God and Obama

In the past six weeks here in Ghana, I have learned much about the culture and people of Accra. There appears to be a slight divide in the population: one group, traditional. Usually more rural and older, simply because, they tell me, traditions have died out with the onslaught of Western influence in the city. This group wears traditional prints, cooks fufu and groundnut soup (YUM), and speaks local languages. The second is younger, and city-bound either by address or occupation. This group dresses in Western clothing, listens to Western music, and speaks mostly English. There are many cultural differences and arguments between the two, but one thing they make quite clear: they both love God and Obama.

God and Obama have given Africans love, hope, and most importantly, salvation. For God and Obama, they unite. Ghana celebrates the two with deep passion and fervor, and its citizens are undivided in their belief.

What is your name? Are you a Christian? This is how some Ghanaians greet me. I had always considered Americans fairly fanatically religious until now. While Americans are devoted to God, they mostly keep it private. Certainly, we don’t bring it up with the eagerness of asking a child’s age. Ghanaians flaunt religion as we flaunt Coca-Cola advertisements. No, seriously. Religion is plastered to billboards, shops, and fliers. Every taxi in Accra is adorned with a picture of Jesus, a Rosary, or a bumper sticker shouting, “God is Great!” Oftentimes, all three.

Obama is an equally popular public figure. His smiling face and his name are seen as often as the cross. Ghanaians shout it as we pass them on the street: “Aay, Obama!,” grinning and waving. “Obama came here. He stayed in that hotel,” my cab driver declares proudly as we speed by the Holiday Inn. An old man greets me and asks where I am from. “America. Obama,” he says, awestruck, when I respond.

Ghanaians love Obama. He empowered Africa and its diaspora; as part of it, he became the President of the United States of America. African children now have a black figure to respect, admire, and emulate; one that is more popular and powerful than any rapper or movie character. “Obama is your father,” a Togolese border patrol officer says as he stamps my passport.

“God is your father,” a young Ghanaian man tells me. “You have an earthly father, and a mother. But they are not your real parents. Your real parents are in heaven. Your father and mother on earth are just for now. In heaven, God is the father to all of us.”

“Oh, wow,” I say.

He leans in and stares intently into my eyes. “Do you understand what I am saying?”

“Yes,” I nod my head, “I understand.”

“So who is your father?”

I hesitate. He smiles. “God,” I say. He nods.

Earlier that day, I had been talking to a friend of his who had greeted me in the manner that I described above: “What is your name? Are you a Christian?”

This was the first time I had been directly asked the question. I usually skirted around the issue, not wanting to lie. I was counseled to claim a religion, no matter which; Ghanaians wouldn’t understand the concept of atheism, a Ghanaian NYU staff member told me. I was raised a Christian—but could I convince someone so devout? What if she asked me to recite a Bible passage?

“I’m Jewish.” She wouldn’t know the Torah.

She leans back, a quizzical expression on her face. “You are Jewish?” I nod. “Oh.” There is an awkward silence and I wonder if it would have offended her less had I claimed to belong to her own religion.

“So… what do you do in, um, Judaism?” she asks. I inform her that Judaism follows the Old Testament of the Bible and that it has lots of traditions and holidays.

“Do you believe in God?”

“Yes,” I say.

She nods in approval and smiles. I have won back her affection. She sits up and says, “Do you support Obama?”