Over spring break my dad, cousin and I took a trip to Ghana, Africa. As a pastor, my dad was invited to speak for a revival at King’s Voice International Ministries. My cousin and I decided to join him. We boarded a plane and flew 16 hours to arrive in Accra, Ghana. Our host was a pastor by the name of Emmanuel Fiagbedzi. He met my Dad in the States and they formed a good friendship.
Before the trip my cousin, Jarion, asked my dad whether Ghana was a safe country or not. Because my Dad had visited the country before, he spoke about the way they harmoniously lived and sold the country well to my cousin and me.
Forty five minutes into the trip, we were stopped by the police. While speeding down a dark-lit Ghanaian road we came to a police checkpoint. My cousin Jarion was riding shotgun, our host was in the middle row with my dad, and I was in the far back seat. Two police officers flagged us down and tapped on our windows with a rifle. They wanted to look through our bags.
Pastor Fiagbedzi was a big guy and walked around with much authority, almost how you would expect a king to walk. He knew his rights and was appalled by the police’s interrogation of our driver. He yanked open the car door and proceeded to talk back to the police.
Meanwhile, three African American men were in the car, that being myself, my dad and my cousin. We were nervous, because in America we wouldn’t dream of hopping out of the car to question an officer. Especially as black people, we are taught to exaggerate our cooperation with police.
The police opened my bag and saw how my mother neatly and strategically packed all of my clothes. After going through our bags they saw we had nothing.
Pastor Fiagbedzi knew his rights and walked as one with Christian authority. He ultimately got us back on the road without further questions from the police. At that point my cousin Jarion was thinking that my dad had sold him some bologna about Ghana being a peaceful and harmonious community, because we hadn’t even been in the country for an hour when an officer had tapped on our window with a rifle. At this point we had no idea what Ghana would be like.
We arrived at the compound, which was a fine and very large home, but I knew right away it would be tough sleeping arrangements; the building did not have air conditioning. Whether you have been to Africa or not, you have probably heard that is it hot. Well, I am here to tell you that hearing that is hot is nothing compared to the feeling of how hot it is there.
The following morning was the Sunday my dad was scheduled to speak. Though it was 9 a.m. in Ghana, it was only 4 a.m. our time in North Carolina. We were all tired from the travel over but my dad preached unfatigued.
Long before the trip I texted my Dad: “What is your spiritual gift?” He replied one word: “Teaching.” That Sunday, my dad taught on identity and who we are in Christ. I began to really listen to him throughout the week, and I am not just saying this because he is my Dad and I think he is great. But, he has the ability to take the most complex concepts and explain them in a way that a 5-year-old could understand and a scholar would respect.
My dad taught the entire week we were there. Every night at “6.” I put the number six in quotations, because I would wake up from my nap at around 6 thinking that I wouldn’t be able to make it to church in time. A couple minutes later, there would be a knock on my door and I would here the words,“Come eat!” We ate our meal at the dinner table together and then drove to the church. It was in those moment when I realized time is relative to where you are in the world. In America if you say 6 p.m. it means be there by 5:45 p.m. In Ghana it seems that people start getting ready at 6 p.m. and then around 7 o’clock everyone trickles in the building and church begins.
While in service I thought about all the churches I had been to in my life. I had been to: churches that sing out of hymnals and were accompanied by an organ, churches where people show little outward emotion and churches where emotion drives the service. All that to say it was beautifully interesting to think that there are so many ways to praise the same God.
The service in Ghana was lead by the drum. Pastor Fiagbedzi inspired, and the congregation rejoiced. It was very passionate worship.
Midway through the trip we drove about five hours to Cape Coast. The destination of our travels were the slave castles, where for over 300 years slaves stayed before being shipped around the world.
We paid for the tour and and immediately went into the “Dungeon,” the area where the strongest male “stock” would be detained. There were three or four rooms about the size of a backyard swimming pool. This is when everything turned.
Each room would have held about 200 men chained incredibly close to each other. There were no windows for the slaves, but only a small one tall enough for the guards to look out of. It was pitch black when our tour guide turned the light off and the room was hot with only 6 of us standing in the room.
Our tour guide pointed to a spot on the wall which was about my knee length high. He went on to say that when they turned the castle into a tourist attraction in the 70’s there was much work done to remove the remains of the slaves’ excrement, urine and vomit. He explained that individuals were detained in their own waste for three months at a time until they were taken, and the next group was brought in. Then the next group would proceed to live in the last group’s waste.
The imagery is something I never thought I would have to imagine. The diabolical tactics of the foreigners towards the slaves were ruthless and inhumane. Americans say “indescribable” or “unbelievable” all the time and the words have lost their true intent. Precision of language has been lost, but I must say the truest form of the words indescribable, untold and unbelievable are the only ways to describe this historical tour.
As the week went on I mentioned to my dad that the kids smile here. In America, if you are over 13 years old and you smile when you see someone, you are a novelty. The interaction was more free among Ghanaian children.
The people were content with what they had. Yes, America’s standard of living is far greater. I mean, I now consider air conditioning one of the top five innovations of all time. But where they lack in having stuff, the Ghanaians made up for in substance–substance being an understanding and regard for the people around them. They had a deep understanding of community. Although, they may not have a lot of “stuff,” there was not the sense of brokenness that we have become used to seeing in many American families. Their trust in one another extended farther than what we are accustomed to in the States.
There is much work to do in Ghana but also much hope. When it was time to leave I was ready to go. Ghana treated me well, and I learned so much while I was there. But I love America.
I would not recommend this trip to everyone. There are people that simply would not get it. It requires you to leave your comfort zone. On this trip, I was challenged to step far outside of what is considered comfortable, but I gained an understanding of resilience, community and contentment.
I thank God for my dad and the Fiagbedzi family for being such wonderful hosts, and I thank God that his hand was over this trip.