmas and I play with cards. The electricity will be off for another eleven hours, at least.

We know this because it was scheduled. The power outage spans the entire country of Ghana, with the occasional exception of a neighborhood or two of the capital city Accra. What was once a frequent inconvenience has now become an institution. Every third day, the main power grid is shut down, and all of Ghana loses power for twelve hours. I haven't yet learned why--whether it's an infrastructure problem, poor circuitry or money-saving scheme is still a mystery. All I know is that it's intentional.

Cosmas giggles before he flips over the next card, then quickly smacks his palm down on top of the Jack of Spades. Cosmas is a small nine years old, with a wide, white smile and gangly limbs. He is extremely shy, but his laugh is enormous. Even as a child, he has mastered the fine art of casting his head back to let out a giant laugh. Since he's only nine, I don't mind when he cheats at SlapJack. It's the first night he's opening up to me, so I don't have the heart to tell him you're not supposed to peek at the cards before you flip them down.

I lean against the brown floral velvet upholstery of the couch behind me, and rub my mother's leg. She, in her long blue shift, her wild Italian curls frizzed in the humidity of July in Ghana, is dozing sitting up on the couch. She smiles down at me; I know how happy she is to share this place with me, for me to meet this other family and begin to understand the life she led last year.

to be continued...