He wrote another article entitled “We Call for Freedom,” and was jailed. Arrested with him were Nkrumah and several other activists.They spent thirteen months behind bars, before finally being released. Today, this group constitutes Ghana’s government.
Now Baako speaks about broad issues. “Only thirty percent of the people in Ghana can read and write. We want to abolish illiteracy within fifteen years. There are difficulties: a shortage of teachers, books, schools. There are two kinds of schools: missionary-run and state-run. But they are all subject to the state and there is a single educational policy. In addition, five thousand students are being educated abroad. What frequently happens is that they return and no longer share a common language with the people. Look at the opposition. Its leaders are Oxford- and Cambridge-educated.”
“What does the opposition want?”
“Who knows? We believe that an opposition is necessary. The leader of the opposition in parliament receives a salary from the government. We allowed all these little opposition parties and groups to unite, so they would be stronger. Our position is that in Ghana, anyone who wants to has the right to form a political party — on the condition that it not be based on criteria of race, religion, or tribe. Each party here can employ all constitutional means to gain political power. But, you understand, despite all this, one doesn’t know what the opposition wants. They call a meeting and shout: ‘We’ve come through Oxford, and people like Kofi Baako didn’t even finish high school. Today Baako is a minister, and I am nothing. But when I become minister, then Baako will be too stupid for me to make him even a messenger.’ But you know, people don’t listen to this kind of talk, because there are more Kofi Baakos here than all those in the opposition put together.”
I said that I should get going, as it was dinnertime. He asked me what I was doing that evening. I was supposed to go to Togo.
“What for?” He waved his hand. “Come to a party. The radio station is having one tonight.”
I didn’t have an invitation. He looked around for a piece of paper and wrote: “Admit Ryszard Kapuściński, a journalist from Poland, to your party. Kofi Baako, Minister of Education and Information.”
“There. I’ll be there too, we’ll take some photographs.”
The guard at the gates of the radio building saluted me smartly and I was promptly seated at a special table. The party was already in full swing when a gray Peugeot drove up to the dance floor out in the garden, and Kofi Baako emerged from inside. He was dressed just as he had been in his office, only he held a red sweat suit under his arm, because he was going to Kumasi tonight and it might get cold. He was well known here. Baako was the minister of schools, of all the universities, the press, the radio, the publishing houses, the museums — of everything that constitutes culture, art, and propaganda in this country.
We soon found ourselves in a crowd. He sat down to drink a Coca-Cola, then quickly stood up.
“Come, I will show you my cameras.”
He pulled a suitcase out of the trunk of his car, set it on the ground, knelt down, and began taking out the cameras, laying them out on the grass. There were fifteen of them.
Just then two boys walked up to us, slightly drunk.
“Kofi,” one of them began in a plaintive tone, “we bought a ticket and they’re not letting us stay here because we don’t have jackets. So what did they sell us a ticket for?”
Baako rose.
“Listen,” he answered, “I am too important a man for such matters. There are lots of little guys here, let them take care of it. I have issues of government on my mind.”
The twosome sailed off unsteadily, and we went to take pictures. Baako had only to approach, cameras hanging around his neck, for people to start calling to him, asking for a photograph.
“Kofi, take one of us.”
“Of us!”
“And us too!”
He circulated, picking tables with the prettiest girls, arranging them, and telling them to smile. He knew them by name: Abena, Ekua, Esi. They greeted him by extending their hands, without getting up, and shrugging their shoulders, which is an expression of seductive flirtatiousness here. Baako walked on; we took many photographs. He looked at his watch.
“I have to go.”
He wanted to get to the game on time.
“Come tomorrow, and we’ll develop the photographs.”
The Peugeot flashed its lights and vanished in the darkness, while the party swayed and surged till dawn.
The Road to Kumasi
What does the bus station in Accra most resemble? The caravan of a huge circus that has come to a brief stop. It is colorful, and there is music. The buses are more like circus wagons than the luxurious vehicles that roll along the highways of Europe and North America.
A bus in Accra has a wooden body, its roof resting on four posts. Because there are open walls, a pleasant breeze cools the ride. In this climate, the value of a breeze is never to be taken for granted.
In the Sahara, the palaces of rulers have the most ingenious constructions — full of chinks, crannies, winding passageways, and corridors so conceived and constructed as to maximize cross-ventilation. In the afternoon heat, the ruler reclines on a mat optimally positioned to catch this refreshing current, which he breathes with delight. A breeze is a financially measurable commodity: the most expensive houses are built where the breeze is best. Still air has no value; it has only to move, however, and then immediately acquires a price.
The buses are brightly ornamented, colorfully painted. On the cabs and along the sides, crocodiles bare their sharp teeth, snakes stretch ready to attack, and flocks of peacocks frolic in trees, while antelope race through the savannah pursued by a lion. Birds are everywhere, as well as garlands, bouquets of flowers. It’s kitsch, but full of imagination and life.
The inscriptions are most important of all. The words, adorned with flowers, are large and legible from afar, meant to offer important encouragements or warnings. They have to do with God, mankind, guilt, taboos.
The spiritual world of the “African” (if one may use the term despite its gross simplification) is rich and complex, and his inner life is permeated by a profound religiosity. He believes in the coexistence of three differerent yet related worlds.
The first is the one that surrounds us, the palpable and visible reality composed of living people, animals, and plants, as well as inanimate objects: stones, water, air. The second is the world of the ancestors, those who died before us, but who died, as it were, not completely, not finally, not absolutely. Indeed, in a metaphysical sense they continue to exist, and are even capable of participating in our life, of influencing it, shaping it. That is why maintaining good relations with one’s ancestors is a precondition of a successful life, and sometimes even of life itself. The third world is the rich kingdom of the spirits — spirits that exist independently, yet at the same time are present in every being, in every object, in everything and everywhere.
At the head of these three worlds stands the Supreme Being, God. Many of the bus inscriptions speak of omnipresence and his unknown omnipotence: “God is everywhere,” “God knows what he does,” “God is mystery.” There are also some more down-to-earth, human injunctions: “Smile,” “Tell me that I’m beautiful,” “Those who bicker like each other,” etc.
We have only to show up in the square, which teems with dozens of buses, before a group of shouting children surrounds us — where are we going? to Kumasi? to Takoradi? or to Tamale?
“To Kumasi.”
Those who are hunting for passengers to Kumasi shake our hands and, bouncing with glee, lead us to the appropriate bus. They are happy, because, having found him a passenger, the bus driver will reward them with a banana or an orange.