"Slow down, Slow down !" my instructor yelled just as I was about to make a turn. Simultaneously, an old woman finally decides to cross the road on a green light. My legs were shaking from the nervousness of driving and my neck ached from sitting in an awkwardly attentive position for the past hour. If you remember driving for the first time, you'd know what I’m talking about. The fear of losing control and harming not only myself but my instructor had me holding the steering wheel for dear life. It was past midday and the air was hot. A phone rang next to me. After giggles and pleasantries were exchanged, I overheard that we were invited to a barbecue down the street.  

My first instinct is always to reject any offer of food. Especially when it’s free food. My mum always told me that people were always out to get us. We don't eat food in people's homes unless she gave us the nod of approval. This thought had been engrained in my head since 1999. She made solid points like, you can be poisoned through food or her personal favorite, you can acquire witchcraft. I've always wondered why eating was the only way especially since Mamaga's fried rice always beckoned with delightful sensations but my mum just won't let us indulge. To be fair, I have witnessed many confessions about how people became witches because they ate food from Auntie So and So’s kitchen. However, being in school abroad for 4 years eroded that thought. Looking back, I would not have survived college if I rejected every offer of free food. I mean how else are you supposed to survive when you’re trying to live like a baby girl and your work study employment can’t do nothing for ya? (in Chris Brown’s voice) Free food was always the way to go. 

"Dela, have you eaten today ?" my instructor asked. I shook my head. "Okay, then let’s go get some food." We parked the car on the street and headed over to the house. Parking the car was always a collaborative effort because for now I could only drive in a straight line. The aroma from the chicken on the grill filled the air. As we approached the house, I could hear one of my sweet spots, boiling oil. Boiling oil in a Ghanaian household is always cue for, it’s about to go down.  It’s either fried yam or plantains or even chicken. The possibilities are endless ! There were very few people on the compound and per Ghanaian tradition, it’s required that you greet everyone when you're a guest. I took a seat and scanned the backyard. I saw an old woman sweeping the backyard. I got up to ask her if she needed help. I don’t know what nudged me but I found myself asking her.

This is one of the "hospitable" traits popular among Ghanaians. You ask people to join you when you’re about to eat or ask them if they need help when you see them struggling without the intent to. It’s primarily a way of showing respect and being polite. However, people abroad take that literally. They will dip their fingers in your food and make you carry all their bags, so I don’t play that card unless they’re my fellow countryman. I only offer when I truly mean it. In this case, I really wanted to help. Per my expectations, she declined, because also in Ghanaian culture, you treat visitors like kings.

I walked back to my seat. Next to me was a man in dark sunglasses. He seemed to be a pretty important member of the household. I noticed that everyone asked his opinion for everything and he occasionally sent people on errands. "Do you live here?" He looked around like he was trying to find where the sound was coming from and replied, "Oh no, this is my cousin’s house". We talked about everything from compliance to music. It was one of the most engaging conversations I’ve had in a while. It wasn’t until later that I realized that I had been talking to this man the entire time and I was glued to my seat.

Several hours had passed and realized it was time for me to head back to the city. By this time, I had already envisioned some kind of relationship that could transpire from this banter. Like my friends always tell me, "Put yourself out there". At this point, I was letting myself go. He took off his glasses and asked for my number. It was at this point that I realized that pushing the limits would cause me to be a sugar baby. Although he looked fresh, he was at least a decade older. What a scam !