What?

“What?”

“Ziggy-Ziggy. Do you like it?” The stout Ghanaian man grabbed my arm and led me along.

“What’s that?” I tried not to trip in the uneven dirt road.

“Ziggy-Ziggy.” The man made a thrusting gesture with his fist.

“Fighting?” I could not imagine what he meant.

“You are a grown woman, you do not know what ziggy-ziggy is?”

“I don’t think that’s a word, sir.”

“With the girls. You give them ziggy-ziggy.” Oh! Ziggy-Ziggy is sex. This old man was hitting on me. Damn it.

“Okay, bye!” I pulled myself away from his grasp and walked towards my friends, who were at the nearby stand where the elderly pervert was leading me.

Sadly, this is a common occurrence here in Accra. I have a desire to think the best in people and to get to know the locals. This causes problems because it is hard to tell when you shouldn’t. Quite often, men whom I talk to for a few minutes do not let me leave the conversation, asking for my phone number or address, complimenting me on my unseen beauty (which he again sees in my friend ten minutes later), proposing marriage to me, or begging me to take him back to America with me. Being a friendly and generally nice person, it results in constant guilt and awkwardness. Further, it means that I have an aversion to indulge any man in a conversation or a dance, for fear of being accosted later.

A Ghanaian man demonstrating how to pound fufu,
a local dish made from cassava and yam. 

Last weekend, when my host brother picked me up at the AFS Home-stay office, I had the expectation that we would be spending the weekend pounding fufu, going to Ghanaian events, and doing typical chores around the house. He had other plans: a weekend-long date with his token Obruni woman. How do you politely communicate to your host that you are not actually interested in watching movies with him in his bed? I’ll tell you this from experience: it’s a lot harder to do in Twi.

Our local fruit stand, where you can buy divine mangoes
and pineapples for one cedi. The owner, Mary, speaks
perfect English and teaches Twi to the NYU students.

The vast majority of the people I have met here in Accra speak English. Except for a few instances, communication has been doable. Challenging, and oftentimes leaving me feeling uncertain about the actual subject of a conversation I have just had, but leaving me generally able to perform the necessary daily activities.

A local grocery stand in Elmina, where
communicating is always an adventure.

“What is this dish?” I pointed out one of the few items in the vegetarian section of the menu.

“Is vegetable with sauce.”

“And this one?”

“Is vegetable with sauce.” The waiter repeated his answer.

“So… what’s the difference between these two?”

He pointed to the first one. “This sauce,” he moved his hand down the menu to the next item I had inquired about, “this balls.”

“Balls?”

“The vegetable balls.”

“What are they?” I asked, curious about what they were made with.

“Is a ball with vegetable.” He mimed holding a ball with his hands.

 “Is it fresh vegetables shaped into a ball? Or is it a ball made from vegetables?”

“Yes.” The waiter nodded vigorously.

“Which?”

“What?”

“I’ll just have that.” I smiled.

Ahh, the language barrier. It always makes for an unexpected experience.