Going Off Script (eBook)

A Young African Girl's Memoir of Resilience, Faith, and Beating the Odds

Ruth Doeschner (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2022 | 1. Auflage
214 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
978-1-6678-6131-9 (ISBN)

Infos

Memoir / Autobiography that details a girl's life growing up in Ghana, moving to the USA, and life up to the present day. Challenges, hardships, successes, happiness and love are all elements that come to life and revealed by the author. Unexpected events bring both positive - and negative - consequences throughout her journey. Ultimately, all of these experiences mesh to create a story that will surely inspire and motivate those who don't think they can beat the odds...

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This memoir details the author's challenging upbringing in Ghana, Africa. One of two daughters to hard-working, yet faithful and hopeful parents, this story illustrates this girl's ordeals growing up impoverished in a third-world nation. As rough and uncertain as life was for her and her family in Accra, the capital city of their native country, they all retained a strong work ethic, and persevered every day, with the hope that the future would bring the blessings of a better life. A series of fortunate events brought about life-changing circumstances for the author. In America, she would face uplifting and positive experiences that would elevate her joy, faith, and belief in the goodness of people. The 'American Dream,' perhaps? Yet she would also experience the negative side of life here when some encounters with individuals complicated matters and threatened her happiness, security, and hope. Ultimately, her time in the USA would run out with the expiration of her visa. In order to stay here, how would she do it? Did she marry for love, or convenience? What were the upsides--and downsides--of retaining an occupation as a nanny? How did she get her start in social media? And what is her life like now?...

Textauszug

Chapter 1
Little Ruth

I woke to the aroma of hot bread and the simmering sound of fried eggs coming from outside. The room was dim but I could hear the dutiful movement of the morning around me, even as I raised my sleepy head. My mother drew the curtains and the glare of morning light reminded me what day it was–another school day. The thought snatched sleep from my eyes as I jumped off the bed, landed on my feet and grabbed my toothbrush.

This was a usual occurrence in my childhood; waking up to find that the day had started without me! And, this was a problem because I was a student of the Kwegyir Aggrey Memorial School, Accra, Ghana.

The sink to brush my teeth was a small aluminum dash at the corner of our room, the only room that housed the four members of the Acquah Baidoo family: a husband, his wife and their two daughters; I, being the first daughter. On the bed, my younger sister was a soft mound under the covers, and as I brushed in a hurry, I stole a glance at her and envied her bliss. Fortunately for her, her day started much later than mine.

Mother was in another corner sorting through her goods for the market day: textiles she had bought to trade in town. I greeted her before hurrying into the bathroom; it was a small partition in another corner of our room, an enclosed place with a tap and bucket. I finished quickly and came out to find my father’s cheery smile. He had my uniform laid out on the bed and was ironing it. His strokes were meticulous and quick, expertise born from practice. He was always the one ironing my uniform and would do it with such a light air about him.

“Ruth, hurry up! Your food is ready. My daughter is late again.” He had the ability to hold a conversation with someone and himself at the same time. I think at some point in primary school, he embraced the reality that I would always be late to school.

My father put my food on a small stool outside before moving to quench the hot coals he had used to cook; Dad and Mom cooked outside, there was no kitchen, just hot coals stoked and heaped under a stand to cook whatever was in the pot placed above it.

I stepped out of our room to the small pavement in front of our house. The morning air was clean and our compound was huge. We lived in a one room house in a large space of land; this property was a gift from my mother’s family and since we had little to no money for grand structures, we farmed instead. We planted corn and tomatoes on the land in season.

I gobbled up my bread and eggs whilst eyeing my tea, it was reserved for last. It was time-efficient to down a full cup of scalding tea than savoring a combination of all three. The tea would burn down my throat as I always forced it down, but I would rather burn my tongue than keep me running another couple of minutes late.

So I sat there, that morning, an 11-year-old child plowing through her food, only able to catch snippets of the tranquil morning that wrapped around me. The air was chilly against my skin, a wafting breeze that traveled down the mountain on which we lived. Before me was a familiar spread of lush green and winks of yellow; the corn was mature and we would soon again have an overflow of this vegetable. Just above the corn, I could glimpse downhill to the huddled groups of buildings that made up my town.

As a child, gazing into this canvas was fulfilling, seeing the fruits of my hardwork grow into mature corn. My parents and I planted seeds in season and the harvest would help feed the family.

Every morning, as I saw the corn mature, I would be reminded of the gritty dirt between my toes as I waited on my father, watching his back grind as he took the hoe to the ground, tilling and making room for the corn seeds in my hands. “Plant it there,” he would direct and keep moving, digging up more holes.

Dad and Mom did most of the hard work, but I was happy to be a part of that process. I was happy to put in the seeds and gather dirt over them with my hands. I was happy to give life to the soil and even happier to gobble up my food every morning only to rush for a bucket and water the corn as they grew.

When the corn was ripe, we would harvest it and soak a portion for days. Later, we would grind and ferment this portion to make banku, a common staple in Ghana.

I was born in Accra, Ghana, on July 23rd, 1989. My parents, Comfort Acquah Baidoo and Samuel Acquah Baidoo, raised my sister and me in Accra, which is the capital and largest city in Ghana, West Africa. The city itself is very metropolitan and situated along the coast. Over four million people live in Accra now. However, my hometown didn’t feel so big; everyone knew everyone and faces became familiar and regular as I aged. Our community was tight-knit, and everyone knew everyone.

Once I had downed my meal, my father was already waiting for me by his bicycle. He offered me a hand and as soon as I took it, I flew right off the ground onto the front of his bike. My father was a strong man, and as I grew I was able to piece together his personality and the fact that he was a fit man, muscled from tireless manual work and never once did the sweat break his smile. He was a man that imposed his presence from afar, stalking towards his focus with beaming shoulders; everyone feared what his anger could look like. But when he drew near, you would realize from his voice and his countenance that he’s a cheery guy. His laugh was deep, resounding in every happy moment. His attitude to challenges was ‘never say never.’ Just then he braced me in front of him and prepared to descend down the mountain at a rattling speed.

I was scared. I was always scared when taking bike rides down the mountain with my father. I latched on to his arms as he pushed off, pumping the pedals. We both went flying on his metal plane, jostling down the rocky path, the wind buried my screams and all I felt were my fingers digging into his arms and my body tossing around between his large arms. He never minded my screaming, he loved the rush of the journey, he was willing to keep pushing despite what was ahead. And this is what I learnt from my father. He was always willing to put in the work, he was always willing to forge a way to go forward. The stress and poverty were always there but my father and mother ensured we always had food on the table.

My family was built on the backs of hardwork and faith. My parents worked hard at their jobs, and my sister and I went to school.

My mother worked with textiles and would purchase fabric in the market and then distribute the materials to women who made clothing, while my father, on the other hand, was a plumber who took on additional work whenever he could. I remember one of those jobs required him to leave our family for two weeks at a time each month. He would gather large quantities of papercrete (the paper that cement is packaged in) and carry loads of it all the way to Burkina Faso, which was 629 miles away. Burkina Faso is situated to the North of Ghana, and as a poorer neighboring country, materials like papercrete (that could be used to make the slate for roofing) were limited. So my father would make a decent amount of money from frequent trips.

When my father wasn’t away on a two week trip to sell papercrete, he was at home, making sure I didn’t go too late to school, flying down the mountain just to get to Kwegyir Aggrey School in enough time to meet closed gates. Meeting closed gates was a punishment; it foreshadowed something waiting for me on the other side.

Seeing those closed green gates that morning had me on edge, but I had the comfort of my father’s presence as he wheeled up to the smaller gate with me in front.

The first alarm that went off in my head was at the bareness of the school premises; there was not a single loitering soul in sight. That meant assembly had been held and was over; I was beyond late, I was to be punished severely. The gate man saw us and smiled. My father greeted him and they held a short chat about the day and how things were going–and that was it, my pass, I was in the green.

The School compound was large. Beyond the gates and to our right, two-story buildings stood side by side, their vibrant yellow colors gleaming in the sun, in contrast to the navy blue that skirted both buildings. The image washed a turbulent wave of dread and anticipation, but in that consternation was also hope as I remained latched to my father’s arms. He wheeled his bicycle right up to the cement pavement in front of the classroom building and set me on my feet.

A short man strode out from a class at the extreme, with his arms behind his back. His gaze was sharp and he instantly focused on Dad and me. He was my class teacher, Mr. Mante. He moved towards us, his brisk steps quickly cutting the space between us until his defiant countenance was right in front of me; I was thankful that my father had not yet left.

“Mr. Mante!” Father cheered and the other man caught his smile. They knew each other well; father served as a deacon at church and Mr. Mante was one of the Pastors in the church as well. They exchanged small laughs and father gestured to me casually, “I’m the reason she is late.”

“Oh okay, that’s alright.” Mr. Mante grinned. Like my father, his smile had roots, genuine and kind. Whenever I came to school with my Dad, I usually got a pass; everyone knew my Dad and most people liked him. My Dad was a well-known plumber in town when he wasn’t in Burkina Faso, selling Papercrete. Once the school staff saw him in school, everyone just assumed he had work to do, so he was allowed to slip me in and out freely.

Besides his plumbing...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 9.9.2022
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Biografien / Erfahrungsberichte
• ISBN-10: 1-6678-6131-X / 166786131X
• ISBN-13: 978-1-6678-6131-9 / 9781667861319