Open Palms

“There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground” ~ Rumi

When we gathered for dinner in the library on Friday night, Mr. Issah, the headmaster, turned his palms to the ceiling and rested the backs of his hands on the table. He closed his eyes and offered a prayer. We bowed our heads with him, thanking Allah for our food and the warm hospitality.

Ghana, like many of its sisters and brothers along the 10th parallel has a Christian south and a Muslim north. The division arose because of the distribution of the tse tse fly. Sleeping sickness dissuaded the Muslim missionaries from traveling south of the 10th parallel. Later, Christian missionaries crossed Africa on foot braving the flies, and other illnesses encountered in the tropics to spread their faith south. Sudan, Somalia, and Ethiopia all lie along this longitudinal boundary and religious differences have ignited violence, and even civil war. To be a Muslim in a Christian village often means persecution or even death and vice versa.*

Ghana has avoided this travesty. While strife rules the surrounding countries, Ghanaians adhere to a strong national identity, while still cleaving to their faith. In Accra we passed Almighty Beauty Clinic and Trust in the Lord Cell phone accessories, while a noon or evening excursion in Tamale meant waiting for our driver to finish his prayers.

Mariama met us outside the First Baptist Church of Tamale where we waited with our driver. Her lean body and long stride bound by her Sunday dress, a bold pattern backed in blue with the scooped collar that suited her so well. She wore a gold cross at her neck. Her head was bare. “Oh ho!” The driver had joked as he picked us up: “you go to the night club on Saturday night, and church on Sunday morning.” But he drove us anyway. Mariama slid the wire from the top of the gate and ushered us into the compound. The gate closed behind us and she turned to secure it. We stood in the dusty, walled courtyard: the sanctuary to our left, and lower buildings ahead and to the right.

We found our way to an empty pew and the congregation swelled around us – women dressed in colorful patterns, men in suits. The preacher came to the microphone and launched a hymn, the reason, truly, I had come. There was a full band, drum set, keyboard, brass. The minister sang, while behind him a line of beautifully dressed women offered backup. The congregation sang out as well, and clapped, and swayed in their pews. The preacher’s voice rose over the singing and subsided into a sermon, it ranged back and forth between Dagboni and accented English. At times I loosed my grip on finding the meaning in the words and let the sound wash over me.

“Let us pray”, the preacher said, and Mariama, who I had seen only as a competent and laughing business woman, immersed herself in prayer, turning her palms to the ceiling and resting them on the back of the pew in front of her. She closed her eyes and her lips formed silent words. I bent my head with her thanking God for the kindness and generosity of our hosts.

* Eliza Griswold's The Tenth Parallel: Dispatches from the Fault Line Between Christianity and Islam is well worth reading for more information on this topic.