The man in the gold robe

I was relieved to discover, once free of the Ramadan parade, that the pictures I’d taken had, in fact, turned out. They were actually pretty good. Even though the chances seemed a bit remote that I would ever again be able to find the man who’d asked me to take them, I decided there was little harm in trying.

I learned that just upstairs from the Oceanview Internet café, which is actually a café only insofar as it offers warm bottles of Coke, a photo service could print my pictures for 1 cedi (US$1) each. I got two copies of each, and then ventured to the market.

Kotakaraba Street is the principal thoroughfare in Cape Coast. It is a busy, bustling corridor of cars, trucks, men pushing carts, goats, pedestrians, people with stuff on their heads. It can be a distinct challenge to walk as the street is narrow and what passes for a sidewalk is nothing more than a narrow strip with the honking taxis on one side and an open sewer on the other.

To make matters more complicated, as you walk this tightrope fellow pedestrians and those in the shops regularly call to you: “Obroni!” This is actually one part greeting, one part simple identification as the word means “white person.” Respond with a wave and smile and you are sure to receive the same in return, likely followed by “How are you?” But you also put yourself in jeopardy of tumbling into the trough of odiferous muck.

After passing shops selling cell phones (they are everywhere), stores peddling piles of colorful plastic tubs, hanging racks of flip flops, the occasional pharmacy, a mosque, booths selling what I take to be chicken parts, others selling banku (fermented corn meal) wrapped in banana leaves, you reach the entrance to the market.

It doesn’t look like much from the outside, but this rabbit warren of narrow paths takes you into beehive of commercial activity. Beside a stand offering hair brushes is one selling fabric beside another with piles of yams on display. And it goes on and on, around this corner, down that blind passageway.

At first I just walked, scrutinizing those in the booths for the man in the gold robe. But very soon it was clear that that approach would’ve taken forever, and likely without ever finding him. So, as everyone does when faced with a difficult situation, I approached a woman selling wigs.

“Do you know this man?” I asked, showing her the picture.

This instantly attracted a group of her fellow merchants. Inspecting the picture, they gabbled away in Fanti, each pointing off in different direction. I felt a kind of pleasant release at actually interacting with them while not being the center of attention.

“The mosque,” the woman said, pitching them again into excited Fanti.

“Out there?” I asked, confused.

They had now reached agreement and confidently gestured to, I presumed, the mosque I’d passed before reaching the market. So I thanked them, exited and chatted up a couple of sleepy guys in long robes. They pointed me back up the street toward the market.

What followed was half a dozen similar stops, each inciting different recommendation. Finally, at a store called, and I’m not kidding, God Says Phones, the young man I’d approached took a long look at the picture.

“What is your problem with this man?” he asked protectively.

“Oh, no problem,” I assured him. “I just want to give him this picture.”

This seemed to satisfy him. “He is a butcher. In the market.”

So I returned to the market. After another couple of inquiries, a young man led me to the butcher’s shop. And there he was, the man in the gold robe, only now he was holding a goat head in his hands.

You would’ve thought I’d delivered him a pile of diamonds. A greater welcome and a more appreciative recipient I could not have found. The butchers, at least 10 men, all crowded around and, amid the swarm of flies, inspected the pictures and kidded their colleague, who I now knew was called Igual (in red shirt).

I took some pictures of the guys posing with their favorite carcass and then departed with heartfelt thanks. Never have I had such fun in offal house.