A long time ago, the ancestors of the Ga faced dire times as they struggled to establish communities along the coastal areas of the Accra Plains. The rains would not fall. The sky over their heads was bronze, and the earth was as hard as iron. Desperate prayers roared into the heavens, “Save our tribe from extinction.” But the dry months persisted, even into years, and the earth remained unconcerned, unyielding in its decision.
They sat under the moonlight one of those nights. Time for tales by moonlight. To tell stories. To sing. To dance. And yet they could not. But they did tell the story to the children, once again. Of their exciting journey to this place. Scouts were sent out. They came back with good news. The land was good. It was lush. They moved. They moved because of disputes. Land disputes. Disputes over kinship. Disputes over water rights. But some moved because they saw the opportunity. The opportunity shone like a bright star guiding them across the Plains, just as fishermen relied on the stars to guide them across the vast ocean. They were Dangme-speaking people—all of them. A few families relocated. Then another. Then another. Soon, large communities were established, along with numerous villages. Royal houses were established, and kings were installed for the four early states: Tema, Nungua, La, and Mashi. Though the Mashi moved south, they settled further away from the coast, at Ayawaso. It was good for a while.
Then, as they had done many times before, after the stories, they began to sing the historical ballad, but the voices of the adults grew hoarse with fear. And the children who knew nothing of their predicament picked it up in joyful melodies:
Wᴐjɛɛhe jɛkɛ
Wᴐjɛ wuoyi
Ni kooyi ji wᴐnᴐ!
Wᴐjɛ maŋ ko
Wᴐyadᴐmᴐ maŋ ko
Ga ayᴐᴐ!
Wᴐjɛ Ga mli
Wᴐyanina Gamɛi,
Ga ayᴐᴐ!
We come from afar
From the south
From the north
We hail from a place
And welcomed into another
Here we are, in Ga
We are Ga
We met fellow Ga on arrival
Here we are, in Ga
“My father is one of the greatest hunters among the Ga,” Odoley said proudly after the song in a frolicsome mood, yet curious with expectation. Her father bowed his head. Why be a spoilsport? Something animated him, and he said, “If I mention the hill, you children will tell me which animals live there.” They knew the names of the hills that belonged to them. They received lessons from leading hunters in their community.
“Shai.”
“Monkeys.”
“Le gon.
“Bush cows.”
“Ajagnote.”
“Tigers.”
“Wuo gon.”
“Helmeted guineafowl.”
“Okpo gon.”
“Pigeons.”
“Very well, children. You exceeded my expectations.” They clapped for themselves. But Odoley’s father was deep in thought. The drought was taking its toll on everything. The wild animals were not spared. They had diminished in numbers. Even brave hunters like him were on the verge of hanging up their hunting gear.
The joyful noise of fishermen landing at shore in the mornings ebbed away in disappointment. It was as though the sea and the lagoons agreed with the sky and the earth. They yielded very few fish. Lagoon fishing was the most patronised. They trapped fish in the Sakumo, Mukwe, Kpeshi, Klottey, and Korle, among many others.
Trade in beads, fabric, terracotta pots, cowries, ivory, gold, and other merchandise dwindled. The traffic on the trade routes snaked into hissing silence. The wild vitality of young men and women drained away. Every ounce of their energies was directed to foraging for food for their families. And blacksmiths pined and moaned, certain that their services would not be needed for a long time.
And things went from bad to worse. Loud cries echoed from mud houses, spilling out sorrow and sadness into the air, already thick with fear. The mothers prayed, grandmothers too, “Ataa Naanyomo, would you not leave us some descendants?” Their children were dying. Their grandchildren were wasting away, and elders passed on in ignominy, humiliated by their inability to provide solutions.
What should we do? Till the earth, rain or no rain. Those who discovered headstreams of rivers, which were now meandering toward the sea as dry beds, were soon to be disappointed. Overdrawn by desperate communities, they quickly dried up. But an inner strength seemed to drive their resolve to till and plant. Some did it out of desperation. Some did out of faith. Some claimed they even saw dew glistening on the drying leaves on tree branches at dawn. Maybe the sky was responding, but in awkward ways. However, in the ears of the doubtful, it was a mirage before a desert nomad. And the dry and weary days wore on, the weeks too.
The stream beds had dried up for some time now; many community wells, too. The few that remained were rationed with fierce accountability. A mother toddled into the middle of the compound, holding her dying toddler in her arms, her laboured breathing rising and falling with each breath. Then, she threw her toddler up toward the heavens. Her mother and father rushed out from their mud hut to stand with her, even if they thought her despair was at the edge of madness. Suddenly, a cool breeze washed over them. They wished they had clung to it, but it quickly dissolved into stillness, and the sweltering heat of March clutched their clothes.
“Did you feel it?” mothers and grandmothers who had gathered to scrap up a meal for the community asked one another. Food rationing had become the norm.
“It is a sign,” someone muttered.
And someone more hopeful blurted out, “Heaven has sent us a sign.”
“What sign?” another asked.
“Did you feel that cool breeze that swept up suddenly and vanished as quickly, a few moments ago?”
“Yes,” a few nodded.
“It is a sign,” the more hopeful voice added.
But their forlorn eyes stared out as though managing a goodbye wave to the world. “Maybe,” a few voices feebly agreed.
Hope had arrived and left without a trace so many times, they had forgotten what it looked like. A few of these breezes had blown once in a while over these years of drought. There was even that one which blew the whole night, strong enough to flush out estuaries. Everyone thought it would bring a heavy downpour the next day, but nothing happened. They inspected the meagre food portions they were about to distribute among clusters of extended families. The portions had decreased so significantly, even a child would not survive on them. They saw a dream of the near future, a tortuous trail of death. As though on cue, they put their hands on their heads and started wailing uncontrollably. The bright stars above blurred into sky monsters, as tears filled their eyes. They threw their hands up in the air and spoke prayers with trembling lips, “Ataa Naanyonmo, hear us, save us, let our desperate cries split the skies above so your face will shine upon us with favour.”
Suddenly, they all stopped. Their cries. Their pleas. A presence that commanded silence had enveloped them, but they were not aware. Bright shadows like trains of caravans stole across the darkening skies above them. Then it happened. The favour descended in light showers, slow, unsure, and unassuming. And yet their hopes lit up like wildfires.
It was March, late March. Strong winds blew and blew and blew for days. They feared something worse was about to happen. But April arrived, and the showers never ceased. They planted their crops: millet, tomatoes, peppers, garden eggs, and okra. The fruit trees blossomed in the surrounding forests: oranges, soursop, sweetsop, velvet tamarind, laasa, mangos, bananas, black berries, orange berries, limes, and black berries. They could hear the screams, chatters, and howls of happy monkeys on the surrounding hills. The skies above once again filled with all kinds of birds, cawing, chirping, chuckling, squawking, and twittering. Even the lagoons and sea relented. Fishermen brought back fish from their fishing trips.
But something even stranger and powerful had happened. They had relocated to their new environment, but were poorly prepared to survive. The Accra Plains were vast. They had moved from their inland locations to the seacoast. The weather patterns varied, and the soil types also. Their observations had been keenest when they were at their wits’ end. The coastal region offered a different climate. The long drought taught them great lessons about their new home. They noted its seasonal patterns and the types of crops that thrived in its soil. The sea had seasons, the lagoons and streams too; they learned. Nature had rhythms, cycles, and seasons. And before they knew it, August arrived. The farmers reaped the rewards of their hard work, and the fishermen and hunters too.
“Who could have dreamed up such a bountiful harvest a few years ago?” They were ecstatic with joy. The alleys of the communities throbbed with life. Smoke rose from mud stoves. Spices from boiling soups and sauces filled the air: ginger, cloves, guinea pepper, and herbs. The women created new recipes: nmaadaa drink and kpokpoi to celebrate and thank Ataa Naanyonmo for answering their prayers.
Folksingers composed new melodies and rhythms to celebrate the new dawn in their history. They called it Kpa. Their Dangme language had evolved. They now spoke Ga, a mingling of dialects of Guan and Dangme. Folk dancers invented new dance moves for the new melodies, the new rhythms. They called it Kpa, too. Community members gathered in the town square and danced to the melodies:
Nyɛmɛi fɛɛ nyɛhaa toi
Magba nye blema sane, blema sane, blema sane
Hɛɛɛ
Hear ye, hear ye
Let me tell you an ancient story
Yes, we are listening
The gentle breeze picked up the Kpa melodies and hastened the steps of messengers who traveled from one Ga State to the next, delivering food hampers of goodwill from one royal house to another. Families reciprocated by exchanging food hampers with one another. Each Ga community wanted to share the abundance of the harvest with members of other Ga communities. The joy must be shared. Surrounding villages refused to be left out. They hauled in their harvests to the Ga capitals to join the celebration.
“We couldn’t have written such a hopeful end to our story of near extinction by famine,” the elders conferred. “Let’s celebrate a Thanksgiving Festival to ‘hoot at’ hunger each harvest time,” they decided. “Let’s celebrate the divine favor that spared our lives. Homowo. Homowo. Homowo.
