Medase Pa

3 days shy of 8 months, I found myself on a flight home. Here's the finale to my blog that I wrote in Kokrobite the week before I left. Sorry for the sentimental nature...

A few years ago I met some people on holiday. They had been travelling for a few months and I remember being so envious of one of the the girls' feet – so so brown. Browner that I ever thought my feet could be. Ever. But today, I look down (or up if I am in yoga doing the shoulder stand – not that other nifty move that involves drawing in the you know what...) and can barely believe that the feet I stare at are mine. The lovely bronzed colour I had never expected they would be.

Medase, thank you, or the literal meaning of medawasiye (I will lie under you) gives thanks a whole different connotation in Ghana. But the only way I can sum up this whole experience is to say thank you, less in the Ghanaian sense... To Ghana for the things I learned, and forgot. For presenting me with the expected and unexpected. For appreciation, challenging my limits. For the opportunity to live by the sea, be tanned, overdose on vitamin D, the simple delights and beautiful moments. To the people not in Ghana, friends and family, for their positivity, to the people who read this blog, the people who made me feel at home, my neighbours, the wonderful friends I gained, the amazing Accra, Kof and honorary Accra volunteers, to those who kept me sane and entertained at work, Mr Teiks, Yanka. And provident. For raised tolerance to so many things, more patience, ebbing taste buds, the power of hissing, the peppermint palace. To jazz music, hip life, music in general, cake, pizza, 241 pizza, melting moments, Bella, NECK(!), crazy tro tro rides that I would do all over again, long bus journeys, days at the beach, and nights, and to everyone I met here for your unique and inspiring perspectives. To memories and long friendships.

Packing my things to come home, I come across my favourite pink top. Massimo Dutti in Ghana, almost an oxymoron. So easy and light to wear in the oppresive heat, just the right sleeve length and neckline. I am wearing it in so many of my Ghana pictures. I am tempted to bring it home as a relic. Something about it is symbolic – laddered, snagged, victim to ant holes, moth eaten, a massive tear from where I pulled it off wet after wearing it under a waterfall, faded, but still pink, repairable, possibly wearable and still my favourite top.

Chahle, nante yie. Falafel is officially no longer in Ghana...