Today in Ghana I ran into my friend Kwame, who sells jewellery from his lap in a wheelchair in Osu and thus supports a family of five. Kwame‘s dream is to be a lawyer. We were so happy to see each other we were nearly I years. We shook hands seven times. I told him my visa trouble in Berlin: I cannot sell the lovely recycled glass beads I brought back which should include an opportunity for sponsorship or reparations to somebody like Kwame, because I got turned down for a business visa, they are worried I would not be earning enough money (true) and thus not paying enough taxes in Germany (also true). I told him I will keep trying. I rode home by trotro and jumped off when I passed a heaving Spot where hundreds of groovy people all dressed in black were dancing and drinking and ceaselessly embracing. They looked so cool and helpless. ‘Excuse me. Is this a funeral? I don’t want to intrude.’ ‘Welcome, welcome! Our friend died, he was a dancer. Only thirty years old.’ The bar man agreed he would stand me a drink even though I had no money. We both touched our hearts, I will come back tomorrow, thank you for trusting me. Funeral goers in matching black t shirts lifted their glasses and bumped fists as we all began dancing in the crowded road, ‘We all wish white people would dance like that. You are a Ghanaian now.’ I wish. What I wish is if I had my way, some combination of eco conscious Berliners and forthright outrageously excellent Ghanaians and thoughtful land respectful Indigenous Australians would be ruling this world. ‘Why can’t you tell Trump he is not allowed to do this thing?’ ‘I’m trying! I tweeted him. He doesn’t mind me.‘ In Ghanaian English this means, he takes no notice of me. ‘Why does he treat Iran this way?’ asked Pious, who had taken my number to send a selfie we all made. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. His friend chinked his glass against my glass. ‘Is it because he’s a mother fucker.’ Yes, I said. That’s why.
