I'M A GHANAIAN BEGGAR IN NEW YORK

As Emirates Flight EK201 touched down at John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York, there was only one thing on my village mind - the Sony FS100 High Definition video camera. I had long dreamed about owning that camera, but the only thing separating me and my dream was the 'green stuff' - money.

Now here I was in Obamaland - wait a minute, was Obama president yet? He was. It was January 2013. In my pocket was a brand new wallet. Of course when coming to Obamaland you'd naturally want to be awash in everything new. I wouldn't tell you that even my jacket was brand new. Pause! Does the jacket deserve a ‘brand new’ accolade? Mehn, I had carefully picked it out of the tired looking lot whilst on a 'first selection' shopping spree at 'Kantamanto market' ahead of my trip. Ahaa! I know you want to scream, “Obroniwawu” – second hand. My friend keep your thoughts to yourself. I didn't ask for your opinion. Yes you! I mean you the one reading this.

OK so where was I before I rudely interrupted my thoughts? Aha! My brand new wallet (not obroniwawu) provided the safe haven where I lodged my Visa Gold card loaded with a few thousands of bucks. I was loaded, mehn! I couldn't wait to get through border control to head for B&H in downtown New York. B&H is a very reputable shop that deals in broadcast equipment. 

As I stepped outside the airport, took in the winter air and exhaled, I muttered, "America nie." Meaning – this is America.

New York wasn't my final destination though. I had made the stopover in New York purposely for the camera. My final destination was Park City in the State of Utah to attend Robert Redford's Sundance Film Festival.

I jumped on board the first available taxi in sight and asked the Arab looking cabbie, "Do you accept Visa Cards?" 

He answered in the affirmative. 

Then I asked him to drive me to the B&H Superstore at 420 9th Ave. , New York.

As we cruised, my mind wandered loosely like a ship without a rudder. I could already see myself ‘flexing’ with my new acquisition on my next video production. ‘Flexing’ is a slang used by the young generation meaning – to show off.

My phantasm was rudely interrupted…, wait a minute was it rude? Look at this village boy oo, asking as if you were there with me. I guess it was rather a gentle interruption by the cabbie in his heavily Arabian accented English, “Here we are sir.”

I looked through the window and could see the huge B&H superstore. A nostalgic feeling descended on me from ‘I don’t know where.’ For a while I almost drifted back to ‘gagaland’. That’s my own word for – dreamland – you know. But that was not meant to be as the cabbie shoved the POS (point of sale) device into my face almost striking my melon-shaped ‘erosion invaded’ designer head. I see you’re smiling right, but this is no smiling matter oo. 

“Swipe!” He exclaimed. 

I took the Visa Card from my wallet and swiped. The on-screen-display on the POS device grimaced at me with an error message. I tried again. Same result. I tried a third time, still nothing happened.

At this stage, my breathing became laboured. My heartbeat was in a hurry to make it into the Guinness Book of World Records as the fastest BPM (beats per minute) in human anatomic history. I almost screamed at it to be modest in its aspirations, but this was no time to be communing with my inner self.

I raised my head slowly in a choreographed fashion, and I was met head-on by the turban wearing cabbie. His eyes bore deep into my soul. He furrowed his brow and a devilish smile formed on his face. It was that familiar sort of smile that publicly announced, “You’re busted!”

I wished the ground could just open up and hide me in its bosom, away from the ‘I’ll teach this son-of-a-woof-woof a life-long lesson’ intentions crystalizing in his head. 

He asked meanly, “You got money on that card?” 

I managed a weak affirmative response.

“Then why?” he asked again. 

This time I could not find my voice. The truth was that I didn’t know what to tell him. I just stared sheepishly into his threatening face.

I tried a feeble attempt at recovery, “Can you please drive me to the nearest ATM?” 

He obliged reluctantly. 

At the ATM, my woes deepened. We tried two more ATMs but no hope. In fact the third ATM sort of winked annoyingly to me as if to say, “Jack, you’re in deep sh*t!” In my element I would have given ‘him’ a village smack across the face for ‘his’ insolence. But the truth was that I was ‘f**ked up.’ I didn’t even have ‘teku’ in my pocket nor wallet. I guess you’ve fathomed that to mean – no money on me.

My woes had their foundation deeply rooted several thousands of miles way back in Accra, Ghana before my trip commenced. I walked into my bank to withdraw some US dollars from my foreign currency account for the trip, but was met with the usual familiar, “We have run out of dollars.”

I enquired from the personal banker when I’d get some dollars for my trip in three days. He responded that he couldn’t tell if they’d take stock of some dollars within three days. My next option was the black market. However as patriotic as thought I was, I disregarded that option. 

I asked the rhetorical question, “what do I do now?”

Then, the personal banker returned to me and asked whether I had their international Visa Card. I told him I had the Visa Gold card. There, he offered me hope. 

He said, “Oh, then you don’t have a problem. Our visa card works globally.” 

With this latter-day message of hope I left the bank knowing I didn’t have to worry about cash. Three days later I enplaned to Obamaland with the only ‘cash’ on me being my Visa Gold Card.

Before I knew what was happening to me, I’d been hauled to the famous NYPD (New York Police Department). I wasn’t at NYPD on a familiarization tour to give the ‘dudes’ there pats on their backs for their great exploits at crime combat as depicted in ‘CSI New York’. I was a big fan of CSI New York you know. Oh you’re ‘cotomorosed’ at my use of the word ‘dude’ right? I was in Obamaland, what do you expect? Aren’t you overly impressed with my ‘verbal diarrhea’? Hehehe! Of course you should be. ‘Cotomorosed’ is a testament to that. Well, it’s my own version of the word – surprised.

Anyway back to critical matters. In fact I was brought before the NYPD as a common criminal who had fraudulently refused to pay for service rendered. My skin pigmentation did not help matters either. For the first time in my life I almost wished I had access to the wonder milk that added the magic touch to Ama Boahema’s complexion. For those of you who may not know her, Ama Boahemaa is the once famous dark-chocolate skinned gospel diva who after a few years sojourn to Abrokyir – the white man’s land – returned light skinned and ridiculously claimed her change in complexion was due to excess consumption of ‘obroni milk’ – white man’s milk. Kwakwakwa! Ama Boahema paa!

Enough of the digression, back to my calamitous encounter at NYPD. Every part of my body was humiliatingly examined, from the crown of my reflective ‘sakora’ head, midway through my well-endowed ‘pendulum’ and way down to my toes. All my explanations and protestations were to no avail. They took my passport, the now famous Visa Gold Card, and in fact any identifiable documentation on me. I was given a ‘comfortable’ seat at the police station – guess the inverted comas will tell you that the seat was far from comfortable. I was allotted a small potion near the counter – akin to what’s referred to in Ghana policing diction as ‘counter-back’. The police officers kept moving about to and fro, and they kept staring at me. No one was saying anything to me. I wondered why I hadn’t ‘peed’ in my pants. Because this was a situation where one actually found solace in emptying his bladder on himself. Maybe my totally annihilated ego still had a thin shred of pride hidden within it somewhere.

My mind started a quick search within itself to pull up any contact I could reach to come to my aid. The only name that came to mind was one who lived in faraway Atlanta, not New York. I thought about the Ghana embassy, but that was also in Washington. I was totally distraught. 

“Why is this happening to me? Eeeeeei, have my folks from Peki followed me all the way to New York? The witches oo witches!” I guess you’re familiar with that refrain right?

Then two officers approached me. I braced myself for the worst. 

“Finally the die is cast,” I said to myself. “They’re coming to haul me jail.”

The one who appeared to be the senior of the two said to me, “You’re free to go. You’re clean.” 

I couldn’t believe my ears. I almost asked him to repeat himself. My passport and all other documents were returned to me. 

He added, “Enjoy your stay in America.” 

Like seriously! Did he have to add that? Several questions flooded my village mind. Did I have to be taken through such trauma? I had been detained at NYPD for close to four hours. I guess you’ve figured out that by this time thoughts about my new camera had completely evaporated.

The officer asked his colleague to escort me out. My new found freedom almost made me oblivious to the fact that I was still penniless. On the street, the officer gave me directions to the subway station. 

“You just have to pay two dollars fifty for the train back to the airport,” he added as if to rub it in.

How was I going to make it back to the airport? Walking was out of the question. It was a winter night and by car even it would take approximately 45 minutes to reach JFK. My next line of action was the lowest I’d sank in my entire life. 

“Officer can you please help me with some loose change?” I asked with a heavy heart. “I have no money for my ride back to the airport.”

Did I just beg for alms? My heart bled. I could see pity in the officer's eyes as he dipped his hands into his pocket. He dropped a few coins in my hands. 

He added, “This is two dollars fifty, it’ll pay for your train ride back to JFK.” 

Did I have to travel several thousands of miles to New York to beg for alms on the street? As I thanked the officer and walked alone in the cold winter night towards to subway, I couldn’t hold back my tears. I was a beggar on the streets of New York.

Back home in Accra I had on a few occasions encountered seemingly able-bodied young men or women who begged on the streets. I usually asked myself why such strong looking people were begging on the streets. 

Most of the time, my conclusion would be, “they’re lazy cocoons that’s all.” 

Wait a minute! I just begged on the streets of New York – did that make me a lazy cocoon? It just dawned on me how I might have lumped all beggars on the streets together and judged them all as lazy. But my own predicament made me realise that I might have judged all beggars wrongly. A simple circumstance such as technological malfunction can make a man end up on the street as a beggar – albeit temporarily.

I am in no way glorifying begging by this piece, but just to draw your mind to the fact that maybe that one beggar who approaches you may well be the village boy stranded in New York City not because he’s lazy, but because technology 'screwed' him up.

PS: Please remember these are merely the “thoughts of a village boy.” If you have personal thoughts, counter thoughts or additional thoughts,” please post them and let's have a healthy intercourse.